A Killing in China Basin

FORTY-THREE


That same morning Stoltz walked into a car dealership and test drove a BMW, an older 330i with a sport package, relatively low mileage, and new Michelins. The body was as clean as they had claimed. He handed over a Visa with the name Steven Pullman on it, telling the salesman, ‘This way I get the airline mileage.’

Then he sensed that one of the women working on the paperwork behind a glass barrier was watching him. He turned his back to her, moved out into the showroom, and waited nervously outside on a bench with the feeling that everything was closing in around him. Time was compressing. He needed to move carefully but faster. Twenty minutes later, he signed the papers and the salesman handed him the keys, smiling as he asked, ‘Where are you headed in that beautiful car?’

‘Vegas.’

‘Man, I wish that was me. How long are you going to be there?’

‘Ten days. I just got a bonus that was a long time coming.’

‘Have a great drive. This baby should really run for you.’

Instead of heading toward Vegas, Stoltz went north on I-5, making the same drive he’d made last Sunday morning. For the next three hours he sat in a fast group of cars running at speeds way over the limit, as if somehow a pack mentality protected them from the highway patrol. After three hours he left the freeway to gas up. When he got back on he made a bad mistake, accelerating to catch a car in front of him and touching one hundred and five miles per hour as he passed it.

Seconds later he hit the brakes, but too late. A black and white CHP cruiser was getting off a ramp up ahead and immediately came for him, closing fast, and as he did Stoltz moved his gun into his lap. But rather than pull him over the officer hovered alongside him for several seconds then sped off. What he might have done left him shaken.

He drove another forty minutes under the white sky and flat land of the valley, before pulling the clip from the gun and calling his lawyer. North of the valley town of Patterson he merged into heavier traffic. He crossed over the brown hills past the slow-winding windmills of Altamont Pass, and headed for the warehouse in San Jose. There he showered and changed, and tried to calm down.

But he didn’t feel like the director of the movie any more. He felt like an actor. He felt lightheaded. He switched cars and a mile from his mother’s house he called SF Homicide and asked for Raveneau.

Raveneau asked, ‘Are you coming in?’

‘My lawyer has advised me not to talk to you, but I’m willing to meet with you. I don’t want to deal with the media.’

‘We’ll bring you in through the back, but I have to warn you that as of a few hours ago there’s a warrant out for your—’

‘I want to talk to you alone first. Then I’ll give myself up.’

‘OK, we’ll do it that way.’

‘But I’m not who you’re looking for.’

‘That’s why we need to talk.’

‘I didn’t kill the lawyer in Walnut Creek. I don’t even know who he is. I didn’t shoot your partner.’

‘We’ve got a lot to talk about. Where are you now?’

‘Almost home.’

‘Los Altos?’

‘Yes.’

He was still talking to Raveneau when a SWAT team closed around him. Raveneau must have heard the squealing tires, the yelling, the order to get out of the vehicle, and Stoltz breathed into the phone as he looked at a gun aimed at his head, ‘If they kill me, it’s on you.’

‘I don’t know how they found you, but do exactly what they tell you.’

They batted the phone out of his hand and jerked him out of the car. Then he was face down on the asphalt. He felt pebbles grind into his cheek, heard the handcuffs click, and let his body go limp.