“Any more Reaper potentials on that list of yours?” he asked.
Singh looked surprised, and then thoughtful. “Santos is not the one, then?”
Roarke looked toward the row of windows behind her, the thick view of fog and muted city lights. “I don’t know. And I don’t want to focus on him exclusively until we know more. We don’t have much time. We can’t afford a wild goose chase.”
Singh reached for her desk organizer and withdrew a purple file. From her first day on the job she had ignored the standard-issue manila folders and brought her own rainbow of colors into the office, an intricate coded system intelligible only to her.
“In California this year there were 127,314 adult men released from prison to parole.”
Roarke was familiar with the stats, but even so, the number seemed out of some dystopian fantasy. He thought of the dank, sour halls of the halfway house. Thousands of those all over the state, not to mention the country. They were looking for a needle in a haystack. He felt a prickle of dread, but forced himself back to what Singh was saying.
“I’ve screened all inmates arrested and released within our parameters and winnowed it by the other profile characteristics.”
Roarke felt himself tensing as he waited for the number…
“I’m afraid there are five hundred and fourteen men on that list.”
Worse even than he had imagined.
“Fortunately there are not so many who have spent an entire twenty-five years in prison. I’ve been checking up on them all afternoon and eliminated some by checking with P.O.s and halfway houses, checking curfews and check-ins to establish unofficial alibis. It’s past close of business, and there is the holiday tomorrow, but I will leave messages for all contacts before I leave tonight, and I will check in regularly for responses.”
“Brilliant, Singh. Thank you.” She looked down modestly, then looked up, and her eyes were troubled. “I have read the profile that you and Agent Snyder have come up with. It seems to me that such a delusion would manifest in demonstrably odd behavior. Someone will have noticed him. We
will
find him.”
There was a sudden intensity in her voice that made him pay attention. “Whenever possible I will talk to these parole officers in person. Such evil cannot walk about unnoticed. There will be a sense, I think, of something beyond the norm. I am sure of it — that if one asks the right questions, the sense of the madness will have left an impression.”
She was looking at him expectantly, waiting for some kind of answer, and he met her eyes. “I have to think you’re right.” And then he added, “And Singh…”
She frowned at his tone.
“We proceed quietly.”
“Of course,” she said serenely.
“Have a good…” he didn’t know if Singh even celebrated Thanksgiving, or whom she might celebrate with. “Holiday,” he ended.
“And you as well,” she told him. And then as he headed for the door, she spoke behind him. “Chief…”
He turned back to look at her.
“By profile, Santos is still by far the most likely of any of the men on the list.”
He stood still in the doorway, and nodded.
But it doesn’t feel right
, he thought bleakly.
I’m not feeling it at all
.
Chapter Twenty-four
The ocean of fog was even thicker as Epps drove out of the underground parking, the lights atop skyscrapers hovering like UFOs in the mist.
Epps stared into the fog as he drove. The shadows of cars emerged and disappeared on the street before them. “We need proof. So far this is nothing but a suspicion. It may be a suspicion we all have, but we need something real, damn it.”
Roarke didn’t have to say anything. There was nothing to do but agree.
Instead of turning on Market toward Noe Valley, Epps made a right turn onto Seventh. Roarke looked at him.
“We’re checking in with Mills,” Epps told him. He added ironically, “Need to account for what we did today on our own case.”
Roarke was silent, chagrined.
The homicide division was housed in the Hall of Justice, more popularly known as The Hall, or The Hall of Whispers, in reference to San Francisco’s paranoia-inducing city politics. It was a massive granite structure on Bryant Street, just a mile from the Federal Building, connected via underground and above-ground passageways to the County Jail, a modernistic curve of metal and glass with an inexplicable mechanistic sculpture on the lawn outside.
Across the street was a row of bail bonds offices, with a couple of cafés and a bar interspersed. Epps parked at the end of the row of police vehicles packed two deep at the curb, and the agents walked up a wide set of steps past a motley assortment of loitering characters: cops, criminals, some even scruffier defense attorneys.
The lobby was salmon pink marble, lit by three huge and vaguely ominous Art Deco globes, and still bustling on the holiday eve.
