Death in the Haight by Ronald Tierney Page A

And it was clear that it was next to impossible to guard all the exits when thousands of people were leaving by all kinds of transportation at the same time. Smart. Really smart. But he knew where Vanderveer was seated. Were they amateurs or not?
    Tomorrow was already beating him down. If they didn’t pick up a strong scent when the money changed hands, that might be it. He didn’t believe that the runaway Vanderveer kid would show up no matter what happened. So failure tomorrow likely meant it would be over and the Vanderveers would be within their rights to wonder what they’d got for their money, let alone their trust. He slept uneasily, waking again and again, thinking that it was later than it was. He gave up the struggle entirely at six a.m.
    It was too early to get everyone synchronized for what would happen shortly after noon. Daylight was weak but coming. After showering, he walked down to Central Perc for coffee and an apple turnover, then onto the park. The fresh, slightly chilly air, the stretches of green lawn, and the open space calmed whatever it was in him that needed calming.
    Â * * * 
    Lang’s seat was on the first base line. He was at the park early. Despite his focus on the money exchange and getting a clue to the whereabouts or at least the condition of the Vanderveers’ gay, younger son, his mind was stolen for a few moments by the beauty of the San Francisco Giants’ baseball stadium. In a city often characterized as being the least “American,” here was the ultimate symbol of America: a big, blue-skied summer day with a walled-in green lawn surrounded by tiers of seats, and soon the crack of a bat and the roar of the crowd.
    As Lang aged, he had become less and less enamored with what could be seen as mainstream patriotism or the narrow interpretation of family values. Even so, there was a tug at his American heart seeing the flag fly over ground made sacred by the constancy of this summer ritual. It was as American and as religious as he was going to get. Competition and teamwork and occasional heroes. Something to strive for, he thought. Today it was not so difficult to understand what else was taking place—the American tradition of greed and crime.
    His seat was above and to the left of where Mr. Vanderveer would sit. He had managed to get a seat at the end of the same aisle for Brinkman. Stern, Rose, and other officers they brought in were stationed around the park. Authorities were posted at each of the main exits. Lang wasn’t sure, but he suspected the FBI had been brought in and briefed.
    Dressed like a tourist, Lang wore a flowered shirt, jeans, sneakers, and a baseball cap. Around his neck was a small but powerful pair of binoculars. He used them to scan the seats—roughly forty thousand of them—beginning to fill.
    Lang was nervous. Not frightened. Very little scared him these days. The little shot of adrenaline and the butterflies in his stomach were more like those moments before having to speak in public or ask some beautiful woman to go to dinner.
    Where was Vanderveer? Of course it was still early. Not even half the seats were filled. He told himself to stay calm and focus only on what was about to unfold. He didn’t know what that was exactly. But at minimum the envelope in Vanderveer’s pocket had to be put somewhere or picked up by someone. And they had to follow it.
    But Vanderveer’s failure to get there early as they had discussed bothered him. He used his cell to call Brinkman, who was to trail him from the time he arrived to pick up his tickets until he went inside. Rose was to pick him up inside.
    â€œI’m here,” he said. “He went to Will Call, came out, and went into the park. I saw Rose on Vanderveer’s heels.”
    â€œHe’s not here yet.”
    Patrons were streaming in.
    â€œWhat do you want me to do?” Brinkman asked.
    â€œCome on up.”
    Lang stared right at