away, pulling Mallory with it for a few feet before she stumbled backwards, cursing.
Chadwick closed in, pushing against the wave of exit-bound commuters. Mallory stared at him like a cornered possum.
Another train was coming from the hills—its yellow headlights just now visible in the east. Chadwick would have Mallory in hand before it reached the station.
Mallory moved back, to the very end of the platform, then glanced across the rail pit—at the chain link fence that separated the station from the highway.
Don't be crazy,
Chadwick thought.
Mallory jumped.
She hit the fence, but failed to hold on to it and tumbled back into the rail pit, her back slamming into the metal, money spilling out of her coat pocket—a brick of cash. Her foot was inches from the electric third rail.
The train was coming fast—only a quarter mile away now. Chadwick could see the lights of the operator's car, hear the electric blare of his horn.
“Give me your hand!” Chadwick yelled.
Mallory wasn't getting up. The look in her eyes told Chadwick her paralysis was more than physical—she had decided she wasn't going anywhere.
Chadwick jumped into the pit, picked her up like a sack of apples and heaved her onto the platform, another stack of currency tumbling out of her coat. Chadwick turned, saw the train bearing down on him—saw the eyes on the driver's face, white with terror—not even considering the possibility of so sudden a stop, and Chadwick pulled himself out of the pit.
The wind of the train ripped at his clothes. A funnel cloud of money spun into the air.
Chadwick lay unhurt, on top of Mallory Zedman, who made a poor pillow.
He sat up as the train's doors sucked open, and found himself face-to-knees with a cluster of passengers who hesitated, stared at the money falling from the sky, then parted around Chadwick as if he were a rock in the current. Nothing can surprise a Bay Area commuter for long.
Chadwick looked toward the station, saw a dour-faced BART policeman running up, the station manager, Olsen behind them, limping.
Underneath him, Mallory Zedman wept, as fives and tens fluttered around them, snagging on the shoes of commuters and the doors of the westbound train as it pulled away.
3
“Mr. Z, the police are here.”
John stood on his deck, reading the latest letter.
He closed his eyes, found that the words still burned in front of him, white in the dark. A reverse image, like every other fucking thing in his life.
“Boss?”
Emilio Pérez was squinting at him through the red glare of the sun, the shoulders of his leather jacket glistening like butchered meat.
“Which police?” John asked.
“The one from Oakland again, Damarodas. One of ours, Prost, holding his leash.”
John stared down the side of the hill toward the Pacific. There'd been a time when this view meant something to him—the acres of blue and green ice plants, the jagged profile of the Marin headlands, the cold churn of the surf two hundred feet below. He crumpled the paper into a tight ball, tossed it into the sunset.
“What'd it say?” Pérez asked.
John wondered why he'd ever let Pérez into his confidences. How low had he sunk, that he needed consolation from his hired help?
“You wanted to read it,” he said, “go get it.”
Pérez's neck muscles tightened. “All I'm saying, you been taking that shit too long. You let me deal with it—”
“Emilio.”
Pérez stared down at the ocean, his razor-thin mustache and goatee too delicate for his face, like lipstick on a bull. “They're in the living room, Boss.”
Then he stood aside, his right hand flexing as if closing around a metal pipe.
Sergeant Damarodas of Oakland Homicide was an unimpressive man. He had unruly brown hair and a clearance-rack suit of no particular color and a doughy face that was forgettable except for the eyes. All his charisma had drained into his eyes, which were atmospheric blue and dangerously intelligent.
He stood
Chadwick closed in, pushing against the wave of exit-bound commuters. Mallory stared at him like a cornered possum.
Another train was coming from the hills—its yellow headlights just now visible in the east. Chadwick would have Mallory in hand before it reached the station.
Mallory moved back, to the very end of the platform, then glanced across the rail pit—at the chain link fence that separated the station from the highway.
Don't be crazy,
Chadwick thought.
Mallory jumped.
She hit the fence, but failed to hold on to it and tumbled back into the rail pit, her back slamming into the metal, money spilling out of her coat pocket—a brick of cash. Her foot was inches from the electric third rail.
The train was coming fast—only a quarter mile away now. Chadwick could see the lights of the operator's car, hear the electric blare of his horn.
“Give me your hand!” Chadwick yelled.
Mallory wasn't getting up. The look in her eyes told Chadwick her paralysis was more than physical—she had decided she wasn't going anywhere.
Chadwick jumped into the pit, picked her up like a sack of apples and heaved her onto the platform, another stack of currency tumbling out of her coat. Chadwick turned, saw the train bearing down on him—saw the eyes on the driver's face, white with terror—not even considering the possibility of so sudden a stop, and Chadwick pulled himself out of the pit.
The wind of the train ripped at his clothes. A funnel cloud of money spun into the air.
Chadwick lay unhurt, on top of Mallory Zedman, who made a poor pillow.
He sat up as the train's doors sucked open, and found himself face-to-knees with a cluster of passengers who hesitated, stared at the money falling from the sky, then parted around Chadwick as if he were a rock in the current. Nothing can surprise a Bay Area commuter for long.
Chadwick looked toward the station, saw a dour-faced BART policeman running up, the station manager, Olsen behind them, limping.
Underneath him, Mallory Zedman wept, as fives and tens fluttered around them, snagging on the shoes of commuters and the doors of the westbound train as it pulled away.
3
“Mr. Z, the police are here.”
John stood on his deck, reading the latest letter.
He closed his eyes, found that the words still burned in front of him, white in the dark. A reverse image, like every other fucking thing in his life.
“Boss?”
Emilio Pérez was squinting at him through the red glare of the sun, the shoulders of his leather jacket glistening like butchered meat.
“Which police?” John asked.
“The one from Oakland again, Damarodas. One of ours, Prost, holding his leash.”
John stared down the side of the hill toward the Pacific. There'd been a time when this view meant something to him—the acres of blue and green ice plants, the jagged profile of the Marin headlands, the cold churn of the surf two hundred feet below. He crumpled the paper into a tight ball, tossed it into the sunset.
“What'd it say?” Pérez asked.
John wondered why he'd ever let Pérez into his confidences. How low had he sunk, that he needed consolation from his hired help?
“You wanted to read it,” he said, “go get it.”
Pérez's neck muscles tightened. “All I'm saying, you been taking that shit too long. You let me deal with it—”
“Emilio.”
Pérez stared down at the ocean, his razor-thin mustache and goatee too delicate for his face, like lipstick on a bull. “They're in the living room, Boss.”
Then he stood aside, his right hand flexing as if closing around a metal pipe.
Sergeant Damarodas of Oakland Homicide was an unimpressive man. He had unruly brown hair and a clearance-rack suit of no particular color and a doughy face that was forgettable except for the eyes. All his charisma had drained into his eyes, which were atmospheric blue and dangerously intelligent.
He stood
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