Across the hall were two more bedrooms, one of them made up but unused, the other turned into storage space, with another bathroom sandwiched between them. The storage room was a welter of empty, half-empty, and filled cartons. The contents of some had been upended and stirred through—clothing, odds and ends, a shiny scatter of costume jewelry. I opened two of the filled boxes: musty-smelling linens in one, articles of women’s clothing in the second. The clothing was of different sizes and different styles and looked to be the sort elderly women would wear.
I dug down into a third box. A couple of dark suits, old but of quality manufacture, some ancient ties, and four white shirts still in their laundry wrappings—all of a size and a style that would belong to a tall, thin man who’d lived at least three-quarters of a century. And folded at the bottom was the clincher: a heavy, old-fashioned black overcoat with a velvet collar. I ran my fingers over the material. Soft wool. Lamb’s wool. Gregory Pappas’s coat.
There was no point in going through any of the other stuff; McManus and Carson had had plenty of time to sift out and pack up items of value and anything that might be incriminating. I’d been in the house too long, anyway. The place had begun to have an oppressive effect on me. I’d always been place sensitive, particularly to places where bad things had happened, and this one had that kind of aura about it, hardly noticeable when I’d first come in but now almost palpable.
The aura of evil.
19
ALEX CHAVEZ
The Explorer headed straight up Nineteenth and through Golden Gate Park on Park Presidio, riding the middle lane all the way. Definitely heading for the bridge. But why had McManus taken such a roundabout crosstown route? Quicker one to the bridge from Dogpatch was the 280 freeway into town, then out Geary to Park Presidio. She and Carson hadn’t made any stops along the way, so that wasn’t the answer. Maybe it was just that they preferred the longer route for some reason, weren’t in a hurry to get to wherever they were going.
Getting on toward the start of rush hour and traffic through the park was stop-and-go; Chavez had to work to keep two to three cars behind them, changing back and forth between the middle and the far right lanes. A delivery truck cut in front of him in the Presidio tunnel, but he managed to maneuver around it just before the toll plaza.
When he first rolled onto the bridge, he didn’t see the Explorer because of the great gouts of blanketing fog rolling in through the Gate, but he knew they hadn’t gotten off at the last S.F. exit. A couple of quick weaving maneuvers through the clustered vehicles and he spotted them again—still in the middle lane, going the speed limit. He eased over into the same lane, slowing to match their speed, and stayed there three car lengths back.
How far up 101 were they going? Due north? East? You could get to Highway 80 by crossing the Richmond Bridge or taking 37 along the north shore of San Pablo Bay past Vallejo. Or some other direction or destination? Well, he’d find out. Tamara had told him to stay with the subjects as long and as far as he could.
He hoped it wouldn’t be too long or too far, wouldn’t require an overnight stay somewhere. The older he got, the less he liked being away from Elena and the kids for even one night. He’d have to call her pretty soon in any case, let her know he wouldn’t be home for dinner. Some terrific woman, always worrying about him and his welfare. And the way she’d handled that tagging business with Tomas last week. Graffiti artist! Hah! The boy wanted to be an artist, fine, but spray-painting stupid symbols on public property wasn’t an art project; it was a crime. Chavez had gone ballistic when he found out, but not Elena. Lectured and shamed Tomas, laid out a just-right punishment, and didn’t raise her voice the entire time.
Better wait to call her until after he checked in again with Tamara. At least wait and see if McManus took the Richmond Bridge exit south of San Rafael.
Chavez glanced at the fuel gauge. Three-quarters full, good for maybe a hundred and fifty miles. If the subjects were going any farther than that, gas was liable to be a problem. But even if the Explorer’s tank had been topped off when they left Dogpatch, the Explorer’d be near empty at about the same time as the Dodge—those big SUVs got lousy mileage—and with any luck he’d be able to pull off and fill up when they did.
Once they were off the bridge, traffic opened up a little. The Explorer moved over into the third of the four lanes; Chavez waited several seconds and then did the same. They wound up the long grade to the MacArthur Tunnel at fifty-five, passed through and down winding Waldo Grade on the Marin side. The fog was heavy here, too, streaming down from the cliffs in coils and stringy loops, laying a wet film on the windshield. Chavez switched on the wipers. The blades were new, but the windshield wasn’t; he had to lean forward, squinting through the smeared glass.