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It was three-thirty in the morning when Linda called. Next to me, the bed was empty. I knew what was wrong before she spoke. “It’s Stevie,” she said by way of greeting, sounding tired and a little tight at the edges. “I’ve got him on the corner of Torrey and Ocean Avenue.” “I’m coming,” I said. “Something bad’s going to happen if he keeps this up,” Linda went on. “You want him to end up dead?” Linda was the sort of neighbor that was always on the periphery of my business. She was a retired kindergarten teacher and had motion-sensor