could be used without seasoning, and the madrona would burn longer and
hotter than oak, once it got going.
Odd, the things you learned along the way.
Ventura glanced at his watch. Almost twelve-thirty.
The lights had been off in Morrison's house for more than an hour, so
the widow was likely asleep by now. What was her name? Ah, yes.
Shannon. That sounded like the name of a teenaged starlet, or somebody
who was a cheerleader for some NFL football team. Hardly the name one
would connect to a scientist who had been twice her age.
Ventura looked around carefully. It was quiet, cool, and he hadn't
seen anything to worry him as he had sneaked to this hiding place. If
there were other watchers here, they must be working the street out
front. Good and bad, that. If they were there, he hadn't been able to
see them, which meant they were adept. Then again, if they were out
front, they wouldn't see him as he went to the back door.
He took several deep breaths, inhaling and letting them out slowly,
oxygenating his blood, trying to relax. He would go at one.
Michaels had left his beat-up Datsun at the bottom of the hill, half a
block away from where Ventura's rental was parked, and hiked up toward
Morrison's house. It had been a while since he'd done any covert
surveillance in the field, a long while, and his skills were not as
sharp as he would have liked. A lot of it came back as he worked his
way toward his target. He used trees for cover, went through backyards
when possible, kept low, listened carefully for dogs. He moved
steadily when he left cover, and he stayed in the shadows as much as
possible. That nobody seemed to notice him was probably more a
testament to the hour than any real skill on his part, but, hey, he'd
take it.
His hormones were flowing pretty good, too. He sometimes had to
remember to breathe. He had remembered to shut the ringer off on his
virgil. It wouldn't do to be skulking in the bushes somewhere and
suddenly start chiming out 'Bad to the Bone.'
As he drew closer to the house, Michaels wondered exactly what he was
going to do once he got there. He knew that Ventura's rental car was
still parked down the hill, so unless he missed him in passing, he was
out here on foot somewhere. Maybe already in the house.
There was a streetlight up ahead on the right. Michaels crossed the
road, to stay in the darkness.
One a.m.' straight up, time to go. Ventura ran in a crouch toward the
back door. It was only a ten-or twelve-second trip, but it seemed to
last for hours. He kept expecting to feel the impact of a bullet in
the back, even though he knew that wasn't likely--there was no point in
shooting him on the way in.
The trip ended; the bullet had not come. He tried the doorknob.
Locked. And the dead bolt would also be locked, if Shannon had been
doing what her husband told her.
Ventura took the leather pouch with his lock picks and torsion tools
from his jacket. The button lock on the doorknob would be a snap, and
that was all he needed. He had a key for the dead bolt, since his
people had overseen that lock's installation.
