“He never goes anywhere. He’s either cooking or he’s in the apartment.”
Frost frowned in frustration. He glanced back and saw the BMW hugging the bumper of his SUV. He turned on Kearny, and the other car followed. He accelerated through two lights but didn’t lose it. The next red light stopped him at Broadway, and the BMW’s headlights taunted him in the mirror.
Frost was tired of the game. He threw the SUV into park. He slid his gun out of its holster and opened the door of the Suburban. As he got out, tires screeched behind him. The driver of the BMW reversed wildly and spun into a three-point turn, denting a car parked on the street. Frost ran after it, but the BMW sped off in the opposite direction, fishtailing as it escaped. He watched the car turn three blocks away and vanish in the darkness.
He went back to his truck. The light was green. He accelerated through the intersection into a left turn where Kearny dead-ended up the hill in front of him.
“Stop,” Fox said.
Frost pulled over to the curb. “What is it?”
“Don’t you see, man? You can’t protect me. They pegged us as soon as we left the building. If I’m with you, they’ll find me.”
“It’s too dangerous for you to be alone.”
“I’m better off on my own,” the boy insisted. “I know how to hide.”
“Fox, wait,” Frost protested, but he was too late.
The boy reached a hand through the open window to the roof of the truck. With the speed of a snake, he slithered through the small opening until his feet were on the door frame. He launched himself into a gymnastic backflip and landed smoothly on the sidewalk in the halo of the streetlight.
Fox’s mouth broke into a little smirk at Frost’s shocked expression.
“If you find Mr. Jin, call me,” the boy told him, rattling off the number of a cell phone. “Got it? Don’t try to track me down. I’m never in the same place for long.”
He sprinted up the steps of Kearny Street. Frost shouted after him and bolted from the SUV, leaving the driver’s door open. He began to lay chase, but the boy was a cheetah, whipping up the hill and disappearing around the next corner. Frost didn’t have any hope of catching him.
He returned to the SUV, got inside, and slammed the door. He didn’t go anywhere. He sat there, alone, and his frustration seethed. Every lead was slipping away. He was in a race, and Lombard was winning.
17
The escort who called herself Fawn lived in Presidio Heights, two blocks from the red dome of the Jewish synagogue. The area was like a quiet suburb inside the city, with neatly maintained homes and a lineup of mature trees dotting the sidewalk. San Francisco was too pricey for most young families, but if you could afford it, this was a neighborhood for toddlers and golden retrievers. Fawn’s house was a two-story Victorian with a fresh coat of yellow paint and neat window boxes filled with pink flowers on the terraced wall beside the front steps.
Frost wondered if the yuppie neighbors knew what she did for a living.
He rang the front doorbell in the darkness and waited. There was a security camera mounted above the door frame, and as he watched it, the lights of the camera came to life and illuminated him. A woman’s cool voice crackled through an intercom speaker.
“Yes? May I help you?”
Frost held up his badge toward the camera. “My name is Frost Easton with the San Francisco police. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“About what?”
“About Fawn,” he said. After a pause, he added, “And no, I’m not from vice.”
“I don’t have anything to say,” the woman replied.
“Are you Zara Anand?”
“No, I’m her sister. I still don’t have anything to say.”
Frost sighed. “Look, I can run my questions past your neighbors, but I don’t think you or your sister want me doing that.”
There was a long stretch of silence from inside. Then the front door opened in front of him. A small and attractive Indian woman with thick, long black hair studied him from behind the chain on the door. Her dark eyes were smart and suspicious.
“Let me see that badge again,” she said.
Frost held it up, and she reviewed it carefully. When she was satisfied, she undid the chain and let him come inside. The house had a faintly sweet smell of honey. She led him from the foyer into a living room that faced the street, and she sat in a comfortable armchair with a glass of white wine and an open laptop beside her. Her hand, with slim fingers and long gold-painted nails, waved him to a sofa by the window. Their furniture was ornate and made of cherrywood, and the sofa had a geometric design on brown fabric. The wallpaper was a deep burgundy color.
“My name is Prisha Anand,” she said. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“Your sister is Zara, is that right?” Frost asked. “But in her work, she uses the name Fawn?”
Prisha took a sip of wine. Her movements were slow and precise, as if she thought through everything in advance before she did anything. She had arching eyebrows that were carefully plucked, a sloping nose, and a jaw that tapered to a sharp V. She wore a scoop-neck yellow blouse that emphasized her long neck, loose black slacks, and open sandals. Her toes matched her gold fingernails.
“Yes. Zara calls herself Fawn.”
“The two of you live here together?”
“That’s right.”
“It’s a beautiful place,” Frost said.
“In other words, how do two young women in their twenties afford it? Is that what you really want to know? I’m an in-house lawyer at Zelyx, and I was there for the IPO. But Zara is an equal breadwinner in the household, and if you know her as Fawn, then I’m sure you know why.”
“I don’t know her at all,” Frost replied, “but her name has come up in one of my investigations.”
“You said you don’t work in vice. So where do you work?”
“Homicide,” Frost said.
Worry fell like a curtain across Prisha’s face. “Is Zara all right?”
“I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me where to find her.”
“I have no idea. She left for one of her — engagements — last Tuesday, and I haven’t seen or heard from her since then. Doing what she does, she’s often gone for days or weeks at a time. Men fly her around the world. Africa. The Middle East. South America. It’s a glamorous lifestyle in its way, although it’s not what I would choose for her.”
“Have you tried to contact her?” Frost asked. “I’ve left messages on her cell phone, but I haven’t gotten a reply.”
“That’s not unusual. Her phone is often turned off for long periods of time. I wish you’d tell me what’s going on.”
Frost didn’t answer. “Do you know anything about this most recent engagement on Tuesday?”
Prisha shook her head. “No. If you think tech companies are stringent about confidentiality, you should see my sister’s business. I never know who she’s meeting or where or how long she’ll be gone. If I had to guess, though, she was heading off on a boat.”
“Why do you say that?”
“She made a joke about bringing Dramamine along. She’s very susceptible to seasickness.” Prisha studied his face and added, “Judging from your expression, I gather that comports with what you think she was doing.”
Frost nodded. “Did she say anything else?”
“No, as I told you, she doesn’t give me details about her work. But I could tell she wasn’t happy about this job. She was nervous and anxious before she left. I didn’t bother asking why. I knew I wouldn’t get anything out of her. It usually means she’s meeting someone who makes her uncomfortable. There are always men like that.”