Dar sighed. “I can,” he said, “but you’ll have to get back on your own. I’m headed up to my cabin in the hills after work.”

“That’s perfect,” said Syd. “We’ll stop by the Hyatt to pick up my stuff.”

Dar frowned.

The chief investigator paused by the door to explain. “You still have San Diego cops tasked to protect you around the clock, but if you head for your cabin in the hills, we’re out of their jurisdiction. We can’t really ask some local county sheriff to use his manpower guarding you—”

“Look, I never said I wanted—” began Dar.

Syd held up her hand. “While I, on the other hand, will not only serve as a perfect bodyguard this long weekend, but will use the time properly going through your computerized and hard-copy case files to find the missing link here.”

Dar looked at her for a long moment, seeing the two of them reflected in the mirrored window. He wondered who might be watching from behind the one-way glass.

“Do I have a choice?” he said at last.

“Of course you do,” said the chief investigator, giving him the warmest smile he had seen so far. “You’re a free citizen.”

“Good—” began Dar.

“Of course, you’re a free citizen facing a possible arraignment on vehicular manslaughter, and the court has ordered twenty-four-hour protective surveillance on you. So I guess you’re free to decide whether you drive or let me drive,” said Syd.

Lawrence and Trudy worked out of their home in a development not far from Escondido. Stewart Investigations, Inc., was a sprawling, two-level ranch house on a steep, ice-plant-covered hill above a county road that ran down to the development golf course. Neither Lawrence nor Trudy played golf. In truth, Lawrence and Trudy did very little that did not relate to their insurance investigation work or their one source of relaxation—auto racing. The house itself held more than forty-five hundred square feet of space, but most of the usable space was a clutter of offices upstairs and down for the man-and-wife team. The Stewarts’ cathedral-ceilinged living room had been empty of furniture for the first three years Dar had known them.

He parked the Land Cruiser in front of a driveway filled with vehicles—Lawrence’s old Isuzu Trooper, Trudy’s leased Ford Contour, Lawrence’s Ford Econoline surveillance van with its tinted windows, two race cars—one on a trailer and the other in the three-car garage, sitting next to a tarp-covered ’67 Mustang covertible—and two Gold Wing motorcycles.

“These all theirs?” asked Syd as they walked up the drive through the pantheon of vehicles.

“Sure,” said Dar. “They used to have a couple of later-model Mustangs, but sold them when they got the race cars.”

“What kind of racing?”

“A special class using old Mazda RX-7s,” said Dar.

“Larry races in California, Arizona, Mexico…wherever they can get to in a weekend.”

“Trudy always goes along?”

“Lawrence and Trudy do everything together,” said Dar.

Dar rang a buzzer under an intercom. While they waited, Syd looked at the surrounding houses on the hill.

“No sidewalks,” she said flatly.

Dar raised an eyebrow. “You new to California, Investigator?”

“Three years,” said Syd. “But I still hate the idea of no sidewalks.”

Dar gestured toward the seven vehicles in the driveway and open garage. “Why the hell would anyone in California need a sidewalk?”

“Come on in,” said Trudy’s voice over the intercom. “We’re in the kitchen.”

When Syd and Dar trekked through the acres of unused living room, scarcely used dining room, and overused work areas to the kitchen, Stewart Investigations was taking a coffee break. Lawrence was on a stool, hunched over the counter with his elbows on the Formica and his face red with concentration. Trudy was standing behind the counter but leaning toward her massive husband as if they were involved in a fierce but friendly contest of wills.

“Olds Rocket Eighty-eight,” said Trudy in a bass growl.

“Toyota Rav Four,” answered Lawrence in a mincing falsetto. He waved Dar and Syd toward two empty stools at the counter and gestured toward the coffeepot and clean mugs. As the two guests poured some coffee for themselves, Lawrence growled, “Pontiac Grand Prix.”

“Mitsubishi Galant,” said Trudy, now using the falsetto voice. “Mercury Cougar,” she growled back, as if slamming a ball over the net.

