Chapters (46)
- COVER PAGE
- PRAISE
- DEDICATION
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- SNEAK PEEK: EXIT .45
‘No. He sort of hung around on the edges of things. But he was never made. Anyway. What I’m trying to say is I don’t think ignorance is a virtue.’
‘I think you’re probably right.’ Sounding less than convinced, though.
But it was agreement in a technical sense, and Vincent thought he could perhaps capitalise on the sentiment: he reiterated the suggestion they make a statement to the police about what had happened this morning.
Erin said, ‘You can if you like. I need to get back to the hotel. I’m not going to an interview looking like this.’
THIRTY
THIRTY
The house in Sherman Oaks was a ranch-style place maybe forty years old, set back behind a tidy front yard with flowerbeds and a trim lawn. The mailbox had gold letters reading FORSYTH. It didn’t seem like a security-conscious move for a security contractor. Locke drove past and U-turned a few doors up and cruised back. A woman across the street was in her yard pulling weeds, bent forward at the hips across the A-frame of her spread feet.
He parked out in front of the Forsyth house and took his holstered gun from the glove compartment and clipped it to his belt at the small of his back, under the sweater. As he got out of the car and crossed the street, the woman tending weeds came upright with a crinkled wince and used her hand as a visor. Locke showed his badge.
The woman said, ‘Oh, wow. I guess it’s getting pretty serious now.’ Late sixties and heavy, hair pulled back in a bun. Face glossed and flushed with effort.
‘Excuse me?’
She was leaning forward a little, squinting. ‘Marshal service. I guess you want to know about Wayne and Deborah? About the Forsyths?’
‘When did you last see them?’
‘Not for a few days. Sunday, actually. Wayne left Sunday morning.’ She pointed beyond him, as if seeing it re-created. ‘And then Deborah was gone not much later. The same day. She’s got me on cat-feeding duty. Wayne used to work for that guy who owned Lamar’s, up in Santa Barbara.’
‘Eugene Lamar.’
‘Yeah, that’s his name. Up until a few weeks ago.’ Still looking where she’d pointed. ‘She used to come around on a Tuesday afternoon sometimes, we’d have a coffee. She’d always come and look at my flowers, ask how they’re doing. I’ve got gazanias around back, and some rockrose. Still doing pretty well, actually. And now they’re … it just doesn’t seem right they’re connected to all of this.’
He always found it funny the way people used these touchstones of ordinary life. Like the mundane and the day-to-day would inoculate against bad luck.
The Forsyths’ front door was locked. He walked around behind the house. A couple of lawn chairs and a vegetable patch. Vines on a teepee of bamboo stakes.