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CHAPTER 44

TIAGO GARZA SAT behind the wheel of an ancient gardener’s truck. It was black, with scrapes along the truck’s left side, a dented rear fender, and an undercarriage heavy with rust that had crept out and over the wheel wells.

The back held a gas can for the mower and two bags of mulch. Tools bristled from the bed, and the words YARD WORK with a 415 area code and phone number were painted on the driver-side door.

No one looked twice at this truck.

And they didn’t look twice at the driver, either. Tiago Garza was scruffy, bent, and he passed for a working man, an easily overlooked handyman. That was the whole idea.

Garza had parked the truck across from the eight attached houses in this pretty, tree-lined residential block. Like the others, number 1848 was a cream-colored Victorian with a peaked roof and a bay window on the first level. Two cars, a Chevy sedan and a Buick, were parked out front, the Buick in the narrow driveway. There were also two police cars partially blocking Garza’s view of the front steps. But Garza knew that his target was at home.

Twenty minutes ago, one of the cops had leaned against Garza’s truck and asked for his license and registration and an explanation for his presence. It was not the first time he’d been carded, and Garza handed it all over, license, registration, plus a discount card for a local fast-food restaurant. The name on the ID was Luis Perez. The truck, too, was in Perez’s name. Perez was long dead and buried in Guadalajara, but his ID lived on.

Garza told the cop in deliberately accented and hesitant English that he was waiting for the homeowners to wake up because he didn’t want to “make, uh, loud sounds? Noise? With grass cutter.”

English was Garza’s native language. He was of Mexican descent but had been born and raised in San Diego, so was able to cross the border at will. Which he did.

The cop had returned Luis Perez’s ID, noted the plate number, and returned to his patrol car. Garza moved the truck down the block, but still with a desirable view, then settled back in the driver’s seat.

Today was a workday for Garza. Many self-important individuals and families were living in the eight three-story houses across the street, but the owner of number 1848 was the enemy.

Garza pulled his knit cap down over his ears and pulled up the hood on his sweatshirt while watching the target house in his rearview mirror. A ceiling fixture came on, lighting up the second floor. Garza checked his watch: 7:40. The target walked past the window and another light went on. That would be the bathroom.

Garza watched the interior house lights go on and off. Then at 7:55 a.m. the owner of number 1848 left through the front door in a hurry. As he descended the front steps and reached his driveway, Garza could see that the man was dressed in a golf shirt and carrying a nice set of clubs. It pleased Garza to see that number 1848 would be enjoying his last day.

The man was just a stride away from the blue Chevy sedan when a woman called to him from the open second-floor window.

“Hon, can you drop off the dry cleaning on your way out?”

The target called back, “Sorry, Sandy. I’m already running a little late. Call you later. Love you.”

The man got into the Chevy, pulled away from the curb, and turned north toward 22nd Street. One of the squad cars pulled out behind him. Taxpayer-funded protection.

Garza noted the time, his target’s stated busy day, and the rear guard protecting the important man. Seven minutes later, “Sandy” ran out of the house wearing jeans and an SF SPCA sweatshirt, and carrying a garment bag. She opened the back door of the Buick and hung the bag from a hook above the door. Once she was in the driver’s seat, she backed out onto the street. She waved to the cops in the remaining cruiser and drove away, with them on her tail.