The Blue Nowhere

raincoat but had no umbrella. Gillette noticed that the detective’s hand was hovering near his pistol as the man approached.
    The stranger slowed and cautiously held up a wallet, revealing a badge and an ID card. “I’m Charlie Pittman. Santa Clara County Sheriff’s Department.”
    Bishop read the card carefully and seemed satisfied with Pittman’s credentials.
    “You’re state police?” Pittman asked.
    “Frank Bishop.”
    Pittman glanced at Gillette. “And you’re . . . ?”
    Before Gillette could speak, Bishop asked, “What can we do for you, Charlie?”
    “I’m investigating the Peter Fowler case.”
    Gillette recalled: He was the gun dealer killed by Phate, along with Andy Anderson, on Hacker’s Knoll earlier that day.
    Pittman explained, “We heard there was a related operation here tonight.”
    Bishop shook his head. “False alarm. Nothing that’ll help you out. Good night, sir.” He started to walk past, gesturing Gillette to come with him, but Pittman said, “We’re swimming upstream on this one, Frank. Anything you can tell us’d be a big help. The Stanford people’re all shook up ’cause somebody was selling guns on campus. We’re the ones they’re beating up on.”
    “We’re not pursuing the weapon side of the investigation. We’re after the perp who killed Fowler but if you want any information you’ll have to go through troop headquarters in San Jose. You know the drill.”
    “Is that where you’re working out of?”
    Bishop must’ve known police politics as well as he knew life on the mean streets of Oakland. He was suitably evasive as he said, “They’re the ones you ought to talk to. Captain Bernstein can help you out.”
    Pittman’s deep eyes scanned Gillette up and down. Then he glanced into the murky sky. “I’m sure sick of this weather. Been raining way too long.” He looked back to Bishop. “You know, Frank, we get the scut work, we county folks. We’re always getting lost in the shuffle and end up having to do the same work somebody else’s already done. Get kind of tired of it sometimes.”
    “Bernstein’s a straight shooter. He’ll help you out if he can.”
    Pittman looked over Gillette once more, probably wondering what a skinny young man in a muddy jacket—clearly not a cop—was doing here.
    “Good luck to you,” Bishop said.
    “Thanks, Detective.” Pittman walked back into the night.
    When they were inside the squad car Gillette said, “I really don’t want to go back to San Ho.”
    “Well, I’m going back to CCU to look over the evidence and grab a few winks. And I didn’t see any lockup there.”
    Gillette said, “I’m not going to escape again.”
    Bishop didn’t respond.
    “I don’t really want to go back to jail.” The detective remained silent and the hacker added, “Handcuff me to a chair if you don’t trust me.”
    Bishop said, “Put your seat belt on.”

CHAPTER 00010110 / TWENTY-TWO
    T he Junípero Serra School looked idyllic in the early-morning fog.
    The exclusive private school, located on eight landscaped acres, was sandwiched between Xerox’s Palo Alto Research Center and one of the many Hewlett-Packard facilities near Stanford University. It enjoyed a wonderful reputation and was known for launching virtually all of its students to high schools of their (well, their parents’) choice. The grounds were beautiful and the staff was paid extremely well.
    At the moment, however, the woman who’d been the receptionist of the school for the past few years wasn’t basking in the benefits of her working environment; her eyes were filled with tears and she struggled to control the tremors in her voice. “My God, my God,” she whispered. “Joyce was just here a half-hour ago. I saw her. She was fine. I mean, just a half hour. ”
    Standing in front of her was a young man, with reddish hair and mustache, wearing an expensive business suit. His eyes were red, as if he’d been crying too, and he clasped his hands in a way that suggested that he was very upset. “She and Don were driving to Napa for the day. To the vineyard. They were meeting some of Don’s investors for lunch.”
    “What happened?” she asked breathlessly.
    “One of those buses with migrant workers . . . it veered right into them.”
    “Oh, God,” she muttered again. Another woman walked past and the receptionist said, “Amy, come here.”
    The woman, wearing a bright red suit and carrying a sheet of paper headed with the words