his time wrapped inside this steel and glass cocoon, taking long drives out of the city, familiarizing himself with each of the cities and towns and unincorporated areas within a hundred-mile radius that constituted his new base of operations. Now that Colleen was gone, and Joshua remained a lost cause, he had no pleasures and only minor interests; work was his single motivation, and a source of almost fierce pride. He was good at it, he craved it; if he could have found a way to exist without sleep, he’d stay on the job 24/7.
Troxell led him straight out Monterey Boulevard to Highway 280 east. Cautious driver during the day, Bill had said; same held true tonight. He didn’t exceed the speed limit, observed all the traffic laws. In no hurry, wherever he was going. At the junction with the 101 freeway, he took the exit that led him onto 101 north-heading toward the downtown exits and the Bay Bridge approach. But he wasn’t traveling that far. He quit the freeway at the Vermont Street exit.
Potrero Hill? That was it. He took Twentieth Street to Wisconsin, turned there, and climbed the steep incline. Older homes lined it, clinging close together on the hillsides, everything from Stick Victorians to brown-shingled cottages. Prime real estate for the most part, with views of the southeastern rim of the bay. Runyon hung farther back, because there wasn’t much traffic and it was still daylight, but the precaution was unnecessary. The BMW’s speed didn’t vary and it made safe stops at each of the posted intersections.
Halfway up the hill, an even steeper cross street, Madera, dropped away to the left. Troxell swung over that way, U-turned at the intersection rather than entering the street itself. Runyon rolled on past, slowly. In his rearview mirror he saw the BMW slide in to the curb a short ways down. By the time he found a space on the opposite side of the street, uphill of Madera, the BMW’s trunk lid was open, and the subject was out and moving around back there. He adjusted his side-view mirror so that he had a clear view as Troxell withdrew a stack of newspapers and a lumpy plastic sack from the trunk. His afternoon purchases, evidently.
The house one removed from where he’d parked was one of the Stick Victorians, painted in shades of blue, built close to the sidewalk on a lot wide enough to accommodate an adjoining one-car garage That was Troxell’s destination. But he didn’t climb the steps to its front door; instead he vanished onto a narrow path that ran in between the house and the garage.
Runyon shut off the Ford’s engine, sat waiting and watching. Five minutes, ten; Troxell didn’t reappear. He let a little more time pass. Daylight began to bleed out of the sky and the wind, strong up here, grew even sharper; the trees in the area bent and shook in darkening silhouette. Lights were on in most of the homes, but not in the blue Victorian. It remained dark, its lines obscuring as the dusk deepened toward night.
When the last of the daylight was gone, Runyon left the car and crossed the street to the Victorian. There was enough space between it and its near-side neighbor for him to see that the property ran steeply downhill, and that the rear windows were as dark as the ones in front. But there was light somewhere behind and below, a pale glow that spread out from an invisible source. Night-light? Separate building?
He walked past the house, taking his time. Three pot-metal numbers were arranged vertically on one of the rounded porch pillars, just readable in the darkness; he made a mental note of them. The path Troxell had taken was like a short, hollow tube that ended in a wood-and-wire gate set into an eight-foot-high frame joined to house and garage. Nothing was visible beyond it except shadow shapes given faint definition by the diffused light glow. All the windows on that side of the house were dark as well.
No cars on the street at the moment, no one on the sidewalks. Runyon stepped quickly into the tube. The wind made sounds in the night; there were other sounds, too, but they were all muted city noises, none close by.
It wasn’t until he reached the gate that he could see what lay behind and below. There was more room back there than he’d expected; an overgrown boundary fence was visible two-thirds of the way down the incline, so that most of the available yard space belonged to the Victorian’s owners. Between the house and the fence was a shelf, natural or man-made, and another building squatted there-a low, blocky structure maybe forty feet square, with a door and window on the near side. A set of wooden steps angled down to it from the gate. Granny unit, probably, either built to conform to city codes or put up without permits. One large room or two small ones, plus bath. Nice and private. The light came through the single window, filtered by closed blinds. No way to tell from here if Troxell was alone inside or not.
