room was a section of hardwood floor. The floor had been waxed recently; I hadn’t paid much attention the first time through, but this time the bottom of one shoe slid a little on the slick surface. That was what made me look down, then stop and look more closely.
There was enough light for me to make out a dark discoloration near the fringed edge of the living-room carpet. I dropped to one knee. Irregular stain like a Rorschach blot where something had seeped into the boards. An abortive effort had been made to scrub it away; you could see the marks left by a brush dipped in abrasive detergent.
Bloodstain?
I got out my penlight, shone the beam close above the stain. Might be blood, but I couldn’t be sure. Couldn’t be sure how long it had been there, either, though it didn’t appear to be very old.
If it was blood, it hadn’t come from a minor wound. A fair amount had leaked onto the floor to soak that deeply into the grain of the wood-the kind of seepage you get from direct or near direct contact with a surface. From a person dead or wounded, for instance, a person stabbed or shot or violently clubbed. Or attacked by a vicious dog.
I climbed the staircase to the second floor. The master bedroom had a massive four-poster bed that had the look of a Victorian antique; the rest of the furniture and adornments were the same expensive mismatches as those downstairs. Discarded articles of clothing were strewn over the bed, another garish Oriential carpet, the closet floor. Different sizes, different tastes as near as I could tell, indicating that McManus and Carson had shared this room. I quick-searched drawers and shelves. Nothing but minor leavings.
The medicine cabinet in the adjacent blue-tiled bathroom was open, the shelves mostly empty. Broken glass and spilled liquid from a dropped and broken bottle of nail polish marred the white porcelain sink; the splashes of polish were the color of fresh blood.
Across the hall were two more bedrooms, one of them made up but unused, the other turned into storage space, with another bathroom sandwiched between them. The storage room was a welter of empty, half-empty, and filled cartons. The contents of some had been upended and stirred through-clothing, odds and ends, a shiny scatter of costume jewelry. I opened two of the filled boxes: musty-smelling linens in one, articles of women’s clothing in the second. The clothing was of different sizes and different styles and looked to be the sort elderly women would wear.
I dug down into a third box. A couple of dark suits, old but of quality manufacture, some ancient ties, and four white shirts still in their laundry wrappings-all of a size and a style that would belong to a tall, thin man who’d lived at least three-quarters of a century. And folded at the bottom was the clincher: a heavy, old-fashioned black overcoat with a velvet collar. I ran my fingers over the material. Soft wool. Lamb’s wool. Gregory Pappas’s coat.
There was no point in going through any of the other stuff; McManus and Carson had had plenty of time to sift out and pack up items of value and anything that might be incriminating. I’d been in the house too long, anyway. The place had begun to have an oppressive effect on me. I’d always been place sensitive, particularly to places where bad things had happened, and this one had that kind of aura about it, hardly noticeable when I’d first come in but now almost palpable.
The aura of evil.
19
ALEX CHAVEZ
The Explorer headed straight up Nineteenth and through Golden Gate Park on Park Presidio, riding the middle lane all the way. Definitely heading for the bridge. But why had McManus taken such a roundabout crosstown route? Quicker one to the bridge from Dogpatch was the 280 freeway into town, then out Geary to Park Presidio. She and Carson hadn’t made any stops along the way, so that wasn’t the answer. Maybe it was just that they preferred the longer route for some reason, weren’t in a hurry to get to wherever they were going.
Getting on toward the start of rush hour and traffic through the park was stop-and-go; Chavez had to work to keep two to three cars behind them, changing back and forth between the middle and the far right lanes. A delivery truck cut in front of him in the Presidio tunnel, but he managed to maneuver around it just before the toll plaza.
When he first rolled onto the bridge, he didn’t see the Explorer because of the great gouts of blanketing fog rolling in through the Gate, but he knew they hadn’t gotten off at the last S.F. exit. A couple of quick weaving maneuvers through the clustered vehicles and he spotted them again-still in the middle lane, going the speed limit. He eased over into the same lane, slowing to match their speed, and stayed there three car lengths back.
How far up 101 were they going? Due north? East? You could get to Highway 80 by crossing the Richmond Bridge or taking 37 along the north shore of San Pablo Bay past Vallejo. Or some other direction or destination? Well, he’d find out. Tamara had told him to stay with the subjects as long and as far as he could.
He hoped it wouldn’t be too long or too far, wouldn’t require an overnight stay somewhere. The older he got, the less he liked being away from Elena and the kids for even one night. He’d have to call her pretty soon in any case, let her know he wouldn’t be home for dinner. Some terrific woman, always worrying about him and his welfare. And the way she’d handled that tagging business with Tomas last week. Graffiti artist! Hah! The boy wanted to be an artist, fine, but spray-painting stupid symbols on public property wasn’t an art project; it was a crime. Chavez had gone ballistic when he found out, but not Elena. Lectured and shamed Tomas, laid out a just- right punishment, and didn’t raise her voice the entire time.
Better wait to call her until after he checked in again with Tamara. At least wait and see if McManus took the Richmond Bridge exit south of San Rafael.
Chavez glanced at the fuel gauge. Three-quarters full, good for maybe a hundred and fifty miles. If the subjects were going any farther than that, gas was liable to be a problem. But even if the Explorer’s tank had been topped off when they left Dogpatch, the Explorer’d be near empty at about the same time as the Dodge-those big SUVs got lousy mileage-and with any luck he’d be able to pull off and fill up when they did.
Once they were off the bridge, traffic opened up a little. The Explorer moved over into the third of the four lanes; Chavez waited several seconds and then did the same. They wound up the long grade to the MacArthur Tunnel at fifty-five, passed through and down winding Waldo Grade on the Marin side. The fog was heavy here, too, streaming down from the cliffs in coils and stringy loops, laying a wet film on the windshield. Chavez switched on the wipers. The blades were new, but the windshield wasn’t; he had to lean forward, squinting through the smeared glass.
They curled down to the foot of the grade, the SUV still in the third lane and moving at a steady fifty-five, Chavez two cars and not much more than a hundred yards behind. The highway sign for the Marin City exit swam up out of the mist. Once they passed it, not far ahead, the one for the Mill Valley-Stinson Beach exit appeared.
And all of a sudden, so unexpectedly it caught him and several other drivers by surprise, the pursuit ended.
Brake lights flashed and the SUV swerved dangerously into the far right lane, causing the driver of a pickup to brake hard, nearly fishtail. McManus kept on veering right, the bulky Explorer wobbling and sliding into the exit lane while the slow-lane traffic bunched up behind the pickup.
There was nothing Chavez could do, no way he could get over in time to make the exit himself.
“Maldito!”
The word exploded out of him with such ferocity that Elmo jumped up on the backseat and began a frightened yipping.
Long way to the next exit, across Richardson Bay. He drove as fast as he dared, turned off, and came back around southbound to the Mill Valley-Stinson Beach exit. The Mill Valley road was jammed with homeward-bound commuters; even if the Explorer was among all the tightly packed headlights and taillights, trying to locate it would be an exercise in futility. McManus also could have turned off on one of the side streets and doubled back onto the freeway northbound, or even southbound to return to the city. There was just no way to tell.
The woman must be plain crazy to have pulled that sudden lane change stunt on fog-slick pavement. Either that or she’d been alert to a tail and spotted him despite his precautions. Sure, that was it. Explained the
