He decided to rectify that.

 

He looked around, saw no one, and skittered over to the convertible. On the

front seat was the woman’s purse. She’d been in such a rush to lip-lock Quentin,

she’d forgotten it.

 

He took out her wallet and snapped a photo of her driver’s license with his

phone.

 

Her name was Suzanne Davis.

 

He stole over near the house and looked up. He could climb it, no problem. The

house was mostly shielded from the road by overgrown bushes. He peered into the

window of the garage and saw one car. It was a Maserati convertible. He figured

it was Quentin’s ride. The prick seemed to like everything expensive.

 

He went around to the back. There was a swimming pool fenced in so it was

private from anyone lounging on the beach.

 

He tried the back door. It was unlocked. He doubted Quentin had bothered to

think about engaging any alarm before hustling the lady upstairs, but still, he

was ready to run if need be.

 

But an alarm didn’t sound.