“Any luck?”
“None.”
“Not a single clue?” Jack interposed dubiously. “Old Stony must have had a few friends.”
“No one—unless maybe you could say he kept up a writing acquaintance with Craig Warner.”
“Who’s he?”
The motel owner shrugged. “Someone he wrote to in Colorado. A casual acquaintance, I guess.”
“Stony didn’t seem the type to bother with trivial friendships,” Jack commented. “Did he come from Colorado?”
“Stony must have told you that much himself,” Walz retorted, making no attempt to hide his growing distaste for the conversation.
“We don’t mean to be inquisitive,” interposed Mr. Livingston smoothly. “However, it’s rather important to know something of Stony’s past. What was his last name?”
“Who knows? When he came here, he told me his name was John Stone. That’s how he got his nickname, Old Stony. Later, he said his name was Adams. And once he told me it was Pickering. So take your choice.”