John Lescroart - A Certain Justice

What did they think was going on here anyway? The whole sham structure of a melting pot was being dismantled brick by brick all over the city at this very minute – had been all week – and here the intellectuals and bon vivants and liberals and faggots sat with their lattes and strops and the occasional white wine – what did they call it, schmoozing ! Well, they weren't her problem, but God, she hated them. Let 'em eat – she scanned the blackboard menu – let 'em eat foccacia , whatever the hell that was.

Her thoughts were interrupted by one of her technicians – Sam the Van Man – scanning through the windows of the place, recognizing her, getting to the door, through the maze of creative floor arrangement to her table. She was already up, coming toward him. 'We've got him,' he said, nearly breathless from his run. 'It's definitely Shea. Place called Pizzaiola – eighteen hundred block of Haight Street.'

Forgetting the cold and everything else, she was on her way out, dragging Sam in her wake. 'Let's roll.'

Kevin covered Melanie's hand again – easy, easy – as the black-and-white police car pulled up on the street in front.

'We'd better get the check.' Matter-of-fact.

But before they could catch the waitress's attention the two uniformed policemen walked into the pizza place, chatting, apparently taking a break, filling up – it seemed to Kevin – a lot of the space inside, using up a lot of breathing air.

'Will that be all?' Their efficient waitress.

"Thanks. It was great. Just the check, please.'

A quick turn and she was gone.

The cops stood together by the ordering bar, talking with one of the dough throwers. The waitress stopped up front next to the cops, said a few words, laughed.

Kevin and Melanie huddled together in their corner, keeping their faces as covered as they could. 'Just keep cool,' he said, and she nodded, squeezing his hand.

Not soon – say about the half-life of carbon later – the waitress came back with their check, dropped it face down, left. Kevin picked it up – $34.64 for a pizza and some beer – and reached for his wallet.

The cops finished with their order and turned to look for a table.

'No. Not here, not here,' Kevin intoned.

'Shhh.'

'You'd hate it here, there's a horrible draft. Also, I think something must have died in the hallway…'

'Shhh! Kevin…!'

Moving back through the restaurant, the policemen pulled chairs up less than three feet from where Kevin and Melanie sat at the next table over.

'I'm going to throw up,' Melanie whispered.

Kevin opened his wallet. He looked again. There was no money in it. Keeping his voice low, he gripped Melanie's hand. 'Where's the money? Did you take the money?'

She looked at him as though he were insane. 'You had the money, don't tease like this…'

Kevin folded open the wallet, showing her. 'I think we left it on the table back at Ann's.'

'We didn't…'

'I put it under a flowerpot on the kitchen table. I don't remember taking it. I must have left it.'

Melanie covered her face with her hands. She wanted to run. She couldn't run. The police were right herel Looking at Kevin. 'Oh God!' It just came out.

Hearing her, one of the policemen – an older guy with a kind face – leaned over to them. 'You kids okay? Everything all right?'

Melanie stared at him. Frozen. Finally: 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'My cat, it just died, today.' She tried to smile.

Kevin gave them half of his profile – more than half would be inviting disaster. 'Murray,' he added, 'his name was Murray. Had him for six years.'

'Gee, that's tough,' the cop said. 'Myself, I'm not a cat man, but my wife is.'

Simms was the only woman in the team. The four men who'd been hanging out in the van were more prepared for the cold than she was – leather jackets, heavy pants. They had already patched a call to the back-up unit at the hotel – including the other marksmen – all of them would rendezvous at the famous corner of Haight and Ashbury and move in from there.

In her car, flying now out to Geary, but without a siren – damned if she was going to let any of the local authorities in on this. The San Francisco police would just screw it up. This was an FBI bust – Simms sat in the front seat on the passenger side, her three guys primed but controlled on the way out. They didn't say much, they didn't have to recheck their weapons, any of that – the weapons would work if they were needed. Her men were pros.

'What I want you to do is just walk to the bathroom.'

'Kevin, we've got to pay. We can't just leave…'

Kevin was using all of his strength to keep his voice down. 'I'm not giving them my credit card. I don't think you should either. I think you have to go to the bathroom, don't you?'

Melanie struggled with it, got up and disappeared into the hallway behind them. Kevin waited as long as he could stand it, then turned around to the policemen – more than halfway around. In the low light he had to take the chance.

'Excuse me,' he said. They stopped talking, both of them turning to him. 'I'm just going back to see if my girlfriend's okay.' He pointed to the unpaid bill. 'She's got the money with her. In case the waitress comes, sees we're both gone' – he flashed a grin – 'would you please tell her we didn't cut out on the check. We'll be right back.'

The nice cop nodded, said sure, and Kevin was gone.

Melanie, white as death, shivered by the back door, which was clearly labelled 'Emergency Exit Only. Alarm will Sound.'

Kevin stopped in front of her, studied the sign. 'You ready? Let's go.'

'What do you mean, let's go?'

He took her hand, bringing her along with him, pushed into the bar that held the door. No sound. The door opened into an alley.

Margot Simms pulled up behind the police car that was parked by the curb in front of Pizzaiola. 'What's that doing here?' she asked of no one, getting out of her car.

She had already positioned a man each at the opposite ends of the alley that ran the length of the block behind the restaurant. She and the last one – Sam the Van Man – were going in through the front door.

Simms had decided that there would be no point in making a fuss. No sense inviting resistance or worse. Kevin Shea would have no idea who she was – just another customer – until she flashed her badge and, if need be, pulled her weapon.

Standing just inside the door, surveying the room, she did not see anybody resembling Kevin Shea. There were only about twenty tables – and it took that many seconds. One of the tables, back by where a couple of city cops were sitting, had not been cleared off yet but its seats were empty. She turned and issued an order to Sam to check the bathroom.

Back with the policemen, she identified herself, took out Kevin Shea's picture, asked them if they had seen anyone who looked like…

A frozen glance between the men. One of them cattle-prodded, almost knocked the table over jumping up, reaching for his gun, going into the hallway. Simms followed in hot pursuit.

Sam came out of the bathroom. 'Nothing,' he said.

They were gathered in the narrow hallway. The older San Francisco cop hesitated by the back door, then pushed.

Nothing.

He let it swing all the way closed. Pushed at it again. 'Alarm must be out of whack,' he said.

'I literally thought I was going to die,' Melanie said. They were turning off Haight onto Stanyan, fifty yards from the lobby entrance to Ann's building. 'What are we going to do about the bill?'

Kevin gave her the eye. 'You're worried about the bill?'

'Well, you just don't walk out without paying.'

'Sometimes you do. It's called situational ethics, I think.'