Rubbing a hand over his now clean-shaven chin, Steve started slowly down Palm, his eyes darting around, taking in every door and window as he approached the red Mustang. He became very aware of the weight of the .38 on his left hip, grateful that he'd brought it with him, even though he had been forbidden to participate in the raid on Coopers and the bodega.
He strolled casually past the sports car and continued down the street, stopping at the corner and looking around, as if he was new to the area and trying to get his bearings. He used the movement to steal a glance back up the street again, wishing he had seen exactly which building Danny had entered.
Suddenly he spun around and started up Palm towards California again, as if he had remembered which way he had to go. As he approached the Mustang once more he slowed his pace marginally as his dark-glasses-covered eyes snapped towards the license plate and he quickly memorized it.
He continued up the block and around the corner to the LTD, getting in behind the wheel and snagging the mic. "Inspectors 8-1, I need you to run some plates for me."
"Go ahead, 8-1."
"Yeah, it's a California plate 4-M-C-N-7-5-2. I need the name and address."
"10-4, 8-1."
Steve waited while the information was researched. He knew it might take a minute or two. He half-expected the dispatcher to come back and tell him he wasn't officially on duty and that they couldn't honour his request, so he was more than pleasantly surprised when the female voice interrupted his contemplation.
"Inspectors 8-1, I have that information you requested."
"Go ahead."
"That plate is registered to a 1972 Mustang, color red. Owner is Daniel Ray Donaldson, address is 113C Palm Avenue."
Steve had seen that building. "Thanks, Dispatch. That's all." He released the talk button and hung up the mic. So now he knew the address but he still hadn't come up with a plan.
He got quickly out of the LTD, taking off the leather jacket and dark glasses and tossing them onto the front seat. He slipped the holster off his belt on his left hip and slid it back onto the belt in the middle of his back, pulling out his shirt so it was covered. He then returned to Palm, heading down the street once more. This time he stayed close to the buildings, cutting down the angle so he wouldn't be seen until he was almost on top of the residence he was looking for; he reached behind his back and unsnapped the leather holster.
113 turned out to be one of the small apartment buildings that dotted that side of the street. He tried the wrought-iron gate that protected the front door, surprised when it opened, then catching his breath with a grimace when it squeaked. He froze and waited, straining to detect any noise from within that his presence had been announced. Hearing nothing, he slipped past the gate and opened the heavy wooden front door.
There were four small metal mailboxes built into one wall, a door with an 'A' and a peace symbol painted on it, and a short narrow staircase leading to a landing. The entire foyer badly needed a coat of paint.
Steve stepped to the foot of the staircase and looked up, unsure if he should press his luck and move further into the building. He would have to go past at least one more door before he got to 'C'.
Another of the infamous Stone's Axioms came to mind: never, ever go into a situation with too little information and not enough preparation, both of which, in the current situation, he had in spades. He was also alone.
He exhaled heavily and put his foot on the bottom step, reaching behind his back for the .38. He was just about to slip it out of the holster when he froze, hearing the creak of the wrought-iron gate. He dropped both hands to his sides and turned quickly to the mailboxes, pretending to study the names, as two young women opened the wooden door and stepped into the lobby.
They both stopped short, glancing at each other nervously, and he looked at them and smiled, turning on the Keller charm. "Oh, ah, sorry to startle you…" he began with a disarming friendliness.
"Can we help you?" the first girl asked pointedly, staring at him under knitted brows, not responding in the usual infatuated way he had come to expect.
Slightly taken aback, Steve hesitated, not completely involuntarily. "I, ah, yeah, I hope so, I'm looking for a friend. Bobby, ah, Bobby Sullivan. I thought this was the address that he gave me but I can't find his name on the mailboxes."
The first girl glanced at her friend; neither of them was smiling or showing the least inclination to help him out. "There's no one named Bobby living here," the first one informed him pointedly, "and I've been here for two years. You've got the wrong apartment."
"Oh, ah, sorry, I thought he said 113. I musta got it wrong, sorry," Steve finished lamely. He didn't move, making no effort whatsoever to leave.
Both girls eyed him stonily, and he realized they were not going anywhere until he left.
Clearing his throat, he said under his breath, "Well, I'll, ah, I'll see if he's living next door." He started to push past them towards the door. They moved sullenly out of the way for him to pass. "Uh, sorry I, ah, sorry…" He pulled open the wooden door and walked out, grimacing at the squeak from the gate once more as he exited onto the street.
He glanced back at the building, then started for the one on the right, as if he was really looking for the fictitious Bobby Sullivan, in case anyone was watching. But when he was satisfied no one was, he started up the street again towards the LTD. He didn't want to risk another stunt like that; he knew he had gotten away with playing into the hands of fate. Chances were Danny Donaldson wasn't alone and he could have strolled into a very serious, perhaps deadly, confrontation, all because he didn't listen to his inner voice.
