A red light at 19th Avenue stopped the BMW, gave her enough time to get down there with only one car separating them. When the light changed, Heavyset turned right and the intervening car went straight, so she was right behind the Beamer when she made the swing onto 19th.
At the Sloat Boulevard intersection, he turned right again and angled over into one of the lanes that would take him onto Portola Avenue. Tamara moved into the second lane, behind another car. The BMW’s rear end and taillights were distinctive enough, and the avenue well lighted enough, so she’d be able to keep him in sight from a distance.
Excitement bubbled in her. This was more like it! Following somebody in the dark, trying to keep pace . . . there was a thrill in that kind of thing. Not a dangerous thrill like that time in San Leandro; a small and relatively safe one. Mostly her job consisted of putting in a lot of desk time at the agency, combing the Net, answering phones, compiling reports. Monotonous after a while. Fieldwork now and then, even on a grim mission like this one, was a sure cure for boredom. She’d intended to do it more often, but there never seemed to be enough time. From now on she’d make the time.
The Beamer headed straight up Portola, not fast and not slow. No problem keeping pace. A red light stopped them both at Claremont. And while she was waiting for it to change, the ringtone on her cell phone began chirping.
She got it out of her purse, switched on before the light turned green. Deron Stewart. “Zeller was a no-show,” he said.
“I know. I was across the street the whole time you were in the lounge.”
“. . . Didn’t tell me you’d be there.”
“My business,” she said. “Who was the heavyset guy came in a few minutes late?”
He said, “Sharp eye,” which she supposed was meant as a compliment for her observational skills. “His name’s Roland.”
“First or last name?”
“Just Roland. That’s all he’d give.”
“One of the down lows?”
“Yeah. Wouldn’t say what he does for a living, either. Didn’t say much at all, just sat there listening and checking me out. But he lives here in the city. Hawkins referred to him once as a neighbor.”
The BMW had passed through the O’Shaugnessy intersection at the top of Twin Peaks and they were moving downhill on the far side. The light at the turnoff for Diamond Heights Boulevard was green; the Beamer went right on through, onto the winding stretch of Upper Market. Wherever the heavyset dude, Roland, was headed, it wasn’t straight home. Hawkins lived in Monterey Heights, on the edge of St. Francis Wood, and now that section was behind them to the southwest.
Stewart said, “You still on, Tamara?”
“Still on. Did Hawkins or Roland mention Zeller at all?”
“Not until I brought up his name.”
“And?”
“He’s still in the city, I got that much out of Hawkins, but not where he’s living or what he’s doing. One thing: the three of them are involved in a business deal.”
“What kind of business deal?”
“Something to do with a fund that helps needy black families. Easy asked Roland if he was going ahead; Roland said he thought so, as long as Easy and Zeller were still on board, but there had to be another reading before he’d be convinced.”
“Reading?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. That was all either of them would say.”
“So they didn’t try to involve you in this deal.”
“No. And I didn’t want to make them suspicious by pushing it.”
“You pass with them all right?”
“Must have, as far as the club goes. Got myself invited to their next meeting.”
“When?”
“Saturday night. Eight o’clock at the SoMa loft. Want the address now?”
“Later. Zeller going to be there?”
“Likely. Their regular group, Hawkins said.”
At Castro, Roland swung over into the left-turn lane for Divisadero and caught the light just before it turned yellow. Tamara had to jump a lane, cutting off another car, and lay down a heavy foot to make it across the intersection before the oncoming traffic started moving.
Stewart said, “I got everything on the voice recorder. You want it tonight or wait until tomorrow?”
“Tonight.”
“Tell me where you live and I’ll drop it off.”
Talking to him, driving one-handed, had become a distraction. Besides, it was illegal now to use a cell phone while driving; if a cop spotted her she’d probably get pulled over. She said, “I’ll get back to you in a few minutes—I’m in the middle of something now,” and clicked off.