Mr. Murder

bristled.
        "Hey, I'm making no accusations. I'm only telling you one of the things that's being said back here."
        "Seems to me the big screwup was in satellite surveillance."
        "Can't expect them to locate him after he took off the shoes."
        "But how come they needed a day and a half to find the damned shoes?
        Bad weather over the Midwest. Sunspot activity, magnetic disturbances.
        Too many hundreds of square miles in the initial search zone.
        Excuses, excuses, excuses."
        "At least they have some," New York said smugly.
        Oslett fumed in silence. He hated being away from Manhattan.
        The moment the shadow of his plane crossed the city line, the knives came out, and the ambitious pygmies started trying to whittle his reputation down to their size.
        "You'll be met by an advance man in California," New York said.
        "He'll give you an update."
        "Terrific."
        Oslett frowned at the phone and pressed END, terminating the He needed a drink.
        In addition to the pilot and co-pilot, the flight crew included a stewardess. With a button on the arm of his chair, he could summon her from the small galley at the back of the plane. In seconds she arrived, and he ordered a double Scotch on the rocks.
        She was an attractive blonde in a burgundy blouse, gray skirt, and matching gray jacket. He turned in his seat to watch her walk back to the galley.
        He wondered how easy she was. If he charmed her, maybe she'd let him take her into the john and do it to her standing up.
        For all of a minute, he indulged that fantasy, but then faced reality and put her out of his mind. Even if she was easy, there would be unpleasant consequences. Afterward, she would want to sit beside him, probably all the way to California, and share with him her thoughts and feelings about everything from love and fate to death and the significance of Cheer Whiz. He didn't care what she thought and felt, only what she could do, and he was in no mood to pretend to be a sensitive nineties kind of guy.
        When she brought the Scotch, he asked what videotapes were available.
        She gave him a list of forty titles. The best movie of all time was in the plane's library, Lethal Weapon 3. He had lost track of how many times he'd seen it, and the pleasure he took from it did not diminish with repetition. It was the ideal film because it had no story line that made enough sense to bother following, did not expect the viewer to watch the characters change and grow, was composed entirely of a series of violent action sequences, and was louder than a stockcar race and a Megadeth concert combined.
        Four separately positioned monitors made it possible for four films to be shown simultaneously to different passengers. The stewardess ran Lethal Weapon 3 on the monitor nearest to Oslett and gave him a set of headphones.
        He put on the headset, turned the volume high, and settled back in his seat with a grin.
        Later, after he finished the Scotch, he dozed off while Danny Glover and Mel Gibson screamed unintelligible dialogue at each other, fires raged, machine guns chattered, explosives detonated, and music thundered.
        Monday night they stayed in a pair of connecting units in a motel in Laguna Beach. The accommodations didn't qualify as five- or even four-star lodging, but the rooms were clean and the bathrooms had plenty of towels. With the holiday weekend gone and the summer tourist season months in the future, at least half of the motel was unoccupied, and though they were right off Pacific Coast Highway, quiet ruled.
        The events of the day had taken their toll. Paige felt as if she had been awake for a week. Even the too-soft and slightly lumpy motel mattress was as enticing as a bed of clouds on which gods and goddesses might sleep.
        For dinner they ate pizza in the motel. Marty went out to fetch it-also salads and cannoli with deliciously thick ricotta custard from a restaurant a couple of blocks away.
        When he returned with the food, he pounded insistently on the door, and he was pale and hollow-eyed when he rushed inside, arms laden with take-out boxes. At first Paige thought he had seen the look-alike cruising the area, but then she realized he expected to return and find them gone-or dead.
        The outer doors of both rooms featured sturdy dead-bolt locks and security