at two in the morning. Trees, shrubs, vines. They’d gone on past—gone on toward the back, toward Underhill’s house.”
“Was he home?” Dave said.
“His car was out front on the street,” Hunsinger said. “Street’s always parked up. It was a few doors along. A big old Cougar he paid about two hundred dollars for when he got out of jail. He had to be home. It was after the bars close. Where would he be? See, I went out the front door. I mean—I didn’t want to confront whoever was sneaking around. But I wanted a look at them if I could get it.”
“Why didn’t you phone the police?” Cecil said.
Hunsinger’s mournful horse face pitied Cecil’s ignorance. He said patiently, “The police are not my friends. They keep claiming I deal drugs. They don’t like the company I keep. They wish I wouldn’t bring drunks and addicts to my house. They want me to buy a business license. They want me to move. I leave them alone, in the hope they’ll leave me alone.”
“Right,” Cecil said. “Sorry.”
“And here,” Hunsinger told Dave, “out in the middle of the street with its motor idling is this big four-wheel-drive vehicle up high on its tires, you know? With smoked glass windows. Was somebody inside? I bet on it, but the lights were out in my house so I don’t think he saw me. I stepped down and waited in the yard, and it wasn’t two minutes before these figures came down the driveway, jumped the gate, climbed into the four-wheel and drove off.”
“What kind of figures?” Dave said. “How many?”
“Two,” Hunsinger said. “You’re not going to believe this. In camouflage suits, combat boots, berets. Disorienting. I thought I was back in Saigon. I thought it was 1969.”
“You mean they were Orientals?” Dave said.
Hunsinger shook his head. “At a guess, Latinos.”
“Did you go check with Underhill?” Cecil said.
“I rang his bell. Nobody came. I used my key. I thought they’d done something to him. Went through the whole house, but he wasn’t there.”
Cecil said, “That’s bad for your idea that Underhill is innocent. It was near that time that Streeter was murdered.”
“He wouldn’t walk to the marina,” Hunsinger said.
“It’s possible,” Dave said. “It’s not all that far.”
“Why would he? The Cougar was there. It runs. It burns a hell of a lot of gas, but it runs.”
Dave said, “What did the commandos want? Had they searched? Had they taken anything?”
“They’d been inside. Through the bathroom window. The screen was leaning against the wall under it. But nothing was missing—not that I could see. Certainly nothing big. Anything big—I’d have seen them carry it out, right?”
“Underhill was home in the morning,” Dave said. He got the cigarette pack this time. Cecil was staring at Hunsinger, absorbed. He didn’t even notice. Dave got the lighter and lit a cigarette. He laid the lighter down with a click. “You didn’t see him? He didn’t say anything?”
“I didn’t wake up in time,” Hunsinger said. “I go to sleep around sunup and catch three, maybe four hours. The police woke me, running under my window, with rifles, for God’s sake, surrounding Underhill’s, pounding on his door. I got the hell out of there. I haven’t been back.” He shifted on the chair, dug from a tight pocket a strapless wristwatch with a scratched crystal. “Have to go back soon, though. Have to feed Snowy, let him out in the yard.”
“If they didn’t take anything,” Cecil said, “then what did they come for? A social call? By the bathroom window?”
“They knew he was out, probably telephoned and lured him out. Maybe he did have the papers. Maybe that was what they took.” Dave looked at Hunsinger. “Were Fleur and Underhill having an affair?”
Hunsinger gaped. “Jesus, you ask funny questions. No. I don’t think so. Not at his place. She never came there. And I never saw him at her place.”
“The flower shop,” Dave said.
“Was he home?” Dave said.
“His car was out front on the street,” Hunsinger said. “Street’s always parked up. It was a few doors along. A big old Cougar he paid about two hundred dollars for when he got out of jail. He had to be home. It was after the bars close. Where would he be? See, I went out the front door. I mean—I didn’t want to confront whoever was sneaking around. But I wanted a look at them if I could get it.”
“Why didn’t you phone the police?” Cecil said.
Hunsinger’s mournful horse face pitied Cecil’s ignorance. He said patiently, “The police are not my friends. They keep claiming I deal drugs. They don’t like the company I keep. They wish I wouldn’t bring drunks and addicts to my house. They want me to buy a business license. They want me to move. I leave them alone, in the hope they’ll leave me alone.”
“Right,” Cecil said. “Sorry.”
“And here,” Hunsinger told Dave, “out in the middle of the street with its motor idling is this big four-wheel-drive vehicle up high on its tires, you know? With smoked glass windows. Was somebody inside? I bet on it, but the lights were out in my house so I don’t think he saw me. I stepped down and waited in the yard, and it wasn’t two minutes before these figures came down the driveway, jumped the gate, climbed into the four-wheel and drove off.”
“What kind of figures?” Dave said. “How many?”
“Two,” Hunsinger said. “You’re not going to believe this. In camouflage suits, combat boots, berets. Disorienting. I thought I was back in Saigon. I thought it was 1969.”
“You mean they were Orientals?” Dave said.
Hunsinger shook his head. “At a guess, Latinos.”
“Did you go check with Underhill?” Cecil said.
“I rang his bell. Nobody came. I used my key. I thought they’d done something to him. Went through the whole house, but he wasn’t there.”
Cecil said, “That’s bad for your idea that Underhill is innocent. It was near that time that Streeter was murdered.”
“He wouldn’t walk to the marina,” Hunsinger said.
“It’s possible,” Dave said. “It’s not all that far.”
“Why would he? The Cougar was there. It runs. It burns a hell of a lot of gas, but it runs.”
Dave said, “What did the commandos want? Had they searched? Had they taken anything?”
“They’d been inside. Through the bathroom window. The screen was leaning against the wall under it. But nothing was missing—not that I could see. Certainly nothing big. Anything big—I’d have seen them carry it out, right?”
“Underhill was home in the morning,” Dave said. He got the cigarette pack this time. Cecil was staring at Hunsinger, absorbed. He didn’t even notice. Dave got the lighter and lit a cigarette. He laid the lighter down with a click. “You didn’t see him? He didn’t say anything?”
“I didn’t wake up in time,” Hunsinger said. “I go to sleep around sunup and catch three, maybe four hours. The police woke me, running under my window, with rifles, for God’s sake, surrounding Underhill’s, pounding on his door. I got the hell out of there. I haven’t been back.” He shifted on the chair, dug from a tight pocket a strapless wristwatch with a scratched crystal. “Have to go back soon, though. Have to feed Snowy, let him out in the yard.”
“If they didn’t take anything,” Cecil said, “then what did they come for? A social call? By the bathroom window?”
“They knew he was out, probably telephoned and lured him out. Maybe he did have the papers. Maybe that was what they took.” Dave looked at Hunsinger. “Were Fleur and Underhill having an affair?”
Hunsinger gaped. “Jesus, you ask funny questions. No. I don’t think so. Not at his place. She never came there. And I never saw him at her place.”
“The flower shop,” Dave said.
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