doused the headlights switched off the wipers, but left the engine
running so they would have heat.
Only a few cars were in front of the market. Puddles as large as
swimming pools reflected the store lights.
Bobby said, “What’ve we learned?”
“That we loathe Walter Havalow.”
“Yes, but what have we learned that’s germane to the case. Is it just a
coincidence that Frank’s been using George Farris name and Farris’s
family was slaughtered?”
“I don’t believe in coincidence.”
“Neither do I. But I still don’t think Frank is a killer.”
“Neither do I, though anything’s possible. But what I said to Havalow
was true-surely Frank wouldn’t kill are Farris and everyone else in the
house, then carry around false ID that links him to them.”
Rain began to fall harder than before, drumming noisily on the Toyota.
The heavy curtain of water blurred the super market.
Bobby said, “You want to know what I think? I think Frank was using
Farris’s name, and whoever’s after him found out about it.”
“Mr. Blue Light, you mean. The guy who supposedly can make a car fall
apart around you and magically induce street lights to blow out.”
“Yeah, him,” Bobby said.
“If he exists.”
“Mr. Blue Light discovered Frank was using the Farris name, and went to
that address, hoping to find him. But Frank had never been there. It
was just a name and address his document forger picked at random. So
when Mr. Blue didn’t find Frank, he killed everyone in the house, maybe
because he thought they were lying to him and hiding Frank, or maybe
just because he was in a rage.”
“He’d have known how to deal with Havalow.”
“So you think I’m right, I’m on to something?” She thought about it.
“Could be.” He grinned at her.
“Isn’t it fun being a detective?”
“Fun?” she said incredulously.
“Well, I meant ‘interesting.”‘
“We’re either representing a man who killed four people, or we’re
representing a man who’s been targeted by a brutal murderer, and that
strikes you as fun?”
“Not as much fun as sex, but more fun than bowling.”
“Bobby, sometimes you make me nuts. But I love you.”
He took her literally.
“If we’re going to pursue the investigation, I’m damned well going to
enjoy it was much as I can. But I’ll drop the case in a minute if you
want.”
“Why? Because of your dream? Because of the Bad Thing?” She shook her
head.
“No. We start letting a weird dream spook us, pretty soon anything will
spook us. We’ll lose our confidence, and you can’t do this kind of work
without confidence.”
Even in the dim backsplash from the dashboard lights, she could see the
anxiety in his eyes.
Finally he said, “Yeah, that’s what I knew you’d say. So let’s get to
the bottom of it was fast as we can. According to his other driver’s
license, he’s James Roman, and he lives in El Toro.”
“It’s almost eight-thirty.”
“We can be there, find the house… maybe forty-five minutes. That’s
not too late.”
“All right.” Instead of putting the car in gear, he slid his seat back
and stripped out of his down-lined, nylon jacket.
“Unlock the glove box and give me my gun. From now on I’m wearing it
everywhere.”
Each of them had a license to carry a concealed weapon. Julie struggled
out of her own jacket, then retrieved two shoulder holsters from under
her seat. She took both revolvers from the glove box: two snub-nosed
Smith & Wesson.38 Chief Specials, reliable and compact guns that could
be carried inconspicuously beneath ordinary clothing with little or no
help from a tailor.
THE HOUSE was gone. If anyone named James Roman h lived there, he had
new lodgings now. A bare concrete slab in the middle of the lot,
surrounded by grass, shrubbery, and several trees, as if the structure
had been snared from above by intergalactic moving men and neatly
spirited away.
Bobby parked in the driveway, and they got out of the Toyota to have a
closer look at the property. Even in the slashing rain, a nearby street
lamp cast enough light to reveal that the lawn was trampled, gouged by