Lawrence hesitated.

“Ford Contour,” said Syd in a tone several octaves higher than her usual pleasant speaking voice.

“Ah, Jesus,” said Dar.

“Shhh!” said Trudy. “You’ll break the rhythm. Go ahead, Investigator Olson. Your serve.”

“Ah, same letter,” mused Syd. In a lumberjack’s growl she said, “Dodge Charger!”

“Honda Civic,” replied Lawrence in an exaggerated sissy voice. Then he roared, “Chevy Impala!”

“Infinity!” said Trudy.

“Isuzu Impulse,” minced Syd.

Trudy pointed. “Your point. ‘Impulse’ is wimpier and more stupid than ‘Infinity.’ You can serve any letter.”

“Ford Thunderbird,” yelled Syd.

“Ford Taurus,” cried Lawrence.

“Toyota Tercel,” said Trudy triumphantly. She banged her coffee cup down and frowned at her husband. “Taurus means bull, Larry. A bull has balls. What’s a Tercel, anyway? Some kind of bird? It means nothing.”

“Lawrence,” said Lawrence.

“Are you guys finished with the testosterone-estrogen game?” asked Dar.

“Nope,” said Trudy. “It’s forty-love. My serve.” She paused only a second. “American Motors Eagle!”

“It’s not produced anymore,” said Dar.

Everyone ignored him. Obviously he did not understand the rules.

“Escort,” lisped Lawrence.

“Hyundai Elantra!” said Trudy as if slapping down a trump card.

“Suzuki Esteem,” said Syd.

Both Lawrence and Trudy nodded, giving Syd the point.

“What’s wimpier than calling a car an ‘Esteem’?” said Trudy. “Especially a piece of Suzuki junk. It’s like naming a car, ‘My Pride.’”

“When I was a teenager,” said Dar, “I drove a big-finned 1960 Chrysler New Yorker that my girlfriend named ‘Beat-rice.’”

The other three looked at him as if he had passed wind.

“Where were we?” said Lawrence.

“Two points from match point,” said Trudy. “Syd or me. I’ll serve.” She paused only a second. “Pontiac Firebird…”

“Ford Fiasco,” snapped back Lawrence. “Nothing wimpier than a Fiasco.”

“Ford Fiestas aren’t being produced anymore,” said Syd. “Now they’re Festivas.”

“Your point, your serve,” said Trudy.

“Buick Roadmaster,” growled Syd, drawing out the syllables in “master.”

“Rav Four,” said Lawrence.

“Foul,” said Trudy. “You already used that one.” She paused. “R’s a tough one…Plymouth Reliant?”

“Too tough,” said Lawrence.

“All I can think of is the Buick Reatta,” said Syd. “And that’s not sissy enough, even if it doesn’t mean anything.”

“RX-7 is sort of wimpy,” said Trudy.

“Hey!” said Lawrence, sounding sincerely hurt. He raced rebuilt RX-7s.

“Why don’t I serve?” suggested Dar. “Whoever wins this one, wins.”

“Agreed,” said the other three.

“Q45,” said Dar.

“That’s a new car,” protested Trudy. “And there’s nothing especially sexy about…”

“Q45,” repeated Dar. “It’s in play. Go.”

There were several seconds of silence.

“VW Quantum,” said Syd.

“Wow,” said Trudy. “Winner.”

“Not so fast,” said Dar. “Alfa Romeo Quadrifoglio.”

The others squinted at him suspiciously.

“It’s real,” said Lawrence at last. “I worked a wreck of one on the 410 three years ago…”

“We know it’s real,” said Trudy. “We’re just trying to decide if it’s…”

“I win,” said Dar.

“Who made you judge and jury?” said Lawrence pleasantly enough.

Dar smiled tightly. “I’m not judge and jury,” he said. “I’m just the foreperson.” He looked meaningfully at the boxes of files that were stacked in the other room. “Can we go to work now on finding out which case might have made the Russian mafia want to kill me?”