his smiles and grins; the one he liked best and used on her three or four times a week was his Watch Out Tonight, Querida leer. “Spring housecleaning, huh?” he said.
“Yes, that’s right. Now if you’ll excuse me-”
“When do you think you’ll be ready again?”
“… Ready for what?”
“To take in more dogs.”
“Come back the first of next month.”
“Be okay if I have a look around now?”
Bought him a narrow-eyed stare. “What?”
“At the kennels. Make sure it’s the right place for Elmo.”
“No, it wouldn’t be okay. Can’t you see I’m busy?” She turned abruptly, started back toward the house.
Chavez took the opportunity for a squint down the driveway. Couldn’t see much except part of a wire-fenced dog run and an outbuilding behind it that had to be the kennels. He said quickly, “How about I leave my name and phone number? In case the room opens up.”
She stopped and turned, no longer even trying to hide her annoyance. “There’s no point in that. The tenant we have now plans on an indefinite stay. Now will you please go away?” That last was neither a request nor a dismissal-she said it like a threat.
He’d pushed it as far as he could. Anything further and she’d make a real issue of it. Might even be suspicious as it was. He put on his Piqued and Pouty smile and said, with just the right amount of edge, “Sure, lady, whatever you say. I don’t think I’d have liked living here anyway.”
Nothing from her.
Chavez took the terrier back down the drive. Elmo was relieved; by the time they reached the street, he’d quit shivering and his stubby tail was wagging again. The woman, Carson, had disappeared back into the house.
His dependable old Dodge was parked on 20th Street, one house down. He ran Elmo into the backseat, slid himself into the front. Drove off, circled half a dozen blocks, and then rolled back along Minnesota to where he had a pretty clear view of the McManus house and the SUV from that direction. Carson was still inside, the driveway empty-but she’d been back out at least once, because now the front gate was closed against further visitors. Chavez eased over to the curb, shut off the engine. Then he slouched down low on the seat, shifted his behind until he was comfortable, and reported in to Tamara.
She wasn’t disappointed that he hadn’t been able to get into the house. Matter of fact, there was an undertone of excitement in her voice when she said, “So they’re moving out?”
“Sure looks that way. They’re still loading up the SUV, both of them now-the other one just showed.”
“Leaving as soon as they’re done, you think?”
“Could be. Carson seemed pretty anxious to get rid of me. Want me to run a tail?”
“Oh yeah. Even if only one of them leaves. Did Carson get a good look at your car?”
“Doubt it. She didn’t see me coming and she was already in the house when I drove away.”
“Good. Keep me posted.”
Chavez said he would and clicked off.
“Elmo,” he said then, “I shouldn’t have dragged you into this. Seemed like a good idea when I left the agency, but now you’re stuck with me. Might be a while before either of us gets home again.”
Elmo didn’t seem to mind. He stretched up and licked the back of Chavez’s neck.
Most investigators hated stakeouts, the waiting, the downtime, but Alex Chavez wasn’t one of them. Elena claimed it was because he was basically lazy and would rather sit on his fat culo than do anything else. But she was only teasing him. She knew he had more energy than most men his age, knew it better than anybody because of how often he demonstrated it to her in bed. Besides, his culo wasn’t fat.
The reason stakeouts didn’t bother him was because he liked to listen to the radio. The Dodge had a brand- new battery, so he didn’t have to worry about running down the juice by playing the radio with the engine off. It wasn’t music he listened to, not that he didn’t like music. Elena was a big fan of traditional Latin ballads, the kids were into salsa and hip-hop and Hannah Montana; his preference was Garth Brooks. A shame to his heritage, Elena said-more of her teasing. But even a steady diet of Brooks made Chavez yawn and put him to sleep.
No, what he listened to was right-wing hate radio.
That was the correct term. Limbaugh, Beck, the rest of them-a pack of greed-driven racist hatemongers hiding behind the cloak of patriotism. He’d been assaulted by that kind of crap all his life, on and off the radio and television. Down in El Centro when he was growing up and before and after he joined the county sheriff’s department, even up here in liberal San Francisco. Wetback, spic, greaser-he’d heard all the epithets dozens of times and been called worse to his face. Heard “close the borders,” “go back to Mexico where you belong,” “keep America safe for Americans.” Well, the Chavezes were as American as Limbaugh and Beck, every one of them born and raised in this country.
Elena, the rest of his family, didn’t understand why he listened to the trash that came spewing over the airwaves. Wallowed in it, they said. But he didn’t look at it as wallowing. Know your enemy, that was one reason he did it-what they’re saying, doing, thinking. Made it easier to deal with the results of their rhetoric when he was confronted with it, easier to keep his anger in check, easier to do his job.
The other reason was because it gave him a benign feeling of superiority. Alex Chavez and the Chavez family were good, God-fearing people who worked hard for what they had, whose hearts were full of love, not hate. They were better Christians, better role models, more honest believers in family values. Better Americans because they didn’t try to tell anybody else what to think and how to live their lives. Better human beings. Knowing that, having it verified every time he tuned in to one of the wing nut broadcasts, helped him maintain his equilibrium and his essentially cheerful outlook. Ironic, when you looked at it that way. A kind of justice in it, too. The more the haters ranted and raved and spewed their venom against minorities, the happier and prouder he was that he’d been born one himself.
Limbaugh’s diatribe today had to do with President Obama’s foreign-policy decisions and how the health-care reform law was destroying the country. The usual garbage, regurgitated. After a while Chavez only half-listened, because he’d heard it so many times before he could have recited most of it himself, word for word.
Across the street Carson appeared one last time, carrying a couple of what looked to be Tiffany table lamps, found space for them inside, then closed the Explorer’s hatch and disappeared into the house again. Otherwise nothing much happened for close to an hour. At the forty-minute mark Elmo gave out with his I Have to Go whine. Well, that figured. World’s smallest dog bladder. Chavez slid out on the passenger side, let the terrier out, kept one eye on him while he sprayed the trunk of a sidewalk tree and the other on the house. One thing you could say for Elmo: he never dallied when he was doing his business, like some dogs did. Do it and get on with the important things, like munching a Milk-Bone and then curling up and going to sleep on the backseat.
Chavez was scanning through the radio dial, looking for one or another of Limbaugh’s fellow garbagemen, when the wait came to a worthwhile end. The two women walked out of the house together, the Rottweiler with them on a leash. Not hurrying but not taking their time, either. Carson went down to open the gate while McManus prodded Thor in on the driver’s side of the SUV. While she drove out to the street, Chavez fired up the Dodge. Carson closed the gate and hopped in on the passenger side; then the Explorer rolled out of the driveway.
And the chase was on.
Not that it was much of a chase at first. McManus was a cautious driver and there wasn’t much traffic, so he hung back at a safe distance as she headed south on Third. She turned west on Cesar Chavez Street (named after a great man whose surname he was proud to share), bypassed the edge of the San Jose Guerrero neighborhood where he lived, and went on up to Church Street. Right on Church, left on Clipper, up the hill to the intersection with Market, then left across Twin Peaks and down the west side on Portola Drive. He had a pretty good idea by then where they were going, and it wasn’t to any Goodwill store.
He knew for sure he was right when the SUV turned down Sloat, then north on Nineteenth Avenue. While he waited two cars behind at a stoplight just beyond Stern Grove, he slid his cell phone into the hands-free device mounted on the dash and called Tamara to tell her McManus and Carson were on the move and likely heading for the Golden Gate Bridge.
