Betrayers (Nameless Detective Novels) (12 page)

Sip tea, watch the people on the street. Three men went into the Twilight Lounge, all of them white. Not too many black faces on this part of Ocean; the few that came along were easy to spot.

Five thirty.

Five forty-five.

The tea was making her feel queasy; she pushed the cup away. Here came the waitress, asking in stern tones if she wanted anything to eat. Lord. She hadn’t looked at the menu, hadn’t taken her eyes off the Twilight’s front door. “Potstickers,” she said. It was the first dish that popped into her head.

Five fifty.

She kept thinking about Lucas. If he showed, would he still be driving the five-year-old Buick? Probably. She began watching the cars that rolled by in both directions, looking for a light brown LeSabre. Dark now and hard to tell makes and colors. Streetlights, building lights, headlights helped some, but not enough. Would she recognize the Buick if it came along? Sure . . . if he hadn’t had that banged-up fender fixed by now.

Five fifty-five.

And here came Deron Stewart, over on the south side. Suit,
tie, overcoat, and that swaggering walk of his. Don’t overdo it, man, she thought, they’ll see right through you. But then she thought, No, he’ll play it right, the way he did with Hawkins on the phone. He knows his job; he won’t screw up.

Stewart paused outside the lounge, adjusted his tie, and went on in.

Six.

The potstickers came. She didn’t even look at the plate.

Six-oh-four.

A short black man in a trench coat came walking up from Lagunitas into her line of sight. Doctor Easy. He moved in long, quick strides, kind of a glide, straight to the Twilight’s entrance and on inside.

Tamara waited, leaning forward with her hands flat on the tabletop and her face close to the window glass.

Six-oh-five.

Six ten.

“Something wrong with potstickers?”

“. . . What?”

The waitress was standing next to her. “You not eating. Something wrong?”

Yes, dammit! “No,” she said, and picked up one of the potstickers and bit into it. Greasy. She managed to swallow without gagging.

Six fourteen.

Damn him, she thought, he’s not going to show up.

But ten seconds later, somebody else showed up.

A light-colored car swung into a slanted parking space downstreet from the Twilight, on this side, and a black man stepped out. She had a pretty good look at him and his ride both in the lights from a passing car. BMW; her lawyer sister
Claudia drove one, so Tamara knew what they looked like. He was on the heavy side, middle-aged, well dressed, his hair close-cropped. She watched him jaywalk across the street and enter the lounge.

Another of the down-low clubbers, or just a businessman wanting an after-work drink? She hadn’t seen any other African Americans except Stewart go in there, but that didn’t mean he and Hawkins were the only ones who patronized the place.

The restaurant was beginning to fill up, and the waitress came sidling over again. “More food?”

“Not right now.”

“More tea?” The woman’s tone said she’d better buy something more or get out and make room for paying customers.

“Okay. Another pot of tea.”

Six thirty.

The waitress arrived with the fresh pot, set it down harder than necessary, and went away again. Tamara poured her cup full, left it untouched. Watched and waited and tried not to keep checking the time. Yeah, right. Tell yourself not to do something and you end up doing it twice as often.

Six forty-five.

Bastard definitely wasn’t coming. Just Hawkins and Stewart tonight—and maybe the guy from the BMW.

Seven.

The waitress again, looking even more annoyed. The place had filled up; she didn’t want a customer who hadn’t ordered anything except tea and potstickers taking up space and she said so, more or less politely. Tamara didn’t argue. She dredged up another Chinese dish from her memory—kung pao chicken—and the waitress went away again, satisfied.

Seven fifteen.

Tamara picked at the kung pao chicken and then, out of frustration, began shoveling it in until the plate was empty. Good-bye, diet.

Seven thirty.

Bill hated stakeouts and, man, the hate was justified. This was only the second one she’d been on, and the surroundings were a lot safer than the first time, over in the East Bay, when she’d screwed up and let that psycho kidnapper grab her. But before all the crazy stuff started happening that night, she’d been terminally bored sitting in the cramped Toyota on a dark and unfamiliar street. This was different because the case was personal, but the edge of boredom and impatience was there just the same.

