Trace tried to follow Skeletor’s trail, but it was practically nonexistent then went completely cold the moment he exited the alley and turned in the direction the thief had gone. It was almost as if the guy hadn’t been there at all. Perplexing. Trace could follow just about any trail as long as it was less than forty-eight hours old, sometimes even older. But Skeletor had fallen off the face of the planet the moment he left the alley. It didn’t make sense. They scoured the area for hours, searching for any trace of Mr. Sticky Fingers, but the only clue they found that he’d even existed was his discarded mask. Just north of the river, near the Trump Tower, they found it in a dumpster in a small parking lot between buildings. The left cheek and jaw were smashed from where Cordray had struck it. “Do you think he left it to mock us?” Cordray said, eyeing the mask with a look of vengeance. Trace sniffed the inside, picking up Skeletor’s scent for the first time since the alleyway.
