Chapter 43

I can't remember whether it was the original series or The Next Generation, and therefore I can't remember whether it was Spock or Data, but there's an episode of Star Trek where a sun goes nova while the Enterprise is handy, and the captain – Kirk or Picard, depending on which series it actually is – asks what the odds of that happening on that particular day were. And Data or Spock, whichever it was, says something to the effect of "The same as on any other day."

I suppose the odds of us spotting Murchison on that particular day were the same as the odds of spotting him on any other day. Those would be pretty short odds, considering that he was just one of a million people living in Albuquerque, and who knows how many people just passing through on their way to somewhere else, or visiting the town for a day or several. You might as well drop one grain of rice dyed red into a bushel basket full of rice, shake it around a bit, and then expect to reach your hand in and grab that one red grain the first time. But the fact is that if you do it enough times, it'll happen. They say that if a million monkeys bang at random on a million typewriters long enough, eventually they'll produce the complete works of William Shakespeare ... though these days it would be computer keyboards rather than typewriters. Given enough time, just about anything can happen. And unless the odds of a thing happening are vanishingly small – say one in 999 quintillion – sooner or later that thing will happen.

That's what was behind my startled remark as we cruised along Lomas, heading west from San Mateo. I had been scanning license plates as I drove, and looking at vehicles, and I watched a vehicle turn right onto Lomas from Washington. It was a dark SUV, and as it straightened out and began to accelerate – Albuquerque drivers act like they're afraid to touch the gas pedal until they've moved 100 yards from where they turned – I looked at the plate. And my mouth opened and uttered one of Kim Il-chae's patented expressions of amazement: "Well, shoot me in the head with a red brick!"

Cecelia doesn't use expressions like Say what?, but that tone was in what she did say. "Could you please clarify that ejaculation?"

"Look ahead of us."

"Ahead of ... Darvin, did I not see this with my own eyes, I would not believe it."

I grinned. "Was you to tell me you was out lookin' for this creep an' spotted him, I'd think you were a liar, though that's about as likely as you sproutin' wings from your eyebrows. But there he is."

"The temptation is great to force him to the curb, and arrest him. However, I believe I shall pursue a wiser course."

I didn't have to ask what she was going to do – it was what I'd do myself. And though I was watching traffic, including Murchison's SUV, and could only see her out of the corner of my eye, I could tell she was pulling out her cell phone. The beeps as she dialed made that certain, and when she asked for Stubblefield there was no doubt. She gave our current location, and then said, "We shall continue to follow him – my husband possesses sufficient skill to avoid notice, though I greatly doubt that the suspect would recognize our vehicle – and provide constant information as to his actions."

"We got us a slow speed chase here," I said.

"But this perpetrator killed more than his ex-wife – though of course we do not know whether Mr. Murchison even has an ex-wife." Cecelia's innate formality has her calling people by an honorific and last name where the rest of us would be calling him vile things.

Just then the SUV turned north on Carlisle – without using his blinker, which made him a typical lazy Albuquerque driver – and Cecelia provided that information to Stubblefield. He continued north, moving into the left lane, and then into the left turn lane at Comanche.

And all of a sudden the ground seemed to spontaneously sprout police cars. I hadn't seen any waiting, which meant that they'd made good use of concealment – even when I'm paying attention to traffic, even when I'm following someone, I notice what's around me – but there they were, sirens screaming and lights going. They cut Murchison off just as he began to turn, they blocked all the lanes of Carlisle, and all of Comanche too. There were two cars behind me, and I just stomped on the brakes, put the shifter in neutral, and turned off the engine.

One of the officers from behind approached my window, which was down, with his hand on his weapon. Cecelia, I saw when I glanced at her, had placed her hands on the dashboard – a year as a cop had taught her how keep from pushing nervous police officers into unpleasant actions – and mine were on the steering wheel. The officer stopped just behind me, where he could see me and Cecelia, and the interior of the Blazer, but we couldn't do anything to him without giving him plenty of warning and plenty of time to respond.

"Sir, are you Darvin Carpenter?"