She studies my face—I twitch against the urge to reach up and touch my jaw; I shaved the beard off this morning, and it feels strange to be clean shaven after so many years under shadow. But if I’m going to be showing my face around San Francisco, digging for information, I need to make a small effort to camouflage my usual self.
A small smile touches her pale lips. She’s pretty enough, in a boring, average way. Not an exotic Ivy way. “Sure. Hold on a sec.” She disappears, leaving the door open a crack. I could slip in there now, end her life and stroll out, no one the wiser. It never ceases to amaze me how easily people trust strangers, how many simple mistakes they make that allow the wrong person into their homes, into their lives. Even Ivy, as street smart and suspicious as she is, has allowed me into her bed.
That’s not to say she’s oblivious, that she isn’t quietly wondering about me.
Ivy didn’t say much more about what the biker told her about her uncle, his gambling issues, and the sizable debt he accrued. I’m sure it’s still percolating, but she won’t show it. That’s the way she operates. And that mind of hers, it’s a sharp, dangerous thing because she’s already figured out all on her own the gist of her uncle’s fuckup: He had something he was trying to sell, and it got him killed.
“Here.” Royce’s ex-girlfriend hands me a Post-it note with an address in Sunset scribbled on it in blue pen. “If you don’t mind, could you also pass this bag of Dylan’s things along? Just a few things that he left behind.”
I take the bag, silently thanking her. This will make my next stop easier. “And, again, I’m sorry for your loss.” I feel her eyes on my back as I march down the steps and head down the street to where I parked.
Dylan’s mom lives in a small bungalow in one of San Francisco’s biggest neighborhoods. I used to hang out here a lot in my teenage years. It’s close to the beach and lots of college kids rent out places. I woke up in more than one random bed around here, back in the day.
Now that I’m walking up the street, I’m rethinking the wisdom of speaking with these people. I’ve always followed the rule that I don’t make contact unless absolutely necessary. That’s how I remain an effective ghost.
But my need to know more about Royce overrides my common sense at this point.
I’m just about to turn from the sidewalk onto the path that leads to his mom’s mint-green door when I hear a whimper coming from behind the fence that wraps around the side of the house. A small black snout pokes out.
I smile.
The woman’s eyes widen as soon as she opens the door and sees the golden hairball—a Pekingese, or some version of it—squirming in my grip.
“Ma’am. She was running along the street. Her collar says that she belongs here.”
Her hands go to her chest with shock. “But how did she get out of the backyard?” She looks from the dog—Fefe, from the tag—to her left, to the yard beyond the house. “I just let her out to do her business.”
“The gate is open.”
She frowns. “No. It can’t be. I remember latching it last night. Unless . . .” I watch closely as the poor woman—in her late sixties, by the level of wrinkles around her jaw and eyes—doubts her memory. Deep bags hang beneath her eyes. The dazed eyes of a woman who just lost her son and hasn’t wrapped her head around it yet.
Fefe finally twists her body enough that I can’t hold on any longer without hurting her. So I bend down and gently herd her into the house.
“Oh, goodness. Thank you so much, young man. She could have been hit by a car,” she says, silently accepting that maybe she did forget to latch it. I feel only slightly bad for deceiving her, but rescuing a dog is a surefire way to earn a senior citizen’s instant trust.
“Are you by any chance Dylan Royce’s mother?”
She pauses, frowns. “Yes.”