“Lots of things people are supposed to do. Pay their taxes, don’t spit on the sidewalk, cross only at corners. A guy’s in a hurry to dip his wick, what does he care about a number on a parking space? You got a look at the car.”

“I—”

“You looked once, maybe twice, and the car was parked in the space. Then you looked later and it wasn’t and that’s when you decided they were gone. Isn’t that what happened?”

“I guess so.”

“Describe the car.”

“I didn’t really look at it. I looked to see that it was there, that’s all.”

“What color was it?”

“Dark.”

“Terrific. Two door? Four door?”

“I didn’t notice.”

“New? Old? What make?”

“It was a late-model car,” he said. “American. Not a foreign car. As far as the make, when I was a kid they all looked different. Now every car’s the same.”

“He’s right,” Durkin said.

“Except American Motors,” he said. “A Gremlin, a Pacer, those you can tell. The rest all look the same.”

“And this wasn’t a Gremlin or a Pacer.”

“No.”

“Was it a sedan? A hatchback?”

“I’ll tell you the truth,” the man said. “All I noticed is it was a car. It says on the card, the make and model, the plate number.”

“You’re talking about the registration card?”

“Yeah. They have to fill all that in.”

The card was on the desk, a sheet of clear acetate over it to preserve prints until the lab boys had their shot at it. Name: Martin Albert Ricone. Address: 211 Gilford Way. City: Fort Smith, Arkansas. Make of Auto: Chevrolet. Year: 1980. Model: Sedan. Color: Black. License No.: LJK-914. Signature: M. A. RICONE.

“Looks like the same hand,” I told Durkin. “But who can tell with printing?”

“The experts can say. Same as they can tell you if he had the same light touch with the machete. Guy likes forts, you notice? Fort Wayne, Indiana and Fort Smith, Arkansas.”

“A subtle pattern begins to emerge,” Garfein said.

“Ricone,” Durkin said. “Must be Italian.”

“M. A. Ricone sounds like the guy who invented the radio.”

“That’s Marconi,” Durkin said.

“Well, that’s close. This guy’s Macaroni. Stuck a feather in his hat and called it Macaroni.”

“Stuck a feather up his ass,” Durkin said.

“Maybe he stuck it up Cookie’s ass and maybe it wasn’t a feather. Martin Albert Ricone, that’s a fancy alias. What did he use last time?”

“Charles Owen Jones,” I said.

“Oh, he likes middle names. He’s a cute fucker, isn’t he?”

“Very cute,” Durkin said.

“The cute ones, the really cute ones, usually everything means something. Like Jones is slang, it means a habit. You know, like a heroin jones. Like a junkie says he’s got a hundred-dollar jones, that’s what his habit costs him per day.”