Campaign at their homes. The employees are voluntarily cooperating with us.”
Priest was pleased. He had laid a false trail, and the feds were following it.
Hayes went on: “Agents also visited the headquarters of the campaign, here in San Francisco, and examined documents and computer records.”
They would be combing the organization’s mailing list for clues, Priest guessed.
There was more, but it was repetitive. The assembled journalists asked questions that added detail and color but did not change the basic story. Priest’s tension grew again as he sat waiting impatiently for a chance to leave inconspicuously. He was pleased that the FBI investigation was so far off course — they had not yet come upon his
At last Kincaid drew the session to a close and the journalists began to get to their feet and pack up their gear.
Priest and Flower made for the door, but they were stopped by the woman with the clipboard, who smiled brightly and said: “I don’t think you two signed in, did you?” She handed Priest a book and a pen. “Just put your names and the organization you represent.”
Priest froze with fear.
“Sir? Would you please sign?”
“Sure.” Priest took the book and the pen. Then he handed it to Flower. “I think Florence should sign for us — she’s the journalist,” he said, reminding her of her false name. It occurred to him that she might have forgotten the school she was supposed to attend. “Put your name, and ‘Eisenhower Junior High.’ ”
Flower did not flinch. She wrote in the book and handed it back to the woman.
“You, too, sir, please,” said the woman, and she gave Priest the book.
He took it reluctantly. Now what? If he just scrawled a squiggle, she might ask him to print his name clearly: that had happened to him before. But maybe he could just refuse and walk out. She was only a secretary.
As he hesitated, he heard the voice of Kincaid. “I hope that was interesting for you, Florence.”
“Yes, sir, it was,” Flower said politely.
Priest began to sweat under his shirt.
He drew a scrawl where he was supposed to write his name. Then he closed the book before handing it back to the woman.
Kincaid said to Flower: “Will you remember to send me a copy of your class newspaper when it’s printed?”
“Yes, of course.”
The woman opened the book and said: “Oh, sir, pardon me, would you mind printing your name here? I’m afraid your signature isn’t really clear.”
“You’ll need an address,” Kincaid said to Flower, and he took a business card from the breast pocket of his suit coat. “There you go.”
“Thank you.”
Priest remembered that Peter Shoebury carried business cards.
They left the room.
They crossed the lobby and waited for the elevator. Priest imagined Kincaid coming after him, gun drawn, saying, “What kind of attorney can’t write his own goddamn name, asshole?” But the elevator came and they rode down and walked out of the building into the fresh air.
Flower said: “I gotta have the craziest dad in the world.”
Priest smiled at her. “That’s the truth.”
“Why did we have false names?”
“Well, I never like the pigs to get my real name,” he said. She would accept that, he thought. She knew how her parents felt about cops.
But she said: “Well, I’m mad at you about it.”
He frowned. “Why?”
“I’ll never forgive you for calling me Florence,” she said.
Priest stared at her for a moment, then they both burst out laughing.
“Come on, kid,” Priest said fondly. “Let’s go home.”
10
Judy dreamed she walked along the seashore with Michael Quercus, and his bare feet left neat, shapely prints in the wet sand.
On Saturday morning she helped out at a literacy class for young offenders. They respected her because she carried a gun. She sat in a church hall beside a seventeen-year-old hoodlum, helping him practice writing the date, hoping that somehow this would make it less likely that in ten years’ time she would have to arrest him.
In the afternoon she drove the short distance from Bo’s house to Gala Foods on Geary Boulevard and shopped.
The familiar Saturday routines failed to soothe her. She was furious with Brian Kincaid for taking her off the Hammer of Eden case, but there was nothing she could do about it, so she stomped up and down the aisles and tried to turn her mind to Chewy Chips Ahoy, Rice-A-Roni, and Zee “Decor Collection” kitchen towel printed with yellow patterns. In the breakfast cereal aisle she thought of Michael’s son, Dusty, and she bought a box of Cap’n Crunch.
But her thoughts kept returning to the case.
Back at home, Bo helped her unload the groceries and asked her about the investigation. “I hear Marvin Hayes raided the Green California Campaign.”
“It can’t have done him much good,” she said. “They’re all clean. Raja interviewed them on Tuesday. Two men and three women, all over fifty. No criminal records — not a speeding ticket between them — and no association with any suspicious persons. If they’re terrorists, I’m Kojak.”
“TV news says he’s examining their records.”
“Right. That’s a list of everyone who ever wrote asking them for information, including Jane Fonda. There are eighteen thousand names and addresses. Now Marvin’s team has to run each name through the FBI computer to see who’s worth interviewing. It could take a month.”
The doorbell rang. Judy opened the door to Simon Sparrow. She was surprised but pleased. “Hey, Simon, come on in!”
He was wearing black cycling shorts and a muscle T-shirt with Nike trainers and wraparound sunglasses. However, he had not come by bicycle: his emerald green Honda Del Sol was parked at the curb with the roof down. Judy wondered what her mother would have thought of Simon. “Nice boy,” she might have said. “Not very manly, though.”
Bo shook hands with Simon, then gave Judy a clandestine look that said
Somewhat bemused, Bo said: “Well, Simon, I’m sure glad to meet you.”
Simon was carrying a cassette tape and a manila envelope. Holding them up, he said: “I brought you my
