Chapter 2

Ed's POV

On our way back I noticed that my colleague was hungry. I should have considered that she was so slight that she could not have enough reserves. We made a very brief stop at a hamburger shop.

When we arrived at headquarters, Fran immediately requested the name and address of the owner of the car belonging to the plate number she had gotten. A very purposeful young lady!

Yet the result made me feel sorry for her: The owner was a certain Jorge Hernandez – a Mexican.

Of course Fran was a professional. She wanted to find the culprit. But at the same time she had Mexican ancestors herself and a heart for her people. It was more than understandable that she had hoped for a different result of her search.

Ironside's POV

Ed reported what he had found... and what he had not found.

"It rained yesterday. Peterson must have been burglarized by the neatest burglar of San Francisco. Not only did he avoid stepping into the flowerbeds beside the paved path, nor did he leave any traces on the carpet. He lost his wristband, but I saw no damage to the wall, and not even to the bushes. Never mind Fran's plate and the wristband, I'm still not convinced by the theory of a Mexican stealing the signatures."

This wasn't just pity toward his young colleague; it was the standard of work I was used from my right-hand man. He would not jump to conclusions before all the evidence was there.

"I would certainly hope so after your years on the force!"

Fran darted me a confused glance. It reminded me of Eve in the early years of her working with me. Same as her Fran was tempted to parenting me into being nicer towards the boys. But Ed knew that he was good; he didn't need to be told, did he? And apropos, I had told him that he was a good man hardly a year ago.*) If that wasn't enough...

When the phone rang I answered it. It was forensics. They had found two sets of fairly good fingerprints on the wristband, but none of them were registered yet.

There was only one possible next step: "Go and pay that Mr. Hernandez a visit!"

Fran's POV

Hernandez opened the door personally. He was in his fifties and not much taller than me, but almost ball-shaped: the happy-go-lucky type of man who loves eating, drinking, joking and life in general. Never would the wristband fit over his hand.

Ed showed his badge. "Police, Sergeant Brown."

Hernandez wasn't the least intimidated. Instead he seemed to be pleased to have visitors. "Come in, Sergeant, and the lovely lady also, meet my wife!"

He introduced his other half – same age, same size, same shape.

We were forced to a kitchen table and provided with cups of coffee – very good coffee, by the way, not the black brew my colleagues deigned to call that way.

"Do you have a son, Mr. Hernandez?" asked my colleague.

"No son. Daughter!" answered Hernandez, beaming with pride. He showed us a picture of a younger version of the same model.

"She cleans houses of rich people, some very rich people, some not so rich. Today she is nearby, she will be back soon. Wait here until she arrives! She will be happy to meet you, very happy! Yesterday further away; too far to walk both ways. I went to get her by car. Very good job, makes good money to pay for college herself."

"Where did she clean last night?" I asked, just to make sure that everything added up. Of course it did: she had been in Nob Hill. This made it very, very unlikely that a member of the Hernandez family had stolen Peterson's signatures.

Obviously Ed thought the same way. Politely he thanked the Hernandezes for the coffee and we left the friendly house.

He informed the Chief by radio. But if I had hoped that we would go home now I was disappointed.

"Let's go back to the area of the burglary. At this time most people will be at home. Maybe someone remembers that teenager and his bike."

Ed's POV

Again we split up to question Peterson's neighbors. As I had expected we were luckier insofar most of the inhabitants of the neighborhood in question were now at home. But yesterday's rain had kept them all inside. Nobody seemed to have taken notice of a cyclist. Would this be another dead end?

Finally the last couple on my side knew something. The man had walked his dog and seen the cyclist.
He let every scolding I ever got from the Chief seem like hymn singing.

"What are you thinking, boy?! The kid on the bike was Caucasian. Our signatures against the MISF were stolen by Mexicans. What do we pay taxes for if they are wasted on useless cops like you?!"

Very helpful. Leaving the garden I stopped short. At once there was a gathering of people.

To gain a better overview I stepped onto the garden wall of the estate I had just left – and was appalled.

* S4 The Man on the Inside, Nov 1970