I walked back to the office in a state of suspended animation. Sutton’s death seemed incomprehensible. For the moment, I didn’t feel sorrow, I felt dismay. He’d gone off to meet someone and ended up dead. Unbelievable. Walker McNally couldn’t have done it. I’d seen him at the bank at 10:00. He had a morning full of meetings. It was 11:30 now. I didn’t see how he could have slipped away, driven up to Seashore, shot Sutton, and scurried back again. I assumed his license had been yanked because of his accident and he surely wouldn’t have hired a taxi or bummed a ride. Of course, killers probably aren’t that fussy about obeying traffic laws.

At the same time, if I was correct about Jon Corso and Walker being in cahoots, Jon could have been the shooter. He lived near the back entrance to the Ravine. Seashore Park wasn’t far from his house, three miles at best. He could have driven to the park, killed Sutton, and returned home, and who would be the wiser? I opened my Thomas Guide and checked his house number, tempted to cruise by and see if he was there. I had no intention of knocking on his door, but it wouldn’t hurt to look.

I went out to the Mustang and fired up the engine, plotting my route as I pulled away from the curb. The shortest path was to cut the two blocks over to Capillo and drive up the hill to the intersection where Capillo and Palisade crossed. I’d spent quite a bit of time in that area on a case I’d worked earlier in the year. If I turned left on Palisade and drove a mile, I’d be at Seashore; a right turn would take me past Little Pony Road, and then up another hill and into Horton Ravine.

Traffic was slowed by road construction and it took longer than I’d anticipated before I reached Horton Ravine and passed between the stone pillars. My Grabber Blue 1970 Mustang was conspicuous under ordinary circumstances, even more so in this upscale neighborhood where most vehicles (except those of the hired help) were late-model luxury cars.