The Ancient Rain (12 page)

“His people?”

“A man like that, Sprague, he has people. Also, the financial aspect, if there's a money trail—if someone paid for this—Sprague's people know that world better than we do.”

“They're throwing us off?”

“What they want you to do—us—hasn't changed. Go through the discovery material, everything the prosecution presented at the indictment, the witness list, all that. And stay with Sorrentino. Figure out what he and Elise Younger have been doing. The bombing, that part, leave it to the others.”

Dante didn't say anything. It seemed Sprague was paying not just for Owens's defense, but for Marilyn's recovery, and, he supposed, for the retainer that kept him on the case.

“There's something else,” Cicero said.

“What?”

“Owens, his place is ruined. He's got his family in a hotel.”

“Yeah.”

“There's media outside. And the hotel is pretty upset about it.”

Dante knew about this. He'd talked with Jill Owens on the phone and had seen the circus on the news.

“Your place down on Fresno?”

“Yes?”

“It's still empty? I know it's a lot to ask … but it would just be for a little bit. There aren't too many other places for them to go right now.”

Dante thought about the empty house, with the restaurant booth in the living room and his father's furniture in the basement and the keepsake box he'd left on the mantle beside the empty bottle of wine. He thought of his mother going nuts in the attic and his father dying in the bed upstairs and the creaking in the stairs every time the house shifted. Part of him blamed Owens for what had occurred, but he remembered, too, the kids and their ashen faces. Also, if he wanted to know what had happened on Shale Street, it might be wise to hold Owens close.

“Sure,” Dante said. “They can stay.”

“You're a good man,” said Cicero.

“A prince,” said Dante.

FIFTEEN

The next afternoon Lieutenant Leanora Chin went out to Shale Street to walk the crime scene. As usual, she was in blue. Middle-aged blue. Steel blue. Gun metal blue tucked into a straight skirt that hit, uniform-style, just below the knees. Fifty years old, twenty-three of them on the force. Again with her hair tied back, black hair streaked with iron. It gave her a severe look—except for her eyes. They were gray eyes, not warm exactly, no one would say that. There was in fact a certain coldness there, an analytical sweep—but there was an intelligence as well, and it was this intelligence that animated her face and kept the severity at bay. This, and the understanding, inherent in the way she held herself, that intelligence itself was not the final factor in anything.

At this point, the case was still under the jurisdiction of the Oakland police. So far they were viewing it as a local crime, but if it connected to the Owens case then SF Homeland would get involved. Logically speaking.

Of course, there was no saying that logic would have anything to do with it. That was always true when it came to jurisdictional issues, but even more so lately, Chin knew. She had spent most of her career in Homicide, then been transferred over to Special Investigations, to work in the Gang Unit. But then 9/11 came along, and everything shifted.

She was under Homeland now, a local unit, recently created, carved out of SFPD and federalized for the sake of national security. At first glance little had changed except the lettering on the door. Only the organizational lines were not clear, or the funding. Mandates changed daily. Fact was, SI wasn't an investigation unit anymore. It was an escort service for visiting dignitaries.

And her Gang Unit was in shambles.

A year ago, they'd had a half-dozen agents out tracing gang activities in the San Francisco ports. They were on other duty now. The new byword was “terror.” Domestic terror. Sleeper cells. People with agendas, hidden among us, waiting for the word from abroad. The leads came from hotlines, from disgruntled employees, public servants with a bug up their ass. To put it mildly, the leads rarely panned out. “Never” was more like it. But you couldn't say that. You had to pursue.

An Iraqi grocer. A college professor with relatives in Iran. An evangelical minister sending money to a church in Basra.

You had to bring these potentials in for questioning, so people could see you were doing your job. And once you brought them in, you had to be careful about letting them go. Because if you made a mistake …

So the tendency was to hold them forever, evidence or no.

Meanwhile, there was pressure to turn back the clock—to go after people who had slipped away in more lenient times.

Owens.

It was an old file, a grudge file, minded all these years by Leonard Blackwell and given to her at the last minute because they wanted a local face on the investigation. But Blackwell was still running the show. Since 9/11, in the organizational vacuum, his presence crossed departmental boundaries.

Not that she thought Owens was an illegitimate target necessarily.

But even if Owens was guilty, it wasn't supposed to come to this: a Molotov cocktail tossed through the window while the family gathered with friends, raising money for the defense.

*   *   *

The Oakland cops had secured the area. They had done well enough, she supposed. The firefighters had stomped all over the place, of course, and there were a million footprints, trampled bushes, broken glass, debris everywhere. They had managed to secure the scene by nightfall yesterday evening, putting up the yellow tape and posting a cop car out front—though the cop had been called away because of a robbery down on Fruitvale, and the scene had been untended half the night.

That could be a problem later, if they needed to take evidence to trial.

Meanwhile the Oakland police had pulled in the usual suspects, guys out on arson charges, drug freaks, and fire junkies. They'd pulled in as well a half-dozen Latinos in red shirts, based on a neighbor's description—including a gardener who had been working across the street earlier that morning.

The guy had been playing soccer when they arrested him, but he was illegal, and Immigration had him now. There'd been another Latino at the scene apparently, at the time of the party—a friend of Ricci's and her boyfriend, from the Tamale House—but the preliminary description did not match. Either way, so far, Oakland had not tracked him down.

Chin walked the scene. The forensics team had arrived, working the perimeters now that the ashes had cooled. It was clear they didn't want her around. She'd gotten the same response earlier when she'd called downtown with an offer to coordinate resources. They did not like that she had been out to the hospital the evening before, mucking around in their investigation.

Today when she returned to the office, there was a call from Blackwell.

“You were out at the scene.”

“Yes.”

