If Angels Fall (48 page)

Urlich’s office was a cracked rolltop desk buried
under mounds of auto magazines, newspapers, brochures, junk mail, notes, and
phone books. Amazingly he reached into the heap and pulled out a slip of paper,
smudged with engine grease. The pickup’s bill of sale.

Rust looked at it, cursed, and gave it to Sydowski.

John Smith had bought the truck.

“Says here he also bought a boat and trailer from
you.”

“Yes. Northcraft with twin Mercs. Paid nine thousand
for the whole shooting match.”

“He said he was from San Francisco?” Sydowski was
taking notes.

“Yes.”

“Why come out here to buy a truck and boat?”

Urlich shrugged. “I only advertised the truck.”

“You advertised? In what?”

Urlich reached into the pile again, retrieving an
automotive buy-and-sell magazine. “I put all my stock in here.” He licked a
finger, casually browsing through the pictures of cars and trucks, each bearing
an information caption. “Goes all over Northern California. Here it is.” He
tapped the picture.

Rust and Sydowski stared at a profile photo of the
Ford pickup truck used in the abduction of Gabrielle Nunn from the Children’s
Playground of Golden Gate Park.

“You got a picture of the boat and trailer?” Sydowski
said.

Urlich indicated his paper pile. “In there
somewheres.”

“You got any of the nine thousand he gave you left?”
Rust said.

“Yup, why?”

“Can we see it?”

Urlich fished a jingling key chain from his coveralls
and unlocked a drawer, then a metal strong box containing several envelopes
filled with cash. “Some is deposits on my stock.” He handed Rust an envelope
containing several fifty-and hundred-dollar notes. They were
fresh-from-the-mint bills with sequential serial numbers. They could yield the
suspect’s prints. And the Secret Service and Treasury people might be able to
give the task for a point-of-circulation bank.

“Can you remember what this man looked like?” Sydowski
said.

Urlich scratched his chin.

“Any distinguishing scars, tattoos, any memorable
speech patterns?”

“No,” Urlich said, before giving a vague, useless
description.

“He come with anybody?”

Urlich shook his head. “Said he hitchhiked.”

“Hitchhiked?” Sydowski took a note. “Any idea at all
where he lived? Worked? His phone number?”

Urlich shook his head. “Nope. I see quite a few people
and it was a long time ago.”

“Anything about him that sticks in your mind?” Turgeon
said.

Urlich couldn’t recall anything.

“He say what he needed the truck for?” Ditmire said.

“Nope.”

“What about the boat?” Sydowski wondered. “He say
anything about it? He came for a truck and leaves with a truck and boat.”

“Now that you mention it, he was something of a holy
man about the boat.”

“A holy man?” Ditmire said.

“Yes, he came for the truck and fell in love with the
boat. He said it was destiny that he should find such a boat.”

“Destiny?”

“Destiny or fate, as I recall.”

“In what way?” Sydowski said.

“Well, I never advertised the boat. It was just
sitting here, not really for sale and he spots it and starts on some Bible
mumbo jumbo.”

“You remember any of it?”

“Just that it was about life and death, resurrection.”

“Resurrection?” Sydowski said. “He sees this boat and
talks about resurrection?”

“Guess it had something to do with why he needed the
boat.”

“He say why he needed that boat?” Rust asked.

“Well ... after that he sort of clammed up, it was
like he was talking to himself and suddenly remembered I was there.”

“Did he say why he needed the boat?” Sydowski pushed.

Urlich appraised Sydowski, Rust, and the others,
chuckling at his memory before sharing it. “Said he needed it to find his
children.”

To find his children?

The law men stared at each other, bewildered.

During the return flight to San Francisco, several
intense calls were made to the Hall of Justice and Golden Gate Avenue. The
entire task force was to meet within ninety minutes.

Zach forced
himself to quit bawling like some sort of candy-ass wuss. Jeff and Gordie would
laugh at him, but it hurt. Everything was coming apart. His folks were really
splitting. The kids at school were right. When your folks split and move out,
they never get back together, no matter what they tell you.

Right after the big blowup with Dad, Mom went to her
room, and slammed the door. He heard her crying, wailing like he had never
heard before. It scared him. Her sobbing tore at his heart.

He didn’t know what to do. But he had to do something,
had to grow up and do something.

He opened his school backpack and was shoving stuff in
it. He had made a decision. He was going to Gordie’s. He’d stay with his pal.
He’d get away.

He stuffed his CD player, Batman comics, Swiss army
knife, penlight, Walkman, some underwear, and balled up some pants, socks,
shirts, and a jacket into his pack. He dropped to his knees and carefully slid
out the envelop he kept hidden under the big drawer in his room. It contained
his life savings: $117.14.

Zach hoisted the bag on his back, slipped out of the
house, and trotted off, growing angrier and more determined with each step he
took along Fulton.

Mom and Dad were breaking a promise.

This is how you measured a person’s worth, by the
number of promises they broke.

