That was the key.
I gathered up my staff and rod and stalked out the door. It was time to talk to Monica Sells.
The cabby dropped me off a block away from Monica Sells's house in the suburbs. I was running out of time, out of Ericson's loan, and out of patience, so I didn't waste any daylight in walking down the street toward her place.
It was a cute little house, two stories, a couple of young trees in the front yard, just now starting to rival the house for height. There was a minivan in the driveway, and a basketball goal, well used. The lawn was grown rather long, but all the recent rains left a good excuse for that.
The street was a quiet one, and it took me a moment to realize that most of the houses on it were not occupied.
"FOR SALE" signs stood in many of the yards. Sparse curtains draped over empty, gaping windows, like cobwebs.
