Free Dead Anyway by Chris Knopf Page B

minute, then drove around to the donut shop across from Francine’s.
    If Francine was in regular contact with Sebbie, it couldn’t be through conventional means for fear of mail searches, wiretaps and other electronic eavesdropping. It had to be some other way. And given the short timetable, it had to be in a hurry.
    Not a bad theory, I thought as I watched Francine rush out the front door of her salon and jump into the DeVille. Just like that.
    As with most cinematic stunts, following a car undetected through crowded urban streets in broad daylight is hardly a simple task. Especially if the follower is only a single car. The serious pros do it with multiple cars that tag team each other, come and go, race ahead and even tailgate as the need presents itself. There was little hope that a lone Subaru Outback could mimic any of those maneuvers, but it’s all I had.
    Francine complicated the effort by being a haphazard driver with only a casual regard for traffic etiquette. The Cadillac frequently approached yellow lights by slowing down, then accelerating just in time to jump the red. I had the choice of racing through behind her, risking a ticket and her notice, or calmly letting her go.
    I usually did the latter, and regarded my success in catching up again as the purest form of luck.
    She finally eluded me, I thought for good, but I turned a corner and was pleased to see the Cadillac shoe-horning its way into a parking space along the curb. I drove past and found one of my own, with time left on the meter. I crossed the street and walked back in time to see Francine smacking her own meter with the palm of her hand as she deposited coins. I slunk back against a store window and tried to keep a bead on her without looking directly her way.
    Moving quickly, she ducked into a pharmacy. I waited across the street, longing to see what she was doing. She came out soon after, carrying a magazine. I was too far away to read the masthead, but the cover photograph suggested Time or Newsweek . I let her get ahead of me, and then moved at her pace, which was more uncomfortably brisk than I could easily manage.
    She stopped at an outdoor news vendor. The man at the counter looked at her with a smile of recognition. They spoke for a moment, then she moved away without making a purchase. The man bent down to do something below the counter, then stood up again.
    Perfect, I thought. One of the oldest tricks in the book. And why not? Sebbie’s an old trick himself. I looked around and spotted a café with an imperfect, but acceptable view of the newsstand. I went in, bought a coffee and an orange and waited.
    An hour later, a short, dapper man wearing a narrow-brimmed hat and sunglasses approached the newsstand. The man behind the counter took that moment to restock some of the merchandise. When the dapper man stopped, lo and behold, he chose to buy one of the restocked items. A newsmagazine.
    As he strolled away, at a far more humane pace than Francine’s, I left the café and followed along. At the next intersection, I crossed the street and fell in behind, leaving as generous a distance between us as I dared.
    The pursuit of Francine, followed by an hour of inactivity, had wreaked havoc on my weakened left side, which was now entirely engulfed in pain. But since I wasn’t going to stop following the dapper man, I did the only thing I could. I ignored it.
    After covering about three blocks, the dapper man stopped at a door sandwiched between two storefronts. I saw him tap at something, then open the door. He was well inside by the time I reached where he’d stood, confirming that it was the entrance to an apartment, presumably on the second floor, accessible with the proper code punched into a keypad.
    I walked on to the end of the block, then crossed the street again and walked back. There were three storefronts with an adequate view of the dapper man’s door. A laundry, a gift shop and a shoe store. I looked up, then went into the