“So, what’s your plan?” Morales asked.
“I don’t have a plan,” Croft replied.
“You always have a plan.”
“I have a dinner plan, but not a work plan — until tomorrow morning. I know a good restaurant that won’t shock our cashier when we turn in our expenses.”
“I place myself in your hands,” Morales said.
“Smart move.”
They dined at the bar at the Huntington Hotel, a block away from theirs, and failed to pick up anybody.
Barbara and Charles Grosvenor dined on their terrace, which had a sweeping view of San Francisco Bay.
“We’re having such beautiful weather,” Barbara said. “I thought I’d run up to Napa for a couple of days.” They had a house in the wine country outside St. Helena. “Would you like to come?”
“I really should spend the time at the dealership, my darling,” Charles replied. “It does need my attention after a week away. You go and enjoy yourself.”
Billy Burnett sat in the restaurant at the Huntington Hotel and spotted the two Los Angeles detectives immediately as they came into the bar. Billy’s presence was partially screened by a potted plant, and anyway, even people who had met him rarely noticed him in such circumstances, since he was not a noticeable person, and in any case, he had selected a hairpiece and mustache from his makeup case, and he wore glasses he did not need.
Billy had spent much of his day searching databases not available to the public. He could log on to the CIA mainframe and from there enter virtually any other computer in the country while leaving no trace of his visit. He had compiled quite a dossier on Barbara Eagle and her British husband; he was getting to know them quite well. They had a house in London, an apartment in New York, a place in Palm Springs, and a house in Napa, in addition to their Green Street apartment. He had obtained the tail number of their Gulfstream from the tower computer at Burbank earlier in the day and had lifted their flight plan. He had landed his own airplane, a JetPROP — a single-engine turboprop — at Hayward, on the eastern shore of the bay, south of Oakland, and checked into the Huntington, using a credit card and a California driver’s license in another name, part of his little inventory of identities.
Tomorrow, Billy would do some scouting around, then, perhaps, pay Mrs. Grosvenor a visit. He looked forward to meeting her.
Morales and Croft ambled back to their hotel and, along the way, spotted a parking ticket on their rental car. Written across the bottom of the ticket were the words Welcome to San Francisco, schmuck!
“I never liked this town,” Croft said.
41
The following morning Morales and Croft had breakfast in their hotel’s restaurant, since their room was too small to contain both them and a room service cart. Morales was reading something.
“What’s that?” Croft asked.
“It was attached to our travel order. It’s about how to be a good police visitor to another city, and it has a number for us to call and check in with the SFPD.”
“Fuck ’em,” Croft said.
Morales got out his cell phone, called the number, and introduced himself, then he hung up.
“That was short.”
“We have to go to the Central Station, show our badges, and check in personally.”
“Fuck ’em,” Croft said again.
“They already have our names, sent from L.A.,” Morales pointed out. “And if we check in, they’ll give us an SFPD ID and a parking pass for the city streets.”
“Do we both have to go?”
“If we do, we won’t get into trouble for impersonating police officers.”
“We are police officers.”
“Not in San Francisco, until we check in.”
They found the Central Station on Vallejo Street and presented themselves at the front desk, where they were directed upstairs to a room number. They knocked and entered.
“Okay, where you from?” a woman in civilian clothes said without looking up from her desk.
“Los Angeles,” Morales replied.
“Swell,” she said. “Badges and ID?” She took them to a Xerox machine and made a copy. “Go stand against the wall, there, one at a time.”
They did so and were photographed.
“How long you here for?”
“Five days,” Croft said, just in case.
She typed something into a computer and pressed a button; a moment later a machine next to her desk vomited two plastic cards with their badges and ID on one side and an SFPD star on the other, plus the banner VISITING OFFICER. She gave them each a clip that allowed them to fasten the cards to their lapels. “Wear ’em when you’re in any police station or questioning anybody in this city.” She handed them a parking pass for their car. “That may keep you from getting a ticket. On the other hand, it may get your car vandalized.”
“Thanks very much.”
“Don’t mention it.” She had never once looked at them.
“We could be Bonnie and Clyde, and she wouldn’t know the difference,” Croft said as the door closed behind them.
Billy Burnett arrived on Green Street and found a parking place, then he went and had a look at Barbara Eagle’s apartment building. Elegant. As he watched, a white Bentley Mulsanne drove up to the entrance. The driver popped the trunk lid, then got out. Billy made him to be six-five and close to three hundred pounds, but his waist was slim. A blunt instrument. A doorman appeared with a small bag and a train case and set them in the trunk. He pressed a button, and the trunk lid closed itself.
Barbara Eagle appeared, dressed in slacks and a sweater set, an impressive double string of pearls around her neck, and got into the waiting car. Blunt Instrument got in and drove away.
Billy ran the few steps back to his car, got it started, and followed. As he drove down the street, a car containing the two L.A. detectives passed, going the other way.
—
MORALES AND CROFT pulled up to the entrance to the building and got out. They showed their new guest IDs to the doorman. “We’d like to see Mrs. Charles Grosvenor,” Morales said.
“You just missed her,” the doorman said. “She’s headed to Napa for a few days.”
“What’s the address?”
“Beats me.”
“What’s she driving?” Croft asked.
“She’s being driven,” the doorman replied, “in a white Bentley. A big one.” He pointed down the street.
The two detectives looked and saw the car turning a corner. They dived back into their car and followed. As they turned the corner they could see the Bentley two blocks ahead.
“At least it’s easy to spot,” Morales said.
“Will this thing go any faster?” Croft asked.
Morales stomped on the accelerator. Hardly anything happened.
“Shit,” Croft said, “we didn’t check out of the hotel. What are we going to do for clothes?”
“I always keep a clean shirt and socks and some paper boxer shorts in my briefcase, just in case,” Morales said. “Toothbrush and razor, too.”
“Paper boxer shorts?”
“You just throw ’em away when you’re done with ’em.”
“Sometimes I hate your guts, you know that?”
Billy saw the cops’ rental car, a small red Korean vehicle, in his rearview mirror. He opened his briefcase and took out a little stack of papers. On top was the address of the Napa house. He headed for Hayworth Airport.
“For a minute, I thought that silver BMW was following the Bentley,” Morales said, “but he turned left.”