The Good Guy. Dean Koontz

       Eleven

      Linda drove while Tim sat with her open purse on his lap, the gun in the purse. He was on the phone with Pete Santo.

      Having gone back into the DMV database as they spoke, Pete said, “Actually, the car that’s registered to Kravet isn’t at the Anaheim address. In that case, it’s Santa Ana.”

      Tim repeated the address aloud as he wrote it on the printout of Kravet’s driver’s license. “It’s no more real than the other one.”

      “You ready to tell me what this is about?” Pete asked.

      “It’s not about anything that happened in your jurisdiction.”

      “I think of myself as a detective to the world.”

      “Nobody’s been killed,” Tim said, and mentally added yet.

      “Remember, I’m in the robbery-homicide division.”

      “The only thing that’s been stolen is a coffee mug with a ceramic parrot for a handle.”

      Scowling, Linda declared, “I loved that mug.”

      “What’d she say?” Pete asked.

      “She says she loved that mug.”

      Pete said, “You want me to believe this is all about a stolen coffee mug?”

      “And an egg-custard pie.”

      “There was only half a pie left,” she said.

      On the phone, Pete said, “What’d she say?”

      “She says it was only half a pie.”

      “But it’s still not right,” she said.

      “She says,” Tim reported, “even half a pie, it’s not right.”

      “It’s not just the cost of the ingredients,” she said.

      “It’s not the cost of the ingredients,” Tim repeated to Pete.

      “He’s stolen my labor, too, and my sense of security.”

      “He’s stolen her labor, too, and her sense of security.”

      “So you want me to believe,” Pete said, “this is about nothing more than a stolen coffee mug and half an egg-custard pie?”

      “No. It’s about something else entirely. The mug and the pie are just associated crimes.”

      “What’s the something else entirely?”

      “I’m not at liberty to say. Listen, is there any way to find out if Kravet has another driver’s license under a different name?”

      “What name?”

      “I don’t know. But if the address in Anaheim was bogus, then maybe the name is, too. Does the DMV have any facial-recognition software that could search its files for a repeat of Kravet’s image?”

      “This is California, dude. The DMV can’t keep its public restrooms clean.”

      “Sometimes,” Tim said, “I wonder if The Incredible Hulk had been a bigger hit on TV, ran a few more years—maybe Lou Ferrigno would be governor. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

      “I think I would trust Lou Ferrigno,” Pete said.

      To Linda, Tim said, “He says he would trust Lou Ferrigno.”

      “I would, too,” she said. “There’s a humility about him.”

      “She says Lou Ferrigno has humility.”

      Pete said, “That’s probably because he had to overcome deafness and a speech impediment to become an actor.”

      “If Lou Ferrigno were governor, the state wouldn’t be bankrupt, DMV restrooms would be clean, and you’d have that facial-recognition software. But since he’s not the governor, is there any other way you can search to see if Kravet has a license under a different name?”

      “I’ve been thinking about that while we’ve been talking about Lou Ferrigno,” Pete said.

      “I’m impressed.”

      “I’ve also been rubbing Zoey’s ears the way she likes.”

      “You’re a full-on multitasker.”

      “There’s something I can try. It might work. Keep your cell charged, and I’ll get back to you.”

      “Ten-four, holy one.”

      As Tim terminated the call, Linda said, “Holy one?”

      “Santo means ‘saint.’ Sometimes we call him holy one.”

      “We?”

      Tim shrugged. “Some of us guys.”

      While Tim had been on the phone, Linda had set out for Santa Ana. They were ten minutes from the address where, according to the DMV, the Chevy sedan registered to Kravet might be found.

      “You and Santo,” she said, “you’ve been through something together.”

      “We’ve known each other a long time.”

      “Yeah, but you’ve been through something, too.”

      “It wasn’t college. Neither of us went to college.”

      “I didn’t think it was college.”

      “It wasn’t an experimental gay relationship, either.”

      “I’m absolutely sure it wasn’t a gay relationship.” She stopped at a red traffic light and turned that analytic green gaze on him.

      “There you go again with those things,” he said.

      “What things?”

      “Those eyes. That look. When you go carving at somebody with that look, you should have a medic standing by to sew up the wound.”

      “Have I wounded you?”

      “Not mortally.”

      The traffic light didn’t change. She continued to stare at him.

      “Okay,” he said. “Me and Pete, we went to a Peter, Paul and Mary concert once. It was hell. We got through that hell together.”

      “If you don’t like Peter, Paul and Mary, why did you go?”

      He said, “The holy one was dating this girl, Barbara Ellen, she was into retro-folk groups.”

      “Who were you dating?”

      “Her cousin. Just that one night. It was hell. They sang ‘Puff, the Magic Dragon’ and ‘Michael, Row the Boat Ashore,’ and ‘Lemon Tree’ and ‘Tom Dooley,’ they just wouldn’t stop. We’re lucky we got out of there with our sanity.”

      “I didn’t know Peter, Paul and Mary performed anymore. I didn’t even know they were all still alive.”

      “These were Peter, Paul and Mary impersonators. You know, like Beatlemania.” He glanced at the traffic light. “A car could rust waiting for this light to change.”

      “What was her name?”

      “Whose name?”

      “The cousin you were dating.”

      “She wasn’t my cousin. She was Barbara Ellen’s cousin.”

      “So what was her name?” she persisted.

      “Susannah.”