They curled down to the foot of the grade, the SUV still in the third lane and moving at a steady fifty-five, Chavez two cars and not much more than a hundred yards behind. The highway sign for the Marin City exit swam up out of the mist. Once they passed it, not far ahead, the one for the Mill Valley–Stinson Beach exit appeared.
And all of a sudden, so unexpectedly it caught him and several other drivers by surprise, the pursuit ended.
Brake lights flashed and the SUV swerved dangerously into the far right lane, causing the driver of a pickup to brake hard, nearly fishtail. McManus kept on veering right, the bulky Explorer wobbling and sliding into the exit lane while the slow-lane traffic bunched up behind the pickup.
There was nothing Chavez could do, no way he could get over in time to make the exit himself.
“Maldito!”
The word exploded out of him with such ferocity that Elmo jumped up on the backseat and began a frightened yipping.
Long way to the next exit, across Richardson Bay. He drove as fast as he dared, turned off, and came back around southbound to the Mill Valley–Stinson Beach exit. The Mill Valley road was jammed with homeward-bound commuters; even if the Explorer was among all the tightly packed headlights and taillights, trying to locate it would be an exercise in futility. McManus also could have turned off on one of the side streets and doubled back onto the freeway northbound, or even southbound to return to the city. There was just no way to tell.
The woman must be plain crazy to have pulled that sudden lane change stunt on fog-slick pavement. Either that or she’d been alert to a tail and spotted him despite his precautions. Sure, that was it. Explained the roundabout crosstown route to the bridge.
Not his fault, then. You’d have to be invisible to follow somebody who’s on the lookout for it. But that didn’t make him feel any better.
All that mattered was, he’d lost them.
20
JAKE RUNYON
He had agency work to attend to after leaving Dragovich’s office, in and out of the city; he spent four hours doing it, keeping his mind on a strict business focus the entire time. Continually agonizing about Bryn and her situation was wasted energy, negative energy.
The last piece of business was an interview in the Haight; from there he drove to the Hall of Justice. He hadn’t heard from Dragovich, which likely meant that Bryn was still AdSeg’d. That was the case, dammit. He still couldn’t get in to see her.
Three thirty-five. Twenty-five minutes to kill before the homicide inspectors, Farley and Crabtree, came on for their four-to-midnight tour. Runyon went into the cafeteria, bought himself a cup of tea and a corned-beef sandwich. He wasn’t hungry, but he hadn’t eaten all day and he needed to put something into his empty stomach.
At four o’clock he went up to General Works. Crabtree and Farley had both signed in, but neither was at his desk in the Homicide Division. Runyon did some more waiting, nearly ten minutes, before Crabtree showed up carrying a sheaf of computer printouts.
“Your timing’s good, Mr. Runyon. Just the man we wanted to see.”
“If it’s about my statement, that’s one reason I’m here.”
“It’s about more than that. Mrs. Darby’s statement, primarily.”
“What about her statement?”
“It’s full of lies.”
Runyon felt himself tighten up inside. “What makes you think that?”
“Not think it, know it for a fact.”
“How?”
Crabtree gestured to an empty chair, then leaned back and laced his fingers at the back of his neck. Big man, very dark, with a shaved head and, as if by way of compensation, a thick, bristly mustache. Neatly, almost nattily dressed in a brown pin-striped suit, salmon-colored shirt, brownish gold tie.
“Francine Whalen wasn’t killed in a struggle with Mrs. Darby,” he said. “Evidently wasn’t killed by Mrs. Darby, in self-defense or otherwise. Preliminary lab tests are in. Three identifiable partials on the handle of the knife, another partial on the kitchen counter. None of them belong to her.”
That was the last thing Runyon expected to hear. He digested the news before he asked, “Who do they belong to?”
“We don’t know yet. Could be anybody’s. Even yours.”
“I never touched the knife. You think my story’s a lie, too?”
“Is it? Any part of it?”
“No. All I know about what happened is what I told you yesterday. So what now? Drop the homicide charge against Mrs. Darby, release her?”
“Depends on what she has to say to my partner. He’s up talking to her right now. If she doesn’t come clean, we’ll keep right on holding her and let the DA decide. He may want to pursue an obstruction charge at her arraignment.”