The man in the middle was grinning, he was holding his reflector sunglasses in one hand, and there was no question about who he was.
“I knew something was there,” David said, almost too faintly for the others to hear. “As soon as I saw his wallet on the floor. But . . . it was him.” He paused, then repeated it, wonderingly. “It was him.”
“Who was who?” Ralph asked.
David didn’t answer, only stared at the picture. It showed three men standing in front of a ramshackle cinderblock building—a bar, judging from the Budweiser sign in the window. The sidewalks were crowded with Asians. Passing in the street at camera left, frozen forever into a half-blur by this old snapshot, was a girl on a motorscooter.
The men on the left and right of the trio were wearing polo shirts and slacks. One was very tall and held a notebook. The other was festooned with cameras. The man in the middle was wearing jeans and a gray tee-shirt. A Yankees baseball cap was pushed far back on his head. A strap crossed his chest; something cased and bulky hung against his hip.
“His radio,” David whispered, touching the cased object.
“Nope,” Steve said after taking a closer look. “That’s a tape-recorder, 1968-style.”
