They did as Burden instructed, taking in their surroundings, walking up each of their assigned streets. A minute passed. Two…three…and shortly thereafter, they began gathering, finding one another in front of an oversize mural of a beer bottle, above which a large bar sign read, “Caliente.”
Vail looked at it. Hot. Is that a comment on us-we’re on the right track? Or just a coincidence and it means nothing?
“Anything interesting?” Burden asked.
Dixon said, “Couple of restaurants. A few bars. Bus stop. People. Car repair shops. Buildings. Mercedes dealership. Graffiti. A homeless guy with a dog. I gave him a dollar.”
“Don’t forget Urban Cellular,” Vail said, “across the street. Unlimited family and friends for fifty bucks a month. And to think I had to come all the way to San Francisco for a deal like that.”
Burden gave her an icy look as he said, “Why’d the UNSUB send us here?”
Vail’s gaze moved about the immediate vicinity, as if she would suddenly see something she had not seen previously. Nothing stood out. “He brought us to this intersection for a reason. He wants us to see something.” And if we don’t figure it out soon… “Have I ever told you I hate puzzles?”
“I love puzzles,” Burden said. “But not when we’re getting jerked around by a killer.”
“Tough,” Vail said. “Put your puzzle hat on, ’cause we got nothing.”
“My puzzle hat,” Burden repeated. “That’s very helpful.” He turned his head, scanning the area, as they had all done more than once. Finally, he rested his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Let’s try something different. Call out the first thing that comes to mind. Don’t think-just say it.”
Construction workers. Traffic cop. Taxis. Bars. Storefronts. Asphalt. Mercedes dealership. Cell phone store. Car repair shop.
Vail stopped them. “This isn’t helping. You word guys got anything?”
Allman and Scheer asked to see the message again.
Finally, Burden asked, “Anybody’s phone shoot video?” They all answered affirmatively. “Okay, then. Take a couple minutes, go back to your street and shoot some footage of things that you see. Go slow so we can make out signs and other details that might be important. In case we need to take another look later.”
They walked in opposite directions and started panning when Vail’s phone nearly vibrated out of her hands. She fumbled to stop the recording and bring up the message.
ive given u some latitude
but youve come up short
if u got it see u there 1 hr
if not
maybe ill give 1 last clue or
maybe not
Vail felt like slamming her phone into the pavement. Instead, she walked back toward the car, where Dixon was waiting. Vail did not speak; she merely held up the BlackBerry.
Dixon read it, absorbed it, then turned away and leaned her back against the vehicle. “We’ll find him, Karen. We’ll figure this out.”
Burden and Allman joined them, read the message and offered nothing of value.
Burden swore under his breath, then looked off down Folsom. “Where the hell’s Scheer?”
Vail lifted her phone to call him-but before it connected, he appeared around the corner.
“We’re leaving,” Burden said. “I’ll drop you both at work on the way back to the station.”
“Did you get it?” Scheer asked.
“Did you?” Burden asked.
Scheer shook his head. They piled into the Ford and Burden drove off, headed back toward Bryant Street…tired, irritable, and no closer to finding Friedberg than they had been before.
54
November 21, 1960
Alcatraz
Walton MacNally shuffled into the dining hall in single file behind other cons who lived in C Block and the adjacent B Block. The rectangular room was large-but a fraction of the size of Leavenworth’s outsized eating facility.
Barred windows lined both long walls, through which MacNally caught a glimpse of San Francisco city lights across the Bay to his left. The mint and eggshell color scheme he found in his cell must have been a favorite of the Alcatraz interior decorators because this room featured the same design treatment.
Ahead, dominating the hall’s front area, was the kitchen, where two inmates, wearing white chef hats and aprons, appeared to be mixing large vats of soup in floor-standing stainless steel kettles. A guard stood watch inside a glass block structure, approximately twenty feet behind the cooks.
John Anglin was in line several men ahead of him, but watching how the other inmates conducted themselves-walking in an orderly fashion and talking in normal or low tones, MacNally resisted the urge to call after him. After seeing Anglin earlier, all he could think about was confronting him about Rucker.
The line worked its way toward a long, stainless steel buffet-style steam table. As MacNally neared, Anglin was at the far end, lifting a roll from a trough. Steam rose from the soup tureen, hot beef, and vegetable platters. MacNally lifted a ladle and began dishing out food.
An officer, arms folded in front of him and standing on the other side of the table, cleared his throat. “You’re new.”
MacNally looked up. The guard was nearly as young as he was. His tie was tightly knotted and drawn up flush against his buttoned collar. “Arrived on the boat about an hour ago.”
He nodded at the food in front of him. “Take all you want. But eat all you take. That’s the rule. No waste.”
MacNally glanced over at Anglin, who was moving toward a table. “I had a long trip from Kansas-no problem with my appetite today.” He smiled, trying to win some points. But the officer turned away to observe the oncoming inmates.
The dining hall was filled with long picnic-style varnished wood tables, accompanied by bench seats made with a thick, steel pipe frame. The furniture, which sat five men on each side, looked pocked and worn.
MacNally quickened his pace to where Anglin and two other men were settling themselves. They were already engaged in an animated discussion.
“J.W.,” MacNally said, setting down his tray and not waiting for an invitation.
“Who the fuck are you?” the shorter man to Anglin’s left said.
MacNally felt the muscles in his forearms tighten. He looked down. There were knives on the table within reach, but his adversary’s fingers were already wrapped around one. “We gonna have a problem?”
Anglin held out a steady hand to calm his acquaintance. “Walt MacNally, this’s Frankie. Frank Morris. Frankie,” Anglin said, casually motioning with his fork. “Mac and me did time together at Leavenworth. Helped me ’n Clarence with an escape.”