He didn’t see McCluskey again as he left the police station; didn’t particularly want to see him. He drove around for a while, taking any road he felt like, no pattern at all to his route. He stopped frequently, getting out his map and acting the lost tourist. He was sure he hadn’t been followed from the actual police station, but he wondered if that might change.
He’d had to learn car pursuit and evasion so he could teach it to trainee bodyguards who’d be expected to chauffeur their employers. He was no expert, but he knew the ground rules. He’d taken a weekend course at a track near Silverstone, an abandoned airfield used for controlled skids and high-speed chase scenarios.
The last thing he’d expected to need this trip were his professional skills.
He looked in the rearview and saw the patrol car draw up behind him. The uniform in the driver’s seat spoke into his radio before getting out, checking his holster, adjusting his sunglasses.
Reeve let his window slide down.
“Got a problem?” the policeman said.
“Not really.” Reeve was smiling, showing teeth. He tapped the map. “Just checking where I am.”
“You on vacation?”
“How could you tell?”
“You mean apart from the map and you being stopped where you’re not supposed to make a stop and your license plate being a rental?”
Now Reeve laughed. “You know, maybe I am a bit lost.” He looked at the map and pointed to a road. “Is this where we are?”
“You’re a few blocks off.” The officer showed him where he really was, then asked where he was headed.
“Nowhere really, just driving.”
“Well, driving’s fine-it’s the stopping that can be a problem. Make sure parking is authorized next time before you settle down.” The cop straightened up.
“Thank you, officer,” said Reeve, putting the car into gear.
And after that, they were tailing him. It looked to Reeve like a two-car unmarked tail with a few patrol cars as backup and lookouts. He drove around by the airport and then took North Harbor Drive back into town, cruising the waterfront and crossing the Coronado Bay Bridge before doubling back downtown and up First Avenue. The downtown traffic wasn’t too sluggish, and he sped up as he left the high towers behind, eventually following signs to Old Town State Park. He parked in a lot adjacent to some weird old houses which seemed to be a center of attraction, and crossed the street into the park itself. He reckoned one car was still with him, which meant two men: one of them would probably keep watch on the Blazer, the other following on foot.
He stopped to take a drink from a water fountain. Old Town comprised a series of buildings-stables, blacksmith’s, tannery, and so on-that might be original and might be reconstructions. The buildings were swamped, however, by souvenir and gift shops, Mexican cafés and restaurants. Reeve couldn’t see anyone following him, and went into the courtyard of one of the restaurants. He was asked if he wanted a table, but he said he was looking for a friend. He crossed the courtyard, squeezing past tables and chairs, and exited the restaurant at the other side.
He was right on the edge of the park and skirted it, finding himself on a street outside the perimeter, a couple of hundred yards from where his car was parked. This street had normal shops on either side, and at the corner stood two taxicabs, their drivers leaning against a lamppost while they chatted.
Reeve nodded to them and slipped into the backseat of the front cab. The man took his time winding up the conversation, while Reeve kept low in the seat, watching from the back window. Then the driver got in.
“ La Jolla,” Reeve said, reaching into his pocket for the map.
“No problem,” the driver said, trying to start the engine.
From the rear window, Reeve saw a man jog to the edge of the sidewalk across the street, looking all around. He was slack-jawed from running, and carried a holster under the armpit of his flapping jacket. He might have been one of the other detectives in McCluskey’s office; Reeve wasn’t sure.
The driver turned the ignition again, stamping his foot on the accelerator. The engine turned but didn’t catch.
“Sorry ‘bout this,” the driver said. “Fuckin’ garage told me they fixed it.” He got on his radio to tell base that he was “fucked again,” and whoever he was speaking to started raving at him for cursing on the air.
The cop was still there, talking into a two-way now, probably liaising with his partner back at the Blazer. Reeve hoped the partner was saying that the suspect was bound to return to his car, so they might as well sit tight…
“Hey, man,” the driver said, turning in his seat. “There’s an-other cab right behind. You understand English? We ain’t going nowhere.”
Reeve handed the man five dollars without turning from the window.
“This is for your time,” he said. “Now shut up.”
The driver shut up.
The cop seemed to be waiting for a message on his radio. Meantime, he lit a cigarette, coughing hard after the first puff.
Reeve was hardly breathing.
The cop flicked the cigarette onto the road as the message came for him. Then he stuffed the radio back into his jacket, turned, and walked away. Reeve opened the cab door slowly, got out, and shut it again.
“Anytime, man!” the driver called to him.
He got into the second cab. The driver was prompt to arrive.
“His engine fuckin‘ up again?” he asked.
“Yeah,” said Reeve.
“Where to?”
“ La Jolla,” said Reeve. The map was still in his hand. He’d folded it so that his destination wasn’t showing. It was something he’d learned during Special Forces training: if you were caught, the enemy couldn’t determine from the way your map was folded your landing point or your final destination. Reeve was glad he still knew the trick and had used it without thinking about it, like it was natural, a reaction.
Like it was instinct.
They stopped a few streets away from the one where Dr. Killin lived. It was only a matter of days since James Reeve had been driven there by Eddie Cantona. Reeve didn’t think the ex-CWC scientist would have returned; though with Jim out of the picture permanently it was just possible.
Cantona had told him about the man who’d been painting the fence. Why get your fence painted when you were going to be away? More likely that you’d stay put to see the job was done properly. It wasn’t like an interior job, where the smell of paint or the mess might persuade you to leave the house while the work was being done. Okay, maybe the painter had just been booked for that time, and wasn’t going to rearrange other jobs just so Killin could be there to oversee the minor work. But as Cantona himself had noted, the fence hadn’t really needed repainting.
The Mexican at the rental company had convinced Gordon Reeve that there was something very wrong about Jim’s death, something very wrong indeed. It wasn’t just murder; there was more to it than that. Reeve was catching glimpses of a conspiracy, a wider plot. Only he didn’t know what the plot was… not yet.
Reeve wanted to know if Killin was back. More, he wanted to know if the house was under surveillance. If it was, then either Jim posed a threat to someone from beyond the grave, or there were others who still posed that threat.
Others like Gordon Reeve himself.
So he had a route he wanted the driver to take, and he went over it with him. They would cross Killin’s street at two interchanges, without driving up the street itself. Only then, if still necessary, would they drive past Killin’s house. Not too slowly, not like they might stop. But slowly enough, like they were looking for a number on the street, but it wasn’t anywhere near the number of Killin’s house.
The driver seemed bemused by his request, so Reeve re-peated what he could in Spanish. Languages: another thing he’d learned in Special Forces. He had a propensity for language-learning, and had specialized in linguistics during his Phase Six training, along with climbing. He learned some Spanish, French, a little Arabic. The Spanish was one reason they’d chosen him for Operation Stalwart.