Apparently Tom couldn’t conceive that burglars, psychopathic killers, and other low-lifes were permitted to purchase a Mercedes-Benz if they had the money for it. To him, evidently, anyone who drove a Mercedes had to be the right kind of people.

Elliot wondered how Tom would have reacted if they had shrieked into his garage in an old battered Chevy.

Pulling his covetous gaze from the car, Tom said, “What’re you doing here?” There was still neither suspicion nor belligerence in his voice.

“We’re expected,” Elliot said. “Huh? I wasn’t expecting nobody.”

“We’re here . . . about the boat,” Elliot said, not even knowing where he was going to go with that line, ready to say anything to keep Tom from putting up the garage door and throwing them out.

Tom blinked. “What boat?” “The twenty-footer.”

“I don’t own a twenty-footer.”

“The one with the Evinrude motor.” “Nothing like that here.”

“You must be mistaken,” Elliot said.

“I figure you’ve got the wrong place,” Tom said, stepping out of the doorway, into the garage, reaching for the button that would raise the big door.

Tina said, “Mr. Polumby, wait. There must be some mistake, really. This is definitely the right place.”

Tom’s hand stopped short of the button.

Tina continued: “You’re just not the man we were supposed to see, that’s all. He probably forgot to tell you about the boat.”

Elliot blinked at her, amazed by her natural facility for deception. “Who’s this guy you’re supposed to see?” Tom asked, frowning.

Appearing to be somewhat amazed herself, Tina hesitated not at all before she said, “Sol Fitzpatrick.”

“Nobody here by that name.”

“But this is the address he gave us. He said the garage door would be open and that we were to pull right inside.”

Elliot wanted to hug her. “Yeah. Sol said we were to pull in, out of the driveway, so that he’d have a place to put the boat when he got here with it.”

Tom scratched his head, then pulled on one ear. “Fitzpatrick?” “Yeah.”

“Never heard of him,” Tom said. “What’s he bringing a boat here for, anyway?” “We’re buying it from him,” Tina said.

Tom shook his head. “No. I mean, why here?”

“Well,” Elliot said, “the way we understood it, this was where he lived.”

“But he doesn’t,” Tom said. “I live here. Me and my wife and our little girl. They’re out right now, and there’s nobody ever been here named Fitzpatrick.”

“Well, why would he tell us this was his address?” Tina asked, scowling.

“Lady,” Tom said, “I don’t have the foggiest. Unless maybe . . . Did you already pay him for the boat?”

“Well . . .”

“Maybe just a down payment?” Tom asked.

“We did give him two thousand on deposit,” Elliot said. Tina said, “It was a refundable deposit.”

“Yeah. Just to hold the boat until we could see it and make up our minds.”

Smiling, Tom said, “I think the deposit might not turn out to be as refundable as you thought.”

Pretending surprise, Tina said, “You don’t mean Mr. Fitzpatrick would cheat us?” Obviously it pleased Tom to think that people who could afford a Mercedes were not so smart after all. “If you gave him a deposit, and if he gave you this address and claimed he lived here, then it’s not very likely this Sol Fitzpatrick even owns any boat in the first place.”

“Damn,” Elliot said.

“We were swindled?” Tina asked, feigning shock, buying time.

Grinning broadly now, Tom said, “Well, you can look at it that way if you want. Or you can think of it as an important lesson this here Fitzpatrick fella taught you.”

“Swindled,” Tina said, shaking her head.

“Sure as the sun will come up tomorrow,” Tom said. Tina turned to Elliot. “What do you think?”

Elliot glanced at the garage door, then at his watch. He said, “I think it’s safe to leave.” “Safe?” Tom asked.

Tina stepped lightly past Tom Polumby and pressed the button that raised the garage door. She smiled at her bewildered host and went to the passenger side of the car while Elliot opened the driver’s door.

Polumby looked from Elliot to Tina to Elliot, puzzled. “Safe?”

Elliot said, “I sure hope it is, Tom. Thanks for your help.” He got in the car and backed it out of the garage.

Any amusement he felt at the way they had handled Polumby evaporated instantly as he reversed warily out of sanctuary, down the driveway, and into the street. He sat stiffly behind the wheel, clenching his teeth, wondering if a bullet would crack through the windshield and shatter his face.

He wasn’t accustomed to this tension. Physically, he was still hard, tough; but mentally and emotionally, he was softer than he had been in his prime. A long time had passed since his years in military intelligence, since the nights of fear in the Persian Gulf and in countless cities scattered around the Mideast and Asia. Then, he’d had the resiliency of youth and had been less burdened with respect for death than he was now. In those days it had been easy to play the hunter. He had taken pleasure in stalking human prey; hell, there had even been a measure of joy in being stalked, for it gave him the opportunity to prove himself by outwitting the hunter on his trail. Much had changed. He was soft. A successful, civilized attorney. Living the good life. He had never expected to play that game again. But once more, incredibly, he was being hunted, and he wondered how long he could survive.

Tina glanced both ways along the street as Elliot swung the car out of the driveway. “No black van,” she said.

“So far.”

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