The train stopped, and clots of people boiled out of the cars like rats, others washing back in, buffeting Fred like a tide, slamming him into a pylon.
Knocking the breath right out of him.
Freeing himself, wading against the throng, Fred made his way to the escalator. In long, bounding strides, he bolted up past the rodent people on the moving stairway, finding his way up to the air on the street.
The voice inside his head yelled, Go! Get your ass out of here!
Chapter 19
THE DIGITAL CLOCK on the microwave read 7:08. I was physically wrung out and mentally fried after combing the Tenderloin all day, coming up with nothing more than a list of all the places where Alfred Brinkley didn’t live.
I wasn’t just frustrated, either. I felt dread. Fred Brinkley was still out there.
I put a Healthy Choice macaroni and cheese into the microwave, pressed the minute button five times.
As my dinner revolved, I ran the day through my mind again, searching for anything we might have overlooked in our tour of six dozen sleazy hotels, the interviews with useless desk clerks and scores of low-rent tenants.
Martha brushed up against me, and I stroked her ears, poured dog chow into a bowl. She lowered her head, wagged her plumey tail.
“You’re a good girl,” I said. “Light of my life.”
I had just cracked open a beer when my doorbell rang.
What now?
I limped to the window to see who had the audacity to ring my bell — but I didn’t know the man staring up at me from the sidewalk.
He was clean shaven, half in shadow — holding up an envelope.
“What do you want?”
“I have something for you, Lieutenant. It’s urgent. I have to deliver this to you personally.”
What was he? A process server? A tipster? Behind me, the microwave beeped, alerting me that dinner was ready.
“Leave it in the mailbox!” I shouted down.
“I could do that,” said my visitor. “But you said on TV, ‘Do you know this man?’ Remember?”
“Do you know him?” I called.
“I am him. I’m the one who did it.”
Chapter 20
I HAD AN INSTANT of stunned confusion.
The ferry shooter was at my door?
Then I snapped to.
“I’ll be right there!” I shouted down.
I grabbed my gun and holster from the back of a chair, clipped my cuffs to my belt. As I rounded the second-floor landing, I called Jacobi on my cell phone, knowing full well that I couldn’t wait for him to arrive.
I could be walking into a shooting gallery, but if the man downstairs was Alfred Brinkley, I couldn’t chance letting him get away.
My Glock was in my hand as I cracked the front door a couple of inches, using it as a blind.