I concentrated on driving for a couple of minutes, getting us out of a pod of Texans headed up the freeway in what seemed to be a test of Chaos Theory: you sensed an order in their driving, but you couldn't say exactly what it was. I could see the Toyota pickup at the head of the pack, like the lead dolphin.
After the shooting, Lane said, the police went to a house Jack had rented, with a second security man from AmMath, and found a bunch of computer disks"Two of them were in a pair of shoes in the closet, which doesn't sound like Jack at all"and a lot of other unauthorized stuff from AmMath, including manuals and confidential information about the Clipper II. AmMath wanted to take it, but the cops wouldn't give it to them: instead, they called in the FBI.
"They've still got it?"
"Yes. The FBI."
"And that's all."
"Well. They say the back entrance and the secure area at AmMath are covered with cameras. A call came into the building computer at TrendDirectthat's the building ownerand the security cameras were interfered with. The scanning range for the one in the back was changed so that it didn't scan a door at the end of the building; and the camera that watches the secure area was turned off."
"The guards didn't see that? Weren't the cameras monitored?"
"I asked that," she said. "The camera in back constantly scans back and forth, and the only change was to cut out part of the range. The other camera is one of about ten around the premises, with a constant cycle, three seconds at each station, and they cut out one station. They never noticed the changes."
We sat and thought about that for a moment; then Lane sighed and said, "They said we can probably get his computers back. Not the hard drives, but the rest of them. And the monitors, and his personal stuff."
"What about Jack? I mean, the body."
"I've got to go to the medical examiner's office and sign for him. They've released it. him."
"Huh. So maybe we should stop by his house and take a look around," I said. Over time, I'd crept up on the blue Toyota. He edged over to make it onto an exit, and I chopped him off, nearly sending him into the retaining wall. At the bottom of the ramp, I went right and he went left, but I could see his middle finger wagging out the window.
"For what?" Lane was unaware of the drama.
"Those Jaz disks. He said he'd put them in the safest possible place."
"You know what that means? I thought it was just a. phrase," she said.
"Maybe. But we could look around."
"The house is sealed."
"Yeah," I said. "With a piece of tape."
CHAPTER 4
The rest of the afternoon was taken up with the melancholy routines of violent death: claiming the body, signing for a bag full of personal effects that the cops didn't wantbesides the routine junk, Jack had $140 in his wallet, unless somebody had clipped it along the way, and Lane's high school graduation photo, which made her cry again. She also signed a contract with a local funeral home to handle shipment of the body by air freight. The coffin cost $1,799, and came with a guarantee that neither of us was interested in reading.
When Lane was in Dallas the first time, to identify the body, she'd gone to look at Jack's rented house, although she hadn't been allowed inside. We cruised it late in the afternoon, a two-bedroom, L-shaped cement-block rambler painted an awful shade of electric pink. The exact shade, I thought, of a lawn flamingo. A short circular driveway took up most of the front yard. There was no carport or garage. We could see only one door, right in the middle of the house, under an aluminum awning. We continued around the block, and from the other side, could see a small screened porch jutting into the backyard.
And there was a fireplace chimney. Not much of one, but there was one.
"He always rented the cheapest livable place," Lane said. "He'd fly back to California on weekends."
"Didn't like Texas?"
"Not a California kind of place," she said.
"Some people would count that as a blessing. Most Texans, for example."
She let the comment go by, as we cruised the house again.
"How do we get in?"
"I don't know. We'll have to see what lights are on, with the neighbors. If we can get in the back porch, we'll have some cover."
"Okay," she said. Simple faith.
We did the block once more, and I looked for kids' swing sets and bikes, basketball hoops, and dogs. LuEllen had trained me: if there are kids around, the parents in a family tend to be at home in the evening, and awake and alert. Basketball hoops often means teenagers, and teenagers come and go at weird, inconvenient times. Dogs are the worst. Dogs bark: that's how they earn their money, and in this neighborhood, they'd probably be listened to.
The house on the south side of Jack's had a hurricane fence around the backyard, which could mean either kids or dogs. The one on the north side, a noxious-green one, was as simple and plain as Jack's, with no sign of life. The house directly behind Jack's had an above-ground swimming pool in the backyard, which probably meant kids.
If there were kids running around, or splashing in the pool, we'd have to forget it. If not, the biggest problem might be the streetlight across the street and down one house.
"What do you think?" Lane asked.
"We probably ought to sky-dive onto the roof and cut our way into the house with a keyhole saw."
"Kidd."
"We ought to sneak around the back between the green house and Jack's place, if the green house doesn't show any lights, then cut our way into the screen porch and see what the situation is there. Usually, there's a way in."
"If we break in, they'll know it was us."
I shook my head: "No, they won't. We're leaving for San Francisco at eleven o'clock tonight. If they don't get around to the house for a few days. well, who knows what might have happened? And really, who cares? They've already searched the place."
We found a Wal-Mart and bought burglary toolsmight as well have the bestspent some time eating Tex-Mex, dropped the rental car with the airport Avis, and checked in with the airline. When we were set to fly, we rented another car from Hertz, using a perfectly good Wisconsin driver's license and Amex gold card issued to my old pal and fishing buddy Harry Olson, of Hayward, Wisconsin. Harry didn't exist, but he had money in the bank, a great credit rating, and a perfect driving record.
The fake ID convinced Lane that we really were going to break into her brother's house: she'd been relaxed all afternoon, but now she was tightening up. "The question we have to ask ourselves," she said, "is whether this is worth the trouble we could get into."
"We won't know unless we find the Jaz disks. Like you've been telling me, there are some odd things about this killing. If Jack was killed because of something with my name on it, I want to know what that something is. Without the cops getting it first."
"Hmm."
"You don't have to go in," I said. "All you have to do is show up with the car when I'm ready to leave."
"If you're going in, I'm going in."
That would help; we could cut the search time in half. So I didn't say no, though I had the feeling that if I had said no, and insisted on it, she might have given in.
"We won't go in if the situation looks bad. If the neighborhood's lit up, or we see people on the street."
"Okay. That's sensible."
When we got back to the house, the neighborhood wasn't all lit up, and there were no people on the street. The green house on the north side of Jack's house was dark. There was no car in the drive, or in front of it.
We cruised it once and I stopped a block away. "You remember everything?" I said. "We're joggers."