How long would they sit around drinking over there? Sooner they got it done with, the sooner Stewart would call with his report and she could arrange to meet him and listen to the recording.

The wait finally ended five minutes later. Out they came—Stewart, Hawkins, and the heavyset stranger, all in a bunch. They stood talking in front of the Twilight for thirty seconds or so, then shook hands all around and went their separate ways—Hawkins down toward his office, Stewart in the opposite direction, the stranger to the curb to wait for a break in the traffic so he could cross to his Beamer.

Tamara was already on the move by then. Decided what she was going to do as soon as she saw that the heavyset guy was part of it. She tossed a ten and a five on the table and hurried out, keeping her head down as she turned upstreet. Stewart had reached his parked car, was unlocking the door; he didn’t see her and she didn’t try to catch his attention. Behind
her, the heavyset dude had come on across the street and was taking his time with his keys.

Impulse prodded her into a loping run. At the Woodacre intersection she darted diagonally across to where she’d left the Toyota. She was inside, with the key in the ignition, when the BMW’s brake lights flashed and Heavyset started to back up. Traffic kept him from getting all the way out of the space until Tamara managed to back out herself, in front of an SUV whose driver had to brake so sharply he blatted his horn at her.

A red light at 19th Avenue stopped the BMW, gave her enough time to get down there with only one car separating them. When the light changed, Heavyset turned right and the intervening car went straight, so she was right behind the Beamer when she made the swing onto 19th.

At the Sloat Boulevard intersection, he turned right again and angled over into one of the lanes that would take him onto Portola Avenue. Tamara moved into the second lane, behind another car. The BMW’s rear end and taillights were distinctive enough, and the avenue well lighted enough, so she’d be able to keep him in sight from a distance.

Excitement bubbled in her. This was more like it! Following somebody in the dark, trying to keep pace . . . there was a thrill in that kind of thing. Not a dangerous thrill like that time in San Leandro; a small and relatively safe one. Mostly her job consisted of putting in a lot of desk time at the agency, combing the Net, answering phones, compiling reports. Monotonous after a while. Fieldwork now and then, even on a grim mission like this one, was a sure cure for boredom. She’d intended to do it more often, but there never seemed to be enough time. From now on she’d make the time.

The Beamer headed straight up Portola, not fast and not slow. No problem keeping pace. A red light stopped them both at Claremont. And while she was waiting for it to change, the ringtone on her cell phone began chirping.

She got it out of her purse, switched on before the light turned green. Deron Stewart. “Zeller was a no-show,” he said.

“I know. I was across the street the whole time you were in the lounge.”

“. . . Didn’t tell me you’d be there.”

“My business,” she said. “Who was the heavyset guy came in a few minutes late?”

He said, “Sharp eye,” which she supposed was meant as a compliment for her observational skills. “His name’s Roland.”

“First or last name?”

“Just Roland. That’s all he’d give.”

“One of the down lows?”

“Yeah. Wouldn’t say what he does for a living, either. Didn’t say much at all, just sat there listening and checking me out. But he lives here in the city. Hawkins referred to him once as a neighbor.”

The BMW had passed through the O’Shaugnessy intersection at the top of Twin Peaks and they were moving downhill on the far side. The light at the turnoff for Diamond Heights Boulevard was green; the Beamer went right on through, onto the winding stretch of Upper Market. Wherever the heavyset dude, Roland, was headed, it wasn’t straight home. Hawkins lived in Monterey Heights, on the edge of St. Francis Wood, and now that section was behind them to the southwest.

Stewart said, “You still on, Tamara?”

“Still on. Did Hawkins or Roland mention Zeller at all?”

“Not until I brought up his name.”

“And?”

“He’s still in the city, I got that much out of Hawkins, but not where he’s living or what he’s doing. One thing: the three of them are involved in a business deal.”

“What kind of business deal?”

“Something to do with a fund that helps needy black families. Easy asked Roland if he was going ahead; Roland said he thought so, as long as Easy and Zeller were still on board, but there had to be another reading before he’d be convinced.”

“Reading?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. That was all either of them would say.”

