Six-oh-four.
A short black man in a trench coat came walking up from Lagunitas into her line of sight. Doctor Easy. He moved in long, quick strides, kind of a glide, straight to the Twilight’s entrance and on inside.
Tamara waited, leaning forward with her hands flat on the tabletop and her face close to the window glass.
Six-oh-five.
Six ten.
“Something wrong with potstickers?”
“… What?”
The waitress was standing next to her. “You not eating. Something wrong?”
Yes, dammit! “No,” she said, and picked up one of the potstickers and bit into it. Greasy. She managed to swallow without gagging.
Six fourteen.
Damn him, she thought, he’s not going to show up.
But ten seconds later, somebody else showed up.
A light-colored car swung into a slanted parking space downstreet from the Twilight, on this side, and a black man stepped out. She had a pretty good look at him and his ride both in the lights from a passing car. BMW; her lawyer sister Claudia drove one, so Tamara knew what they looked like. He was on the heavy side, middle-aged, well dressed, his hair close-cropped. She watched him jaywalk across the street and enter the lounge.
Another of the down-low clubbers, or just a businessman wanting an after-work drink? She hadn’t seen any other African Americans except Stewart go in there, but that didn’t mean he and Hawkins were the only ones who patronized the place.
The restaurant was beginning to fill up, and the waitress came sidling over again. “More food?”
“Not right now.”
“More tea?” The woman’s tone said she’d better buy something more or get out and make room for paying customers.
“Okay. Another pot of tea.”
Six thirty.
The waitress arrived with the fresh pot, set it down harder than necessary, and went away again. Tamara poured her cup full, left it untouched. Watched and waited and tried not to keep checking the time. Yeah, right. Tell yourself not to do something and you end up doing it twice as often.
Six forty-five.
Bastard definitely wasn’t coming. Just Hawkins and Stewart tonight-and maybe the guy from the BMW.
Seven.
The waitress again, looking even more annoyed. The place had filled up; she didn’t want a customer who hadn’t ordered anything except tea and potstickers taking up space and she said so, more or less politely. Tamara didn’t argue. She dredged up another Chinese dish from her memory-kung pao chicken-and the waitress went away again, satisfied.
Seven fifteen.
Tamara picked at the kung pao chicken and then, out of frustration, began shoveling it in until the plate was empty. Good-bye, diet.
Seven thirty.
Bill hated stakeouts and, man, the hate was justified. This was only the second one she’d been on, and the surroundings were a lot safer than the first time, over in the East Bay, when she’d screwed up and let that psycho kidnapper grab her. But before all the crazy stuff started happening that night, she’d been terminally bored sitting in the cramped Toyota on a dark and unfamiliar street. This was different because the case was personal, but the edge of boredom and impatience was there just the same.
How long would they sit around drinking over there? Sooner they got it done with, the sooner Stewart would call with his report and she could arrange to meet him and listen to the recording.
The wait finally ended five minutes later. Out they came-Stewart, Hawkins, and the heavyset stranger, all in a bunch. They stood talking in front of the Twilight for thirty seconds or so, then shook hands all around and went their separate ways-Hawkins down toward his office, Stewart in the opposite direction, the stranger to the curb to wait for a break in the traffic so he could cross to his Beamer.
Tamara was already on the move by then. Decided what she was going to do as soon as she saw that the heavyset guy was part of it. She tossed a ten and a five on the table and hurried out, keeping her head down as she turned upstreet. Stewart had reached his parked car, was unlocking the door; he didn’t see her and she didn’t try to catch his attention. Behind her, the heavyset dude had come on across the street and was taking his time with his keys.
Impulse prodded her into a loping run. At the Woodacre intersection she darted diagonally across to where she’d left the Toyota. She was inside, with the key in the ignition, when the BMW’s brake lights flashed and Heavyset started to back up. Traffic kept him from getting all the way out of the space until Tamara managed to back out herself, in front of an SUV whose driver had to brake so sharply he blatted his horn at her.
A red light at 19th Avenue stopped the BMW, gave her enough time to get down there with only one car separating them. When the light changed, Heavyset turned right and the intervening car went straight, so she was right behind the Beamer when she made the swing onto 19th.
At the Sloat Boulevard intersection, he turned right again and angled over into one of the lanes that would take him onto Portola Avenue. Tamara moved into the second lane, behind another car. The BMW’s rear end and taillights were distinctive enough, and the avenue well lighted enough, so she’d be able to keep him in sight from a distance.
Excitement bubbled in her. This was more like it! Following somebody in the dark, trying to keep pace… there was a thrill in that kind of thing. Not a dangerous thrill like that time in San Leandro; a small and relatively safe one. Mostly her job consisted of putting in a lot of desk time at the agency, combing the Net, answering phones, compiling reports. Monotonous after a while. Fieldwork now and then, even on a grim mission like this one, was a sure cure for boredom. She’d intended to do it more often, but there never seemed to be enough time. From now on she’d make the time.
The Beamer headed straight up Portola, not fast and not slow. No problem keeping pace. A red light stopped them both at Claremont. And while she was waiting for it to change, the ringtone on her cell phone began chirping.
She got it out of her purse, switched on before the light turned green. Deron Stewart. “Zeller was a no- show,” he said.
“I know. I was across the street the whole time you were in the lounge.”
“… Didn’t tell me you’d be there.”
“My business,” she said. “Who was the heavyset guy came in a few minutes late?”
He said, “Sharp eye,” which she supposed was meant as a compliment for her observational skills. “His name’s Roland.”
“First or last name?”
“Just Roland. That’s all he’d give.”
“One of the down lows?”
“Yeah. Wouldn’t say what he does for a living, either. Didn’t say much at all, just sat there listening and checking me out. But he lives here in the city. Hawkins referred to him once as a neighbor.”
The BMW had passed through the O’Shaugnessy intersection at the top of Twin Peaks and they were moving downhill on the far side. The light at the turnoff for Diamond Heights Boulevard was green; the Beamer went right on through, onto the winding stretch of Upper Market. Wherever the heavyset dude, Roland, was headed, it wasn’t straight home. Hawkins lived in Monterey Heights, on the edge of St. Francis Wood, and now that section was behind them to the southwest.
Stewart said, “You still on, Tamara?”
“Still on. Did Hawkins or Roland mention Zeller at all?”
“Not until I brought up his name.”
“And?”
