Glossy condo complexes boasting killer bay views and glossier shopping malls boasting every high-end franchise I’ve ever heard of crowd Bay Street on the Emeryville waterfront.
I widen my eyes. “This can’t be the same place.”
Kovac flicks his gaze over the mall, unimpressed. “Oh, it is. Your typical metro boomtown plagued with pockets of urban blight just around the corner from the Apple Store and Williams-Sonoma. I know which neighborhoods you mean. Hold on.”
Kovac heads south on San Pablo Avenue, turns right, turns left, turns right. Now we cruise through run-down neighborhoods, past miles of shabby little town houses and weeds thrusting up through cracked concrete. Some of the stucco structures are war housing left over from World War Two shipbuilding industries, others Great Society subsidies. We cruise up one avenue and down another, turning at San Pablo at the up end, Seventh Street at the down.
I cup my hand to my mouth and stifle a yawn. Who knew sleuthing for Supernatural Crimes could be such a bore? By contrast, my job as the super of the Garden of Abracadabra is a fireworks show. And magic lessons? A thrill a minute.
Then there it is. There it is. The lurid obscenities. The weird leering faces. And–the piece de resistance–the monstrous red eyeball weeping tears of blood.
I whoop, and Kovac swerves over to the curb in the bus zone, slams on the brakes. He kills the ignition and springs out, impossibly spry.
I spring out myself–and nearly gag.
That unmistakable stench of rotten meat and tarnished copper pools around the town house in a gut-churning miasma.
“Get in the car, Abby.”
I get in, and Kovac reaches over my knees, punching open the glove box, pulling out a big, bad handgun.
I recoil. “My God.”
“Something wrong?”
“I don’t like guns. I’m, ah, kind of afraid of guns.” At his frown, I add, “I do support our right to bear arms under the Constitution. I’ve just never exercised that right, myself.”
“Get over it.” Kovac flips his jacket back, revealing a shoulder holster strapped over his black T. He thrusts in the gun. Then he seizes my hand, pulls me out of the passenger seat and around to the driver’s side. He sits me down behind the wheel, reaches across me, and thrusts his key in the ignition. “Drive down a block and call Valdez. Got her number?”
“I’ve got her business card in my handbag.”
“Good. Call her, then take the car back to Oakland.”
“No way. I’m going in there with you.”
“You can’t. It’s a crime scene.”
“Jack, I’m not going back to Oakland without you.”
“Trust me, you don’t want to see what’s in there.”
“If it’s Barb, I need to identify her, now don’t I?”
He blows out an exasperated breath. “All right. Call Valdez and sit tight till I give you the all-clear. If you see anything or hear anything strange, get out the hell of here fast. Got it?”
“Got it.”
Kovac moves to the town-house door, his stride vigorously strong and steady. He pulls a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket, tries the doorknob. The door swings open. He draws his gun and cautiously steps inside.
I paw through my handbag for my cell and Valdez’s card. My hands are shaking, true, but not nearly as badly as yesterday morning. Is this progress? Progress definitely. I don’t even drop the phone. I punch in the number and Valdez answers at once.
“It stinks like murder,” I tell her.
********
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