Lombard, luxuriating in the fine summer weather.
I soaked up the bright noonday rays, working the leg, the muscles flexing pleasantly. A light-afternoon breeze with a slight saltiness was blowing in off the bay, and a sporadic mist hinted at the approach of a cooling fog. But for the moment the toasty Californian sun was out in full force, warming my shoulders and bleaching the sidewalk a custard yellow.
That’s when I felt him. My body tensed. The skin over my forearms rippled with gooseflesh. In my old neighborhood they called this the South Central early-warning system. Heightened under the watchful eye of my Korean neighbor, it kicked in now.
Someone was following me.
I strolled down the street, my gaze steady and serene, catching sight of him out of the corner of my eye, across the street, ten yards back. His gait was purposefully casual. Smooth, liquid, but not languid. He didn’t get it—the mist, the sea, the fleeting afternoon warmth. And because he wasn’t attuned to the vagaries of San Francisco and her fickle weather patterns, he stuck out.
At a leisurely pace, I found my way back to the shop, occasionally snatching an oblique image of a man in a beige sports coat. On Lombard, I turned left and he tagged along directly behind me for two blocks before passing over to the other side of the avenue and trailing me from across four lanes of traffic.
Abers greeted me as I reentered the store. “Back so soon?”
“Yeah. I eighty-sixed the idea of a stroll down Chestnut.”
“Ach, too bad. Nice day for a walkie.”
There you go. Even Abers, a South African transplant, got it. Though, cheerful as his rejoinder was, underneath he was still simmering about my taking Hara’s case and then refusing to discuss it with him. But we had come to an unspoken agreement: he would wait me out, and I would mention the unmentionable when I was ready.
“Watch the front for a minute, would you? I need to make a call.”
“Afterward, let’s have a talk-to about rearranging the back.”
“Good idea. Time permitting.”
The tenor of my voice caught Abers’s attention and he backed off.
Once in my office, I shut the door, pulled out a prepaid cell phone I used for Brodie Security business, and then stepped out into the alley because I’d yet to have the security people scan the shop for listening devices. I punched in Renna’s number.
“Homicide.”
“Renna, please.”
“Who’s calling?”
“Brodie.”
“Ah, the Japan guy. Hang on.” A hand muffled the sound. “Anyone seen the Loot?”
“Down the hall.”
The detective came back on. “Loot’s so busy he needs a body double. Be a minute.”
He put me on hold and “When the Saints Come Marching In” oozed from the speaker. The city’s public relations stiffs were getting subtle—if you thought a sledgehammer brass section was subtle.
Renna picked up and, mercifully, the saints vanished. “You got more?”
“You having me followed?”
He snorted. “I got thirty-five badges out on the J-town job following any shred of a lead we scrape up and another fifteen pulling double overtime to check out every freak in town. The pols are chewing on my ass and the newshounds are snapping at the parts the pols missed. I don’t have the manpower or the time to follow you around. Unless you’re planning to confess.”
“You sure one of your jokers isn’t trying to yank my chain?”
“I’m sure. He look like cop?”
“He’s a pro of some sort.”
“Maybe your client’s checking up on you.”
“Why would he?”
“Why wouldn’t he? I’ll send some boys by to pick him up.”
“I could brace him myself but with my leg I figured I’d give you first crack.”
“I’d like that.”
“Thought as much. He’s on Lombard, maybe twenty yards west of my shop. If your people split up and come at him from both ends, they should be able to box him in.”
“I’m on it. Might get some answers.”
“Be nice to have some of those before I
I soaked up the bright noonday rays, working the leg, the muscles flexing pleasantly. A light-afternoon breeze with a slight saltiness was blowing in off the bay, and a sporadic mist hinted at the approach of a cooling fog. But for the moment the toasty Californian sun was out in full force, warming my shoulders and bleaching the sidewalk a custard yellow.
That’s when I felt him. My body tensed. The skin over my forearms rippled with gooseflesh. In my old neighborhood they called this the South Central early-warning system. Heightened under the watchful eye of my Korean neighbor, it kicked in now.
Someone was following me.
I strolled down the street, my gaze steady and serene, catching sight of him out of the corner of my eye, across the street, ten yards back. His gait was purposefully casual. Smooth, liquid, but not languid. He didn’t get it—the mist, the sea, the fleeting afternoon warmth. And because he wasn’t attuned to the vagaries of San Francisco and her fickle weather patterns, he stuck out.
At a leisurely pace, I found my way back to the shop, occasionally snatching an oblique image of a man in a beige sports coat. On Lombard, I turned left and he tagged along directly behind me for two blocks before passing over to the other side of the avenue and trailing me from across four lanes of traffic.
Abers greeted me as I reentered the store. “Back so soon?”
“Yeah. I eighty-sixed the idea of a stroll down Chestnut.”
“Ach, too bad. Nice day for a walkie.”
There you go. Even Abers, a South African transplant, got it. Though, cheerful as his rejoinder was, underneath he was still simmering about my taking Hara’s case and then refusing to discuss it with him. But we had come to an unspoken agreement: he would wait me out, and I would mention the unmentionable when I was ready.
“Watch the front for a minute, would you? I need to make a call.”
“Afterward, let’s have a talk-to about rearranging the back.”
“Good idea. Time permitting.”
The tenor of my voice caught Abers’s attention and he backed off.
Once in my office, I shut the door, pulled out a prepaid cell phone I used for Brodie Security business, and then stepped out into the alley because I’d yet to have the security people scan the shop for listening devices. I punched in Renna’s number.
“Homicide.”
“Renna, please.”
“Who’s calling?”
“Brodie.”
“Ah, the Japan guy. Hang on.” A hand muffled the sound. “Anyone seen the Loot?”
“Down the hall.”
The detective came back on. “Loot’s so busy he needs a body double. Be a minute.”
He put me on hold and “When the Saints Come Marching In” oozed from the speaker. The city’s public relations stiffs were getting subtle—if you thought a sledgehammer brass section was subtle.
Renna picked up and, mercifully, the saints vanished. “You got more?”
“You having me followed?”
He snorted. “I got thirty-five badges out on the J-town job following any shred of a lead we scrape up and another fifteen pulling double overtime to check out every freak in town. The pols are chewing on my ass and the newshounds are snapping at the parts the pols missed. I don’t have the manpower or the time to follow you around. Unless you’re planning to confess.”
“You sure one of your jokers isn’t trying to yank my chain?”
“I’m sure. He look like cop?”
“He’s a pro of some sort.”
“Maybe your client’s checking up on you.”
“Why would he?”
“Why wouldn’t he? I’ll send some boys by to pick him up.”
“I could brace him myself but with my leg I figured I’d give you first crack.”
“I’d like that.”
“Thought as much. He’s on Lombard, maybe twenty yards west of my shop. If your people split up and come at him from both ends, they should be able to box him in.”
“I’m on it. Might get some answers.”
“Be nice to have some of those before I
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