The proceedings were set for that night, with a reception in the Rodin Gallery at the Palace of the Legion of Honor overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge.
It would be hosted by Eldridge Neal, one of the most admired African Americans in the country, the current vice president of the United States. Every available uniform was assigned to security detail at the venues and along the routes. Every ID would be triple-checked, every trash can and air vent sniffed by explosive-detecting dogs.
But Danko was still out there.
And Carl Danko was still the only link to his son I had.
I drove back to Sacramento while the rest of the department prepared for the G-8 festivities. Carl Danko seemed surprised to see me again. “Thought you’d be accepting some kind of Medal of Honor today. The killing of young kids seems to be a habit with you people. So, why are you here?”
“Your son,” I told him.
“My son is dead.”
But Danko sighed and let me in. I followed him back to his den. A fire was burning there. He knelt down and stoked the flames, then sat down in an easy chair.
“Like I told you before, the time to talk about William was thirty years ago.”
“Not Billy,” I said. “Charles.”
Danko seemed to hesitate. “I told the federal boys—”
“We know,” I interrupted him mid-sentence. “We know his record, Mr. Danko. We know he isn’t dead.”
The old man snarled, “You people won’t stop, will you? First William, now Charlie. Go take your medals, Lieutenant. You caught your killers. What makes you think you can come in here and tell me Charlie is alive?”
“George Bengosian,” I answered.
“Who?”
“George Bengosian. The second victim. He knew Billy back at Berkeley. More than knew him, Mr. Danko. He was the one who turned your son in.”
Danko shifted in his easy chair. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“And Frank Seymour? He was killed in the Rincon Center blast the other day. Seymour was the lead agent on the Hope Street raid that killed your son. Charles is out there. He’s killing innocent people, Mr. Danko. I think he’s gone mad. I think you do, too.”
The old man took a deep breath. He stared into the fire, then got up and went over to a desk. He took out a pack of letters from a bottom drawer. Tossed them in front of me on the coffee table.
“I didn’t lie. My son has been dead to me. I’ve seen him once, five minutes on a Seattle street corner, in the past thirty years. Few years ago, these began to arrive. Once a year, around my birthday.”
Jesus, I’d been right all along. Charles Danko was alive….
I took the letters and began to sort through them.
The old man shrugged. “Guess he’s teaching college or something.”
I inspected the envelopes; no return addresses. But the last four had originated up north. Portland, Oregon. One, as recently as January 7, four months ago.
Portland.
A thought flashed through my head. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Stephen Hardaway had gone to college in Portland. Reed. I looked back at the old man. “You say he’s teaching? Teaching where?”
He shook his head. “Don’t know.”
But I knew. Suddenly I knew with a clarity that was inescapable.
Danko was at Reed, wasn’t he? All this time, he was up there teaching college.
That was how he and Stephen Hardaway met.