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He got into the cab, telling the driver, “Two stops, please. First, City Hall. And then SFO, international departure.”
The driver said, “Okay, boss,” and flipped the meter.
The man wearing the blue cap leaned back and enjoyed the ride. His plans were vivid in his mind.
He wanted his good-bye kiss to be incendiary and unforgettable. City Hall was an architectural masterpiece. Inaccessible, of course, but he had scoped out a vulnerable spot. There was a short ramp off McAllister Street that led to a valet parking area just below street level.
There would be no valet there at night, and as he saw it, he could simply leave the duffel with the timer set for when he was high above the clouds.
The driver’s name was Minnie.
She was a careful driver and he liked that. She didn’t speed, wasn’t aggressive, and even used turn signals. They drove along McAllister, lit up and with a modest amount of traffic. Passing the intersection at Polk, they approached City Hall, and Grant leaned forward and spoke to the driver.
“Just pull in over there.”
“Valet parking, you mean?” Minnie asked. “I can’t. That’s not allowed.”
“It’s okay. Completely okay,” Grant said. “We’re only stopping for half a minute.”
She looked into the rearview mirror, caught his eyes. He smiled encouragingly. She put on her directional signal, crossed McAllister, and stopped at the top of the short ramp.
“Okay, this is good,” Grant said. He could walk his duffel down to the entrance. “Just open the trunk latch for me.”
“Why?” she asked. “We’re still going to the airport, aren’t we?”
“Yes. I’m just getting something out of the trunk.”
“No, sir. I can’t do that. Please understand, I’ve had people run off without paying the fare. You owe me thirteen dollars fifty cents.”
“Open the damned latch,” he said, barely keeping his anger in check. “I’m not bolting on the fare.”
He got out of the cab and walked toward the trunk. Then he saw her hand out.
“Goddamnit.”
His wallet was in his travel case, inside the car. Thirteen fucking dollars.
Swearing, he opened the rear door again.
CHAPTER 95
MASTER SERGEANT CARY Woodhouse was part of a three-man vigilante team made up of his father, Micah; his brother, Jeff; and himself.
When Connor Grant had put the jury under a spell and gotten away with twenty-five counts of murder, including that of Cary’s dear wife, Lisa, he’d stood tall in the courtroom and promised Grant that he would pay for what he’d done.
Those weren’t just words. It wasn’t a casual promise.
Jeff had been watching Grant’s house when that sicko pulled out of his driveway on Jamestown Avenue and took Route 101 to the Travelers’ Inn on Lombard Street.
Jeff had waited for Micah to take the next shift, and Cary had called the hotel, asked to speak to Mr. Grant—what was his room number again? He had sweet-talked the operator, said he only wanted the room number so he could send a Priority letter. That he’d tried, but the courier service would not accept the front desk as an address.
The operator had caved.
“Don’t tell anyone,” she said.
“I promise,” Woodhouse said, and hung up his phone.
After that the three Woodhouse men took eight-hour shifts watching Grant’s window from where they’d parked across the street on Lombard, in front of the Gala Restaurant and Lounge. They knew when he was sleeping. They knew when he was awake. And Cary was on watch when Grant left the Travelers’ Inn carrying two bags. One hung by a strap ov
