2
I ran the Mercury convertible into the wooden garage next to Tim Duval’s place on the waterfront. I cut the engine and the lights, shut the garage doors and walked over to the house.
Searchlights still waved over Paradise Palms. Maybe they thought I was hiding in the sky. Every now and then a nervous cop would let off his gun. The activity was now a couple of miles away, and right where I was seemed quiet enough.
I rapped on the door of the squat, faded house and waited. There was a long pause, then a woman’s voice called from an overhead window, “Who is it?”
“Tim around?” I asked, stepping back and peering at the white blob that looked down at me.
“No.”
“This is Cain,” I said.
“Wait,” the woman said, and a moment or so later the front door opened.
“Where’s Tim?” I asked, trying to see the woman in the darkness.
“You’d better come in,” she said, standing to one side.