It just wasn’t fair.

He headed toward Center. He knew the way to BART. He’d
take it to San Francisco and then take a cab to Gordie’s house. They could call
Jeff and catch up on stuff, talk about old times. Maybe he could move in with
Gordie. Maybe there was some way he and Gordie could become brothers. Maybe
sign some court papers or something. Gordie’s mother and father never fought.
Gordie’s dad was an accountant and was always home.

It was kind of nice being on his own. Before he got on
BART, he’d stop at that hobby store along the way and buy that monster-sized
model of the U.S.S.
Kitty Hawk
. He could take it with him to Gordie’s
and he could help him put it together. That would be cool!

He was on his own now. They didn’t need him around in
Berkeley anymore. Zach sniffed as he waited for the light to change at an
intersection. He glanced over his shoulder and noticed a white van a few car
lengths away. Funny.

Looks like the same doof that was hangin’ out near his
grandma’s place earlier. So what? Zach shrugged off his curiosity.

One cherry
had tumbled into place.

Two more and they had a jackpot.

Sydowski loosened his tie as everyone settled around
the conference table in Room 400 at the hall. Most had to stand. Gonzales
wheeled a new chalkboard into place, in front of its predecessor bearing the
blown-up faces of Tanita Marie Donner, Danny Becker and Gabrielle Nunn, and the
map with its color locator pins. The new board had enlarged color photos of the
Ford pickup, the boat, and trailer.

They were on the bad guy’s trail.

The next cherry would be his identity.

And the next would be finding him with the kids.
Sydowski sipped his coffee, bit into his chicken sandwich. He and the others
had returned from Calaveras in time to grab stale food from the cafeteria
before the meeting. The pickup truck lead kicked it all into overdrive. More
people had been brought in.

“We’ve got new information, so listen up, we’ll be
handing out assignments.” Gonzales stood at the new board, examining the new
material in his file folder. “The IDENT team left behind in Calaveras just
lifted two latents from the new bills left over in the buy of the suspect
pickup. They match the single latent we found on the wrapping of the hamburger
used to lure Gabrielle Nunn’s dog. We pumped them through the system. Zilch.”

“We are also checking all prints of anyone who has
ever been bonded in the state -- private investigators, armored car guards,
state and federal workers, just to make sure we’ve covered everything.”

Adam McCurdy, chief of Investigations, interjected.
“The chief will hold a press conference this afternoon to make a public appeal
for information on the pickup and the boat and trailer, reiterating the reward.
He will say that we believe Virgil Lee Shook is responsible for the murder of
Tanita Marie Donner, but that we have nothing linking him to the abduction of
Becker and Nunn. He will state that the suspect in those kidnappings is still
at large. We’ll add whatever new information is pertinent.”

Gonzales nodded.

“We’re sending out alerts on the truck and the boat,
targeting marinas.” Gonzales flipped through his file. “Treasury’s still
working on the serial numbers of the new bills to determine point of
circulation. So far they have narrowed it to a San Francisco bank. And, on the
hamburger...” Gonzales found another data sheet. “A brick wall. Because the
label was damaged, we could only confirm it as a purchase in the city. And, on
the boat and trailer: same as the pickup, no change in registration. Still
comes up to Urlich.”

As Gonzales summarized the case, Sydowski finished his
sandwich, slipped on his glasses, and made notes, his theories and hunches
percolating, extracting the essence of a vital angle he knew he had overlooked.
It tried to surface during the chopper flight back from West Point, flailing in
his subconscious as the patchwork of vineyards, pastureland, orchards, towns,
and urban sprawl rolled below. It was difficult to converse through the
helicopter’s intercom, leaving each person alone with his thoughts as they
thundered back to San Francisco. Now, sitting in Room 400, Sydowski replayed
them, trying again to catch the key, hidden aspect that had been gnawing at
him.

It had been so long since he talked with his
daughters. He was consumed with the case. It was national news. The girls
called him regularly, the red message light blinking at him from his machine
almost everything night when he got home. “Saw you on TV, Dad, hope you’re
taking care of yourself.” Geneva, his firstborn daughter, sounded like her
mother.

Then came his second daughter, Irene, forever the baby
of the family. “Hey, Pop, I know you’re busy, call us when you get a chance.
Oh, Louise wants to leave a message, go ahead, honey.”

“Hi, Grandpa! I saw you on TV, I love you.”

It was always too late for him to call back. He rarely
had a free moment to check on his old man. And he was likely going to miss the
Seattle bird show.

Sydowski glimpsed Turgeon taking notes intensely. She
was wearing a powder-blue pullover sports shirt, navy Dockers, and glasses. Her
hair was up in a bun, accentuating her pretty face, her youth. She could pass
for a Berkeley grad at a lecture. But she was a veteran cop, a good
investigator with good instincts, and although he hadn’t known her very long,
he was glad she was his partner. He found a degree of paternal comfort in her
presence.