Mr. Murder

feeding frenzy in McDonald's rainswept parking lot last evening, in the now-abandoned Honda, before he'd ever met the unlucky owner of the Buick. His pants aren't pristine, either.
        On the off chance he'll find something useful, he takes the keys from the ignition, gets out of the car, goes around to the back, and opens the trunk. From the dark interior, lit only partially by an errant beam from the nearby tree-shrouded security lamp, the dead man stares at him with wide-eyed astonishment, as if surprised to see him again.
        The two plastic shopping bags lie atop the body. He empties the contents of both on the corpse. The owner of the Buick had been shopping for a variety of items. The thing that looks most useful at the moment is a bulky crew-neck sweater.
        Clutching the sweater in his left hand, he gently closes the trunk lid with his right to make as little noise as possible.
        People will be getting up soon, but sleep still grips most if not all of the apartment residents. He locks the trunk and pockets the keys. , The sky is dark, but the stars have faded. Dawn is no more than, fifteen minutes away.
        Such a large garden-apartment complex must have at least two or three community laundry rooms, and he sets out in search of one.
        In a minute he finds a signpost that directs him to the recreation building, pool, rental office, and nearest laundry room. , The walkways connecting the buildings wind through large and attractively landscaped courtyards under spreading laurels and quaint iron carriage lamps with verdigris patina. The development is well planned and attractive. He would not mind living here himself. Of course his own house, in Mission Viejo, is even more appealing, and he is sure the girls and Paige are so attached to it that they will never want to leave.
        The laundry-room door is locked, but it doesn't pose a great obstacle.
        Management has installed a cheap lockset, a latch-bolt not a dead-bolt.
        Having anticipated the need, he has a credit card from the cadaver's wallet, which he slips between the faceplate and the striker plate. He slides it upward, encounters the latch-bolt, applies pressure, and pops the lock.
        Inside, he finds six coin-operated washing machines, four gas dryers, a vending machine filled with small boxes of detergents and fabric softeners, a large table on which clean clothes can be folded, and a pair of deep sinks. Everything is clean and pleasant under the fluorescent lights.
        He takes off the raincoat and the grossly soiled flannel shirt. He wads up both the shirt and the coat and stuffs them into a large trash can that stands in one corner.
        His chest is unmarked by bullet wounds. He doesn't need to look at his back to know that the single exit wound is also healed.
        He washes his armpits at one of the laundry sinks and dries with paper towels taken from a wall dispenser.
        He looks forward to taking a long hot shower before the day is done, in his own bathroom, in his own home. Once he has located the false father and killed him, once he has recovered his family, he will have time for simple pleasures. Paige will shower with him.
        She will enjoy that.
        If necessary, he could take off his jeans and wash them in one of the laundry-room machines, using coins taken from the owner of the Buick.
        But when he scrapes the crusted food off the denim with his fingernails and works at the few stains with damp paper towels, the result is satisfactory.
        The sweater is a pleasant surprise. He expects it to be too large for him, as the raincoat was, but the dead man evidently did not buy it for himself. It fits perfectly. The colon-cranberry red-goes well with the blue jeans and is also a good color for him. If the room had a mirror, he is sure it would show that he is not only inconspicuous but quite respectable and even attractive.
        Outside, dawn is just a ghost light in the east.
        Morning birds are chirruping in the trees.
        The air is sweet.
        Tossing the Buick keys into some shrubbery, abandoning the car and the dead man in it, he proceeds briskly to the nearest multiple stall carport and systematically tries the doors of the vehicles parked under the bougainvillea-covered roof. Just when he thinks all of them are going to be locked, a Toyota Camry proves to be open.
        He slips in behind the wheel. Checks