Deadlock

48

Chance sat in the back of a Toyota Camry rented the previous evening at San Francisco International Airport and watched as Glenn Love emerged, yawning, from his house, clambered into his work truck and backed out of his driveway. She noted the time, the make and model of the truck, the reg and the decal.

An hour later his wife, Amy, opened the blinds at the front of the house. Three-quarters of an hour after that she emerged with their two children. Chance grabbed her handheld video camera and taped them getting into their car and driving off. If they had to take the kids at the school, she didn’t want any cases of mistaken identity. Killing someone was relatively straightforward. A kidnapping, however… well, a myriad things could go wrong.

Five minutes after Amy Love drove past them, Chance got out of the car and approached the house. She rang the bell, feigned surprise when no one answered and wandered round the back. There was no alarm system and no cameras. She noticed a plant pot near the back door. It was empty save an inch or two of moldy compost. Lifting it up revealed a key — an unexpected bonus. It suddenly occurred to Chance that the key could cut out most of the risk if they were clever about how they approached this part of the operation.

The key fitted the rear door, and she stepped inside. Breakfast dishes lay stacked in the dishwasher; a copy of the San Francisco Examiner was spread out on the table. She moved quickly through the ground floor and entered the children’s shared bedroom. She took several items of clothing and moved into a study-cum-office area in the hall with a desk and a filing cabinet. She jotted down Glenn and Amy’s cell numbers from old bills, along with the number for the house landline. She also noted their social security numbers and a couple of other pieces of information. All this would come in handy too.

Satisfied that she’d gathered everything they’d need, she exited the house, placed the key back under the plant pot and walked casually back to the car. This time she got in the front and drove off. She’d return later when it was time to move on to the next stage of the plan.

‘Damn, man, does this guy ever leave the house?’

Cowboy drummed his fingers on the steering column. Next to him, Trooper kept his head in his copy of Sports Illustrated.

‘He’s probably not even awake yet.’

‘It’s nine thirty,’ Cowboy said, staring across the road at the ivy-clad New England colonial which was the boyhood home and California residence of Supreme Court Justice Junius Holmes.

‘So? He’s old. He’s probably in bed by nine.’

‘Which means he should be up early. Old people need less sleep, don’t they?’

‘How the hell should I know?’

Cowboy started to open his door. ‘I’m gonna go take a peek.’

Just then a figure appeared at the gates. A man wearing tennis shorts, sneakers and a Harvard alumni T-shirt.

‘See,’ said Trooper. ‘Patience.’

The man broke into a slow jog on spindly legs that looked barely able to support the rest of him.

‘Holy shit, he might not live long enough for us to kill him.’

Trooper studied him from behind his magazine. ‘You think he jogs this time every morning?’

‘Guess so. Why, what are you thinking?’

‘Well, we were planning on shooting him, right?’

Cowboy shrugged. ‘That’s usually the quickest, most efficient way of killing someone.’

‘Draws a lot of attention too. Which, if you think about it, is something we don’t necessarily need.’

‘Where you taking this?’

Trooper grinned. ‘You’ll see.’