Page 47 of Fire on the Moon

He shook his head. “I’m forgetting we have their pictures.”

He booted up his computer and retrieved the photos of the men that he’d snapped at the park.

One was definitely Tuckerman.

“I didn’t see the face of the guy behind me.”

“And then he was facedown on the floor.”

That observation made him want to slap his forehead.

She gave him a questioning look.

“What am I thinking? His wallet’s in my pants pocket.”

“Right.” She retrieved the billfold, and they both inspected the contents. There was a Florida driver’s license in the name of Sammy Jackson plus credit cards in the same name. There was also a wad of cash. When she counted the money, they found a little over two thousand dollars.

“Who carries around that much money?” Francesca asked.

“Someone who got paid for an illegal job.”

There was nothing else of significance in the wallet.

“I’ll get Decorah to check the name.”

“What do we do now?”

“Sit tight.” He didn’t say, and hope nobody thinks anything suspicious is going on here.

“I’d better get some groceries.” She gave him a questioning look. “Are you willing to start with something easily digested, like chicken soup?”

He sighed. “If I have to. But you’d better be careful about going out.”

“Like how?”

“Stick to that local grocery store we passed. Wear a ball cap and pull the brim down. Don’t do anything to call attention to yourself.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t take more than a hundred dollars to the store, and don’t use anything bigger than a twenty. Put the rest in the suitcase.”

She did as he asked, then looked toward the window. “I’ll go now. Maybe the store won’t be so crowded early in the morning.”

“Hopefully.”

He watched her get ready to go and approved of her pedal pushers and blue tee shirt. After she left, he lay back against the pillows and closed his eyes for a few moments. He’d like to get himself and Francesca out of town, but he was in no condition to do more than stay in bed and heal, at least for the next twenty-four hours. Plus, the cops might be watching the escape routes.

He reached for his phone to check in with Decorah, then thought better of it. He didn’t want to say what had happened on a phone.

Instead he used a secure computer voice line.

As soon as the call went through, Frank Decorah picked up.

“That was you at the murder house last night, right?”

“Unfortunately.” He quickly filled in his boss on the night’s activities, not sparing the fact that Jackson had gotten the drop on him.

Frank didn’t berate him. “How bad is the wound?” he asked.

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