He squinted, trying to see. He had no idea where the gunshot had come from. Ahead. Behind. Was it really a shot? Maybe someone had set off a firecracker for the Fourth of July.

No, it was definitely a shot.

Garth pulled his gun from his pocket. He splashed down the street, carried by the wind at his back.

*

‘I don’t hear sirens,’ Cab said. ‘I don’t see any lights.’

Lala nodded in agreement. ‘There’s nobody coming.’

They were alone on Bayshore Boulevard. Waves crashed in twenty-foot surges that swept from the bay on their right and flooded through both lanes toward the houses that fronted the opposite side of the street. The sports car rode on water, not pavement.

‘Try the security guard again,’ Cab said.

Lala shook her head. ‘No signal.’

The street was black. There was no light anywhere. He slowed in the deep water to keep the car from stalling, and he felt the tires bump up on the curb as he swerved, unable to keep a straight path. When he spotted the cross-street that led to the abandoned house, he swung the wheel left, and the Corvette fishtailed. He shot down the narrow cobblestoned street. Where the road ended, he parked on a soft shoulder. The brown roof of the foreclosed property was barely visible beyond a swath of mature elm trees. Cab got out, and Lala got out on the other side. They both had their guns in their hands.

A chainlink fence marked the eastern edge of the lot. Squat hedgerows grew beside it, giving them shelter. They stayed low. In the rain, they could barely see. He felt as if he were a passenger on the Maid of the Mist, engulfed by the spray of Niagara Falls. They crept close to the rust-stained stucco wall of the house. The front windows were nailed shut with plywood, and kids had spray-painted the boards with graffiti.

They reached the front door. It was locked.

Cab cupped his hands over Lala’s ear. ‘The garage,’ he said.

He led her along the front sidewalk. Panicked lizards leaped from the bushes and skittered up the wall. Water cascaded down the slanted roof of the garage and sluiced over their heads. They slogged into the driveway, where they stood in front of a tan double-wide garage door. Cab pointed at Lala’s gun, and she held it straight and ready as he bent down to yank the chrome handle. The door slid upward on its tracks with a bang.

A black Lexus sedan was parked in the middle of the concrete floor, facing the street. Cab approached on the left side of the car, and Lala shadowed him on the right. They met at the rear of the sedan. The garage was deserted.

‘I know this car,’ Lala murmured. ‘It’s Frank Macy’s.’