“Crime never sleeps,” Epps said under his breath as the agents bypassed the line at the security gates by showing their credentials to a guard at a podium.
Upstairs in the detectives’ bullpen, the agents walked through the usual chaos of desks and detectives and ringing phones. Mills sat behind a desk as frightfully sloppy as the man himself. He looked up and cowered in mock terror as the agents approached.
“Oh Lordy, the Apocalypse is surely here. An Assistant Special Agent in Charge and company in my lowly office.”
Roarke rolled his eyes and took a seat. Epps leaned against a cubicle wall as he spoke. “We’re following up on Jade. Rachel Elliott said she ID’d her for you. Any luck finding her?”
Mills waggled his hand in a “so-so” gesture. “Good news is we pulled a usable print off the lipstick case. Bad news is she’s not in the system. She’s got no record. Nothing with that name, anyhoo. She was a new fish, no one had caught her yet.”
Roarke heard Rachel’s voice:
There’s something different about her
.
The detective continued. “I’ve got word out to Oakland and Richmond Vice and the Alameda trafficking unit. You boys know how this works. If some other slime got hold of her, chances are she’s already been shipped out to Vegas or San Diego. Portland, maybe.”
The cities were part of the West Coast prostitution track. The pimps moved the girls regularly to keep them from making friends and allies, and to keep the johns supplied with fresh meat.
“Because God forbid anyone should have to fuck the same fifteen-year old twice in a week,” Epps said, and Roarke could hear the anger taut in his voice.
Mills nodded assent. “But I got Elliott to draw the kid’s tats for me and I’m getting the sketch out to the parlors. She spent one hell of a long time with some artist. If I can find the guy or gal, they might know where she’s keeping herself.”
Roarke and Epps looked at each other. It was a good plan.
“Any other witnesses?” Epps asked.
Mills snorted. “Who were conscious in that place, at that time? Good luck with that.”
“Any other pimps turn up dead?” Roarke queried. He’d meant only as a morbid joke, but then the reality of it hit him. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t considered it before.
Mills looked at him with a sudden sharp interest. “You think they will?”
“Could be,” Roarke said, his mouth dry.
Mills scratched his chin. “M’I supposed to worry about this?”
Roarke didn’t answer. Epps looked as though he had a lot to say, but remained silent. Mills looked from one agent to the other. “Alrighty, let me rephrase. No actual
humans
are in danger?”
Roarke let himself say what he thought. “Not so far.” Epps shifted on his feet, angrily or unhappily, Roarke couldn’t tell. Mills scrubbed a hand over his shiny head.
“Well, hell, I’ll keep an eye peeled, but I’m not about to go out and warn the fuckers. Fuck ’em. Happy Thanksgiving.”
The agents stood silently in the metallically gleaming elevator as they rode down to street level. Suddenly Roarke spoke. “Rachel Elliott asked me if Jade is in danger from Cara.”
Epps looked at him sharply.
“What do you think?” Roarke asked, and braced himself for the response.
Epps shook his head. “Man. Doesn’t fit, but… there’s always a first time. It never crossed my mind.”
“Mine either,” Roarke admitted, and felt relief.
Epps stood still as the elevator door opened. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
Full dark as Epps dropped Roarke off at his place. Upstairs, Roarke turned the key and opened the door into his flat. As he closed the door behind him in the hall and stepped into the open frame of the living room, he looked automatically toward his two arched front bay windows with their view of the city, hazy pinpricks of light in the fog.
He stood for a moment, taking it in.
Then he shrugged out of his suit coat and stripped off his shoulder holster and service weapon, to set them on the end table. His service belt was light, and he stepped to the hall closet and found another set of cuffs to replace the ones he’d put on Santos that afternoon.
He took a second to turn up the thermostat, then walked through the living room into the in-name-only dining room and tossed his briefcase on the table. Then he upended it, spilling out the files: the Reaper, the Lelands, Santos, Cara… and stood looking down on them.
He flipped open the file they’d gotten from the P.O. on Santos and spread the contents out: photos, arrest record. He walked around the table, staring down at the paperwork.
