Mr. Murder

"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 to me."
        Not a hint of irony, not a trace of humor informed Lomar's voice.
        It was clear that he actually believed Oslett ate eel heads, alligator embryos, and calves' brains for breakfast.
        Reluctantly, Oslett had to face the fact that there were worse potential partners than the one he already had. Karl Clocker only looked stupid.
        In Laguna Beach, December was the off season, and the streets were nearly deserted at a quarter to one on a Tuesday morning. At the three-way intersection in the heart of town, with the public beach on the right, they stopped for the red traffic signal, even though no other moving car was in sight.
        Oslett thought the town was as unnervingly dead as any place in Oklahoma, and he longed for the bustle of Manhattan, the all-night rush of police vehicles and ambulances, the noir music of sirens, the endless honking of horns. Laughter, drunken voices, arguments, and the mad gibbering of