He snickered to himself as he strode purposefully up the street. My inner voice, my ass, he thought, it's Mike's voice I hear in my head in these kind of situations, not my own. For a brief second a smile washed over his face, a warmth through his body. He wondered if his partner was still asleep, recovering. He hoped so.
He returned to the LTD, gratified not to find a parking ticket, and drove around the block, getting back onto California then turning onto Palm. He parked near the corner of California, tucked in behind a gardener's pick-up truck but still able to see the side and one back light of the Mustang halfway up the next block. He chuckled to himself: thank god Danny had lived up to the stereotype and bought a car that stood out so easily.
He lifted the dark glasses briefly to glance at his watch. 2:16. It felt so much later, he thought, and once again he wondered how things had gone at Coopers and the bodega. He had just taken off the dark glasses to rub his eyes when he noticed the front wheels on the Mustang turn and suddenly it shot out onto the street.
Tossing the glasses on the seat beside him, he started the car and threw it into Drive, slamming his foot down on the gas. Tires squealing, the large sedan almost leapt from the parking space as Steve cranked the wheel, steadying the rocking car as he slowed then rolled through the stop sign at Euclid, trying to keep the Mustang in sight.
The sports car turned onto Geary, heading west, but it wasn't going much above the speed limit, and Steve knew that Danny, most likely now running for his freedom if not his life, didn't want to call undue attention to the hard-to-miss cherry red coupe.
Steve followed at a safe distance. If there was one thing he excelled at more than any other, it was his ability to tail another car. Even the sometimes hard-to-please Mike Stone admitted that he had never met nor worked with anyone who could do it better. This, though, would be the ultimate test of his abilities, he knew; there was a lot riding on his skill and experience right now.
The Mustang was moving steadily west on Geary and Steve realized they were heading towards Park Presidio Blvd. and most likely the Bridge. Sausilito? he wondered. It wasn't exactly an out-of-the-blue assumption; after all, the fishing boat with the abductees had originated in Sausilito. Did Newman and Jenkins have the pier there covered? He couldn't remember.
As he kept his eye on Danny's car, which was making full and timely stops at all the lights and obeying the speed limits, he couldn't resist a tiny smile. Unfortunately, Divisadero was behind them; that street had been made famous as a result of the film "Bullitt". Mike hated that movie, he knew, saying it gave the police department a bad name, just like the "Dirty Harry" movies. But for a brief moment Steve wondered what it would feel like if he and Danny Donaldson recreated that iconic car chase down that very steep street; after all, he was an SFPD homicide inspector and Danny was driving a Mustang.
But the cherry red coupe turned slowly onto Park Presidio, heading for the 101 and towards the Bridge.
Steve dropped back even more when they got to the 101. It was easy to keep the Mustang in sight, and he knew the spooked bartender must be looking over his shoulder. As commonplace as the unmarked police car was, eventually it would be noticed if every time Danny looked in the rearview mirror, it was there.
Just across the bridge, the sports car turned onto Alexander Avenue, heading towards Sausilito. Steve dropped back even further. He knew now that Danny was heading to the pier; he could afford to drop out of sight behind him and allow the Mustang to temporarily disappear.
He pulled over briefly to allow a couple of cars to pass then slid back out onto Alexander, heading into the sleepy little fishing village. He turned off the main road at the southern end of the large marina; he remembered from the briefings that the fishing boats were moored at the upper end of the northernmost pier. There was a small parking lot and he pulled into an open space and got out.
He looked around but couldn't see the Mustang. He could feel his anxiety rising; had he made a miscalculation? Was Danny not going to the pier after all and had gone somewhere else instead? Had he blown his one and only chance to slap the cuffs on the man who had drugged his partner and arranged for his kidnapping?
It was warm in Marin County and he left the leather jacket in the car as he started towards the marina. There were a lot of people milling around, enjoying the sights of the brightly-coloured boats and houses; some of them were tourists, he knew, others boat owners, the rest locals. It was a little easier for him to blend into the crowd here than in the city but he still knew he had to be careful.
He fell in behind a group of young people in shorts and tied-dyed t-shirts heading for one of the boats. In his jeans and burgundy shirt he really didn't fit in but he thought it was less obvious than trailing a bunch of tourists in Hawaiian shirts, Bermuda shorts and sandals with white socks.
Steve was halfway down the marina when he spotted it; the red Mustang was parked out of sight behind a large Suburban. He wasn't sure if it was intentional or accidental.
Glancing over his shoulder to see if he was being watched, he stepped quickly to the side of the Suburban away from the car and slipped the .38 from behind his back, raising it in front of his face, barrel up. He moved quietly to the front of the van, straining to hear anything that would let him know that Danny was still near the vehicle, though he assumed he was not at this point.
Lowering the revolver and putting both hands on the grip, he spun around the front of the Suburban, dropping instinctively into a shooting stance. No one was there. He was just about to bring the gun back up to a safe position when he felt the pressure of smooth, cold steel behind his right ear. A deep voice growled, "Don't…. move…"