O’Neil rose and, picking his steps carefully, walked around to the other side of where the car had been parked. Examined that area.

“No. Just one. Nobody got out on the passenger side.”

“Ah. Got it. He changed shoes. No, changed clothes altogether.”

“Had to be. Just in case somebody saw him.”

“We should get your CSU team here, search for trace, run the prints.”

The MCSO and the FBI had tread mark databases for both tires and shoes. They might find the brand of shoe and narrow down the type of car, with some luck.

Though luck was not a commodity much in evidence in the Solitude Creek investigation.

Chapter 31

Tomorrow is the new today… You have to think not about the present but about the future. You see, you blink and what was the future a moment ago is the present now. Are we good with that? Does that speak to you?”

The author looked like an author. No, not in a tweedy sports jacket with patches, a pipe, wrinkled pants. Which was, maybe, the way authors used to look, Ardel believed. This writer was in a black shirt, black pants and wore stylish glasses. Boots. Hm.

“So while you’re focusing on the moment, you’ll miss the most important part of your life: the rest of it.” With a look of treacly sincerity he scanned the audience, aligned in rows of unpadded folding chairs.

Fifty-nine-year-old Ardel Hopkins and her friend Sally Gelbert, sitting beside her, had come to the Bay View Center, off Cannery Row, right on the shoreline, because they were on diets.

The other option, as they’d debated what to do on this girls’ night out, was to hit Carambas full-on, two hours. But that would mean six-hundred-calorie margs and those chips and then the enchiladas. Danger, danger! So when Sally had seen that a famous author was appearing up the street, at the Bay View, they decided: Perfect. One drink, a few chips, salsa, then culture.

Didn’t preclude an ice-cream cone on the drive home.

Also, comforting news: Like everyone else, Ardel had been worried about a crowded venue—after that terrible incident at Solitude Creek, intentionally caused by some madman. But she and Sally had checked out the Bay View hall and noted that the exit doors had been fixed so they couldn’t be locked—the latches were taped down. And a thick chain prevented anyone from parking in front of the doors and blocking them, as had happened at Sam Cohen’s club.

All good. Mostly good—problem was this guy, Richard Stanton Keller, supposedly a self-help genius, was a bit boring.

Ardel whispered, “Three names. That’s a tip-off. Lot of words in his name. Lots of words in his book.”

Lots of words coming out of his mouth.

Sally nodded.

Keller was leaning forward to the microphone, before the audience of a good four hundred or so fans. He read and read and read from his bestseller.

Tomorrow Is the New Today.

Catchy. But it didn’t make a lot of sense. Because when you hit tomorrow, it becomes today but then it’s the old today and you have to look at tomorrow, which is the new today.