Without even meaning to, I made a detour, easing through all the motel parking lots between my place and the marina. I spotted Carl Eckert’s sports car at the Beachside Inn: a one-story motel, arranged in a T-shape with the short bar along the front. The parking slots were lined up, one for each room, the numbers marked on the pavement so that no one would poach. Every room on this side of the building was dark.

I drove through to the alley and circled back to Cabana. I parked on the street, a few doors down from Eckert’s motel. I slipped my penlight in my jeans pocket and returned on foot, grateful that my tennies were rubber-soled and silent. The parking area was illuminated for the safety of the occupants, the fixtures aimed so as to cast light away from the windows. I could see my own shadow, like an elongated companion, follow me across the lot. Carl had secured the tonneau cover across the open body of his car. I did a thorough visual scan, taking in the darkened windows and the dimly lighted parking area. There were no signs of movement within range of me. I didn’t even see the gray flickering light against the motel drapes that would indicate a television set in use. I took a deep breath and started popping snaps on the tonneau, loosening the driver’s side first. I slid my hand down along the inside, feeling through the map pockets in the door. He kept his interior immaculate, which meant he probably had a system for all the gas slips and detritus. I felt a spiral-bound notebook, a road map, and some kind of paper booklet. I brought everything to the surface like a net full of fish. I paused to check my surroundings, which seemed as benign as before. I flicked the penlight across the spiral notebook. He was keeping track of his gasoline mileage.

The booklet I found was his business log, noting odometer readings, destinations, purpose of meetings, names and titles of those in attendance. Personal and business expenses were neatly separated into columns. I had to smile to myself. This from a con artist who’d spent months in jail. Maybe prison had some rehabilitative effect. Carl Eckert was behaving like a model citizen. At least he wasn’t trying to cheat the IRS, as far as I could tell. Tucked in a slot at the back of the log was his itemized Best Western hotel bill, two gasoline receipts, five credit card vouchers, and—what ho!—the speeding ticket he’d picked up last night on the outskirts of Colgate. According to the time so obligingly noted by the CHP officer who issued the citation, Carl Eckert could easily have sped the remaining distance to Perdido in plenty of time to take potshots at Wendell and me.

“You want to tell me what the fuck you’re doing out here?”

I jumped, papers flying, barely managing to suppress a shriek. I put a hand to my chest, heart pounding. It was Carl in his stocking feet, his hair rumpled from sleep. God, I hate sneaks! I leaned over and started picking up papers. “Jesus! Warn a person. You nearly scared me to death. What I’m doing is blowing your alibi for last night.”

“I don’t need an alibi for last night. I wasn’t doing anything.”

“Well, somebody was. Did I mention the fact that my car engine cut out, leaving Wendell and me stranded on a very dark beach road?”

“No. You didn’t mention that. Go on,” he said cautiously.

“Go on. That’s good. Like this is news to you. Somebody was shooting at us. Wendell disappeared shortly afterward.”

“You think I did that?”

“I think it’s possible. Why else would I be out here in the dead of night?”

He shoved his hands down in his pockets and looked around at the darkened windows, realizing that our voices would carry into every room. “Let’s talk about this inside,” he said, and padded off toward his room. I trotted along behind him, wondering where all this was going.

Once inside, he flipped on the bed table lamp and poured himself a tumbler full of Scotch from a bottle on the desk. He held it up, a silent query. I shook my head to decline. He lit a cigarette, this time at least remembering not to bother offering me one. He sat on the edge of the bed, and I sat on the upholstered chair. The room didn’t look that different from the one Brian Jaffe had occupied. Like any other liar once confronted, Carl Eckert was probably preparing another set of lies. I settled in like a kid waiting for a bedtime story. He thought for a little while, adopting his sincere look. “Okay, I’ll level with you. I did drive down from SLO-town last night, but I didn’t go to Perdido. I got back to the hotel after a day of meetings and checked with my service. There was a message from Harris Brown, so I called him back.”

“Well, you’ve got my attention. I’ve been wondering how Harris Brown fits into the picture. Fill me in. I’d love it.”