Police! A roadblock?
Keller’s tongue swelled. He began sweating. Therearview mirror reflected a clogged river of vehicles, a virtual parking lot.He could try escaping by driving along the sidewalk. No, that would guarantee apursuit.
He was trapped. Keller squeezed the wheel. No. Notthis way.
You promised to help me. Do not forsake me.
The Angel was sleeping.
“Got the number two song in the Bay Area coming up,but this just in from the newsroom.” The radio in the convertible VW Golfcreeping alongside Keller was cranked to distortion. The young redhead alonebehind the wheel was oblivious as she puffed on her cigarette. “A five-year-oldgirl was reportedly abducted less than thirty minutes ago from the children’splayground at Golden Gate Park. Her name is Gabrielle Nunn. She has brown,braided hair and is wearing a flowered dress. Police say she may have beentaken by a man.” The radio faded away.
No. Not this way. Stay calm. He reached under the seatbetween his legs for the Smith amp; Wesson, purchased last year from a crackdealer in the Mission.
Numbers filed. Untraceable, like the wind, my man. TwoC’s.
Keller slipped the gun casually under his left leg. Hethought of the phony license he got on the street, along with fake birthcertificates, credit cards, library cards. When he required it, he could beanybody he wanted. God will provide, his father would say.
Ahead, a charter bus belched black smoke, its bigdiesel rattled as it crawled, clearing a line of sight. Keller first saw anSFPD black-and-white blocking one lane, then another. Then the ambulance and amangled car flipped on its roof. He saw the firefighters with the jaws-of-lifeclattering like a ravenous metal-eater to get at the bloodied person trappedinside. An accident. Okay. Keller sighed.
Suddenly a cop stood before him on the road, directingtraffic.
“You!” The officer pointed at him. His motorcycle wasnearby. A Harley Davidson. Impossible to outrun. He was an imposing trafficbull in dark aviator glasses, leather jacket, leather boots, and a leatherutility belt with a holstered gun.
“Hold it right there!”
Keller eyed the officer as he approached.
Not this way. He refused to let it end here. He feltthe hard barrel of the gun under his leg, and kept both hands on the wheel. Thecopy made leathery squeaks as he walked. His stern face telegraphed a clearmessage: Do not fuck with me, sir.
The dog barked and Gabrielle stirred. Her eyelidsflickered. Do not forsake me. A droplet of sweat rolled down Keller’s backbetween his shoulder blades.
“What’s the problem, officer?”
“Sir, are you aware your left front tire isunderinflated?”
“No, I wasn’t aware.”
Just then the officer’s portable radio crackled withsomething unclear. He snatched it, and requested a repeat of the transmission.Keller slid his hand under his left leg, fingering the gun.
I am cleansed in the light of the Lord.
Again, the officer could not make out the radiomessage.
“Been crapping out like this all day,” he complained,cursing city bureaucrats. “Sorry, sir. Get that tire pumped.”
“No trouble, officer.”
The cop gave Keller a polite salute and waved himthrough.
It went according to his prayers. According to theprophesy. Thank God! Praise Him! He gazed upon the sleeping Angel. Behold theSeraph. Behold Gabriel. God’s messenger now belonged to him.
Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus.
THIRTY-THREE
The highway curled breathtakingly close to the cliff edges above the Pacific, its crestingcobalt waves pummeling the rocks while embracing the beaches below.
The view soothed Sydowski whenever he drove toPacifica and today he needed soothing. His visit with his old man left him withsouvenirs. He flipped down the visor mirror again. The cuts on his freshlyshaved face had coagulated. He winced, pulling at the bits of tissue paper. Thethings a son will do to make his old man happy.
Sydowski had found his father sitting on his bed inhis shoebox bungalow at Sea Breeze Villas, staring sadly at the Pacific.
“What’s the matter Pop?” he asked in Polish.
“They won’t let me cut hair anymore. They say I’m tooold.” Tears streamed down his cheeks.
“Is that so? Where’s your kit?”
“The old whore took it.”
“Pop, don’t call Mrs. Doran an old whore.”
“Well, she’s not a young one.”
Sydowski marched to the carpeted, lilac-scented officeof Mrs. Doran, Sea Breeze’s chief administrator. A kind, attractive woman inher fifties, Elsa Doran managed her “camp for golden kids” with the sternnessof a drill sergeant. Always happy to see Sydowski, her eyes sparkled and sheloved calling him “Inspector.” But the sparkle vanished when he asked her forhis old man’s barber’s kit.
“Mr. Sydowski, your father’s senility is a concern. Ican’t allow him to cut hair and give straight-razor shaves. He could injuresomeone. We’d be sued.”
Sydowski made it clear to Elsa Doran that he would notlose an argument with her over his father’s scissors and razor.
“Give me his kit, or I pull him out.”
She sighed, and retrieved the kit from a locked deskdrawer. He thanked her and returned to his old man.
“How about a trim and a shave, Pop?”
John Sydowski’s eighty-one-year-old face brightenedand he sat his son before his dresser mirror, draping a towel around hisshoulders. They talked sports, birds, politics, crime, and vegetables as he cuthis hair, then lathered his face for a shave. Sydowski loved how his father’sunit smelled of aftershave, like his old three-chair shop in North Beach. Heloved the feel of his old man’s comb through is hair, the clip of the scissors.For a warm moment he was a kid again. But when his old man neared him with therazor in his shaking hand, Sydowski’s stomach quaked. No way out of it, so heclosed his eyes, feeling the blade jerk into this skin again and again as hisfather scraped it across his face.
“See. Only a nick or two.” His old man beamed when itwas over, removing the towel stained with Sydowski’s blood before slapping onthe Old Spice. Sydowski damn near passed out from the sting.
“Thanks, Pop,” he managed through gritted teeth, goingto the bathroom to put toilet paper on his wounds.
They talked over tea, then his old man grew drowsy andfell asleep. Sydowski covered him with a blanket, kissed his head, gathered thekit, and returned to Elsa Doran’s office. She stared at Sydowski’s face indisbelief.
“Don’t’ ever give him his kit again,” he ordered,handing it to her. “If he fusses about it, call me.”
Elsa Doran understood, locked the kit in her deskdrawer and smiled up at Sydowski as he left. “What you did for John was verytender, Inspector.” Her eyes sparkled. “Very tender.”
Now, returning to San Francisco on the Pacific CoastHighway, Sydowski reflected on the case. He and Turgeon had squeezed a leadfrom Perry Kindhart. After they got a warrant, they tossed his apartment, butfound nothing tying him to Tanita Marie Donner or Danny Becker. Then IDENTdissected it. Zip. No prints, hairs, or fibers. Nothing, until they checkedKindhart’s Polaroid camera and came up with a latent belonging to FranklinWallace. The camera had been wiped, but one print was missed-a lost right-thumbprint screaming to be found. It didn’t prove a thing, but it was leverage.
“Let me get this straight, Perry,” Turgeon said. “Youhad absolutely nothing to do with Tanita Marie Donner or Danny Becker.”
“That’s right.” Kindhart stubbed his tenth LuckyStrike in the ashtray of the Homicide interview room at the Hall of Justice.Turgeon and Sydowski went at Kindhart, who played the relaxed con, wise to theprogram. He knew they could hold him for seventy-two hours before having tocharge or release him. Earlier, on the drive to the hall, Kindhart decidedagainst a lawyer. “You’re right, I’ve got nothing to hide. Some guys can’tfunction in the morning.”