It all seemed so pointless. If Henry was right about the burial of the marked bills, I didn’t see how either one of them could feel endangered. The only trump out against them was the shaky report of a six-year-old boy, who’d seen nothing incriminating. If word of my queries had leaked back to Walker, he might have wondered about my interest, but it hardly merited radical action. Shooting Michael Sutton was a miscalculation, overkill, as it were. Perhaps they didn’t realize Sutton had no credibility and was therefore harmless.

My current course was set and I was stuck with it. If I hadn’t decided to cruise by Corso’s house, I wouldn’t be tailing the two of them now, engaging in all this endless speculation about why they were together and where they intended to go. Guess I’d find out. Ahead of me, Jon took the off-ramp at Little Pony Road and turned left. At the top of the rise, he was caught by a red light. I was three cars behind. If he’d spotted me, he gave no indication. His driving was circumspect as he turned left through the intersection and drove toward the beach.

Were they looking for a private spot? That was the only thing I could figure, given their route. Why did they need privacy at all when they could have chatted by phone? Surely they didn’t imagine the lines were tapped. How paranoid would that be? I saw the Jaguar slow and turn left again into an unmarked side road I knew from times past. They were heading for Passion Peak, the pocket park that had been closed for two years, after a wildfire swept through it.

Here’s what occurred to me: What if Jon was doing a quick mop-up campaign, eliminating anyone who posed a threat to him? He was set for an imminent departure, destination unknown. Now that Sutton was out of the way, was Walker next?