He reached Quentin’s beach house, drove past, left his car in a small public

parking lot, and stole back to the house.

 

There were no cars out front, but there might be one in the garage.

 

He checked.

 

The Maserati wasn’t there.

 

Rogers stepped back and looked up at the darkened house. He knew Quentin was not

at the Grunt since it wasn’t open. Was he at Building Q? Had this trip been for

nothing? When he had no time to lose? Maybe the man had a place in Hampton. That

would make sense, only Rogers had no way to find out where it was. He should

have checked the registration on the Maserati the last time he was here. That

might have given him an address other than this one, because he recalled the car

had Virginia plates.

 

The flash of a car’s headlights made him leap behind a large bush just in the

nick of time. The car pulled into the driveway and the garage door started to

wind its way up. As the sleek vehicle pulled past him and into the garage he saw

who was driving it.

 

Helen Myers.