His gut feeling was that Santos was a dead end.
And we can’t waste time on this
.
The next thought was dangerous.
There’s a shortcut to all of it
.
He was absolutely sure that Cara could take one look at a photo of Santos and tell him yes or no.
He turned toward the front windows. He knew Jones – or a backup agent - was out there watching the flat, and he felt a sudden surge of anger about it, like a teenager sentenced to detention. And the thought wouldn’t go away:
Cara would know. If this guy is the Reaper, she’ll know
.
He stood for a long while. But long before he moved to do it, he knew what he was going to do.
He picked up Santos’ file from the table, turned on his heel and crossed to the wall to kill the lights in the living room, then headed toward the bedroom, where he flicked the lights on and dimmed them. He stepped to the windows and stood for a moment looking out in mock contemplation, before he reached up and drew the drapes. But not quite all the way. Instead he left the panels just very slightly parted, enough to give anyone watching from outside a glimpse of movement, but nothing in the least substantial.
He turned on the T.V. to create the impression of motion, the illusion of himself hunkered down for the night, as clearly evidenced by the flickering light of the screen that would be visible through the crack in the curtains.
He stripped off his clothes and changed into dark track pants, a dark sweatshirt and dark windbreaker. Standing in the doorway of his closet, he glanced at his bullet-resistant vest, hanging on its hook just inside the door. But it wouldn’t cover his throat, which was the only thing he really had to worry about, so he left it.
Besides, he didn’t think that Cara would come after him. He never had thought it.
There remained only his weapon.
He walked out into the front hall and looked at the equipment on the end table. He pulled out the drawer of the table and removed a conceal-carry belt designed for running, a Thunderwear holster that strapped around his hips and had pockets for his Glock, cuffs, I.D., extra mags — and a lock-picking set. He holstered the weapon and strapped the belt around his waist.
Then, sending a silent apology toward Jones, he left through the front door and headed out down the back stairs.
The back stairwell of his building opened into a small enclosed courtyard shared with the building behind. The night was cold, but the misty air on his face felt calming. He moved quietly out into the courtyard, through drifting fog.
There was a tree with a few stunted apples, a grill, some mismatched tables and chairs, a plot with someone’s attempt at an urban garden, a door to a laundry room. Behind a tall gate was the trash cubicle of the building behind. At the back of the cubicle another gate opened to an alley for trash pickup. Roarke stepped through the first gate, past the trash bins, and tried the inner back door. Locked, of course.
He pulled tools out of his belt and started on the lock.
There was a footfall in the courtyard behind him and the gate to the trash enclosure squealed open. He twisted around to see the young father from the building opposite, hefting a sack of trash. He stopped in his tracks, as startled to see Roarke as Roarke was to see him.
“Agent Roarke,” the man said uneasily.
Roarke knew how the situation looked. “Threw something away that I need,” he explained, lamely.
“Oh,” the man said. “Have a good Thanksgiving, then.” He dropped his trash hastily in a bin and backed up into the courtyard.
Roarke breathed in to slow his heart as he listened for the sound of the side door closing… then finished with the lock, and was out into the dark alley a second later. He checked both ways and saw no one, but he waited a good five minutes in the dark to make sure before he headed for the street.
He kept to the darker streets, watching every shadow, matching his pace to the night as he moved silently through the fog toward Dolores Park.
By day the park was overrun by Noe Valley’s families and high school kids from the adjacent school. At night it was ominous, lit by antique iron street lamps shining through the drifting fog. The grounds sprawled on the slope of a hill, and there was a spectacular view of city lights, now hazy and pointillistic in the mist. Across the street was the big brass dome of Dolores Park Church, perfectly round. The top of the park was bordered by Muni tracks; in the center of the park was a sunken island of concrete with a childrens’ playground: stations of the usual swingsets, slides, sandpits, a climbing pyramid. A walking track circled around it, curving through concrete planters of drought-resistant foliage, spiky pink tea tree and white fronds of pampas grass interspersed with whimsical public art. A larger packed dirt path made a bigger circle for running, this one curving past tennis courts and a small clubhouse.