Second Chance

Chapter 81

WITHIN MINUTES I traced the number Helen Keating had given me to a boarding house on Larkin and Mcallister.

The Hotel William Simon. My pulse was jumping.

I called Jacobi, catching him as he was about to sit down to dinner. “Meet me at Larkin and Mcallister. The Hotel William Simon.”

“You want me to meet you at a hotel? Cool. I'm on my way.”

“I think we found Coombs.”

We couldn't arrest Frank Coombs. We didn't have a single piece of evidence that could tie him directly to a crime. I might be able to get a search warrant and bust into his room, though. Right now the most important thing was to make certain he was still there.

Twenty minutes later, I had driven down to the seedy area between the Civic Center and Union Square. The William Simon was a shabby one-elevator dive under a large billboard with a slinky model wearing Calvin Klein underwear. As Jill would say, yick.

I didn't want to go up to the desk, flashing my badge and his photo, until we were ready to make a move. Finally, I said what the hell, and placed a call to the number Helen Keating had given me. After three rings, a male voice answered, “William Simon.”

“Frank Coombs...?” I inquired.

“Coombs... ” I listened as the desk clerk leafed through a list of names. “Nope.” Shit. I asked him to double-check. He came back negative.

Just then, the passenger door of my Explorer opened. My nerves were twanging like a bass guitar.

Jacobi climbed in. He was wearing a striped golf shirt and some sort of short, hideous Members Only jacket. His belly bulged. He grinned like a John. “Hey, lady, what does an Andrew Jackson get me?”

“Dinner, maybe, if you're treating.”

“We got an ID?” he asked.

I shook my head. I told him what I had found out.

“Maybe he's moved on,” Jacobi offered. “How ' I go in and flash the badge? With Coombs's photo?”

I shook my head. “How ' we sit here and wait.”

We waited for over two hours. Stakeouts are incredibly dull. They would drive the average person nuts. We kept our eyes peeled on the William Simon, going over everything from Helen Keating, to what Jacobi's wife was serving for dinner, to the 49ers, to who was sleeping with who at the Hall. Jacobi even sprung for a couple of sandwiches from a Subway.

At ten o'clock, Jacobi grumbled, “This could go on forever! Why don't you let me go inside, Lindsay?”

He was probably right. We didn't even know if Helen Keating's number was current. She had taken it weeks ago.

I was about to give in when a man turned the corner on Larkin headed toward the hotel. I gripped Jacobi's arm. “Look over there.”

It was Coombs. I recognized the bastard instantly. He was wearing a camouflage jacket, hands stuffed in his pockets, a floppy hat pulled over his eyes.

“Son of a fucking bitch,” Jacobi muttered.

Watching the bastard slink up to the hotel, it took everything I had not to jump out of the car and slam him up against a wall. I wished I could slap him in cuffs. But we had Chimera now. We knew where he was.

“I want someone stuck to him, twenty-four hours,” I told Jacobi. “If he makes the tail, I want him picked up. We'll figure out the charges later.”

Jacobi nodded.

“I hope you brought a toothbrush.” I winked. “You've got first watch.”