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way, and under the nonchalant and distracted smile the black smoke boiled and I looked for
something that I knew was looking at me.
And found it.
Over there, in the nearest row of the parking lot, maybe a hundred feet away from me, right
where it would provide the best view, a small bronze-colored sedan was parked. And
through the windshield, something winked at me; sunlight off the lens of a camera.
Still so very careful and casual, even though the darkness was roaring through me with a
knife edge blossoming, I took a step toward the car. Across the distance I saw the bright
flash of the camera coming down, and the small pale face of a man, and the black wings
rattled and crashed between us for one very long second ...
Then the car started up, backed out of the parking spot with a small squeal of rubber, and
disappeared out of the lot and away into traffic. Although I sprinted forward, the most I
could see of the license plate was the first half: OGA and three numbers that might have
been anything, although I thought the middle one was either a 3 or an 8.
But with the description of the car, it was enough. I would at least find the registration of
the car. It would not be registered to Weiss, couldn't be. Nobody is that stupid, not in this
day of nonstop police drama in all the media. But a small hope flickered. He had left
quickly, not wanting me to see him or his car, and just this once I might have some small bit
of luck.
I stood there for nearly a minute, letting the wild wind inside me settle back down into a
neatly coiled and steadily purring thing.
My heart was pumping as it seldom did in the light of day, and I realized that it was a very
good thing that Weiss had been just a little bit shy, and had taken off so readily. After all,
what would I have done otherwise? Pulled him out of the car and killed him? Or had him
arrested and flung into a squad car, so he could begin to tell everyone who would listen all
about Dexter?
No, it was just as well that he had escaped. I would find him, and we would meet on my
terms, in the suitable dark of a night that could not come soon enough for me.
I took a deep breath, plastered my best phony working smile back onto my face, and walked
back to the pile of decorative meat that had been Cody's scout master.
Vince Masuoka was squatting by the body when I got there, but instead of doing something
useful, he was simply staring at the stuff shoved into the cavity and frowning. He looked up
as I approached, and said, What do you think it means?
I'm sure I have no idea, I said. I just do blood spatter. They pay detectives to figure out
what it means. Vince cocked his head and looked at me as if I had told him we were
supposed to eat the body. Did you know that Detective Coulter is in charge of the
investigation? he said.
Maybe they pay him for something else I said, and I felt a small surge of hope. I had
forgotten this detail, but it was worth remembering. With Coulter in charge, I could confess
to the murder, hand him videos of me performing it, and he would still find a way not to
prove it.
So it was with something approaching good cheer that I went back to work tempered with
very real impatience to get it finished and get back to my computer to track down Weiss.
Happily, there was very little blood spatter on site Weiss appeared to be the kind of
neatnik I admired and therefore there was almost nothing for me to do. I finished up
shortly and begged a ride back to headquarters with one of the squad cars. The driver, a
large white-haired guy named Stewart, talked about the Dolphins all the way back,
apparently not really caring if I spoke back.
By the time we got back to headquarters I had learned some wonderful things about the
approaching football season and what we should have done during the off-season but had
somehow, inexplicably, managed to bungle once again, which would certainly lead to
another season of ineptitude and shameful losses. I thanked him for the ride and the vital
information and fled for my computer.
The database for automobile registration is one of the most basic tools of police work, both
in reality and in fiction, and it was with a slight sense of shame that I went to it now. It
really just seemed too easy, straight out of a rather simple-minded television drama. Of
course, if it led to finding Weiss I would somehow overcome the feeling that this was
almost like cheating, but for the time being I really kind of wished for a clue that would call
for something a little more clever. Still, we work with the tools we are given, and hope that
someone asks us later for constructive criticism.
After only fifteen minutes I had combed the entire Florida state database, and found three
small bronze-colored vehicles with the letters OGA on their license tag. One of them was
registered in Kissimmee, which seemed like a bit of a commute. Another was a 3 Rambler,
and I was reasonably sure that I would have noticed something that distinctive.
That left number three, a 1995 Honda, registered to a Kenneth A Wimble on NW 98th
Street in Miami Shores. The address was in an area of modest homes, and it was relatively
close to the place in the Design District where Deborah had been stabbed. It really wouldn't
even be a terribly long walk so that, for example, if the police came to your little nest on
NE 40th you could easily hop out the back door and amble a few blocks over until you
found an unattended car.
But then what? If you are Weiss, where do you take this car? It seemed to me that you
would take it far away from wherever you stole it. So probably the very last place on earth
that he would be was the house on N W 98th Street. Unless there was some connection
between Weiss and Wimble. It would be perfectly natural to borrow a friend's car: Just some
casual butchery, buddy back in a couple of hours.
Of course, for some bizarre reason, we don't have a National Registry of Who Your Friends
Are. One would assume that this administration would have thought of that, and rammed it
through Congress. It would certainly make my work easier now. But no such luck; if they
were indeed chums, I would have to find out the hard way, by a personal visit. It was merely
due diligence in any case. But first I would see if I could uncover anything at all about
Kenneth A Wimble.
A quick check of the database showed that he had no criminal record, at least not under that
name. His utilities were paid, although payment on his propane bill had been late several
times. Digging a little deeper, going into the tax records, I discovered that Wimble was
self-employed, and his occupation was listed as video editor.
Coincidence is always possible. Strange and improbable things happen every day, and we
accept them and simply scratch our heads like rubes in the big city, and say, Gollee, ain't
that somethin'. But this seemed to be stretching coincidence past the breaking point.
I had been following a writer who had left a video trail, and now the trail had led me to a
video professional. And since there comes a time and place when the seasoned investigator
must accept the fact that he has stumbled on something that is probably not coincidence, I
murmured, Aha very quietly to myself. I thought I sounded quite professional saying it,
too.
Wimble was in on this in some way, tied up with Weiss in making and sending the videos,
and therefore, presumably in arranging the bodies and finally in killing Roger Deutsch. So
when Deborah had come knocking at the door, Weiss fled to his other partner, Wimble.
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