Billy had spent much of his day searching databases not available to the public. He could log on to the CIA mainframe and from there enter virtually any other computer in the country while leaving no trace of his visit. He had compiled quite a dossier on Barbara Eagle and her British husband; he was getting to know them quite well. They had a house in London, an apartment in New York, a place in Palm Springs, and a house in Napa, in addition to their Green Street apartment. He had obtained the tail number of their Gulfstream from the tower computer at Burbank earlier in the day and had lifted their flight plan. He had landed his own airplane, a JetPROP—a single-engine turboprop—at Hayward, on the eastern shore of the bay, south of Oakland, and checked into the Huntington, using a credit card and a California driver’s license in another name, part of his little inventory of identities.

Tomorrow, Billy would do some scouting around, then, perhaps, pay Mrs. Grosvenor a visit. He looked forward to meeting her.

—

MORALES AND CROFT ambled back to their hotel and, along the way, spotted a parking ticket on their rental car. Written across the bottom of the ticket were the words Welcome to San Francisco, schmuck!

“I never liked this town,” Croft said.

Chapter 41

The following morning Morales and Croft had breakfast in their hotel’s restaurant, since their room was too small to contain both them and a room service cart. Morales was reading something.

“What’s that?” Croft asked.

“It was attached to our travel order. It’s about how to be a good police visitor to another city, and it has a number for us to call and check in with the SFPD.”

“Fuck ’em,” Croft said.

Morales got out his cell phone, called the number, and introduced himself, then he hung up.

“That was short.”

“We have to go to the Central Station, show our badges, and check in personally.”

“Fuck ’em,” Croft said again.

“They already have our names, sent from L.A.,” Morales pointed out. “And if we check in, they’ll give us an SFPD ID and a parking pass for the city streets.”

“Do we both have to go?”

“If we do, we won’t get into trouble for impersonating police officers.”

“We are police officers.”

“Not in San Francisco, until we check in.”

—

THEY FOUND THE Central Station on Vallejo Street and presented themselves at the front desk, where they were directed upstairs to a room number. They knocked and entered.

“Okay, where you from?” a woman in civilian clothes said without looking up from her desk.

“Los Angeles,” Morales replied.

“Swell,” she said. “Badges and ID?” She took them to a Xerox machine and made a copy. “Go stand against the wall, there, one at a time.”

They did so and were photographed.

“How long you here for?”

“Five days,” Croft said, just in case.