“I want you to put out a statement for the press,” he said. “Tell them San Francisco Homeland stands ready to support the Oakland Police. But at this time there is no evidence of any national security threat. Rather, this is a criminal matter, under investigation by the Oakland Police. I've talked to the Bureau, and they are putting out a similar statement, saying the FBI will assist as needed.”

“Jensen says his client was targeted.”

“The defense is going to say a lot of things. The best thing to do with this kind of nonsense is to ignore it.”

Chin understood his logic but did not necessarily agree. Back in the seventies, the case had gotten tangled in side issues, baited by the defense and a media cross fire that had forced the investigation inward, the agencies turning one upon the other. No doubt, Blackwell did not want to see that happen again. Still …

“We have some profile sheets, known firebugs—”

Blackwell cut her off.

“Leave it to Oakland,” he said.

SIXTEEN

Owens was restless. It was early evening, two days later, and he and his family were trying to get settled in the house on Fresno Street. His restlessness was natural enough, he supposed—given all that had happened. At the moment, the kids were upstairs. Owens and his wife sat in the living room, in the vinyl restaurant booth Dante's previous tenants had left behind.

“Dante's on his way,” he said.

“What does he want?”

“The case—he has some questions.”

“What does Moe say?” She looked at him with concern. “Is it wise to keep Dante on? I mean…”

“It would be less wise to throw him off.”

“Is he eating with us?”

“We're going out to someplace in the neighborhood.”

“I don't know…”

“Don't worry.”

“I just wish we could get the hell out.”

Jill was on edge, the kids disoriented. The kids wanted their backyard, their things. Not this claustrophobic row house on an alley of row houses tilting haphazardly on the hill, laundry hanging out the windows in back, all over the fire escapes, and Chinese music till all hours of the night.

Meanwhile the police had set up surveillance.

For the family's protection, they had said. The real reason, though, was because Jensen had pitched a fit in the media, accusing the prosecution of fostering a climate of retribution. It was good theater, maybe—designed to gain public sympathy—but Owens did not enjoy the scrutiny.

“I feel trapped,” said Jill. “I feel like I am under house arrest.”

“It's just for a little while.”

“This place is musty—I can't get the musty smell out. And this furniture…”

“Jensen's looking for another place … maybe you can—”

“Me?”

She put her hands on her hips, indignant. Since his arrest, she had spent time on one crisis after another. To defend him, she and Moe had had to give up the case in Chicago and had thinned their docket here as well. It cost the firm money, putting them in the hole. Sprague had engineered their bail and helped with other things as well, but with Jill at home, and he, himself, unable to work, their household was running on empty. Also, there were things Sprague wanted—and it wasn't clear, exactly, how much further his generosity might extend.

“It's how the government works on you,” Owens said. “Pitting one against the other—so even those people who are on your side, your friends, you can't be sure. I remember—”

“I don't want to hear about what you remember,” she snapped. “I don't want to hear about any of that.”

He couldn't blame her. Earlier today, they had taken care not to be recognized at the corner market: Jill in dark glasses, her hair pulled back; himself wearing a wool beanie and a 49ers shirt. She'd accused him of enjoying it.
Like the old days, yes. You and your gang.

Now Jill stomped upstairs.

Owens sat alone in the restaurant booth, studying the alley. In a little while, he saw a darker shadow emerge from the other shadows in the alley, a black silhouette cast on the walkway, under the streetlight, in the pool of light, growing larger; then the shadow became corporeal. Dante knifed out of the darkness and into the light.

*   *   *

Owens did not wait for Dante to knock but instead joined him out in the alley. He could see the surveillance car still there at the top of the alleyway. The cop was watching, no doubt. Owens knew this. No doubt the man inside the car had taken note of Dante's presence, of the comings and goings, but the man did not follow them. Dante walked with his head down and his hands in his pockets, and Owens walked beside him. Fresno Street was really nothing more than a cobbled path up the hill with row houses on either side. In the daytime they were all faded pastel, but at the moment, with the fog and the cadmium lamps, the clapboard looked fog slick and damp, all but colorless. As they clomped downhill, their pace quickened, and Owens had to admit, at least part of him wished he could just keep going.

“They're watching the house?” Dante asked.

“For our protection.”

“Yes.”

“I don't know which idea scares me more—the nutcases, or the cops perched outside my door.”

“Jensen insisted?”

“Yes. But I want them gone. It's an intrusion.”

Dante didn't say anything, and Owens found himself wondering if it were wise to push the matter. But no, he wanted the surveillance gone. In the first place, it was not 24/7. It was sporadic. If someone wanted to get them, they would get them.

And for all he knew, the cops and the loonies were in league.

They walked on Grant Street now, headed toward Columbus. Owens knew this neighborhood from his time underground, when he and Rachel, his first wife, had skitted from house to house—and he also knew it from his many years working as an investigator in the city. He caught a glimpse of himself in the window walking by, he and Dante under the electric light, himself with his wool cap pulled tight over his head, looking like he belonged here, slicing through the neighborhood. His wife was right—he enjoyed it, the street, walking the edge.

They worked their way across Columbus to one of the old-line restaurants on the slope of Russian Hill. The food was old-style—the noodles wet and heavy, the meatballs full of eggs and crumbs.

“It's good that there are still some places around like this.”

“Elise Younger, as I'm sure you know, she claims she identified you, those years ago, coming out of the bank. You've seen the police sketches—the renderings they did back then.”

Owens nodded.

“The likeness is good.”

“I know,” said Owens.

He smiled awkwardly, but the truth was, this turn in the conversation, it was not altogether unexpected. Meanwhile, a waitress sauntered over with their wine. Owens welcomed the interlude—watching her pour the glass, nodding his approval—but at the same time felt something darken inside himself. He tried not to let it show.