U Is for Undertow

scurried back again. I assumed his license had been yanked because of his accident and he surely wouldn’t have hired a taxi or bummed a ride. Of course, killers probably aren’t that fussy about obeying traffic laws.
    At the same time, if I was correct about Jon Corso and Walker being in cahoots, Jon could have been the shooter. He lived near the back entrance to the Ravine. Seashore Park wasn’t far from his house, three miles at best. He could have driven to the park, killed Sutton, and returned home, and who would be the wiser? I opened my Thomas Guide and checked his house number, tempted to cruise by and see if he was there. I had no intention of knocking on his door, but it wouldn’t hurt to look.
    I went out to the Mustang and fired up the engine, plotting my route as I pulled away from the curb. The shortest path was to cut the two blocks over to Capillo and drive up the hill to the intersection where Capillo and Palisade crossed. I’d spent quite a bit of time in that area on a case I’d worked earlier in the year. If I turned left on Palisade and drove a mile, I’d be at Seashore; a right turn would take me past Little Pony Road, and then up another hill and into Horton Ravine.
    Traffic was slowed by road construction and it took longer than I’d anticipated before I reached Horton Ravine and passed between the stone pillars. My Grabber Blue 1970 Mustang was conspicuous under ordinary circumstances, even more so in this upscale neighborhood where most vehicles (except those of the hired help) were late-model luxury cars.
    As I passed Corso’s house I was startled to see him emerge from the front door, a suitcase in each hand. The car sitting in his driveway was a sleek black Jaguar. I resisted the urge to stare, directing my attention instead to the road ahead. At the next corner I turned right and drove as far as the first estate entrance, where I did a quick turn and crept back toward Ocean. Jon had gone back for a briefcase. On the porch he took a moment to lock up and then returned to the car, where he arranged his bags. When he slid under the wheel, I was close enough to hear the faint slamming of his car door and the engine begin humming. He pulled out of the drive and headed right, toward Harley’s Beach, back along Palisade. I gave him a twenty-second head start and pulled out after him.
    When he reached the intersection of Capillo and Palisade, I thought he’d turn right, but he continued on past City College, neatly avoiding Seashore Park. He caught the southbound freeway and I tucked in behind him, easing off the gas to allow another car between us. By the time he reached the Old Coast Road off-ramp, there were two cars between us and I felt I was sufficiently protected to avoid notice. He made a sedate left-hand turn and came up on the far side of the underpass. He had to be heading for the bank. I couldn’t guess his purpose unless Walker emerged with suitcases in hand, in which case I’d assume both were preparing to flee. Corso pulled into the bank parking lot and I drove by, making a mental note of his license plate:
    THRILLR
    I made a quick turn onto Center Road, reversed in a motel parking lot, and cut back, passing the bank again just as Walker ducked into the car. Corso pulled out of the lot. I kept him in sight as he crossed the intersection and eased from Old Coast Road onto the freeway, driving north. I wondered what they were up to. Did Walker know Michael Sutton was dead? Was that the arrangement they’d made? Corso would strike while Walker established an ironclad alibi? What about the risk to Jon, whose car had been spotted at the scene? It seemed clear Walker wasn’t leaving town, at least in the next half-hour, so perhaps the purpose of the meeting was to bring Walker up to speed before Jon disappeared on his own.
    It all seemed so pointless. If Henry was right about the burial of the marked bills, I didn’t see how either one of them could feel endangered. The only trump out against them was the shaky report of a six-year-old boy, who’d seen nothing incriminating. If word of my queries had leaked back to Walker, he might have wondered about my interest, but it hardly merited radical action. Shooting Michael Sutton was a miscalculation, overkill, as it were. Perhaps they didn’t realize Sutton had no credibility and was therefore harmless.
    My current course was set and I was stuck with it. If I hadn’t decided to cruise by Corso’s house, I wouldn’t be