“I want to saturate the hospital with cops,” I said. “Borrow some guys from Narcotics to go undercover. I’d put a detail on Garza twenty-four/seven, and I’d like to plant someone inside the hospital pharmacy.”
Tracchio drained his coffee cup, no doubt thinking how he was going to stretch our already overextended manpower based on my “real bad feeling.”
“For how long?”
“Honestly? I don’t know.”
Tracchio signaled to the waitress for the bill, said to me, “You can have four people for a week. Then we’ll reevaluate. Make sure you keep me up to speed, Lindsay. I want to know everything. No hiding the weenie.”
I reached over and shook Tracchio’s pudgy hand. “I wouldn’t if I could.”
Chapter 100
JACOBI WAS IN THE PASSENGER SEAT of the gray car, staring up at the tall yellow house on Filbert, thinking how Dr. Garza had been home for about a half hour, probably settling down with the nightly news, when the garage door suddenly opened and a black Mercedes Roadster backed out, the tires squealing.
Rich Conklin sat up straight in the driver’s seat. Jacobi called in a code 33 and stated their location.
Beside him, Conklin waited a count of five, then pointed the unmarked police car down the steep grade of Filbert, ten car-lengths behind the Mercedes.
“Take it easy,” Jacobi cautioned Conklin. “We’ve got plenty of backup.”
“What the fuck?” Conklin said. “How do we know Garza’s even in that car?”
“You want to go back and watch the house?”
“Nope. I want to clone myself.”
Jacobi snorted. “Is the world ready for two of you, Conklin?”
Then Jacobi grinned, remembering when he was as green as Conklin, when he looked forward to every stakeout, every collar, and as wiped out as he was, Jacobi was getting that feeling now.
Conklin took the hard left onto Jones, tapping the brakes at the stop sign on Greenwich, then driving past the Yick Wo Elementary School.
Jacobi called Dispatch: “Black Mercedes sports coupe, Whiskey Delta Foxtrot Three Niner Zero, heading north on Jones,” he said as they crossed Lombard and Francisco, blowing through stop signs, braking on Columbus, calling it in again.
The radio crackled as another unmarked unit picked up the Mercedes on Columbus, calling out the cross streets, saying, “Looks like he’s headed toward the Cannery South.”
Conklin turned on the grille lights. He hooked a sharp right, then took the car on a straight shot parallel to Columbus. It was a back route to Garza’s probable destination, Ghirardelli Square.
Jacobi told Conklin to park on Beach Street near the corner of Hyde. “He should pass by here any minute.”
Traffic was sluggish at evening rush hour, and the sidewalks were still clogged with pedestrians browsing the vendors between the street and the beach.
“That’s him,” Conklin said.
Jacobi saw the sharp little Roadster pulling up to the curb ahead, parking, the man getting out all smooth in a cashmere Armani topcoat, dark hair flowing over his collar.
He watched with dismay as Garza walked back toward their car. Damn it. He knocked on the passenger-side window.
Jacobi buzzed down the window, gave the doctor a bored look.
“Hang on, Inspector. I’ll be right back,” Garza told him; then he crossed the street over the cable car tracks and entered the beige stucco building with the red neon sign overhead, the Buena Vista.
Jacobi could see Garza through the plate-glass windows, giving an order to the counterman.
“What was that?” Conklin asked, incredulous. “He didn’t just make us, he’s calling us stupid. This is pretty bad.”
Jacobi felt a headache coming on. Garza getting over on them hadn’t been in the plan. What to say to the kid?