Moss shut off the Pontiac’s engine, took a final drag on his cigarette, then ground the butt into the ashtray. He rested both arms on top of the steering wheel and stared straight ahead. Only after a few seconds did he finally turn to look at Bungalow nine. Taylor’s bungalow. He wasn’t anxious to get started, but he could no longer put it off. The remainder of Taylor’s belongings had to be shipped to a cousin in St. Louis. Moss should have taken care of this task two weeks ago, but it was one of those dreaded chores that only get done when there is absolutely no more time for procrastination.

Some of Taylor’s belongings were shipped three days after the incident occurred; the rest had been boxed. All that remained was for Moss to make a couple, maybe three trips to the post office. He should have borrowed the Pinewood Estates van and taken care of the matter in a single trip. But he hadn’t and it was no big deal. These days, when many residents were back up north for the summer, he had plenty of free time on his hands.

A white BMW drove past Taylor’s driveway. The driver offered a friendly wave and an ear-to-ear smile. Moss liked the young man, Brad McGregor. What he didn’t like was the idea of Brad and Kelli living together outside of marriage. Of all the broken traditions, that one bothered him the most. If two people love each other and want to live together, it should be as husband and wife. Whatever happened to the term “living in sin” anyway?

Moss sighed. What the hell difference did it make in the long run? The world’s going to hell in a hand basket. Terrorism, hunger, pollution, drugs, kids killing kids in schools all across the country, disrespect, politicians banging young interns … Let us count the ways. Look what happened to a nice guy like Taylor. Living alone, minding his own business, harming no one, then—murdered. Further proof that the world is heading down the toilet. With so many real troubles, what could possibly be wrong with a couple of fairly decent kids living together? Nothing. Yet, for whatever reason, however old-fashioned or outdated, Moss was bothered by it.

He opened the door, put on his L.A. Lakers baseball cap, got out of the car, and walked down the brick path leading to bungalow nine.

The bungalow was dark and smelled of musk, so Moss opened the curtains in the living room, then went into the kitchen and opened the blinds covering the window that looked out over the inlet. After getting a drink of water, he went into the living room and counted the boxes stacked in the corner. Six, plus two small ones still upstairs. Definitely three trips, he figured. The old Pontiac might be roomy—Taylor once called it an ark—but it wasn’t nearly roomy enough to get the job done in two trips.

Moss decided to get the two boxes in the upstairs bedroom first. When he reached the top of the stairs, he waited a few seconds to catch his breath, adjusted his Lakers cap, then took one last look in the hall closet. Satisfied none of Taylor’s belongings had been overlooked, he went into the bedroom.

And froze.

He wasn’t alone. A man was standing by the large window that opened to the balcony.

Moss surveyed the intruder. Tall, lean, handsome; dressed in Levis, a T-shirt, and white Nikes. Brown hair on the longish side, bluish-gray eyes.

And perfectly calm. He smiled, nodded as though he anticipated Moss’s arrival, and continued what he was doing.

Moss didn’t react so nonchalantly. He took a step back, looked to his right, spied a brass candleholder on the dresser, picked it up, and clutched it tightly in both hands.

“Who are you?” he stammered. “And how the hell did you get in here?”

“Relax, Moss. I’m—”

“How’d you know my name?” Moss interrupted.

“It’s my business to know things.” Striding across the room, the man put out his hand. “I’m Mickey Collins. And you can put down that weapon. You won’t need it.”

Moss looked at the man’s large hands, still unsure of what exactly was happening and even less sure of how he should deal with it. Cautious was the first word that came to mind. Danger was the second. After all, one man had already been murdered in this bungalow. He had no intention of becoming victim number two. Not if he had anything to say about it.

He took another step backward. “Okay, so your name is Mickey Collins. You still ain’t told me why you’re up here and how you got in.”

“I’m here to look around. As for getting in, I picked the back door lock.”

“That’s known as breaking and entering. People go to the hoosegow for doing that.” Moss stared at Collins’s hands. “Just what is it you’re lookin’ for, anyway? And why?”

“Cardinal was a friend of mine.”

“Who was a friend of yours?” Moss asked.

“Cardinal.” Collins saw the confused look on Moss’s face. “Taylor. Taylor was a friend of mine.”

“Then how come I’ve never seen you here before?”

“Because I’ve never been here. I haven’t seen Cardinal for many years.”

“Why do you keep calling him Cardinal?”

“Cardinal was Taylor’s code name.”

“Code name? What was he, some kind of James Bond spy?”

“No.”

“What about you? You got a code name?”

“Cain.”

“Cain? Like in the Bible?”

“Yes.”

“He murdered his brother, didn’t he?”

“So the story goes.”

“Well, how can I be sure you ain’t a murderer?”

“Because I’m not.”

Moss thought about it for a few seconds, then said, “Listen, mister, I’m not sayin’ you’re lyin’ to me or anything like that, but I’m in charge of security around here. So I gotta check you out.”

“No need to bother. I’m kosher.”

“Look, man, even if I did believe you, I’d still need some proof. I could lose my job if you don’t check out A-OK. This job don’t pay much, but it’s all I got.”

“You won’t lose your job, Moss. Promise.”

Moss cut his eyes downward. “From the look of those hands of yours, maybe I ought to be worried about more than losin’ my job.”

Collins reached for his wallet, hesitated. “You’re gonna have to trust me, Moss. Just like I trusted you.”

