The Case of the One that Got Away, Part 2.

The name is Justice. Jack Justice.

The hard part to believe was that Sabian had gone fishing, apparently on purpose.

I found myself entirely incapable of picturing that heroic visage among the wilderness

and other not man-made things. Dot had invited him and his lady friend to our little house in the

suburbs twice, and on each occasion Sabian had looked like he might expire from a deadly combination

of fresh air poisoning and a crippling sunshine allergy,

and we live 11 blocks from the freeway ramp.

Sabian in nature was deeply unnatural, and was out of character, which suggested there was more

a foot than we knew. From an investigative point of view, this seemed like an excellent

break in at least one way.

Any sore thumb that sticks out that badly has got to be easy to spot.

There may be a number of fishing resorts just outside of Ridgeway on Highway 77, but how many of them were currently on fire?

With a blockish man at the heart of the Maelstrom, moaning loudly about his inability to find a decent bagel this far from downtown.

Yet on our first pass, the row of resorts was shockingly undisturbed.

Resorts, by the way, was an adjective either charitable or blatantly fraudulent, depending on who was applying it.

These were motels with a dock and some boats,

which seemed luxurious only when compared with the tents

and good old fish and holes

that must have been the alternative for the sporting gentleman.

So we hadn't found Sabian, which was all right,

because we didn't really have a functioning plan yet

...