 It's all over quickly, isn't it, Chris? You stand there as the train rumbles past, staring at the lifeless body of your partner. Then you slip the gun into your pocket and hurry to your car. A half an hour later, you're at the beach house in Redondo. It's only a few minutes after twelve, but you're pacing the floor nervously, occasionally stopping to glance out the window. Higgins is late, isn't he, Chris?