Tubal Cain was in no doubt. The vehicle parked in the lot of the Pacific View Hotel was the one stolen from him yesterday. Even if it had been sprayed a different color, furry dice hung in the window, and whitewall tires added, he’d have known the vehicle for his own. It had a vibe that he could feel even from across the width of the parking lot. That vehicle had witnessed death, and the pall of violence hung over it like a miasma of poisonous fumes. As nonchalant as a man with the right—which he certainly had, in his estimation—he ambled over to the 4x4. The locks were engaged. Not that they’d stop him from taking back what was rightfully his if he were of a mind to do so. Nothing on the front seat but an empty water bottle and the remnants of a KFC meal, but on the dash was a disc removed from the CD player. Swing When You’re Winning, the very disc he’d been playing prior to stopping for the stranded motorist. If he had required confirmation, there was his proof. He wandered to the rear of the car.
