R Is for Ricochet

meeting with him, but why the subterfuge? I rearranged myself so I was sitting with my back against the side wall, my feet on the seat, keeping my demeanor casual while I watched the scenario play out. "You're in real estate?" I asked.
    He downed half the whiskey remaining in his glass, adding water to the residue. He swirled the glass, rattling his ice cubes. "That's right. I have an investment company. Development, mostly. I do property management on occasion, though not a lot these days. And you?"
    "I'm a private investigator."
    He smiled, bemused. "Not bad for someone who started her career loitering behind the school."
    "Hey, the training was good. Hang out with a bunch of budding crooks, you get to know how they think." I made a display of looking at my watch. "Ah. I don't know about you, Reba, but it's time for me to head out. My car's just half a block down. Give me a minute to go get it and I can drive you home."
    Beck looked at Reba with feigned surprise. "You don't have wheels?"
    "I've got a car, but no license. Mine expired."
    "Why don't I give you a lift and save her the drive?"
    I said, "I don't mind doing it. I've got my car keys right here."
    "No, no. I'll be happy to take her. No point in your having to go out of your way."
    Reba said, "Really. It'd be easier for him than it would be for you."
    "You're sure?"
    Beck said, "Absolutely. It's right on my way."
    "Okay with me. You two stay if you like and I'll take care of the bill. It's my treat," I said, as I slid out of the booth.
    "Thanks. I'll take care of the tip."
    "Nice meeting you." I shook hands with Beck again and then glanced at Reba. "I'll see you in the morning at nine. You want me to call first?"
    "No need. Just come up to the house whenever you like," she said. "Actually, I ought to be heading home myself. It's been a long day and I'm bushed. You mind?"
    "Anything you want." Beck finished his drink, swallowing the watered-down whiskey that remained in his glass.
    I moved over to the bar and paid the bill. Glancing back, I saw that Beck was already on his feet, fishing in his pocket for his money clip. I watched him peel off two bills for the tip, probably fives since he was so eager to impress. They waited for me to join them so we could walk out together. Henry had disappeared by then, but the shank-of-the-evening drinkers were straggling in.
    Outside it was dark, the moon not yet visible. The air was clear and still except for the chirping of crickets. Even the sound of the surf seemed diminished. The three of us ambled toward the intersection, chatting about nothing in particular.
    "I'm down there," Beck said, pointing toward the shadowy side street to our right.
    "What do you drive?" I asked.
    "'87 Mercedes. The sedan. And you?"
    "'74 Volkswagen. The bug. See you later."
    I waved and continued walking while the two of them turned off. Fifteen seconds later, I heard the double report of their respective car doors slamming shut. I paused, waiting for the sound of an engine turning over. Nothing. Maybe they'd decided to sit and talk. When I reached my gate I pushed through, listening to the familiar squeaking of its hinges. I followed the walk around to the rear. Once I reached my front door, I hesitated, debating about Reba and Beck. Maybe I was wrong about them. Curiosity got the better of me. I left my shoulder bag on the porch and took off across the grass, crossing Henry's flagstone patio to the chicken-wire fence that ran along the rear property line. I felt my way from post to post, tracing the length until I reached his garage. I stooped and pushed the fencing aside, slipping through the gap where the fittings had come loose.
    My heart was thumping merrily and I could feel my gut contract with anticipation. I love these nighttime adventures, easing in silence across darkened backyards. Fortunately, none of the neighborhood mutts caught wind of me, so my passage was completed without a chorus of shrill warning barks. At the mouth of the alley, I veered right, emerging onto the side street. I moved forward, scanning the shapes and sizes of the cars parked on either side. A single streetlight cast only the faintest illumination, but once my eyes adjusted to the dark, I had no trouble identifying Beck's Mercedes. Every other vehicle was a compact, a minivan, or a pickup truck.
    I could discern his profile where he slouched in the driver's seat half-turned so that he was facing Reba. I stood there for ten minutes and when nothing