J is for Judgement

pup tent. I reached a left-turning curve in the road, crouched, and crossed in a flash, easing back toward the point from which I imagined our attacker was firing.
    It probably took ten minutes until I reached the spot, and I realized I hadn't heard a shot fired the whole time. Even in the hazy visibility of the half-dark around me, the area felt deserted. I was now directly across from my car on the two-lane road, keeping myself low to the ground. I popped my head up like a prairie dog.
    "Wendell?" I called.
    No answer. No shots fired. No movement in any direction and no more sense of jeopardy. The night felt flat and totally benign at this point. I stood upright.
    "Wendell?"
    I did a 360 turn, sweeping my gaze across the immediate vicinity, and then sank down again. I looked both ways and crossed the street at a quick clip, keeping low. When I reached the car, I slid past the front bumper into home base. "Hey, it's me," I said.
    There was only sea wind and empty beach. Wendell Jaffe was gone again.
    20 IT WAS NOW ten o'cloc:k at night, and the roadway was deserted. I could see lights from the freeway tantalizingly close, but no one in their right mind was going to pick me up at that hour. I found my handbag by the car and hefted it over my shoulder. I went around to the driver's side and opened the car door. I reached in, leaning forward to snag the keys from the ignition. I could have locked the car, but what would be the point? It wasn't running at the moment, and the rear window was shattered, open to the elements and any pint-size little car thieves.
    I hiked to the nearest gas station, which was maybe a mile away. It was very dark, street lamps appearing at long intervals and even then with only dim illumination. The storm had apparently stalled off the coast, where it lingered, brooding. Lightning winked through the inky clouds like a lamp with a loose connection. The wind whuffled across the sand while dried fronds rattled in the palm trees. I did a quick self-assessment and decided I was in pretty good shape, given all the excitement. One of the virtues of physical fitness is that you can walk a mile in the dark and it's no big deal. I was wearing jeans, a short- sleeved sweatshirt, and my tenny bops, not the best shoes for walking, but not agonizing, either.
    The station itself was one of those places open twenty-four hours a day, but it was run largely by computer, with only one fellow in attendance. Naturally he couldn't leave the premises. I got a handful of change and headed for the public phone booth in the comer of the parking lot. I called AAA first, gave them my number, and told them where I was. The operator advised me to wait with the car, but I assured her I had no intention of hiking back in the dark. While I waited for the tow truck, I put a call through to Renata and told her what was happening. She didn't seem to bear me any grudges after our tussle on the boat deck for possession of the gun. She said Wendell wasn't home yet, but she'd hop in the car and cruise the route between the house and the frontage road where I'd last seen him.
    The tow truck finally appeared about forty-five minutes later. I hopped in with the driver and directed him to my disabled car. He was a man in his forties, apparently career tow truck, full of sniffs, tobacco chaws, and learned assessments. When we reached the vehicle, he stepped down from the truck and hiked his pants up, circling the VW with his hands on his hips. He paused and spat. "What's the deal here?" He might have been asking about the shattered rear window, but I ignored that for the moment.
    "I have no idea. I was tooling along about forty miles an hour and the car suddenly lost power." He reached toward the car roof where a large-caliber slug had punched a hole the size of a dime. "Say, what is this?"
    "Oh. You mean that?" I leaned forward, squinting in the half-light.
    The hole looked like a neat black polka dot against the pale blue paint. He stuck the tip of one finger into it. "This here looks like a bullet hole."
    "Gosh, it does, doesn't it?" We circled the car, and I echoed his consternation at all the hurt places we came across. He quizzed me at length, but I fended off his questions. The guy was a tow truck driver, not a cop, I thought. I was hardly under oath.
    Finally, head shaking, he slid onto the driver's seat and tried starting the car. I suspect he would have taken great satisfaction if the engine had fired right up. He struck me as