Cut and Thrust

41

The following morning Morales and Croft had breakfast in their hotel’s restaurant, since their room was too small to contain both them and a room service cart. Morales was reading something.

“What’s that?” Croft asked.

“It was attached to our travel order. It’s about how to be a good police visitor to another city, and it has a number for us to call and check in with the SFPD.”

“Fuck ’em,” Croft said.

Morales got out his cell phone, called the number, and introduced himself, then he hung up.

“That was short.”

“We have to go to the Central Station, show our badges, and check in personally.”

“Fuck ’em,” Croft said again.

“They already have our names, sent from L.A.,” Morales pointed out. “And if we check in, they’ll give us an SFPD ID and a parking pass for the city streets.”

“Do we both have to go?”

“If we do, we won’t get into trouble for impersonating police officers.”

“We are police officers.”

“Not in San Francisco, until we check in.”

They found the Central Station on Vallejo Street and presented themselves at the front desk, where they were directed upstairs to a room number. They knocked and entered.

“Okay, where you from?” a woman in civilian clothes said without looking up from her desk.

“Los Angeles,” Morales replied.

“Swell,” she said. “Badges and ID?” She took them to a Xerox machine and made a copy. “Go stand against the wall, there, one at a time.”

They did so and were photographed.

“How long you here for?”

“Five days,” Croft said, just in case.

She typed something into a computer and pressed a button; a moment later a machine next to her desk vomited two plastic cards with their badges and ID on one side and an SFPD star on the other, plus the banner VISITING OFFICER. She gave them each a clip that allowed them to fasten the cards to their lapels. “Wear ’em when you’re in any police station or questioning anybody in this city.” She handed them a parking pass for their car. “That may keep you from getting a ticket. On the other hand, it may get your car vandalized.”

“Thanks very much.”

“Don’t mention it.” She had never once looked at them.

“We could be Bonnie and Clyde, and she wouldn’t know the difference,” Croft said as the door closed behind them.

Billy Burnett arrived on Green Street and found a parking place, then he went and had a look at Barbara Eagle’s apartment building. Elegant. As he watched, a white Bentley Mulsanne drove up to the entrance. The driver popped the trunk lid, then got out. Billy made him to be six-five and close to three hundred pounds, but his waist was slim. A blunt instrument. A doorman appeared with a small bag and a train case and set them in the trunk. He pressed a button, and the trunk lid closed itself.

Barbara Eagle appeared, dressed in slacks and a sweater set, an impressive double string of pearls around her neck, and got into the waiting car. Blunt Instrument got in and drove away.

Billy ran the few steps back to his car, got it started, and followed. As he drove down the street, a car containing the two L.A. detectives passed, going the other way.

—

MORALES AND CROFT pulled up to the entrance to the building and got out. They showed their new guest IDs to the doorman. “We’d like to see Mrs. Charles Grosvenor,” Morales said.

“You just missed her,” the doorman said. “She’s headed to Napa for a few days.”

“What’s the address?”

“Beats me.”

“What’s she driving?” Croft asked.

“She’s being driven,” the doorman replied, “in a white Bentley. A big one.” He pointed down the street.

The two detectives looked and saw the car turning a corner. They dived back into their car and followed. As they turned the corner they could see the Bentley two blocks ahead.

“At least it’s easy to spot,” Morales said.

“Will this thing go any faster?” Croft asked.

Morales stomped on the accelerator. Hardly anything happened.

“Shit,” Croft said, “we didn’t check out of the hotel. What are we going to do for clothes?”

“I always keep a clean shirt and socks and some paper boxer shorts in my briefcase, just in case,” Morales said. “Toothbrush and razor, too.”

“Paper boxer shorts?”

“You just throw ’em away when you’re done with ’em.”

“Sometimes I hate your guts, you know that?”

Billy saw the cops’ rental car, a small red Korean vehicle, in his rearview mirror. He opened his briefcase and took out a little stack of papers. On top was the address of the Napa house. He headed for Hayworth Airport.

“For a minute, I thought that silver BMW was following the Bentley,” Morales said, “but he turned left.”

“Are you getting paranoid on the lady’s behalf?” Croft asked.

“Just being observant. They taught us that at the academy, or did you miss that day?”

Billy turned in his rental car at the Hayward FBO and filed an IFR flight plan to Napa County Airport. It wasn’t far, but going IFR would help him deal with the controllers. He did a quick preflight, then got the airplane started and asked for his clearance and permission to taxi. Shortly, he was airborne, and the ATC controllers vectored him around and out of the busy San Francisco Class B area. He had been in the air for only twelve minutes when he spotted Napa County. He pressed the transmit button on the yoke. “I have the airport in sight. I’ll cancel IFR at this time.” The controller said goodbye and Billy descended for his landing.

He rented another car, this one a brand-new Chevrolet Impala, which impressed him, and he drove to St. Helena. He found the Grosvenors’ house, a handsome, shingle-style McMansion on a little hill, then he parked in a partially hidden road across from it. Twenty minutes later, the white Mulsanne appeared, followed by the red Korean car containing the two policemen. The Bentley turned into the driveway, drove through some trees, and appeared on the hill in front of the house, where Barbara exited while Blunt Instrument retrieved her minimal luggage.

The Korean car drove slowly past the house.

“What do you want to do now?” Morales asked.

“Let’s give her time to settle in before we knock on the door,” Croft said. “In the meantime, let’s go back to St. Helena and find a men’s store.”

“Did you see the new Impala parked in the side road?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“Two things: it’s the new model, which is getting rave reviews, and the guy inside was driving the silver BMW back in the city.”

“You’re nuts. How could he beat us here and be in another car?”

“I’m just observing,” Morales said. “I haven’t figured that out yet.”