I drove back down the mountain and turned in on Lake Shore Drive. Smithson’s house was dark as I cruised by. The garage door was closed and I had no way of knowing if he was home. I could break in again and see if his BMW was there. Or I could tiptoe around the back side of the house and see if I could spy his sleeping face through a window. Instead, I thought that there was no harm in waiting. Never know if he hired an off-duty cop to sit in the living room in the dark and drink scotch with him.
Down the street was a large pine. I parked behind it. I could just see Smithson’s house past the tree trunk. But his view of my vehicle was largely blocked. I was in front of a big brick house. Who would wake up first? Smithson? Assuming he was home. Or the occupants of the brick house who in this neighborhood would call the cops to report a strange man loitering in his Jeep?
The clock on the car radio said 2:00 a.m. in soft green numbers. Having nothing to read I put the radio on scan and let it search out stations. Reception in the mountains is weak at best. I got a hard rock station in Reno, followed by a country music station, followed by one devoted to golden oldies. The radio searched the rest of the FM band before picking up a pop music station that broadcast from up at the lake. I switched over to AM and the scan feature gave me many more choices, bouncing in from all over the west. The minutes crawled by while I watched Smithson’s house and listened to talk shows. In Phoenix they were arguing about assault weapons. In L.A. they were discussing liposuction. In Boise, Idaho they were trying to decide whether they should secede from the union. In San Francisco they were talking about how to fund the opera.
For a time I snoozed in the car seat. I woke stiff and cold. When I started the engine the car sounded in the quiet night like a 747 revving up for takeoff. But no lights went on in the nearby houses. Smithson’s house was unchanged. The clock said 4:30 a.m. I turned the heater on high and went back to my continuing education.
The Mormons in Salt Lake City were celebrating the jobs and international commerce that resulted from teaching kids foreign languages and then sending them abroad to study. In Seattle they were wondering how to be more than just a labor pool for Boeing and Microsoft. Portland wanted to pass a law that would prevent gays and Californians from buying property in Oregon.
A light went on in Smithson’s house. It was 5:00 a.m. I turned off the radio so I could concentrate. Another light turned on. There was movement in one of the big living room windows. Then nothing for a long time. Thirty minutes later the garage door opened and the BMW backed out.
It is hard following a car without being noticed when there are no other cars in the street. But the sky was lightening and I thought I could chance it without headlights. My Jeep would be harder for Smithson to spot, but it was still dark enough that a cop would pull me over. I waited until the BMW was almost out of sight before I pulled out. The BMW went around the north end of the lake. At one point I got close but couldn’t see if it was Smithson or the Lycra lady driving because of the smoked windows. I was counting on Smithson.
The car turned north on 267 and climbed up Brockway summit. I followed at a good distance. We crested the pass and cruised down past North Star Ski Resort. There was a bank of fog that covered the meadow near the Truckee airport. I wanted to slow, but the BMW flew into it as if it were not there. When I emerged from the fog the BMW was nowhere in sight.
I sped into Truckee and raced to the intersection of Interstate 80. The BMW was just disappearing out of sight where the west-bound ramp joins the freeway.
Interstate 80 is busy 24 hours a day so I thought it would be easy to mix in with the trucks and stay unseen behind the BMW. But Smithson liked to go twenty miles over the speed limit. I used the trucks like slalom course gates as I tried to keep up, hoping Smithson wouldn’t see my frantic driving in his mirror.
We raced over Donner Summit and down the west slope of the Sierra Nevada. I was watching my gas gauge, figuring my range as we cruised by the gas stations of Auburn. Then we were out of the foothills and onto the Central Valley. Sacramento approached and was quickly behind us. I had maybe enough gas to make it to San Francisco if that was where he was headed. Then again maybe I’d run out. Only one way to find out.
On the other side of the Central Valley we sailed up the low rise through the coastal range. To the north the mountains of Napa were a gorgeous green and lavender patchwork. To the south was Mount Diablo in the distance. The BMW set speed records going through Berkeley. I was amazed there were no troopers out. My gas gauge was on empty as we went around the big turn and cruised up to the toll booths for the Bay Bridge. There were several trucks between us. I was afraid I’d lose him. So I swerved three lanes over to an empty booth, paid my dollar and floored it up onto the bridge.
I caught up with the BMW halfway across the Bay. The City was magnificent, free of smog and framed like a picture by the cables of the Bay Bridge. The Transamerica pyramid sparkled in the sunlight. Over on Russian Hill and Pacific Heights the opulently painted Victorians were an artist’s palette of color.
The BMW exited the freeway and went up Larkin. It turned right on Post and drove up and down the hills. Then it went around the block and came back on Sutter. I was half a block behind him when my Jeep ran out of gas.
I coasted to the curb, jumped out of the car and looked for a cab. There were none in sight. I took what I thought was a last look at the BMW when it turned into a parking garage three blocks down. I sprinted down the opposite side of the street and was across from the garage when Smithson walked out and turned down the sidewalk. He entered a hotel down the block.
It was a nice enough place with turn-of-the-century charm, although I would have thought a slick guy like Smithson was more the Marriot type. I waited awhile, then walked up to the lobby door and casually looked in toward the check-in desk. Smithson was not there. I stepped inside and picked up a morning paper off the lobby table. Holding it to my face I perused the hallway and adjacent restaurant. He was gone. I walked over and pressed the elevator button. The light went on but no doors opened. They were on upper floors. Had Smithson taken one of the elevators up? Did he know someone who had a room? Or did he have a room? Being rich, did he keep a permanent room in The City?
I walked up to the counter. A young man with Polynesian features looked up from a desk, stood and walked to the counter. I flashed him the badge I bought at a flea market for a dollar. “DEA,” I said. I put the badge back in my pocket. “The man who just walked in. Does he have a room here?”
“I’m sorry, sir, I do not know who you mean.”
“Bodybuilder. Six feet. Two hundred forty pounds. Muscles you could sell at a beef auction in Kansas City. Usually goes by the name John Smithson.”
“Sir, I’m not authorized to...”
I leaned over the counter and spoke in a hushed, low voice. Intimate. Caring. Uncle Owen is handing out free advice. “What if the city inspectors bring their clipboards,” I said, “and apply the rules in the fine print? New wiring. New sprinkling system. New kitchen. New elevators. Complete earthquake retro-fit. Hell, might as well bulldoze the place and start over.” I stood up as tall as my six-six allowed and looked down on him. “You wouldn’t want your bosses to think you weren’t forthcoming to an officer of the law, would you?”
The young man slowly turned, swallowed and punched a few buttons on the computer. “We have a Mr. John Smithson staying through Sunday.”
I grinned at him. “Thank you. His room number?”
The man’s face paled. “I could get in so much trouble.”
His fear was palpable. Even though I knew that I would do nothing that could get him in trouble, I felt bad. But I didn’t let it show. “The room number?” I said again.
The young man slowly turned to the computer. “Four twenty-six.”
“There a back door to this place?”
“Only a service entrance downstairs. The customers must use the front door.”