Runyon tested the gate latch. Locked, of course. You could climb over the frame, but you couldn’t do it without making some noise. He was trespassing as it was; no point in compounding the offense. He retraced his steps to the sidewalk, made sure he was unobserved as he came out, and climbed back up to the Ford.
Long wait this time. After a few minutes, he cranked his mind down to basic awareness and just sat there, low on the seat, not moving until leg and shoulder and back muscles protested and then just enough to ease the cramping.
At 10:24 by the dashboard clock Troxell reappeared and walked in deliberate strides to his wheels. Nothing in his hands now; they swung open at his sides. Runyon moved as quickly and easily as if he’d been sitting still for two and a half minutes instead of two and a half hours. He started the engine, waited until the BMW was away from the curb and heading downhill before he made a dark U-turn, then put on his lights and followed.
Subject went home, straight home, following the identical route he’d taken to Wisconsin Street. Runyon parked in the same place he’d waited earlier. It was only after the last of the house lights went off upstairs, half an hour later, that he was satisfied Troxell was in for the night.
Home himself then, a short drive up Nineteenth Avenue to his apartment on Ortega-four nondescript furnished rooms on the third floor of an equally nondescript stucco building. He hadn’t eaten since a late lunch, hadn’t been hungry enough to bother before tonight’s surveillance. He made himself a cup of tea, found half a container of Chinese takeout in the refrigerator. Colleen’s drink, Colleen’s favorite food. His, too, now. In some way he didn’t quite understand he needed to maintain the patterns the two of them had followed when she was alive. Continuity, maybe. Or a way to hang on to the hope that she was still alive, somewhere, on some other plane of existence, even though he wasn’t religious and did not really believe in either an afterlife or immortality.
He ate at the dinette table in the kitchen, then added hot water to his teacup and took it into the front room. At the secretary desk in there was a copy of the reverse city directory; the agency had a copy, but he liked having his own for situations like the one tonight. The occupants of the blue Stick Victorian had a listed phone number and the reverse directory identified them as Ralph and Justine Linden. He booted up his laptop, wrote out a detailed eight-paragraph report on the evening’s surveillance that included the property owners’ names, and e-mailed it to Tamara.
6
JAKE RUNYON
Olivet Cemetery, Colma.
Troxell’s second stop on Thursday morning. His first had been the florist shop on West Portal that Bill had followed him to the day before, where he’d picked up a large, white-flowered wreath. He must have been a good customer; there’d been a CLOSED sign on the shop’s front door and he’d had to knock to gain admittance. Then he’d driven straight out Nineteenth Avenue to the 280 Freeway and on down to Colma.
Overcast morning, cold, damp from thin streamers of blowing fog. The weather and the early hour combined to keep the mazelike grounds mostly deserted. Only one other car was parked in the section Troxell went to, two- thirds of the way in-a maroon Datsun, no sign of its occupant. Subject parked his BMW a short distance behind the Datsun; Runyon pulled up fifty yards away. He watched Troxell take the wreath from the trunk and carry it in among the graves, moving as if he were passing through a narrow tunnel, eyes front all the way; he seemed to have no interest or awareness in what lay behind or to either side of him. Man with a single-minded purpose-to reach the end of the tunnel and whatever waited there.
For that reason, Runyon followed more closely than he would have otherwise, on a zigzag course among the headstones and obelisks and wooden markers. There were no paths here, all the graves set into barbered lawn shaded by cypress, yew, and palm trees. The grass was slick with dew, and he was careful of his footing. He could feel the cold and damp stiffening his bad leg. Nearly six years since the car accident that had fractured the tibia in three places, forced him to endure two rounds of surgery, and then to take a partial disability retirement from the Seattle PD, and he still had twinges and the slight limp in cold, damp weather. But it wasn’t much of a cross
