Well, this was interesting. I spotted a parking place and pulled in at the curb. I turned the engine off and doused my headlights. I adjusted the rearview mirror so that it was angled on the drive and then slid down in the seat.

A man moved out of the driveway with a hefty-looking duffel bag in his right hand. He was walking in my direction, his head down, his shoulders hunched. From the dim glow of the street lamp, I could see it wasn't Bucky, Chester, or Ray. This guy had a full head of dark, curly hair. His clothing was dark, and he must have been wearing rubber-soled shoes because his footsteps made hardly any sound on the pavement as he passed. He set off across the street. I kept him in sight, watching with curiosity as he approached a white Ford Taurus parked at the far curb, facing the opposite direction. He shifted the duffel to his left hand while he took out his car keys and unlocked the door on the driver's side. Puzzled, I glanced back toward Bucky's, but the premises were still dark and there were no signs of life.

The man opened the door and shoved the duffel toward the passenger seat, slid in behind the wheel, and slammed the car door shut. I watched as he checked his reflection in the rearview mirror, smoothed his hair back, and settled a Stetson on his head. I eased out of sight while he started his ignition, flipped the lights on, and took off, his headlights raking my windshield. As soon as he turned the corner, I started my car and pulled away from the curb. I did a quick U-turn, yanked on my headlights, and took the corner maybe six seconds after he had. I caught a glimpse of his taillights as he turned right on Castle. I had to floor it to maintain visual contact. Within minutes he'd turned onto the northbound freeway off-ramp, heading toward Colgate. I eased into the line of traffic two cars behind him and kept my foot firmly pressed to the accelerator.

6

A one-car surveillance is usually a waste of time, especially at night, where a second set of headlights becomes conspicuous in a subject's rearview mirror. In this case, whatever this guy was up to, I didn't think he had any idea I was following. Coming out of Johnny's garage apartment, he'd seemed neither watchful nor cautious, and I had to believe a tail was the last thing he expected. I hadn't expected it myself, so I was at least as surprised as he was. He did nothing on the freeway – no tricky lane changes, no sudden exits – to indicate that he was aware of my presence. The Stetson, in silhouette, gave me a nice visual cue against the wash of approaching headlights. He took the off-ramp at upper State Street, and I slid into the lane behind him. While I steered with my left hand, I scrounged around in my handbag for a scrap of paper and a pen. At least I could take his license plate number while I had him in range. The nature of the plate number indicated that the car was a rental, a further clue being the Penny-Car-Rental on the license plate rim. Big duh. I made a note of the number on the back of an old grocery list. Later, I'd find someone to check the rental car records.

It was 7:17 by the time the white Taurus pulled into the gravel courtyard of the Capri, a ten-unit "motor hotel" off the frontage road. The perimeter of the parking area was delineated by a drooping strand of Christmas tree lights that had been strung from pole to pole. The motel itself was made up of two rows of small frame and clapboard cottages, each with a carport affixed to one side. The darkness had draped the exteriors in sufficient shadow to conceal the flaking paint, warping window screens, and poor construction. Most of the cottages appeared to be empty: windows unlighted, no vehicles in the carports. A pint-size U-Haul truck was parked in front of one unit. The first two cottages on the left were occupied, along with the second unit on the right, which was where the Taurus was now parked.

The driver locked his vehicle and moved up to the cottage's small concrete porch, with its light offering forty watts' worth of illumination. I waited until he'd unlocked the cottage and entered before I eased my VW along the gravel parking lot to a darkened unit across the way. I backed into the carport, doused my headlights, and rolled the window down. The stillness was punctuated by the ticking of my engine as the metal cooled. Also, by a failing green Christmas tree bulb that flickered and buzzed somewhere above my head like a jolly green bee. I sat in the dark, pondering how long I'd be willing to wait before I headed for home.

Poor Nell must be wondering how far away the supermarket was. I'd promised her a quick trip – fifteen minutes max. I'd now been gone twice that long. I had a squirrelly feeling in the pit of my stomach, a strange emotional concoction of anxiety and excitement. What was in the duffel the guy had taken off the premises? Could be burglars' tools. I was operating on the assumption that this was the same guy who'd tossed the place before, though I couldn't imagine what was worth coming back for. Ray Rawson had some suspicions about who the break-in artist might have been, but he'd given no indication why anyone would bother. I wished now I'd pressed him for the information. Meanwhile, it was worth a short wait. If I ran out of patience, I'd make a note of the motel address and use a phone ruse in the morning to find out who was staying there.