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Lockridge became efficient at without his partner's knowledge?
    On the screen a frame opened under the heading iPhoto. There were several folders listed. Most were listed by dates, usually a few weeks or a month. There was one folder simply titled mail call. "Here we go," Lockridge said. "You want to see some of this stuff? It's clients and fish."
    "Yeah, show me the most recent photos."
    Lockridge clicked on a folder that was labeled with dates ending just a week before McCaleb's death. The folder opened and there were several dozen photos listed by individual date. Lockridge clicked on the most recent date. A few seconds went by and a photo opened on the screen. It showed a man and woman, both badly sunburned and smiling as they held up a horribly ugly brown fish.
    " Santa Monica Bay halibut," Buddy said. "That was a good one."
    "Who are they?"
    "Um, they were from… Minnesota, I think. Yeah, St Paul. And I don't think they were married. I mean, they were married but just not to each other. They were staving on the island. Shacking up. They were the last charter before the trip down to Baja. Pictures from that trip are probably still on the camera."
    "Where is the camera?"
    "It should be here. If not, then Graciela probably has it."
    He clicked on a left arrow above the photo. Soon another photo appeared, the same couple and same fish. Lockridge kept clicking and eventually he came to a new customer and his trophy fish, a pinkish white creature about fourteen inches long.
    "White sea bass," Lockridge said. "Nice fish."
    He kept clicking, showing me a procession of fishermen and their catches. Everybody seemed happy, some even had the obvious glaze of alcohol in their eyes. Lockridge named all the fish but not all the clients. He didn't remember them all by name. Some of them he simply classified as good or bad tippers and that was it.
    Eventually, he came to a man with a delighted smile on his face as he held up a small white sea bass. Lockridge cursed.
    "What's wrong?" I asked.
    "He's the prick who walked off with my goddamn fish box."
    "What fish box?"
    "My GPS. He's the guy who took it."

CHAPTER 7
    Backus stayed at least a hundred feet behind her. Even in the crowded Chicago airport he knew she would be on what they always called "Six Alert" when he had been with the bureau. Watching her back-her six-and always checking for a trailer. It had been tricky enough traveling with her so far. The plane from South Dakota had been small and fewer than forty people had been on board. The random assignment of seats had put him only two rows from her. So close he thought he could actually smell her scent-the one beneath the perfume and the makeup. The one the dogs could pick up.
    It was intoxicating to be so close and still such a long distance apart. He wanted the whole time to turn and look back at her, maybe catch a glimpse of her face between the seats, see what she was doing. But he didn't dare. He had to bide his time. He knew that good things come to those who plan carefully and then wait. That was the thing, the secret. Darkness waits. All things come to the dark.
    He followed her through half of the American Airlines terminal until she took a seat at gate K9. It was empty. No travelers were waiting here. No American employees were behind the gate counter waiting and ready to work the computers and check tickets. But Backus knew that this was only because she was early. They both were early. The flight to Las Vegas would not leave from gate K9 for another two hours. He knew this because he was on the Vegas flight as well. In a way he was Rachel Walling's guardian angel, a silent escort who would be with her until she reached her final destination.
    He walked on by the gate, careful not to be obvious about glancing at her but curious to see how she was going to pass the time waiting for the next flight. He hooked the strap of his large cowhide carry-on bag over his right shoulder so that if she happened to look up, her eyes