The uniformed officers were parked in their patrol car at the curb, coffee containers in hand, car radio on full blast. Officer Brad Jamison was a rookie. His partner, Ray Baxter, was an old-timer. The two of them together didn’t have the brainpower of a mosquito. This was San Francisco PD’s idea of protection.
“Officers,” he said. “I’m taking Sergeant Boxer’s advice. Leaving my house and checking into a hotel for a while. My insurance company is paying for it.”
“Well, that’s fine, Mr. Grant. You should let Sergeant Boxer know where you’re off to.”
“Already did it,” said Grant.
“You need any help with your luggage or anything?” Officer Baxter asked.
“No, no thanks.”
“So where are we going?”
“Not we. Just little old me. Like I told the sergeant, I won’t be needing protection for a couple of weeks. I’ll stay at the Marriott while I look for a new place.”
Jamison said, “Okeydoke. You should also fill out a form at the post office so they hold your mail.”
“Good idea. So thanks for—uh, thanks.”
It was noon when Grant turned out of his driveway and headed toward Bayshore Boulevard. He drove carefully. No mistakes now. No traffic stops. No license checks. No ironic moments. He was on track with his well-wrought plan for a carefully executed and beautiful metamorphosis.
Soon he would be in another country, playing an even greater role on an even grander stage. And the memories of all his past roles would continue on inside him.
God, he loved his life.
CHAPTER 82
CONKLIN AND I were parked in front
of the redbrick Hyde Street Psychiatric Center, lunching on egg salad sandwiches.
“It was always a long shot,” my partner said to me. “All we had was a label this big with no trace, no nothing on it.”
“You know what I hate?” I asked him.
“Yep, I do. You hate square one and egg salad with pieces of shell—”
“I hate waiting now for another murder so we can hope for another chance at this—”
“Look,” Conklin said, pointing past my nose and out the side window.
“What am I looking at?”
“That guy. He’s a patient. What’s he doing outside?”
I saw him now. His name was Neddie. He was coming out of an alley that ran between the brick face of the psych center and a blank concrete side of the Walgreens. His hands were in his pockets, eyes down, and his posture and gait were purposeful, entirely different from the awkward movements he’d exhibited just a half hour ago.
My partner and I exited the car and began following Neddie from a distance. I wasn’t ready to question him until I knew what he was up to.
He was directly ahead of us when he took a right turn onto Jones Street. We were so close to him that I was shocked when we turned the corner and he was just not where I thought he should be. In fact, I didn’t see him anywhere. Not in the shade of the smoke shop awning, not buying a paper from the newsstand, not crossing the street. It was as if he’d stepped through a portal into a fourth dimension.
“Oh, come onnnn. Rich, where’d he go?”
“He wasn’t carrying a knapsack, right? Didn’t have a bag?” Conklin asked.
“No. Hands in pockets. Nothing on his shoulders or in his hands, I’m sure of it,” I said.
“Then he’ll be back.”