He had been there so briefly, it surprised me he had time to notice and identify the gun on the passenger seat of the Benz. But that was Peralta.
“But,” he went on, “he might have been killed because he came to see us. And I don’t want the word on the street to be that you can kill our clients. It’s bad for business. And it might encourage the wrong kind of people to reach out and touch us.”
I let him alone. It was a reminder that there were three ways to do things: the right way, the wrong way, and Peralta’s way. Soon we would begin the long descent to San Diego, through the lovely little meadows of eastern San Diego County that looked as if they hadn’t changed for a hundred years, back up to Alpine at the edge of the Cleveland National Forest, then dropping and curving into El Cajon, massive Silverdome mountain dominant on our right, the cool sea air coming up to kiss away the memory of the desert, the city swallowing us up, the freeway packed with traffic, and the ocean straight ahead. San Diego: my adopted hometown. I would need to pack my emotions tight.
Among the benefits of being the former sheriff of one of America’s most populous counties was cooperation from other law-enforcement agencies even after you were out of office. An added perk was that Al Kimbrough was a San Diego Police commander. I first met him when Peralta had hired me back at MCSO and Kimbrough had been a detective. He could have stayed and become chief of detectives, but San Diego made him a better offer, one that didn’t include 108-degree May days. Peralta scheduled a meeting with him downtown and complained about the overcast.
“It’s the onshore flow,” I instructed. “The June Gloom.”
“It’s not June.”
I rolled down the window and looked over the bay at one of the aircraft carriers moored at North Island. “It’s cool. I’m happy.”
He handed me a copy he had made of Grace Hunter’s photo. “Why don’t you take the truck and go talk to the boyfriend? Here’s the address.”
I didn’t breathe for about five seconds and handed the address back to him.
“What, you’re showing off your photographic memory to an old man?”
“No,” I said. “I used to live there.” I sat for a few minutes in silence as a big jet going into Lindbergh Field rattled the cab. Sometimes coincidences were serendipity. Not this one. This was creepy. But there was a job to do. “Drop me off at Old Town. I’ll take the bus.”
“That’s nuts.”
“I couldn’t find a parking place, especially for your beast.”
“You can always find a parking place if you’re patient.”