The aura of evil.
19
ALEX CHAVEZ
The Explorer headed straight up Nineteenth and through Golden Gate Park on Park Presidio, riding the middle lane all the way. Definitely heading for the bridge. But why had McManus taken such a roundabout crosstown route? Quicker one to the bridge from Dogpatch was the 280 freeway into town, then out Geary to Park Presidio. She and Carson hadn’t made any stops along the way, so that wasn’t the answer. Maybe it was just that they preferred the longer route for some reason, weren’t in a hurry to get to wherever they were going.
Getting on toward the start of rush hour and traffic through the park was stop-and-go; Chavez had to work to keep two to three cars behind them, changing back and forth between the middle and the far right lanes. A delivery truck cut in front of him in the Presidio tunnel, but he managed to maneuver around it just before the toll plaza.
When he first rolled onto the bridge, he didn’t see the Explorer because of the great gouts of blanketing fog rolling in through the Gate, but he knew they hadn’t gotten off at the last S.F. exit. A couple of quick weaving maneuvers through the clustered vehicles and he spotted them again-still in the middle lane, going the speed limit. He eased over into the same lane, slowing to match their speed, and stayed there three car lengths back.
How far up 101 were they going? Due north? East? You could get to Highway 80 by crossing the Richmond Bridge or taking 37 along the north shore of San Pablo Bay past Vallejo. Or some other direction or destination? Well, he’d find out. Tamara had told him to stay with the subjects as long and as far as he could.
He hoped it wouldn’t be too long or too far, wouldn’t require an overnight stay somewhere. The older he got, the less he liked being away from Elena and the kids for even one night. He’d have to call her pretty soon in any case, let her know he wouldn’t be home for dinner. Some terrific woman, always worrying about him and his welfare. And the way she’d handled that tagging business with Tomas last week. Graffiti artist! Hah! The boy wanted to be an artist, fine, but spray-painting stupid symbols on public property wasn’t an art project; it was a crime. Chavez had gone ballistic when he found out, but not Elena. Lectured and shamed Tomas, laid out a just-right punishment, and didn’t raise her voice the entire time.
Better wait to call her until after he checked in again with Tamara. At least wait and see if McManus took the Richmond Bridge exit south of San Rafael.
Chavez glanced at the fuel gauge. Three-quarters full, good for maybe a hundred and fifty miles. If the subjects were going any farther than that, gas was liable to be a problem. But even if the Explorer’s tank had been topped off when they left Dogpatch, the Explorer’d be near empty at about the same time as the Dodge-those big SUVs got lousy mileage-and with any luck he’d be able to pull off and fill up when they did.
Once they were off the bridge, traffic opened up a little. The Explorer moved over into the third of the four lanes; Chavez waited several seconds and then did the same. They wound up the long grade to the MacArthur Tunnel at fifty-five, passed through and down winding Waldo Grade on the Marin side. The fog was heavy here, too, streaming down from the cliffs in coils and stringy loops, laying a wet film on the windshield. Chavez switched on the wipers. The blades were new, but the windshield wasn’t; he had to lean forward, squinting through the smeared glass.
They curled down to the foot of the grade, the SUV still in the third lane and moving at a steady fifty-five, Chavez two cars and not much more than a hundred yards behind. The highway sign for the Marin City exit swam up out of the mist. Once they passed it, not far ahead, the one for the Mill Valley-Stinson Beach exit appeared.
And all of a sudden, so unexpectedly it caught him and several other drivers by surprise, the pursuit ended.
Brake lights flashed and the SUV swerved dangerously into the far right lane, causing the driver of a pickup to brake hard, nearly fishtail. McManus kept on veering right, the bulky Explorer wobbling and sliding into the exit lane while the slow-lane traffic bunched up behind the pickup.
There was nothing Chavez could do, no way he could get over in time to make the exit himself.
“Maldito!”
The word exploded out of him with such ferocity that Elmo jumped up on the backseat and began a frightened yipping.
Long way to the next exit, across Richardson Bay. He drove as fast as he dared, turned off, and came back around southbound to the Mill Valley-Stinson Beach exit. The Mill Valley road was jammed with homeward-bound commuters; even if the Explorer was among all the tightly packed headlights and taillights, trying to locate it would be an exercise in futility. McManus also could have turned off on one of the side streets and doubled back onto the freeway northbound, or even southbound to return to the city. There was just no way to tell.
The woman must be plain crazy to have pulled that sudden lane change stunt on fog-slick pavement. Either that or she’d been alert to a tail and spotted him despite his precautions. Sure, that was it. Explained the roundabout crosstown route to the bridge.
Not his fault, then. You’d have to be invisible to follow somebody who’s on the lookout for it. But that didn’t make him feel any better.
All that mattered was, he’d lost them.
20
JAKE RUNYON
He had agency work to attend to after leaving Dragovich’s office, in and out of the city; he spent four hours doing it, keeping his mind on a strict business focus the entire time. Continually agonizing about Bryn and her situation was wasted energy, negative energy.
The last piece of business was an interview in the Haight; from there he drove to the Hall of Justice. He hadn’t heard from Dragovich, which likely meant that Bryn was still AdSeg’d. That was the case, dammit. He still couldn’t get in to see her.
Three thirty-five. Twenty-five minutes to kill before the homicide inspectors, Farley and Crabtree, came on for their four-to-midnight tour. Runyon went into the cafeteria, bought himself a cup of tea and a corned-beef sandwich. He wasn’t hungry, but he hadn’t eaten all day and he needed to put something into his empty stomach.
At four o’clock he went up to General Works. Crabtree and Farley had both signed in, but neither was at his desk in the Homicide Division. Runyon did some more waiting, nearly ten minutes, before Crabtree showed up carrying a sheaf of computer printouts.
“Your timing’s good, Mr. Runyon. Just the man we wanted to see.”
“If it’s about my statement, that’s one reason I’m here.”
“It’s about more than that. Mrs. Darby’s statement, primarily.”
“What about her statement?”
“It’s full of lies.”
Runyon felt himself tighten up inside. “What makes you think that?”
“Not think it, know it for a fact.”
“How?”
Crabtree gestured to an empty chair, then leaned back and laced his fingers at the back of his neck. Big man, very dark, with a shaved head and, as if by way of compensation, a thick, bristly mustache. Neatly, almost nattily dressed in a brown pin-striped suit, salmon-colored shirt, brownish gold tie.
“Francine Whalen wasn’t killed in a struggle with Mrs. Darby,” he said. “Evidently wasn’t killed by Mrs. Darby, in self-defense or otherwise. Preliminary lab tests are in. Three identifiable partials on the handle of the knife, another partial on the kitchen counter. None of them belong to her.”
That was the last thing Runyon expected to hear. He digested the news before he asked, “Who do they belong to?”
“We don’t know yet. Could be anybody’s. Even yours.”
“I never touched the knife. You think my story’s a lie, too?”
“Is it? Any part of it?”
“No. All I know about what happened is what I told you yesterday. So what now? Drop the homicide charge against Mrs. Darby, release her?”