I found a gum wrapper in the glove compartment and wrote down the name and the 805 number he recited.
He gave Binchy his orders and hung up. “When it rains, it El Niños. What just might be a solid tip on Christina Marsh just came in. This guy claims he’s her brother, saw her picture in the paper. Grad student at UC Santa Barbara, lives in Isla Vista. Once we finish with Hacker, I’ll see if it’s for real.”
*
California Department of Corrections, Parole Division, Region III, was located on South Broadway near First, in the heart of downtown. We got onto the 110, left the freeway at Fourth Street, drove south and got stuck in gridlock near Second. Milo had me call the parole office and ask for Bennett Hacker.
“Can you sound like a con?”
“Hey,” I said, deepening my voice. “Don’t crowd me, man.”
He laughed. I maneuvered voice mail structured to make me give up, finally ended up talking to a brusque, hurried woman. How many felons would have the patience?
She barked, “You one of his assignments?”
“That’s what they tell me,” I said.
“Got an appointment?”
“No, but I—”
“You need an appointment. He’s not here.”
“Oh, man,” I said. “Any idea when he’ll be back?”
“He left,” she said. “Like a minute ago.”
I gave up.
*
Milo cursed. “Three o’clock, and the guy takes off.”
“She said a minute ago,” I said. “If he parks outside the building, maybe we can spot him leaving.”
Traffic wasn’t moving. Then it crawled. And stopped. Four cars in front of us. Downtown shadows turned the sidewalk charcoal.
“What the hell,” said Milo, slamming the station wagon into PARK. He got out and looked up and down Broadway. The right lane was closed, blocked by groupings of orange cones. The cones demarcated oblong excavations. The air smelled of asphalt, but no work crew was in sight.
Milo flashed his badge at four startled drivers, got back in, watched them veer to the right, perilously close to the cones. He drove through the parting.
“Power,” he said, waving his thanks. “Intoxicating.” He coasted another ten feet, found an illegal parking spot next to a cone-surrounded hydrant. Right across from the parole building. The sidewalks were crowded, and no one paid attention.
Seconds later, a husky female parking officer approached, pad in hand. When she reached his window, out came the badge. He talked fast, gave her no chance to speak. She left glowering.
He said, “I’d cast her in a prison movie. The ruthless matron with no heart of gold.”
We waited. No sign of Bennett Hacker.
“A minute ago, huh?”
“Maybe there’s a rear exit,” I said.
“Wouldn’t that be sad.”
Five more minutes. Big, gray government building, lots of people coming and going.
Three minutes later, Bennett Hacker was disgorged through the front door, in a crush of other civil servants.
*
He was easy to miss, stepping away from the crowd to light up a cigarette.
But when the view cleared, he was still puffing. Wearing an ill-fitting gray sport coat over navy chinos, a dark blue shirt, a silver and aqua striped tie. Still smoking, he walked up the block to a hot dog stand.
Milo cruised forward, and I took Hacker’s picture. Mouth full of chili dog.
Hacker walked another block, eating and smoking. Unhurried. Not a care in the world.
Following slowly enough so as not to be noticed was a challenge. Traffic either sat still or spurted ahead. Milo broke lots of traffic laws, managed to pull it off. I took Polaroids when I had a clear shot. The prints revealed the ultimate forgettable man: tall, lanky, unremarkably featured and colored. One noticeable trait: slightly pigeon-toed. It made him seem unsteady, almost drunk.
At the next corner, Hacker finished the chili dog, tossed the greasy paper wrapping at a wastebasket, and missed. He turned without stopping to pick it up.
“There you go,” I said. “You can bust him for littering.”
“I’m keeping score.” Milo edged up to the corner.
Hacker entered an outdoor municipal parking lot.
Milo said, “We stay here and wait till he comes out. We’re looking for a ’99 Explorer. The reg says black, but that coulda changed.”