Chapter 75
Nicks sat on the couch, in his fifth-floor suite, scrolling through the information on his laptop, several Kennedy assassination books and a Kindle beside him. The television flickered away on the wall, the sound turned off.
He lifted the tumbler from the table and emptied the rum and coke. Several minutes later he opened the mini bar, poured himself another and went for a pee.
Washing his hands repeatedly, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. How had he got this old? He looked tired. He was tired. Splashing cold water on his face he dried it with a small fresh towel and returned to his books.
He’d cross-referenced the last stuff he’d read and now wanted to finish just one more chapter. It was all there, if you could see it. Clues littered the event’s landscape, some far too obvious and others so subtle they couldn’t be seen unless you knew the score and what to look for. He glanced at the clock, 4:00 AM.
He woke at eight, still on the couch, a book on his chest and an ache in his back; an empty glass on the table beside him. On the television: images of a war-torn somewhere or other.