Mr. Murder. By: Dean R. Koontz

golf-course community, after which the lightless Pacific lay so vast and

black to the west that they seemed to be driving along the edge of

eternity.

Lomar said, “We figure if we keep tabs on Stillwater, sooner or later

our man will turn up, and we’ll recover him.”

“Where’s Stillwater now?”

“We don’t know.”

“Terrific.”

“Well, see, not half an hour after the cops left, there was this other

thing happened to the Stillwaters, before we got to them, and after that

they seemed to . . . go into hiding, I guess you’d say.”

“What other thing?”

Lomar frowned. “Nobody’s sure. It happened right around the corner

from their house. Different neighbors saw different pieces, but a guy

fitting Stillwater’s description fired a lot of shots at another guy in

a Buick. The Buick slams into a parked Explorer, see, gets hung up on

it for a second. Two kids fitting the description of the Stillwater

girls tumble out the back seat of the Buick and run, the Buick takes

off, Stillwater empties his gun at it, and then this BMW–which fits the

description of one of the cars registered to the Stillwaters–it comes

around the corner like a bat out of hell, driven by Stillwater’s wife,

and all of them get in it and take off.”

“After the Buick?”

“No. It’s long gone. It’s like they’re trying to get out of there

before the cops arrive.”

“Any neighbors see the guy in the Buick?”

“No. Too dark.”

“It was our bad boy.”

Lomar said, “You really think so?”

“Well, if it wasn’t him, it must’ve been the Pope.”

Lomar gave him an odd look, then stared thoughtfully at the highway

ahead.

Before the dimwit could ask how the Pope was involved in all of this,

Oslett said, “Why don’t we have the police report on the second

incident?”

“Wasn’t one. No complaint. No crime victim. Just a report of the

hit-and-run damage to the Explorer.”

“According to what Stillwater told the cops, our Alfie thinks he is

Stillwater, or ought to be. Thinks his life was stolen from him.

The poor boy’s totally over the edge, whacko, so to him it makes sense

to go right back and steal the Stillwater kids because somehow he thinks

they’re his kids. Jesus, what a mess.”

A highway sign indicated they would soon reach the city limits of Laguna

Beach.

Oslett said, “Where are we going?”

“Ritz-Carlton Hotel in Dana Point,” Lomar replied. “You’ve got a suite

there. I took the long way so you’d both have a chance to read the

police report.”

“We napped on the plane. I sort of thought, once we landed, we’d get

right into action.”

Lomar looked surprised. “Doing what?”

“Go to the Stillwater house for starters, have a look around, see what

we can see.”

“Nothing to see. Anyway, I’m supposed to take you to the Ritz.

You’re to get some sleep, be ready to go by eight in the morning.”

“Go where?”

“They expect to have a lead on Stillwater or your boy or both by

morning. Someone will come to the hotel to give you a briefing at eight

o’clock, and you’ve gotta be rested, ready to move. Which you should

be, since it’s the Ritz. I mean, it’s a terrific hotel.

Great food too. Even from room service. You can get a good, healthy

breakfast, not typical greasy hotel crap. Egg-white omelets,

seven-grain bread, all kinds of fresh fruit, non-fat yogurt–” Oslett

said, “I sure hope I can get a breakfast like I have in Manhattan every

morning. Alligator embryos and chicken-fried eel heads on a bed of

seaweed sauteed in a garlic butter, with a double side order of calves’

brains. Ahhh, man, you never in your life feel half as pumped as you do

after that breakfast.”

So astonished that he let the speed of the Oldsmobile fall to half of

what it had been, Lomar stared at Oslett. “Well, they have great food

at the Ritz but maybe not as exotic as what you can get in New York.”

He looked at the street again, and the car picked up speed.

“Anyway, you sure that’s healthy food? Sounds packed with cholesterol