Stiles sat in the van for nearly ten minutes, waiting impatiently, wondering if he should go on to the Tunnel and risk the deputy finding him there later. But then the squad car finally started. “About time,” he muttered as it edged into the empty street and U-turned, headed back past him. Stiles pulled out as well, following at a discreet distance, confident that they would finally make it to Sykes Road this time. But that was underestimating Rusty Sanders. Before they got as far as the Tri-Lakes, the deputy pulled off the road and into the Nevermore Trailer Park. “What now!” Stiles sighed with disgust as he eased onto the shoulder, where he had an unhindered view of the park’s main drive. Sanders drove all the way to the rear of the park, past the rows of Hollyparks and Westbrooks with their redwood decks and seamless skirting, and it looked as if he might turn the corner there and disappear onto the next drive. But he pulled in next to the last trailer in the row and stopped. Stiles fished through the van console for his field binoculars, and they brought the scene much closer. It was an older Windsor mobile home and it wasn’t in the best condition; the siding was separating at the seams and showed signs of rust, and the window nearest the door was broken and patched with cardboard from the inside. Rusty Sanders climbed from the patrol car trying to look professional, cap on and clipboard under one arm, as he approached the door and knocked. He had to do so three times before it finally opened.

The woman who greeted him there may have been in her early thirties but looked older, at least in the face. Her hair hung straight and bodiless and her eyes, even at that distance, had a glazed tired look, which could have been sleep or something stronger. A cigarette dangled from her large lips. She was wearing an open bathrobe and underneath it a satin teddy, the kind from Frederick’s of Hollywood, cut low in the front and high up on the hips so a little pubic hair is always in view. The kind that invari­ably looks better in the catalogs. Not that Georgetta Stovall had a bad figure; her bustline was an impressive sight to be sure and had been all but a landmark in Isherwood for some time. But the skimpy lingerie, while emphasizing those breasts, also showed a bit too much of a growing belly and the creep of cellulite that was beginning to threaten her thighs and hips. Neither of which seemed to affect Rusty Sanders. He looked around secretively to see if they were being watched, then said something to the woman. She flipped her cigarette into the yard and answered him with a curt, bored nod of her own, then reached out for his jacket collar and pulled him through the door.