“So they didn’t try to involve you in this deal.”

“No. And I didn’t want to make them suspicious by pushing it.”

“You pass with them all right?”

“Must have, as far as the club goes. Got myself invited to their next meeting.”

“When?”

“Saturday night. Eight o’clock at the SoMa loft. Want the address now?”

“Later. Zeller going to be there?”

“Likely. Their regular group, Hawkins said.”

At Castro, Roland swung over into the left-turn lane for Divisadero and caught the light just before it turned yellow. Tamara had to jump a lane, cutting off another car, and lay down a heavy foot to make it across the intersection before the oncoming traffic started moving.

Stewart said, “I got everything on the voice recorder. You want it tonight or wait until tomorrow?”

“Tonight.”

“Tell me where you live and I’ll drop it off.”

Talking to him, driving one-handed, had become a distraction. Besides, it was illegal now to use a cell phone while driving; if a cop spotted her she’d probably get pulled over. She said, “I’ll get back to you in a few minutes—I’m in the middle of something now,” and clicked off.

Straight along Divisadero to Oak, right turn, west four blocks to Fillmore, left turn on Fillmore. The Western Addition, one of the few neighborhoods that had survived the 1906 earthquake, once a black ghetto but integrated and Yuppified now. After a couple of blocks the Beamer slowed, eased over into the right lane. Tamara did the same, hanging back. Small businesses and apartment buildings strung out along there, most of the businesses closed.

In mid-block, brake lights flashed crimson and the BMW came to a quick stop. Getting set to park, and in the only available space. She had no choice but to swing around into the inside lane.

There was a bus stop on the corner; she cut over into it. In the rearview mirror she could see the Beamer backing up into the space. She shut off the headlights but not the engine. Roland finished his park job and the BMW went dark; she watched his big shape get out, circle around the front onto the sidewalk. He stood there for a couple of seconds, doing something with his coat, and then moved upstreet about fifty yards before stopping again at one of the dimly lighted storefronts. So what was he doing, window-shopping?

No. He stepped forward, disappeared inside.

Tamara stayed where she was, watching, for five minutes. Roland didn’t come back out.

A Muni bus was headed her way; she put the headlights on, drove around the corner. No parking spaces. Circled the block—still no spaces—and came back slow on Fillmore. Most of the stores looked closed, but several showed night lights and she wasn’t real sure which one Roland had gone into.

She pulled into the bus zone again. Leave the car here for a couple of minutes, she thought, not much of a ticket risk now. She got out the notepad and pen she kept in her purse, then walked quickly to Roland’s Beamer. When the street was clear she stepped out in front to peer at the license plate. 5XZX994. She scribbled the number on the pad before she moved on up the sidewalk to check the storefronts.

Barbecue take-out restaurant, dry cleaners, card shop—all connected parts of a single building, all closed now. A row of apartments made up the building’s second story. The storefront next to the card shop showed light through a gap between wine-colored curtains drawn across its front window; lights were on in the apartment above it, too. Propped between the curtains and the window glass was a large printed placard. Tamara eased up close enough to read the lettering.

PSYCHIC READINGS BY ALISHA
Palm     Tarot

Yes!

This was the place Roland had disappeared into, all right. Tamara risked a quick peek through the lighted gap. All she could see was part of a sparsely furnished room, a table with a red-shaded lamp on it, more dark red curtains drawn over a doorway at the rear. No sign of Roland, no sign of Alisha.

But Tamara didn’t need to see the woman to know who she was. Alisha was Mama’s name. Roland had led her straight to Mama.

And where Mama was, her miserable son was sure to be nearby.

She called Deron Stewart back and arranged to meet him on South Park, outside the agency. Seemed like the best place; she didn’t want him coming to her apartment on Potrero Hill, and anywhere else, even a neutral public spot, thinned out the strictly business atmosphere she’d established with him. Last thing she needed tonight was him hitting on her.

All the way to South Park, she felt a grim elation. So Mama was a psychic. Or pretending to be one. There were plenty of honest card and palm readers in the city, but Tamara would bet her bank account that Alisha wasn’t one of them. Not with a down-low thief for a son.