“Trusted me?” Moss said, his interest suddenly piqued. “How’d you trust me?”

“By telling you Taylor’s code name. And mine. There aren’t ten people in the world who possess that information.”

“Well—”

“I’ve heard you’re a good man, Moss. I also heard you were pretty close to Cardinal. I’m banking on all that being true.”

“Why?” Moss asked, leaning slightly forward.

“I may need your help somewhere along the way.”

Making an outsider think he’s being brought into some secret inner circle is the greatest of all baits. Collins knew from the look in Moss’s eager eyes that the bait had been snapped up and swallowed. But offering the bait was only half of the proposition. Now came the closer—a dash of fear.

Always throw in fear.

“In my business, trust isn’t something one can assume. I have to be very careful who I give it to. When I do extend that trust, and if it’s broken, well, let’s just say bad things happen.”

Collins paused briefly, then said, “really bad things,” in a stern whisper.

Moss leaned forward like a deaf man straining to hear. When he was sure nothing more was coming, he took the bait a second time. “What kind of bad things?”

“Like what happened to Cardinal.”

Moss glanced down at Collins’s hands. “You didn’t kill Taylor, did you?”

“No. But I’ve got to find the man who did. And fast.”

“You a cop?”

“I’m no cop.”

“Private investigator?”

“It’s not important who or what I am, Moss. What is important is finding Cardinal’s killer.”

Moss put the candleholder back on the dresser. His face was set in that frown that accompanies deep thought. Finally, he looked up at Collins. “This may be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done, but I’m goin’ along with you on this. It’ll probably end up bein’ my ass.” He paused, looked around the room. “What the hell? Anyway, you stand a better chance of catchin’ Taylor’s killer than those peckerhead cops downtown.”

“Those peckerhead cops are not to know anything at all about me. That clear?”

“Right, perfectly clear.”

Collins went into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. Except for two loose Tylenol capsules on the bottom shelf, it was empty. He bent over the tub and ran his forefinger around the inside of the nozzle. He unscrewed the showerhead, raised himself up on his tiptoes, and inspected it.

“If you’ll tell me what it is you’re lookin’ for, maybe I can help you out. Save you some time,” Moss said.

“I don’t know what it is I’m looking for.”

“Then how will you know when you find it?”

Collins laughed. “Good question.”

“Want me to unpack the boxes downstairs?” Moss asked.

“No need.”

“How do you know?” Moss said, adding, “unless you’ve already checked them.”

Collins smiled.

“You fox,” Moss said. “You know, I had you figured for bein’ a sharp cookie the very second I laid eyes on you. What else have you done?”

“Let me ask the questions, Moss.”

“Fine by me. Only one thing, though.”

“What’s that?”

“Did you know three boxes of Taylor’s stuff have already been shipped? To a relative in St. Louis.”

“They’ve been checked.”

“I should have guessed.” Moss sat on the bed. “Okay, fire away with your questions.”

“For starters, I need the name of every person who came to see Cardinal during the last six weeks or so leading up to the time he was killed. Everyone. Visitors, delivery people, maintenance, anyone you can think of.”

“Wow, that’s a tall order. I don’t know if—”

“Don’t you keep records at the guard shack? A log of some sort?”

“Only after six at night. But I can plainly remember the ones who came to see him after dark.”

“Who?”

“Well, naturally, there was that dippy trio who found the body. They came here two or three times. I can’t remember exactly, but I’ll look it up for you when I get back to the shack.”

“Forget them, they’re clean. Anyone else? Think hard; it’s important.”

“Let’s see. Yeah, I remember a couple of times when Taylor ordered pizza from the Pizza Hut down on the strip. Both times it was the Hendley kid who delivered them. He’s in and out of here all the time. Early last month, Taylor’s air conditioning shut down and old Elvis Chandler had to come and work on it. Other than that, I can’t recall anyone else comin’ to see Taylor after dark. He pretty much stayed to himself. Day and night.”

“Did he ever have a visitor who was an Indian?”

“An Indian? You mean like Ghandi?” Moss asked.

“No. A Native American Indian.”

“Nah. Nobody like that came to see Taylor.”

“Who’s the one person living here who knows the most about what goes on around the island? The island gossip, so to speak.”

“That would have to be …” Moss’s eyes widened. “Hey, wait a minute. I do remember one other person coming to see Taylor at night. He came twice, in fact. How could I have forgotten him?”

“Who was he?”

“I don’t know his name, but Taylor must have known him. He called the guard shack to let me know the man was on his way and for me to let him in.”

“When was this?”

“First time … about three weeks ago. Second time … maybe four or five days later.”

“Can you remember anything about him? What he looked like? How he dressed? Anything at all?”

Moss laughed. “Sure can. He was a black dude.”

Collins’s eyes darted. “A black guy?”

“Yep. Big as a mountain, too.”

“Did you log in his name?”

“Nah. When Taylor okayed him, I didn’t bother getting a name. Sorry.”

“Anything else, Moss? Think hard.”

“Well—”

“Did he have an L-shaped scar on his left cheek?”

“Sure did. Hey, how’d you know that?”

Collins headed out of the bedroom and down the stairs. Moss followed close behind.

“Did I do something right?” Moss asked as Collins opened the front door.

“You did good, Moss. Very good. Cardinal would be proud of you.”

Moss was still beaming when Collins drove away.