He knows the routine.
After a short drive to Redding, we park at the Mt. Shasta Mall seven minutes after it opens. We’re not here to shop, so we breeze quickly past Old Navy, Hot Topic, RadioShack, and the usual mall-squatters. We do stop long enough for Jimmy to grab an Orange Julius, and then we’re on our way again, cutting straight through the mall. At the halfway point we split up; Jimmy goes to the left and I go to the right, popping in and out of random stores. When we reach the northern end of the mall, we don’t exit but double back a hundred feet or so. Satisfied that we’re not being tailed, we exit through the wall of glass doors to the north, back into sunlight and blue sky.
A dark blue Ford Expedition is idling in the parking lot but quickly pulls around to the sidewalk and stops. The front passenger door is thrown open and Sheriff Gant’s smiling face says, “Hop in.”
A surveillance detection route (SDR) is exactly what it sounds like. It’s a twisting, stopping, doubling-back, turning, and sometimes dead-end course of walking or driving employed to help ferret out anyone who might be following.
While they’re most commonly used by the intelligence community, SDRs are also a necessary tool for the FBI, for diplomats, for some private security firms, and even for the military in certain environments. It’s best to have a second set of eyes, or better yet a second vehicle, when conducting SDRs. A chase vehicle a hundred yards back is better positioned to observe how other vehicles react to the target vehicle’s random turns, stops, and stalls.
You can also do SDRs solo. It just takes some planning.
After a few random turns and sudden stops, Walt steers the Expedition down a preselected road that winds back and forth so that it’s impossible to see what’s right around each turn. At the end is a wide cul-de-sac with no outlet.
We park and wait.
Five minutes later Walt fires up the SUV and we continue to the station. It’s doubtful that Sad Face has any intelligence training, or even knows what countersurveillance is, but he’s surprised us before and we can’t take any chances. We have to err on the side of overkill.
This is what happens when the hunters become the hunted.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
July 5, 7:45 A.M.
We’ve been back in Redding less than two days, and now this.
It’s not good.
Sheriff Gant’s house looks like a crime scene when Jimmy and I arrive. Four marked patrol cars, two unmarked SUVs, three unmarked Crown Victorias, and a crime scene van fill the street just beyond the ropes of yellow police tape that encompass the sidewalk, yard, and driveway of the sheriff’s modest two-story. Uniformed deputies and plainclothes detectives move slowly about the property, studying every inch of ground, while two crime scene investigators process the sheriff’s Ford Expedition.
Approaching the house, I see it immediately: brilliant amaranth and rust footsteps coming down the sidewalk from the north and turning up the driveway, one set coming and one set going. Waving Jimmy to follow, I pursue the amaranth trail north a block, then west two blocks, where the prints disappear.
“He got into a car right here,” I say, pointing at the empty pavement.
Jimmy crouches a few feet away and dips his finger into a stained patch of road. Rolling the blackness between his finger and thumb, he smells it. “This oil was left recently … within the last twelve hours.” He smells it again. “It’s burnt. Probably left by an older car or truck, and one that’s not well maintained.”
Returning to the sheriff’s house, we cross the yellow tape and make directly for the Ford Expedition. The amaranth steps pause next to the driver’s-side front fender, then turn and leave the way they came.
“Bastard came to my house,” Walter bellows as he bursts from the front door waving a standard #10 envelope in his hand. “Came to my house while I was sleeping, like some common sneak-thief, only he’s not common, is he? My wife’s in a state. I thought I was going to have to call paramedics because she was hyperventilating so badly. Now she’s up there packing. Says she’s going to her sister’s in Sacramento until we catch this guy, and I don’t blame her one bit.”
“Is that it?” I ask, pointing at the envelope.
I know it is. I can see the amaranth.
Walt hands it over. “He left it under my windshield wiper. Wanted to make sure I saw it first thing.” He rubs his hands together as if they’re covered in filth. “CSI is already finished with it. No prints. Son of a bitch wore gloves, which means there’s little chance of touch DNA, either, but they swabbed it anyway.”
Pulling on a pair of latex gloves, I open the flap slowly and extract the single piece of paper from inside. It’s cut from newspaper print and folded in half. I unfold it on the hood of the Expedition, holding it flat. A woman’s face smiles at us from the black-and-white image, a joyful moment captured and preserved and displayed.
“Oh, no,” I hear myself say. Jimmy and I study the photo for a long moment.
“He’s taunting us,” Walt says in a calmer voice. “You know that, right?”
“He’s not as smart as he thinks he is,” Jimmy replies gruffly.
I don’t say anything, but my mind is racing. I hope Jimmy’s right; I hope Sad Face is as dumb as a rock in a riverbed, but my gut tells me otherwise. Right now it feels like he’s winning.
Jimmy folds the square of paper and slides it back in the envelope, then places the envelope inside his briefcase. Rain begins to fall from an iron sky. “Call Les and have them bring the jet up. We may need it.” He retrieves his own phone and punches a few numbers, then holds it to his ear.
“Who are you calling?”
“Diane. If anyone can do this fast, it’s her.”