TWO MEN SAT in a van on the side of the road. One poured a cup of coffee from a thermos, then unwrapped a ham sandwich covered in Saran Wrap. It had Grey Poupon mustard on it because his wife believed the things she saw on television. The other man got out of the car to take a leak in the bushes.
They were out of the Sacramento office of Universal Security. It was too bad that someone had found every single LD in Magdalena Lazlo’s house, ripped them out or neutralized them. They hadn’t a clue what was going on inside. They made rude speculations what with her being in there with white and black men, but they didn’t believe what they suggested, they were just passing the time. They were on the midnight-to-eight shift; time moved slow.
They could see the driveway and in both directions along the road that led to it. Nobody was going to go in or out that way without being seen. They had night-viewing devices. But they didn’t need them. The moon was fat and bright.
A man and a woman sat in a car on the side of the road. Both of their spouses were certain they were having an affair. Whenever she went on surveillance with a guy, any guy, the wife was always certain they were doing it. They weren’t.
They had John Lincoln Beagle’s house in view. They had night-viewing devices but didn’t need them. It was the kind of moon that was so bright that it threw shadows and even let you see what color things were.
A third vehicle cruised restlessly the nine miles between the two. Partly to check on the others. Partly because Mel Taylor was sure that Broz was going to make a move and he wanted to be there. He knew about Hawk and Steve Weston and Steve’s son, and there was a white guy too. He didn’t know the white guy’s name yet. But he would. Soon. He didn’t know what, exactly, they were up to, but he figured he would know that soon too. If Broz somehow did pull something, Taylor had some countermoves.