Glenn Love waved the truck into the rear of the Bureau of Street and Sewer Repair depot on Cesar Chavez Street. The driver climbed down along with two other members of the crew and Glenn slapped them each on the back.
He went into the tiny office and started filling out the paperwork. People called up to report a pothole or some other piece of sidewalk or road that needed to be fixed, it went into the system, someone was sent out to take a look, and within forty-eight hours it had to be repaired. Like the mail, cracks in the asphalt and holes in the road kept appearing. It was an unending task, like painting the Golden Gate Bridge.
Same shit, different day.
All that said, there were parts of the job Glenn enjoyed. Getting to work outside rather than in an office, at least when the weather was halfway decent. The camaraderie he had with the rest of the guys. The feeling that, even though no one really ever came up and thanked him for holding up the traffic while they did their work, he did actually do something that improved life for people in the city. Not like some of the assholes in BMWs or Mercedes or Lexi who gave his crew the finger as they drove past, annoyed that they’d lost a full sixty seconds waiting in traffic. No, Glenn felt like he made a difference.
Paperwork done, he left the depot and clambered into his five-year-old car for the thirty-minute commute back home. He drove past the Presidio, then took the Golden Gate Bridge. The bay was clear of fog and the air felt warm. Having grown up in this area, Glenn still got a jolt of excitement from the city, especially on a day like today.
As he cleared the bridge, a couple of Hell’s Angels cut round his car, both riding fat-boy Harleys with ape hanger handlebars. A regular enough sight, they sped off, diving in and out of traffic, then they were gone from sight.
Glenn didn’t notice the vehicle that had followed him all the way from the depot. Nor did he see the occupants. After all, who would possibly want to follow Glenn Love?
But the car kept trailing him, all the way home. As he turned into his driveway, it kept on going. He didn’t notice it then either. He was too busy gathering up his stuff from the front passenger seat.
He took off his boots and put them in the trunk. Then he walked up the driveway and through into his house by the back door. His wife, Amy, had her back to him, washing her hands in the sink. He crept up on her and slid his hands around her waist.
She jumped. ‘Glenn! You frightened the life out of me.’
‘Got your heart racing a little faster, did I?’
‘You are such an ass,’ she said, but with a smile on her face.
His hands slipped down her waist a little. ‘I was thinking maybe we could get away this weekend. Leave the kids with your mother.’
She turned, kissed him on the lips. ‘We have that thing at the Spicers’. Then Patrick has soccer on Saturday. And Rebecca has a play date over at the Myers’ on Sunday. Maybe another weekend?’
‘Sure.’
‘Oh, come here,’ she said, pulling him towards her for another kiss.
Patrick, their eight-year-old, came in, bouncing his soccer ball.
‘Hey, tiger,’ Glenn said, breaking away from his wife and tousling his son’s hair. ‘Now what did Mom say about having the ball in the house?’
Patrick sighed. Eight going on eighteen. ‘I’ll take it outside.’
Glenn made his way to the refrigerator and pulled out a beer.
‘Where’s Becky?’
‘Up in her room.’
Glenn popped open his beer. ‘Now Patrick’s out in the back yard…’
Amy turned round and dried off her hands. ‘What is up with you?’
‘Must be the weather.’
Outside, the car circled the block and parked a few houses down from the Loves’ house.
A cell phone rang.
‘I have a date for you,’ said a voice.
‘When?’ Chance asked.
‘The fifth.’
Today was the evening of the first. The fifth was about as fast as they could have hoped for.
‘What’s the venue?’
‘The one you’d expect.’
This was good news. It also meant that they would have to act fast.
Chance ended the call, then dialed another number.
‘We got three days,’ she said, leaning forward and eyeing the house.
The family inside was blissfully unaware of the storm gathering less than a hundred yards away. Unaware of how life could be changed for ever by one single event. Like Chance had been when Reaper went to prison for his beliefs.
‘Tonight?’ Reaper asked her.
‘Yes. Tonight.’
‘Means we’re gonna have to keep ’em for three days and four nights. That’s a long time.’
Chance kept her eyes on the house as a soccer ball rolled down the drive and a little boy chased after it, followed by Glenn Love, who scooped up his son and then the ball.
‘Maybe we won’t keep ’em,’ she said.
55
A sea of blue uniforms greeted Lock and Ty outside San Francisco International Airport. The last time Lock had seen such a show of strength by law enforcement was in the weeks following 9/11. Cars, limos and taxis lingering for more than a few moments at the kerbside were being swiftly dealt with.
Amid the crush of stressed-out passengers, Lock spotted Carrie piloting the mini-van towards them. He and Ty forced their way through the crowd. They clambered inside and Carrie edged out into the traffic. She leaned over and touched Lock’s hand.
‘You want me to drive?’ he offered.
‘Relax, Ryan,’ Carrie said, picking her way past a cab with its trunk open, the driver loading luggage as a burly cop screamed at him to pick up the pace, ‘I got it. How did you get on?’
‘Nothing we can use to find Reaper. But you know how you wanted me not to keep things from you?’
‘Yeah,’ said Carrie.
‘Well, the Nazi Low Riders have a contract out on me and Ty.’
Carrie hit the brakes and honked her horn as a pick-up truck cut her off. Lock put his hands on the windscreen and braced. Carrie behind the wheel was only marginally less stressful than babysitting Reaper.
‘Then maybe we should go back to New York,’ she said. ‘The network can get someone else to cover the funeral.’
Lock closed his eyes, trying to let go of some of the tension of the last forty-eight hours. ‘It’s gone too far for that now. Reaper’s my responsibility.’
Soon they were out of the worst of the airport tangle of traffic and on the Bayshore Freeway, which would take them into San Francisco. There was a low fog rising from the water but, up above, the sky was clear. Lock sat back, allowing himself to relax a little.
‘So, you want to know what I dug up on Reaper’s daughter?’ Carrie asked as they rolled along. ‘Chance is a street name. Her real name is Freya Vaden.’
Lock opened his eyes. ‘Not Hays?’
‘Mom didn’t want anything to do with Frank Hays after he went to jail. She moved herself and little Freya to the Inland Empire.’
‘Where’s that exactly?’
