48

Stahl followed the Cadillac to the street where Kevin Drummond’s car had been abandoned. A. Gordon Shull parked but kept his engine idling, got out of his car, raised his arms to the sky, and stretched.

Stahl heard something sickening.

Shull howling at the moon.

Waving a fist as he did it. Starring in his own private movie. Stahl’s hands were cool on the steering wheel. Just the two of them, so easy . . .

He sat there, and Shull shook his head like a wet dog, returned to the Cadillac, continued another five blocks west to a self-storage unit.

The sign said twenty-four-hour access, but Shull just slowed down, didn’t stop. Stahl made a note of the address as the Cadillac put on speed, zipped another half mile, then took a side-street route that forced Stahl to cut his lights again.

They emerged on Howard Hughes Boulevard, where Shull switched direction, yet again. North, back toward the city.

Back to Venice, where Shull, once again, drove west on Rose.

Asshole was on a memory-jog. What memories were here?

Back to the walkway, again? Had Shull done someone here?

But this time, instead of continuing to the end of the road, the Cadillac swung a right onto a side street—Rennie.

Dark block of one-story bungalows and tiny houses.

Shull cruised up, down, up, down.

Stahl wanted to follow but the narrow quiet street made it way too risky. He remained on Rose, close enough to the corner to follow Shull’s headlights. Taillights.

Back and forth.

The memory of the howl reverbed in Stahl’s head.

Bastard saw himself as a big bad predator.