"Oh," the clerk responded, handing the photo back to him. "No. Sir. He doesn't look familiar."
Disappointment seasoned with habitual suspicion played in Dominick's face. "You sure?"
"Hey, I am not swell on names but faces I never forget and that face I haven't seen."
"What about your computer files?" August inquired.
"What about 'em. Sir?" The clerk replied, delaying.
August picked up on the clerk's silly attempt at some form of assertion and it annoyed him. "Are the same guest in the book also on your computer?"
"Yes, suh," the clerk said. "We keep a manual log as a backup in case the computer goes AWOL on us. I remember one time…"
"Never mind. You happen to see him come in here or see him anywhere, call us," Pennel handed the clerk a call-card.
"Will do," the clerk said, as he watched the Pennel and August followed by the clones filed from the lobby back onto the street to their respective vehicles.
Inside their SUV Pennel and August exchanged assessments. "August said, "What do you think?" "My gut tells me he's holding back," Pennel answered.
"Want to push him further?" August suggested. "Personally, I wouldn't mind pulling the little creep's fingernails off."
No need," Pennel said. "Yet." Let's just check some other places on the list first and see what shows up or doesn't. Leave an agent here to monitor this guy and keep an eye on the place."
Boris Popov sat alone on the edge of the bed in the motel room still in his birthday suit. The hour was fast approaching two in the afternoon. Shade and curtains at the window remained drawn to keep out any semblance of the day with only a hint of sun light pressing against them. He preferred instead the yellowish cloudy glow from the table lamp beside the bed. He also left the 'Do Not Disturb' placard hanging over the outside doorknob to keep any motel maids from entering the room. Earlier he had placed a call to the lobby requesting that no one be allowed to clean the room for the rest of the day and that he also intended to stay for another night so as to figure out his next move. For now, he took pleasure in brooding, because it kept him in touch with his anger and disappointment, feelings that over the hard years of his life he had learned to use to his benefit. Over his lap laid the pillow upon which Michele' had rested her head the previous night after they made love. It still retained her subtle but flowery scent which every now and then wafted to his nostrils as though it were teasingly released on a timer from an invisible fragrance dispenser.
Yes. Love.
It was not sex they had performed last night. At least for Boris, and he had every indication from Michele', or so he desperately needed to believe, that during their intercourse she too shared in the same sentiment that what they had experienced between one another went beyond just mere sex. Though he didn't tell her, Boris had fallen in love with Michele' the moment he coveted her.
He contemplated the puzzling photo on Dorothea's driver's license which he had found on the floor at the foot of the bed after he'd returned from the bathroom to confirm that Michele' was not in there. It only further disappointed him that the name or face on the license did not match with the woman with whom he spent the night. Though the facial feature had subtle similarities to Michele'. Had she stolen some other woman's license or borrowed relatives? Boris studied the photograph and played out scenarios in his desperate, confused imagination of what had occurred during the time he slept and when Michele' had awakened. He felt angry with himself for having consumed so much Vodka that he fell into an abysmal sleep state that had the world ended in cataclysmic destruction he would have remained none the wiser. Between contemplations, momentarily forcing his attention away from the photograph, he would lift the pillow to his face, pressing it there to breath in more of Michele'. He applied a method to this: first he would exhale through his nostrils into the area of the pillow where her scent remained strongest. The heat from his breath served to entrap and activate the pheromone molecules enhancing her aroma. Then, through his nostrils again, he would inhale deeply, slowly, savoring what was her essence as if it were a sacred perfume, only one of its brands in the entire world, and for Boris this was an absolute truth. He would repeat this ritual until the indulgence excited and satiated him both physically and mentally, but it also fed his ire, reminding him of what he had for so brief a time and did not now have; of what had been taken from him again - love. Having returned to reality from his waking dream he placed the pillow back to his lap and with renewed inspiration and a fresh surge of hate coursing through him. Boris returned his attention to the photograph on the driver's license. The woman in the photograph did strangely resemble his Michele', yet there existed a number of dissimilarities that made him believe her to be a relative perhaps. An elder sister. Maybe her mother or an aunt. For one thing the woman in the photograph was significantly older by at least ten years or more. Her complexion much lighter, almost pale in comparison to Michele's deep caramel skin tone. The skin texture itself on the woman appeared somewhat loosened by age, evident especially beneath her chin and neck. The jaw line was more prominent in this photograph giving off a semblance of a disciplinarian, an air he did not detect in Michele'. The lips too lacked the inviting fullness and sensuality so striking a feature on the woman he'd quickly come to love and needed to possess. At the corners of this woman's mouth, hidden within an attempted smile he knew was for the benefit of the camera, tugged a subtle sadness. Wherein, Michele's countenance radiated exuberance, joy and a soaring free spirit. He could read all of this from a person's face as well as their mannerism. It was a skill he'd learned long ago as a child surviving the mean streets of Armenia.