CHAPTER 47
AT JUST ABOUT midnight, One drove a white panel van packed with cartons of synthetic drugs and kilos of heroin toward a meet with a man called Spat.
One had dealt with Spat before. He was a middle-aged guy, a deadly old hand, and go-between for a midwestern drug distributor.
One’s sole purpose tonight was to offload a few hundred pounds of drugs and take in stacks of Andrew Jacksons and Ben Franklins. The sooner that was done, the happier he’d be.
The meeting place was a residential area in West Oakland, a dodgy part of the Bay Area known for poverty and crime.
Now One crossed the Bay Bridge to Oakland, then followed the sign to I-980 west and downtown Oakland, obeying the speed limit and signaling for every turn. Last thing in the world he wanted was a traffic stop. He’d done enough killing for one day. His hands were actually shaking from the trauma of firing the gun.
The GPS was giving him the turns, and he easily found Sycamore Street, a desolate residential block. The houses were scabby with tar paper, the asphalt was littered and potholed, and a group of tough guys gathered on one corner, harassing one another, looking for a fight.
One parked the van, then lifted the M-16 from the foot well and put it on the seat next to him. He ran his finger under his collar, scratching the itch left by the pepper spray that had gotten under his mask.
Time dragged its ass. Spat was late. One had half decided to pull out and arrange another meeting, another venue, when he saw a black minivan rolling toward him in the oncoming lane. The minivan parked across the street from him and flashed its headlights twice before the engine was cut.
One’s phone rang. He answered it, saying, “You’re late.”
“Yeah, but you’re going to thank me,” said Spat. “I’m coming to see you now.”
One clicked off, watching Spat get out of his minivan with a large canvas bag in hand.
Then Spat spoke to him through the open window.
“How’s this? I got two kids to unload the van for us. This should take no time. Check it out.”
One took the bag of money through the open window and said, “Not that I don’t trust you.”
“No problem, brother. I’ll be right over there,” Spat said. When Spat was back in his vehicle, One undid the fasteners on the satchel and riffled through the packets of money. A lot of phony money was circulating these days, and it was common in swaps like these for fake bucks to get into the stacks.
He opened some of the bands, fanned out the bills, and turned on a UV light, looking for signs that the bills were counterfeit. At the same time, he did a first count, arrived at the agreed-upon 1.2 million.
He counted a second time, then repacked the bag and called Spat’s phone. The two men exchanged a few words. The minivan started up, then did a U-turn and parked behind One’s panel van.
One pulled the lock release, and Spat opened the cargo doors and checked out the drugs in the same way One had checked out the money: carefully.
When Spat was satisfied, the two young men in his employ moved the cartons efficiently to Spat’s minivan, then got back inside it.
The transaction was completed quickly. Spat came around to the driver’s side of the panel van and said to One, “Talk on the street about some mayhem in a furniture store.”
“That right?” One said. “I haven’t heard.”
“OK, my friend. Vaya con Dios.”
“Stay in touch,” said One.
It was a cool night, but One was sweating. The Wicker House drugs had reportedly been paid for and were on the way to Kingfisher. He’d expected there would be talk on the street. As long as no one knew who he was.
The gangstas on the corner shouted something at him as he drove past.
He gave them the finger before he realized they had only shouted “Lights!” He switched on his headlights, got onto the freeway, and headed home.
He’d earned a good night’s sleep.
He hoped he could get one.
CHAPTER 48
TWO MEN SAT in a darkened car on Texas Street, two houses in from the corner of Eighteenth, one block away from a commercial strip. Potrero Hill was a pretty area with a view of the bay from higher on the hill, but lower, in front, all you could see were the facades of the somewhat run-down Victorian houses, the intermittent trees, and the rats’ nest of telephone wires overhead.
The guys in the car were watching one house in particular, a quaint, middle-class house that was light green with dark green trim, fronted with a short brick wall and a walk of cement pavers leading up to an unpainted wood-panel front door.
At about midnight, a silver Camry backed into a spot between a couple of scruffy trees. The man who got out of the car was white and had dark hair with a balding spot at the back of his head. He was wearing a dark-blue SFPD Windbreaker. As he locked up his car, his phone rang. He leaned against his car and spoke and listened.
Then he pocketed his phone, walked up to the front door, and let himself in with his keys. Lights went on in the downstairs hallway and then the kitchen. Those two lights went out, and another went on in the second story, in a front room, probably a bedroom. Within the next half hour, the only light in the house was the blue light from the TV.
And then the TV went off, too.
One of the men in the car said to the other, “I’ve never liked these old houses. I look at them. All I see is maintenance.”
“When you have a family, you like a deck in back. A yard. Barbecue and whatnot. Christ. How long we been waiting here?”
“Take it easy,” said the first man. “After we say hello to Inspector Calhoun and his family, we can go get something to eat.”
“I’m way ready,” said the second man.
“You’re sure you don’t want to sit here and count stars?”
The second man scoffed. One of them was going to take the front door while the other went to the back.
“See you inside,” said the first man.
“Don’t get anything on you,” said the second man.
They both adjusted their guns and got out of the car.
CHAPTER 49
I WAS AWOKEN out of a heavy sleep by my husband saying, “Lindsay, honey. Wake up.”
But why? I heard no shrieks or alarms or barks, no wails or any other emergency sounds. I was in bed and the light in the bedroom was dawnlike, so why was Joe waking me up?
Then my eyelids flew open.
“Where’s Julie?”
“Julie is fine. Everything is OK, honey.”
I rolled over onto my side and scanned Joe’s face for whatever was behind his waking me up when I needed to sleep. He was smiling.
“What time is it?”
“Seven,” he said.
“Is it Saturday?” I asked him.
“Yes. We’re going for a drive: you, me, and baby makes three. And Martha makes four.”
“I can’t go,” I said.
“The car is gassed up. I’m going to feed Julie. Coffee is on. Just get yourself up and leave the surprise part to me.”
I blinked at Joe, thinking how pretty much everyone in the Southern Station was working the weekend on the helter-skelter case of the Windbreaker cops. Still, he was right. I needed a little time to recharge.
I texted Brady that I was taking a mental health day.
He got right back. Really?
It’s just for the day.
OK. I’ll buddy up with Conklin.
A half hour later, the Molinari Four were in Joe’s lovely old Mercedes, heading down the coast. Highway 1 hugs the shoreline, and I was reminded once again how gorgeous California is. I’m not saying I stopped thinking about the Windbreaker cops, but I shook the case off long enough to call my sister, Cat.
We made a pit stop in Half Moon Bay, where my sister lives with her two daughters. Pretty soon, the little girls were romping with Martha on the beach and we grownups lagged behind them, catching up on missed chapters in each other’s lives and marveling at the way the sun lit the coastline.