The underpass had brought them into Grand Avenue in an old, quiet, gracious residential neighborhood near venerable Dominican College. Kearny slowed, just drove around.
He matched her low tones. “Involved I’ll grant you, Giselle. Now we have to figure out how — what it means...”
Paul suddenly came to life in the backseat.
“Wow, that was boss! Just like the Spirit! I’ve got all the Spirit comic book originals from the forties and fifties! He lives in a graveyard, and he comes out to solve crimes...”
Giselle twisted around to look at him. Paul was sitting up on the seat, covered with sweat, talking faster and faster.
“I remember this one, he’s fencing with this foreigner, and the bad guy says—”
“Paul,” said Giselle.
“ ‘I lunge’ when he tries to impale the Spirit with his sword, and—”
“Paul!”
“And the Spirit parries his thrust, and says, ‘A little early in the morning for “lunge” time, don’t you think?’ He—”
“Paul! Shut up!” Somehow, this silenced him. Giselle added, in a normal tone of voice, “You’re hysterical.”
“Oh.” Then he added in a little voice, “Boss.”
A nondescript Ford Taurus came barreling into Grand from Newhall, trying to ram Kearny’s car. Kearny went into an almost sideways skid to avoid the crash, at the same time reaching over the backseat with a free hand and ramming Paul down on the floor, keeping his hand on the back of Paul’s neck.
The pursuit car pulled up even, the driver fired two shots at Kearny’s car just as Kearny slammed on the brakes. His car stood on its nose as the bullets missed and the pursuer shot by ahead of them.
“I don’t feel so good,” said Paul from the backseat.
The Ford had skidded to a stop also, was burning rubber as it accelerated backward. Kearny floored his own car, bounced over the gutter to the sidewalk, and whipped by it on the wrong side of the street. Two more shots went astray as they roared past. Giselle was writing on a paper napkin she had jerked out of the glove box.
“I get carsick in the backseat,” warned Paul.
In his rearview, Kearny saw the Ford swing left into Locust and disappear. Paul broke loose from Kearny’s grip, which had never slackened during the attack, sat up, and proved he hadn’t been kidding about getting sick in backseats.
“Jesus!” said Giselle, not making it clear whether it was in response to Paul or to the attack. She smoothed the paper napkin over her knees. “I got the license number of his car.”
“Good work, but it’s probably stolen.”
He stopped at the curb for a moment. His hands were shaking on the wheel with delayed reaction he didn’t want Giselle to notice. Fifty-two goddam years old.
“Let’s find a gas station, get wonderboy cleaned up and the car hosed out, then go back and talk to the cops at the scene.”
He needed a little time himself. To think. Thing was, he thought maybe he had recognized the attacker driving the Ford.
And it hadn’t been Frank Nugent, Paul’s erstwhile partner and accused attacker of the night before.
Chapter Fifteen
Twenty minutes later, they were back at Yew Wood Court. In the center of Lincoln a uniformed San Rafael cop was directing traffic. Kearny looked quickly over his shoulder at Paul.
“Nothing about the guy trying to run us down, okay?”
Paul said, “Yeah, sure, I ain’t no squealer, see.”
Kearny stopped his car and stuck his head out the open window at the cop. Who said, curtly, “Move along.”
“Chief Rowan wants to see us.”
Kearny stopped the car in midblock; they got out. Yew Wood Court had been transformed from a quiet half-block dead end into a crime scene. Yellow tapes were up, and a dark armored vehicle used by Marin County’s bomb squad was parked beside the burned-out Mercedes.
“Why did you leave this crime scene? You’re an experienced investigator, you know that—”
“We were afraid the guy might make another try, and Paul was shaken up. We wanted to let him calm down.”
Rowan took in Paul’s pale face, bedraggled appearance, and wet clothes. He was fighting a vindictive grin as he turned and pointed to the last house on the left-hand side of the street.
“Second-floor apartment, faces the street,” he said. Uniformed men were moving behind the window. “Let’s go up.”
It was really just a furnished room; the couch opened out into a bed, there was a kitchen alcove with a hot plate and a lime-streaked porcelain sink with a wooden drainboard and two drawers under it for silverware. Lingering in the air was the smell of popcorn. On a table in front of the main room’s open window was an electronic black box and an ashtray full of butts.
“That’s the radio transmitter that was used to blow up the Mercedes,” said Rowan. “C-4 plastique with a pencil detonator embedded in it. San Rafael police tell me one of the cigarettes in the ashtray was still smoldering when they broke in.”
Paul suddenly came to life again. His Bogart voice grated, from The Maltese Falcon, “Oh, and I’ve got an exhibit: this black statuette here that all the fuss was about...”
“I could really get to not like this guy.”
“He’s still in shock,” said Giselle.
“He grows on you,” said Kearny.
“The window looks down on the remains of the Mercedes.”
Kearny said thoughtfully, frowning, “Sits here chain-smoking, blows the car just a few seconds too late, right?” He swung around to Rowan. “Who was the room registered to?”
“Who else? Our elusive Mr. Frank Nugent — just this morning, as a matter of fact.”
Just then Inga burst into the crowded little room and threw herself into Paul’s arms.
“My darling!” she cried. “Are you all right?”
“Gimme a break,” muttered Giselle.
Inga was disentangling herself from Paul, who had lipstick and a goofy grin smeared on his face.
Rowan said tactfully, “Uh, Mrs. Rochemont... um, you just happened to be in the neighborhood?”
Giselle began, “As a matter of fact, I was—” when she caught Kearny’s eye and shut up. Now what was he playing at?
“Ms. Marc?” prompted Rowan.
“Sorry. I was confused, I thought you were talking to me.”
“You? Confused? I doubt that.”
Giselle met his gaze as serenely as a cat on top of a warm TV cable box, so he gave a curt nod and turned back to Inga. Who seemed to have been waiting to be surprised by his question.
“Why, Paul told me at the police station that he was going to pick up his car. I went shopping, then I called the Mercedes thingy to see if he had gotten it yet — I thought it would be sweet if we could meet for lunch.” She cast an adoring look at Paul, who responded with Pavlovian delight. They were two different people without his mother around. “They said he had been there and had come to this address. But when I got here, my poor darling...”
And she was in his arms again. Giselle caught Kearny’s eye and pantomimed a finger down her throat. He frowned slightly, let his eyes rest on Paul and then on the door.
Meaning, time to collect their client and get out of there.
Ballard knew it was past time that he should go shake down Danny’s apartment, but when he left the union headquarters he found himself driving up Leavenworth to one-way inbound Clay, where he took a right toward Nob Hill. He was lucky enough to find one-hour street parking about four blocks from the St. Mark in an upscale neighborhood of narrow older apartment houses.
Grace Cathedral, with its recent face-lift, gleamed in the afternoon sun. The Fairmont had all its flags flying and looked smug. It had signed with the union. It was busy.