Alan Jacobson: Inmate 1577

His heart raced. Perspiration prickled his scalp.

He really did not want to do this. He had never taken anything from anyone that didn’t belong to him. Yet so much had been taken from him, and Henry, what was a little money? Money was replaceable. Doris was not.

But they needed food and shelter, and MacNally had to take care of it. He didn’t see a choice.

He opened his eyes, tightened his lips, tensed his hands.

MacNally scooped up the note and marched over toward the other customers and took his place in line. As he stood there waiting, he realized he didn’t have anything to wrap across his face. Did that matter? He was going to leave town right away. Still… He should’ve thought of this. What if the teller described him to police?

His eyes darted around for something-a hat, a kerchief, anything that would cover all or a portion of his face. His muffler. He pulled it off his neck and tossed it over the opposing shoulder, draping it across his nose and mouth. It was cold out, so he wouldn’t look out of place, and although half his features were still visible, it was enough to provide doubt in a witness’s mind.

“Next,” called a smiling woman in her late fifties. She was ten feet away. All he had to do was hand over the note.

MacNally clenched his jaw, put his head down, and walked forward.

Burden pulled his gray Ford Taurus into the parking lot that served the Exploratorium and Palace of Fine Arts entrance. Vail swung her legs out of the car and rose, then craned her head skyward. Ahead of her were groupings of thick, Corinthian columns that stretched more than thirty feet into the sky.

“What is this place?”

“The Palace of Fine Arts. Part of an exposition the city had in 1915.”

Vail knew that voice. She turned and saw a man in a black overcoat sporting a crew cut, a Marlboro dangling from his lips. “Inspector…Friedberg, right?”

The man grinned and approached with his right hand extended.

Vail took it and shook. “My personal historian.”

Burden came around the vehicle. “You two know each other?”

“I was out here a couple of months ago on another case. Friedberg helped out on a cold case of his.”

“More like frozen. And she cleared it for me. Ain’t that a goddamn kick?” He pulled the cigarette out and expelled a wisp of smoke from the side of his mouth. “A dozen years working the case, I got a big goose egg. Then she blows into town and in a week, she solves it.”

“The task force solved it,” Vail said. “I was just part of the team. But let’s hope we clear this one just as fast.”

“Speaking of which,” Burden said, “what’s the deal with the husband? Where is he?”

“Follow me.” Friedberg led the way through the path between the two large stands of columns.

“You said this place was the Palace of…what?”

“Fine Arts,” Friedberg said.

“What’s it for?” Vail asked. “And don’t say ‘fine arts,’ or I’ll have to kick you where it hurts.”

Friedberg glanced at her over his shoulder. “The way you say it, I think you’re capable of doing just that.”

You wouldn’t be the first.

“Ten of these buildings were built to celebrate the rebirth of San Francisco after the 1906 earthquake. They weren’t supposed to be up more than a year, so they made ’em out of wood, plaster, and burlap. But people really liked them. I mean, they were freaking gorgeous, right? So they raised money and collected a gazillion signatures, and the city eventually made castings of the original structure. Around 1964, I think, they tore the whole thing down, then rebuilt it in concrete.”

Burden, striding to catch up, shook his head. “I don’t know how he keeps all these facts crammed into that brain of his.”

“Is he like this with everything?” Vail asked.

“ He is right here,” Friedberg said. “And it’s just Bay Area stuff. For the most part. What can I say, I like history. Shoulda gone into teaching. Instead I carry a gun and badge and try to teach lessons to the scum of San Francisco.”

They had walked through the colonnade and were headed toward a large rotunda. Vail stopped and brought her hand to her forehead to shield her eyes against the bright gray, glaring sky as she looked at the columns. They were conjoined by a walkway of sorts, with what appeared to be female figurines standing with their elbows draped across the top of the portico, as if peering over its uppermost boundary.

“It’s quite beautiful.” She swung her gaze to Friedberg. “But where’s the husband?”

“In here.” Friedberg led them into the rotunda, a large structure that dwarfed the pergola and served as its centerpiece.

“What’s he afraid of,” Burden asked. “That the killer’s going to find him?”

Friedberg stopped walking. “Nope, that’s definitely not a concern of his.”

“Then why meet us here?” Burden asked. “Why not the local Starbucks?”

“I think the answer to that question’ll be evident in a minute.”

Vail peered up and around the vast structure, which she figured stretched over fifty feet into the air. Half a football field ahead, there appeared to be a body of water. “C’mon, Friedberg. You interrupted my morgue visit, and you just gotta know I cherish my time in those places. Where is this guy?”

Behind them, footsteps. Vail turned and saw a man dressed in a county uniform marked CSI. He was carrying a kit. She looked at Friedberg.

Friedberg took a long drag on his Marlboro, then pulled it from his lips and watched the smoke swirl on the breeze. He then tipped his head back and gestured above them with the cigarette. “Agent Vail, meet William Anderson.”

Vail and Burden craned their necks and saw, twenty feet above them, an ashen elderly man. Tied to the base of a massive wine-red column.

“That’s William Anderson?” Vail asked.

Friedberg brought his eyes down to meet Vail’s. “Yes ma’am.”

“But he’s dead.”

“Right again.”

Vail looked away. “Shit.”

MacNally pulled his shoulders back, shoved his right hand in a pocket, then looked up and met the teller’s eyes.

“Good afternoon,” she said with an absent-minded glance down at her watch. Then, with rote skill: “How may I help you?”

The woman’s nameplate read, Mrs. Wilson. MacNally slid the note forward, keeping his gaze locked on the woman’s face. Looking for a gesture toward the security guard, an unfriendly movement of any kind.

Her eyes rotated from her watch to the note, then quickly up to MacNally’s face.

“It’s real easy,” MacNally said, hardening his brow. In a low voice, he said, “Do it. Now. Fast, or I start shooting. You’ll be the first I kill.”

Mrs. Wilson fumbled for her drawer, then pulled it open. Her hands were instantly unstable, trembling as she reached for the neat stacks of bills. “This is a very dangerous thing you’re doing, Mister.”

“I don’t want any kinda commentary. Put it in a bag. Do it real quick. That’s all I want you thinking about.” He moved his arm, as if he was tightening his grip on the phantom weapon in his pocket.

“I don’t have a bag,” she said.

“And I don’t want excuses. Put it in something. Fast.” Fact was, though, he had zero leverage here. If she refused, or called his bluff, he could only run out empty-handed.

It was a moot point because Mrs. Wilson began stacking the bills in front of her. But she was moving slowly, as if stalling for time.

MacNally was trying to look calm, but how could he? He was perspiring from having the wool wrapped across his mouth and nose, and the pressure of the moment was no doubt making things worse. He stole a glance at the guard to his right. The man was folding the newspaper. He tossed it aside and looked up. MacNally swung his head away, back toward Mrs. Wilson.