7.
 I popped a few more pills and did a little more checking. Sure enough, all the facts pointed toward the same trail. John Doyle had enrolled in a fitness club in Chula Vista three years ago, weighing three hundred pounds. Ana Maria Esquivel? Yes, same club, and she'd weighed two fifty; height? five three. Not bad, Seth, I thought. I got Harry Grimacher on the phone. "Harry," I said, "think back when you first met Paul Conlon. Was he driving a dark tan roadster?"
Harry chuckled. "Yeah, I'd nearly forgotten. It came back to me after we talked. Sure, he had HER in it, and she and the car were like a poem together. I envied him."
"You hated him," I said.
He laughed, like someone who knows it doesn't matter any more. "Okay, I envied and hated him. I wanted to take her from him."
"And you did. You did, Harry. Come on, I read it all in the papers. What does Movie Times know that you don't? You had an affair with her, and so did a dozen other guys."
"It's true," he said gently. "She was like a child."
"Yeah," I said, "well now she's like a house."
The edge was back in his voice. "You'd better come up and see me," Harry said.
I did. On the way, I stopped in the barrio and peeked into John Doyle's yard. There, on blocks, under sheets of crumbling black plastic held down by cinderblocks, was the dark tan roadster.
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