She walked down toward Lagunitas, not dawdling, checking out the storefronts lining both sides of the street. The Twilight Lounge was mid-block on the south side near where the M line streetcar tracks crossed. Hawkins’s office would be somewhere in the next block west, down toward 19th. Over where she was on the north side, diagonally opposite the Twilight, there was a Chinese restaurant with a window overlooking the street and tables set next to it inside. Perfect.
As early as it was, there were only two customers in the restaurant, and neither of them was sitting by the window. She claimed the table with the best view of the Twilight’s entrance. A middle-aged Chinese waitress came over and Tamara ordered a pot of tea. Quarter past five now-forty-five minutes to wait. Longer, maybe a lot longer, if the phony Lucas showed up. She could linger over the tea until six, but not much past that without ordering food. Worry about that when the time came. Right now, as tense as she was, the thought of food made her stomach clench up.
Sip tea, watch the people on the street. Three men went into the Twilight Lounge, all of them white. Not too many black faces on this part of Ocean; the few that came along were easy to spot.
Five thirty.
Five forty-five.
The tea was making her feel queasy; she pushed the cup away. Here came the waitress, asking in stern tones if she wanted anything to eat. Lord. She hadn’t looked at the menu, hadn’t taken her eyes off the Twilight’s front door. “Potstickers,” she said. It was the first dish that popped into her head.
Five fifty.
She kept thinking about Lucas. If he showed, would he still be driving the five-year-old Buick? Probably. She began watching the cars that rolled by in both directions, looking for a light brown LeSabre. Dark now and hard to tell makes and colors. Streetlights, building lights, headlights helped some, but not enough. Would she recognize the Buick if it came along? Sure… if he hadn’t had that banged-up fender fixed by now.
Five fifty-five.
And here came Deron Stewart, over on the south side. Suit, tie, overcoat, and that swaggering walk of his. Don’t overdo it, man, she thought, they’ll see right through you. But then she thought, No, he’ll play it right, the way he did with Hawkins on the phone. He knows his job; he won’t screw up.
Stewart paused outside the lounge, adjusted his tie, and went on in.
Six.
The potstickers came. She didn’t even look at the plate.
Six-oh-four.
A short black man in a trench coat came walking up from Lagunitas into her line of sight. Doctor Easy. He moved in long, quick strides, kind of a glide, straight to the Twilight’s entrance and on inside.
Tamara waited, leaning forward with her hands flat on the tabletop and her face close to the window glass.
Six-oh-five.
Six ten.
“Something wrong with potstickers?”
“… What?”
The waitress was standing next to her. “You not eating. Something wrong?”
Yes, dammit! “No,” she said, and picked up one of the potstickers and bit into it. Greasy. She managed to swallow without gagging.
Six fourteen.
Damn him, she thought, he’s not going to show up.
But ten seconds later, somebody else showed up.
A light-colored car swung into a slanted parking space downstreet from the Twilight, on this side, and a black man stepped out. She had a pretty good look at him and his ride both in the lights from a passing car. BMW; her lawyer sister Claudia drove one, so Tamara knew what they looked like. He was on the heavy side, middle-aged, well dressed, his hair close-cropped. She watched him jaywalk across the street and enter the lounge.
Another of the down-low clubbers, or just a businessman wanting an after-work drink? She hadn’t seen any other African Americans except Stewart go in there, but that didn’t mean he and Hawkins were the only ones who patronized the place.
The restaurant was beginning to fill up, and the waitress came sidling over again. “More food?”
“Not right now.”
“More tea?” The woman’s tone said she’d better buy something more or get out and make room for paying customers.
“Okay. Another pot of tea.”
Six thirty.
The waitress arrived with the fresh pot, set it down harder than necessary, and went away again. Tamara poured her cup full, left it untouched. Watched and waited and tried not to keep checking the time. Yeah, right. Tell yourself not to do something and you end up doing it twice as often.
Six forty-five.
Bastard definitely wasn’t coming. Just Hawkins and Stewart tonight-and maybe the guy from the BMW.
Seven.
The waitress again, looking even more annoyed. The place had filled up; she didn’t want a customer who hadn’t ordered anything except tea and potstickers taking up space and she said so, more or less politely. Tamara didn’t argue. She dredged up another Chinese dish from her memory-kung pao chicken-and the waitress went away again, satisfied.
Seven fifteen.
Tamara picked at the kung pao chicken and then, out of frustration, began shoveling it in until the plate was empty. Good-bye, diet.
Seven thirty.
Bill hated stakeouts and, man, the hate was justified. This was only the second one she’d been on, and the surroundings were a lot safer than the first time, over in the East Bay, when she’d screwed up and let that psycho kidnapper grab her. But before all the crazy stuff started happening that night, she’d been terminally bored sitting in the cramped Toyota on a dark and unfamiliar street. This was different because the case was personal, but the edge of boredom and impatience was there just the same.
How long would they sit around drinking over there? Sooner they got it done with, the sooner Stewart would call with his report and she could arrange to meet him and listen to the recording.
The wait finally ended five minutes later. Out they came-Stewart, Hawkins, and the heavyset stranger, all in a bunch. They stood talking in front of the Twilight for thirty seconds or so, then shook hands all around and went their separate ways-Hawkins down toward his office, Stewart in the opposite direction, the stranger to the curb to wait for a break in the traffic so he could cross to his Beamer.
Tamara was already on the move by then. Decided what she was going to do as soon as she saw that the heavyset guy was part of it. She tossed a ten and a five on the table and hurried out, keeping her head down as she turned upstreet. Stewart had reached his parked car, was unlocking the door; he didn’t see her and she didn’t try to catch his attention. Behind her, the heavyset dude had come on across the street and was taking his time with his keys.
Impulse prodded her into a loping run. At the Woodacre intersection she darted diagonally across to where she’d left the Toyota. She was inside, with the key in the ignition, when the BMW’s brake lights flashed and Heavyset started to back up. Traffic kept him from getting all the way out of the space until Tamara managed to back out herself, in front of an SUV whose driver had to brake so sharply he blatted his horn at her.
A red light at 19th Avenue stopped the BMW, gave her enough time to get down there with only one car separating them. When the light changed, Heavyset turned right and the intervening car went straight, so she was right behind the Beamer when she made the swing onto 19th.
At the Sloat Boulevard intersection, he turned right again and angled over into one of the lanes that would take him onto Portola Avenue. Tamara moved into the second lane, behind another car. The BMW’s rear end and taillights were distinctive enough, and the avenue well lighted enough, so she’d be able to keep him in sight from a distance.