dialing.
“You really think that’s what we’re dealing with here?” Burden asked.
Vail tilted her head, looking at Ilg’s face, which was oriented straight ahead. “Unfortunately, we’re going to find out. Sooner or later.”
MacNally returned to First National Thrift twice more that week, pretending to request information on opening an account. Fortunately, no one had noticed that he was wearing the same clothes-he owned only one pair of dress slacks and a single button-down Oxford.
On his second trip, he decided on the woman he wanted: Emily September. He had never known anyone named September-had not even realized it could be a real name. She was pert and on the younger side of thirty, with well-styled blonde hair and a tight knit sweater hugging her chest like it didn’t want to let go.
MacNally made small talk with her, then realized he had better leave before she-or anyone watching-would realize he hadn’t transacted any business.
He walked out and returned a couple of days later. Now, as noon approached, he watched Emily September push out the double doors of First National Thrift and turn left, headed toward the parking lot. MacNally followed her around back and watched her get into a light turquoise Ford Thunderbird. He didn’t know a whole lot about cars, but he did know that a T-bird was an expensive luxury car-and a sharp one at that. It was a convertible with a simple, elegant curved windshield, clean lines, and broad whitewall tires.
MacNally started the sky blue Buick Century he had stolen a few miles outside town and followed Emily as she maneuvered the vehicle onto the main drag. Her blonde hair flowed back off her shoulders in the breeze.
A Thunderbird? For a bank teller? She had money. Or, at least, it looked like she did. This presented an interesting dilemma: go after pretty Emily September when she arrived at home and steal what she had in the house, or go after the more risky-but potentially higher reward job-the bank.
He followed a good forty yards behind her, wondering if it was too great a distance. If she made a light and he did not, he would lose her. And how long could he keep this car before the police would discover it was stolen? Before they would find him and Henry?
He made sure to narrow the gap between them, taking care not to get too close: she had seen him-spoken to him-in the bank, and he didn’t want to risk her seeing him again. It could make her suspicious, or she could think he was following her around. Worse still, if he did rob the bank, she would be able to provide an accurate description of him to the authorities.
Ten minutes later, Emily pulled into a well-tended neighborhood with two- and three-story homes lining the green-lawned avenues. She hung a left into a driveway and parked. MacNally drove past her house and parked at the curb. He shut the engine and waited.
Emily went inside and was there for nearly forty minutes before getting back in her car and heading off in the direction of the bank. She must have come home for lunch and was now on her way back to work. MacNally waited until she had cleared the block and then got out of his car. Moving swiftly but cautiously, he walked down the street and into Emily September’s backyard.
The landscape was meticulously groomed, with several mature deciduous trees shading the grass from sunlight. A redwood picnic table sat in the center of the plot. MacNally moved past it and stepped up to the back door. He peered into the window, bringing his hands up to his face to block out the light. He looked around but did not see anyone. As expected-there had been no other cars in the nearby vicinity, so it made sense that no one was home.
MacNally balled up his shirt around his fist and looked for the best place to penetrate the door. He would be in and out as fast as possible. But first he would see if he could find some cash-or anything else of value that could be sold with ease.
“Okay, Emily. Let’s see what you’ve got for me.”
Burden, Friedberg, and Vail arrived at Irene Ilg’s home on Ortega Street in the Sunset District as a foggy dusk settled in over the city.
While climbing out of Burden’s Ford, a man whistled at them.
“Birdie!”
“Allman, my man, how’s it hangin’?” The two men met on the sidewalk behind the car and launched into an elaborate handshake.
Vail leaned into Friedberg. “Who is that?”
“Police reporter for the Tribune.”
“What the hell are they doing?”
“Some kind of fraternity thing.”
Vail hiked her brow. “I never took cop reporters as the fraternity type. Rebels. Loners, maybe.”
“You’ve actually profiled reporters?”
“Not exactly,” Vail said. “I’m just saying.”
Friedberg shrugged. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re right. But in every profession there are outliers.”
Vail gave him a look. “You getting philosophical on me, Robert?”
“Who tipped you?” Burden asked as the two men approached Vail and Friedberg.
Allman sported graying temples but otherwise a full head of wavy brown hair. Small capillaries zigzagged the side of his sharp nose, suggesting he enjoyed his time on a bar stool a bit more often than his physician would recommend. But his smile was broad and infectious, inviting in a magnetic way. A battered tan leather messenger bag was slung across his shoulder.
“You don’t really expect me to divulge my sources, do you?”
Burden tipped his chin back.
“Okay, fine,” Allman said. “No source. I heard it on the scanner.” He noticed Vail and his eyes widened. “Who’s the beautiful lady?”
“Oh, please,” Vail said. Please say more.
“This is Clay Allman, police reporter for the Tribune. Clay, this is Special Agent Karen Vail. She’s out from the BAU.”
Allman’s head swung over to Burden, then back to Vail. “You’re a profiler?”
“Ah, goddamn it,” Burden said. “That’s off the record. Got it?” he asked, poking Allman with a stubby finger.
“Sure,” Allman said. “Give the dog a bone, then yank it from his mouth. I’m left salivating.”
