“You think Singh’s gonna show up?” Lula wanted to know.

“Nope.”

“Me, neither.”

“You parking here so you can keep an eye on Lu?”

“Yep.”

“You’re waiting for her to leave and then you’re gonna snatch the dog, aren’t you?”

“Yep.”

Connie was in the backseat, probably reviewing in her mind which of the local bondsmen she’d use to bail us out after we were arrested for breaking and entering.

After fifteen minutes of no air-conditioning, the car started to bake under the desert sun. Lula immediately fell asleep in the heat. She was head back, mouth open. And she was snoring. Loud.

“Holy mother,” Connie said, “I’ve never heard anyone snore like this. It’s like being locked in a car with a jet engine.”

I gave Lula a shove. “Wake up. You’re snoring.”

“The hell I am,” Lula said. “I don’t snore.” And she went back to snoring.

“I can’t take it,” Connie said. “I’ve got to get out of the car.”

I joined her and we walked down the street. We were wearing baseball hats and dark glasses but no sunblock and I could feel the sun scorching the exposed skin on my arm.

“Let me run through this,” Connie said. “Lillian Paressi, Howie at McDonald’s, Carl Rosen, and possibly Samuel Singh are all tied to the same serial killer. And now he’s targeted you.”

“I don’t know about Howie, Carl, or Samuel, but Lillian Paressi received red roses and white carnations and a note just before she was killed.”

“Like the flowers and notes you’ve been getting.”

“Yeah. So I’m guessing he likes to taunt his victims. Likes to get them afraid before he strikes. Some kind of game for him.”

“Are you sure it’s a him?”

“I’m not sure of anything. In the beginning I suspected Bart Cone, but the police are keeping a close watch on him. If Cone’s still in Trenton and Singh turns up dead, that eliminates Cone from the suspect list.”

When we got back to the car, Lula was still snoring and there were two dogs patiently sitting on the curb by the passenger side door.

“I don’t know what’s more creepy,” Connie said. “You getting stalked by a killer or Lula walking around with a purse filled with pork chops. I’m feeling like I’m in Stephen King land.”

It was two o’clock so I called Califonte and asked if Singh was there. Califonte said no, sorry. I gave Califonte my cell number and asked him to call me if Singh showed up.

Connie and I got back into the car and put our fingers in our ears. After five minutes my shirt was soaked and sweat was running down the side of my face. This was the glorious life of a bounty hunter.

“Tell me again why we’re sitting here, melting,” Connie said.

“The dog.”

“I need a better reason.”

“There’s something about that dog that gives me an estrogen attack. He’s small and helpless looking. And those little button eyes! The eyes are so trusting. And he’s going to the pound. How awful is that? I can’t let that happen.”