The Face

boy.
        That would leave one man to monitor cameras and other detection systems, with no one to conduct the scheduled foot patrols. Ethan was reluctant to spread his resources thin in the current circumstances.
        He continued to believe that Reynerd’s unknown partner, if still determined to act, would not do so until Thursday afternoon at the earliest, when the Face returned from the location shoot in Florida. Manheim’s whereabouts were public knowledge and much written about. Anyone sufficiently obsessed with the star to want to kill him would most likely know when he was expected to return to Bel Air.
        Most likely… but not absolutely.
        The element of doubt, and Hazard’s intuitive sense that they didn’t have until Thursday, troubled Ethan. He worried that someone would discover a way to penetrate the estate’s defenses, regardless of how tightly the grounds were sealed, and lie in wait undetected until Manheim’s return.
        [446] Even the most drum-tight security plan was a human enterprise, after all, and every human enterprise, due to the nature of the beast, was imperfect. A clever enough lunatic, driven by obsession and by a vicious homicidal impulse, could find a crack even in the wall of protection around a President of the United States.
        From what Ethan knew of Reynerd, the man hadn’t been clever, but the person who had inspired the character of the professor in the screenplay might be a higher-caliber crackpot.
        “You go home,” Hazard insisted as they drove off the university campus. “Drop me back at Our Lady of Angels so I can get my car, and I’ll check out the last two names myself.”
        “That doesn’t seem right.”
        “You’re not a real cop, anyway,” Hazard said. “You gave that all up for fortune and the chance to kiss celebrity ass. Remember?”
        “You’re only in this on account of me.”
        “Wrong. I’m in this because of these,” Hazard said, and rang the set of three silvery bells.
        The sound resonated in the fluid of Ethan’s spine.
        “Damn if I’m gonna have spooky shit like this in my life,” said Hazard, “or guys walking into mirrors. I’m gonna explain it somehow, blow all these hoodoo thoughts out of my head, and get back to being who I was, such as I was.”
        The remaining two names were those of professors of American literature at yet another university. They had been put at the bottom of the list because Reynerd’s partial screenplay suggested that his co-conspirator would prove to be an acting teacher or an academic associated in some other way with the entertainment business. Stuffy professors of literature, lounging about in tweed coats with leather patches on the elbows, smoking pipes and discussing participles, did not seem likely to be celebrity stalkers or murderers.
        “Anyway,” Hazard said, “I think maybe these two won’t pan out any better than the others.”
        [447] He read from notes made during phone calls that he had placed en route between Professor Fitzmartin at Cedars-Sinai and Dr. Bob.
        The storm had somewhat relented. The wind that had cracked trees now merely worried them and made them shudder in expectation of a sudden resumption of the tempest.
        Rain fell with a brisk measured efficiency but no longer with destructive force, as though a revolution in the heavens had turned out the ruling warriors in favor of businessmen.
        “Maxwell Dalton,” Hazard continued after a moment. “Evidently he’s on leave or sabbatical from the university. The woman I spoke to was some holiday temp, not too clear, so I’m supposed to see Dalton’s wife. And the other is Vladimir Laputa.”

CHAPTER 68
        
        CORKY REGRETTED WHAT HE HAD DONE TO Mick Sachatone’s face. A good friend deserved to be executed in a more dignified manner.
        Because the Glock hadn’t been fitted with a sound suppressor, he had needed to make the first shot count. Maybe none of the nearest neighbors were home, and maybe if they were home, the rush of the rain would mask a single gunshot well enough to avoid piquing their interest. But a full barrage had been out of the question.
        In Malibu, Corky had not wanted to suppress the fine voice of the pistol. The bang of each shot, punctuating the brittle chorus of the shattered porcelain figurines, had rattled Jack Trotter.
        Although he had a silencer with him, the extended barrel did