Who would notice if some of the goods delivered to the Albatross Superette were not standard grocery items? And who would pay attention when the Blind Center truck picked them up? And why would anyone become curious about trucks that came and went at the Center, which most likely bought its materials and groceries wholesale?
But how did they expect to move two containerloads of the gin through the little Superette? The thieves at the old ironworks at India Basin would be edgy and demand speed of the operation. Were there other drops in other grocery stores throughout the neighborhood? Was that why the Blind Center van traveled about the Mission District with such regularity, even though Sebastian was the one who actually restocked the racks?
Maybe I’d stumbled onto a network of temporary drops.
The thought was intriguing.
I set down the gin bottle and took out my notebook, where I copied the marks that were stamped on the crates: “Sales Liquor Distributors, Oakland, P.O. 7786-52-B.” It didn’t mean much right now, but it would come in handy later. I relocked the room and crept down the hall to the side door. Opening it a crack, I peeked out in time to see Clemente bustle by. I followed at a distance and watched him climb into a cab on Twenty-fourth Street. It pulled away, but was halted by the traffic light. I rushed to my car and started after it.
The cab took Army Street to the freeway. We cruised down the Bayshore, past Candlestick Park and the industrial flatlands of South San Francisco. At the airport, the cab took the off-ramp and swept through the endless construction zone to the departure area of the central terminal.
Clemente was taking a sudden trip, without a suitcase.
I found a parking space in a twenty-minute green zone. If I followed Clemente all the way onto his flight, I would get a hell of a ticket. Still, it would be worth the fine: What better place to interrogate a suspect than at thirty thousand feet, where he couldn’t get up and walk out on me?
Clemente left the PSA ticket counter when I entered the terminal. PSA ran commuter flights up and down the West Coast, with frequent service to Los Angeles. I followed Clemente to the concourse, hanging back until he completed the security check. As I passed through the metal detector, I saw him disappear down the ramp to where the LA flights departed. I snatched my purse from the security man and raced to the gate. Clemente entered the boarding chute to the plane.
Commuter flights did not normally require reservations. “Can I buy a ticket for LA here at the gate?” I asked the attendant, checkbook already out.
“You’ll have to purchase it at the desk, up the ramp and to your left.”
“Thanks.”
I ran up and joined the line of LA-bound passengers. It moved slowly, and the clock showed four minutes to departure time.
“Will we make it?” the woman in front of me asked the ticket agent.
“Don’t worry.” He glanced at the line and spoke into an intercom. “We’ve got five more passengers up here.”
“Okay, we’ll wait,” a voice replied.
I made out my check and presented it as soon as I reached the desk. The agent slowly wrote up a ticket.
“I need two pieces of identification, a driver’s license and a credit card.”
Why hadn’t I had enough cash on me? “I don’t have any credit cards. I quit using them.”
The agent looked at me as if I were demented. “Not even a gas card?”
“Oh. Gas card. Yes.” I pulled it out. “Are you sure I’ll make it?”
He switched on the intercom again. “We’ve got one more lady up here, Bill.”
“Okay. We’re holding.”
Slowly, the agent recorded numbers from my license and credit card onto the check. When he finished, I grabbed them and thrust them into my bag. He held onto the ticket while he punched more numbers into a machine. Apparently my check was acceptable, because he noted a code on it and handed me the ticket.
“Have a nice flight.”
“Thanks.” I tore down the ramp.
“Going to LA? Hurry up.” The attendant ripped off a section of my ticket and waved me through the gate.
I raced along the boarding chute. A second attendant stood at its end, silhouetted against the runway. The plane had pulled away.
“The ticket agent called down to the gate!” I wailed. “He said they’d hold it!”
The man looked unconcerned. “Sorry, lady. He may have told the gate, but the gate didn’t tell the plane. There’s another flight in fifty-five minutes.”
I could have sat down and cried. Or kicked him. Or screamed at the ticket agent. But, remembering my mother’s teachings on good conduct in public places, I did none of those things. I merely turned in my ticket, haughtily refusing their offer of a later flight.
“But, ma’am, this ticket is good for an entire year.”
“Forget it. I’ll never attempt to fly your goddamn airline again.”
20
I retreated to the bank of phones near the baggage claim area and called Circle Wharf and Warehouse. After much prodding, their president, a Mr. John Hood, gave me a three-thirty appointment — the earliest he had available — to talk about the gin theft. He sounded extremely wary; doubtless he’d been bothered before by people peddling information.
Beating the meter maid to my car by about twenty seconds, I zipped off toward the freeway. The radio mumbled softly under the hum of my engine, and I turned it up when I caught a familiar name.
“...Marcus, of SFPD Homicide, said all-points bulletins have been issued for the husband of the deceased. San Francisco private investigator Sharon McCone is also being requested to contact the SFPD. McCone is believed to have reported the crime before fleeing the scene last night. In other local news...”
Damn! I snapped off the radio. A “request” was a polite way of saying come in or else. No APB had been issued, but squad cars would be on the alert for me. Quickly I moved into the left lane and headed back around the circle to the parking garage. No sense in going anywhere in my battered old MG, which would easily be spotted by the police.
I left the car in the long-term lot and crossed to the terminal once again. Two and a half hours were mine to kill, but somehow I had to get across the Bay to Alameda. My eyes roved around the terminal and rested on the sign for the SFO helicopter.
Well, why not? I’d never taken a helicopter ride before. Soon I stood in line, waiting to buy a ticket for Oakland Airport.
We lifted off twenty-five minutes later, into a gray, dreary sky. The roar was deafening at first, then softer as the copter gained altitude. I clutched the edges of my seat and peered down through a rain-peppered window as the ground fell away. The ten other passengers were evidently old hands at this exotic form of travel; they read their newspapers, oblivious to their surroundings. Fortunately, they were also oblivious to the bedraggled young woman with the unruly mop of black hair who pressed her nose to the glass and delighted in the ride across the choppy waters of the Bay.
Fugitive from justice enjoys last moments of freedom.
The words, like a caption for a newspaper photo, popped into my head. My spirits took a sudden plunge, and I swallowed hard. A request, I reminded myself, is not the same thing as an arrest warrant. The thought didn’t help.
At Oakland Airport, I virtually slunk to the ladies’ room, glancing around for official uniforms. Inside one of the stalls I removed the fake driver’s license and credit card in the same name that I carried in a compartment of my wallet for just such occasions as this. I was already in so much trouble that one more infraction of the law couldn’t worsen it measurably.