“I apologize for the subterfuge. We were merely seeking an old chum of ours, Mr. Gregory Lafarge.”
“You’re friends of Greg’s? Now I’m really calling the cops.”
“Please, good lady. I entreat you. Could you not tell us when he will return?”
“Never, I hope. Next time I see that bastard it will be in court. Now get your butts off my property.”
Hobbs backed quickly toward the gate. “One last question, if I may. When you last saw your Greg, was he in the habit of smashing garden gnomes?”
The woman was speaking into the phone.
“If you’re still here when I hang up,” she yelled, “I’ll be smashing garden gnomes over your heads!”
Hobbs was feeling grumpy. I would be too, if I’d just paid that wiseass Whitey another twenty bucks to find out where Lafarge had parked his car the night before.
We sat in the Cruiser on SE 7th Avenue, a street of mixed business and residential buildings, with a low-hanging elm shading us from the streetlights. At last, shortly after 9 p.m., Lafarge’s Subaru tooled past and parked on a dark side street.
At first I feared Whitey had stiffed us, for the man who emerged wore a preppy golf jacket and chinos. But the jacket came off and the chinos came down, revealing the familiar leather vest, sleeveless T-shirt, and too-tight jeans. Popping the rear hatch, Lafarge extracted his Cervélo bike and leaned it against the car as he donned one more article of clothing — a dark sweatshirt with a hood.
“Don’t say it,” I told Hobbs. “I know. Cowabunga.”
Lafarge sped off in the direction of the food-cart court, and I drove a parallel street, just close enough to follow. After a quick stop at Cartopia — looking for me and Candy, no doubt — he left the bright lights behind and sped off in a zigzag pattern through the residential neighborhood.
I followed, turning off my lights so as not to alert him, and pulled over on several occasions when we had a clear view of his progress. Hobbs fretted all the while. Each time I stopped he admonished me not to lose our quarry, while every time we got under way he warned me against getting too close. Hobbs will make a fine mother some day.
On we went, heading alternately north and east, through a neighborhood undoubtedly rich in garden gnomes, and I feared at any moment he would pull into a dark driveway and vanish.
At last he turned right onto Belmont, another major through-street, and swung to a stop at a row of bicycle racks at the corner of 34th Avenue, just outside Stumptown Coffee.
Several nearby businesses were open. Aside from the coffee shop, his most likely destinations seemed the swanky Aalto Lounge & Bistro, the neighborhood tavern called the Belmont Inn, or Zupan’s Market, the grocer of choice for neo-hippies. I would have laid money on the Belmont Inn, but Lafarge fooled me by slipping into the gaudily painted Laughing Planet Café.
Then there was nothing to do but wait, which I did by leaning back to rest my eyes. It didn’t take both of us to watch the front door of the cafe.
Almost at once I got a punch in the arm.
“Watson, look!”
I bolted erect. “Is he leaving?”
“No. But look who is arriving. Our greedy friend Whitey.”
He was right. The white-haired kid was just now chaining his bike to the rack, right next to Lafarge’s. A moment later he strode down the block and entered the Laughing Planet.
“Dining on me, no doubt,” Hobbs said sourly.
“Look on the bright side,” I said. “Maybe he’ll get something on the bandit. You have another twenty on you?”
Hobbs looked even more sour. “No. Still, I must know what he’s doing here.”
“Maybe it’s just a coincidence. Kids get hungry too. You were a kid once, weren’t you?”
The look he gave me chilled me to my heels.
“Silly question. Of course you weren’t.” Since he was already mad, I plunged ahead. “How does this reincarnation stuff work, anyway? Were you born with Holmes’s knowledge and memories full-blown in your head, or did they sort of creep up on you?”
Hobbs’s face softened, and I thought he might actually tell me. But before he could speak the door behind me opened and a dark figure slipped into the Cruiser. We swung about, staring.
“You bozos had me fooled last night,” Lafarge said, “but going to my house was a stupid play.” He showed us the snout of a gun. “Hands on the ceiling, quick. And they better be empty.”
We complied.
Hobbs was calm. “Your wife told you.”
“She hates me,” Lafarge said, “but she loves me too.”
A dark panel van the size of a UPS truck stopped at the corner ahead, blocking us from the beams of oncoming traffic. I tensed.
“Are you going to shoot us?”
“I might. You used Candy to get to me. That I cannot forgive.”
I said, “Huh?” but the word was drowned out by a clashing and clattering of metal. Hobbs and I turned to stare at the panel van. There was a flurry of activity between the truck and the sidewalk. Then the doors slammed shut, and the vehicle heaved into motion and spurted up Belmont toward 39th.
Hobbs said, “The bicycles.”
Moments before, the racks next to Stumptown had held as many as twenty bikes. Those racks were now bare, and the pavement was littered with mangled U-locks.
Lafarge said something unprintable. “Out of the car, you two. Quick! And leave the keys.”
“What?”
He waved the gun at my nose. “Now.”
I edged out of my seat, careful to grab my laptop, while Hobbs exited onto the sidewalk.
Lafarge jumped out and slid into the driver’s seat. “I’ll deal with you later,” he said.
I stood watching the big blue rear end of my beloved Cruiser roaring off after the panel van.
I shot Hobbs a disgusted look. “Did that make any sense to you?”
“I admit I am somewhat puzzled,” he said. “What did he mean by ‘She hates me, but she still loves me’?”
“You,” said a new voice, “are such a dweeb.”
We turned to stare at Whitey, who stood on the sidewalk behind Hobbs.
I said, “What are you doing here?”
He made a face at me and turned on Hobbs. “What are you going to do to get my bike back?”
As it developed, we were not entirely without resources. My GPS was rigged so I could follow it on my laptop, allowing me to track the progress of the Cruiser. But the car was already two miles away, and still moving. And we were on foot.
“I have my bus pass,” Hobbs said. “How about you two?”
“Bus?” Whitey and I looked at each other. His grimace mirrored my own.
“In that case,” said Hobbs, “we’ll hire a cab.”
“You said you were out of cash.”
“It happens I am. But I know someone who has at least forty-five of my dollars.”
Whitey snorted. “No way. You jerks got me into this.”
And the stalemate might have continued, had not a middle-aged couple chosen that moment to exit the coffee shop and stroll to their car.
Whitey sank to his knees, emitting the most pitiful wail. His sobs were so heart-wrenching that I involuntary took a step forward, compelled to comfort him. Then I remembered who I was dealing with.
The couple on the sidewalk rushed forward, the woman kneeling to wrap an arm about the kid’s shoulders while the man glared suspiciously at Hobbs and me.
“What is it, son?” the woman said. “Are these men bothering you?”
“Nah,” Whitey said between sniffs. “They’re trying to help me. But someone just stole my bike, and we have no way to follow.”
The man looked undecided, so I chimed in. “It’s true. We could get the boy’s bike back, if only we had a ride.”