His head rolled slowly, and he canted it away from me. “The Caddy was a borrowed car. I maintained the Merc the way a junkie would and finally it broke down and I sold it for dope money. Next day I realized that without wheels I was nothing—good old junkie planning. I planned on boosting some wheels but hadn’t gotten around to it, too stoned. So that night, I borrowed from a friend.”

“Nice car like that,” I said, “must’ve been a good friend.”

“I had a few. And don’t ask me who.”

“Was it the same friend who helped you escape?”

The mirrored shades tilted toward me. “Some things I can’t say.”

“It’ll all going to come out,” I said.

“Maybe,” he said. “If it happens by itself, it’s not my responsibility. But some things I can’t say.” He turned his head sharply toward the front of the house.

“Something’s wrong,” he said. “Aimee’s coming, but that’s not her usual walk.”

I heard nothing. Then: a faintest crunch—footsteps on gravel. Footsteps stopping and starting, as if someone was stumbling. But for the panic on his face, it would’ve floated right past me.

I left him and stepped into the front room, parted the drapes on a small, cloudy window, and looked out at the filmy, amber light of impending dusk.

Up the drive, maybe a hundred feet from the house, two men were walking Aimee and Bert toward us. Aimee and Bert’s hands were up in the air as they marched forward reluctantly. Bert looked terrified. Aimee’s pasty face was expressionless. She stopped suddenly and her escort prodded her with something and she winced and resumed walking.

Crunch.

One of the men was large and beefy, the other a head shorter and wiry. Both were Hispanic and wore cowboy hats. I’d seen them half an hour ago—in the pickup loaded with fertilizer that had interposed itself between Bert’s car and mine, then dropped away at the 33–150 intersection.

Lucky break, I’d thought at the time, enabling me to use the truck for cover as I tailed Bert.

Bill called out, “What’s happening?”

I rushed back to him. “Two cowboys have them at gunpoint.”

“Under the bed,” he said, waving his arms helplessly. “Get it. Now.”

Barking the order. Sounding like anything but a junkie.

CHAPTER

41

The computer gizmo that read out the trace on Alex was right in Craig Bosc’s Saab, hooked up to the dash, a cute little thing with a bright blue screen and a printer. It sputtered to life after Bosc punched a few keys.

Nineties guy, everything he needed, close at hand.

Milo hadn’t found any printouts in Bosc’s house, meaning Bosc had left those at his office. Or at someone else’s.