That was when Kane noticed the dark marks over the man’s knuckles, deep gouges barely scabbed over and cracking when he flexed. His attention was keenly on the uniforms when Kane stepped forward, but he swept his eyes up the street and caught Kane staring at him.
The man was about Miki’s age, and his look of shock would have been comical if it hadn’t been quickly replaced by something more sinister. A dirty blue beanie masked most of his hair, but strings of dark strands escaped near his temples. His brows were nearly black, bushy, crawling things that jerked when his eyes skittered away from Kane’s face, and his barely grown-in mustache fluttered when he licked at it, spitting out something caught on his lips. His fingers trembled slightly when he brought his cigarette up again, his bare forearm rippling with sinew and muscle as he moved. There was a coiled strength to him, a nervous energy balled up under his skin, and Kane tapped Browne on the shoulder, whispering under his breath.
“See that kid across the street? The one smoking, wearing a cap?”
“Yeah,” Browne casually skimmed the crowd, seemingly unengaged in anything other than what Kane was saying. “Seems kind of jumpy.”
“Yep, funny, isn’t it?” Kane stared out into the parking lot, then dragged his gaze back down the street.
The jittering young man was still staring at him, shifting back and forth between the people passing by. The crowd parted momentarily, and Kane could see him more clearly, taking in the torn jeans, much-laundered shirt, and army jacket he wore. The sight of the young man’s worn Sinner’s Gin T-shirt peeking out from between the jacket’s lapels froze Kane’s blood solid, and his heart seemed to stop in midbeat.
They stared at one another for a split second; then the man let his cigarette tumble from his fingers and took off running.
“That’s him!” Kane shouted at the other inspector and sprinted across the street. Drawing his badge, he shouted at the people gathered on the uneven sidewalk. “SFPD! Get out of the way!”
There was something sadistic about San Francisco. Either the reputation of thumbing its nose at authority seeded little pockets of anarchy in people, or its residents were more curious than possessing common sense, because instead of parting to let Kane through, the crowd clustered in to watch Kane’s lanky prey bolt down the narrow alleyway.
Cursing, Kane shoved past a group of teen girls snapping pictures of themselves in front of the lit-up police cars and took off down the tight causeway. He could hear Browne behind him, his heavy feet slapping at the concrete as he struggled to keep up with Kane’s long strides. Despite his bulk, Browne kept up a good pace, and Kane turned the corner between buildings, pausing only long enough to hunt for his suspect.
The blue beanie bobbed up and down behind a dumpster, getting smaller by the second, and Kane took off again, dodging a pile of pallets left on the concrete drive. Cut behind the block of buildings, the alley served as a way station for dumpsters and back-door deliveries. Between the chaotic angles of the garbage bins and that the only lights warding off the dark evening were bare bulbs above stores’ rear entrances, it was difficult to see where the man was.
Rotting food set out for slop pickup made running a slippery business, and Kane nearly lost his balance when he hit a slimy piece of bok choy. Careening sideways, he slammed into the brick wall of a restaurant, jolting him down to his teeth.
“Hey!” The shout was heavy with a Cali-Mex accent and followed by a few curse words that would have made Kane’s mother blush. A few feet away, a green dumpster blocked much of the alleyway, making it hard to see down the walk, but from the sounds of things, Kane’s prey had run into some trouble.
Recovering from his spill, Kane scraped the rotten vegetation off of his foot as Browne pushed aside the pile of stacked, wet cardboard boxes as he ran past him. The sounds of a struggle reached them, and they got around the bin in a hurry. Twenty yards away, Kane’s suspect wrestled to get away from a large-bellied Hispanic man dressed in kitchen whites. A crushed, still-smoking cigarette lay on the ground by their feet, and the cook’s beefy hands were clamped tight on the man’s shoulders. They twisted about, and Kane saw the flash of a knife in the young man’s hand as the dim back-door light caught on the crenulated blade.
“Shit, he’s got a knife!” Kane shouted, pulling his gun.