Page 28 of 25 Alive

The back held a gas can for the mower and two bags of mulch. Tools bristled from the bed, and the wordsYARD WORKwith a 415 area code and phone number were painted on the driver-side door.

No one looked twice at this truck.

And they didn’t look twice at the driver, either. Tiago Garza was scruffy, bent, and he passed for a working man, an easily overlooked handyman. That was the whole idea.

Garza had parked the truck across from the eight attached houses in this pretty, tree-lined residential block. Like the others, number 1848 was a cream-colored Victorian with a peaked roof and a bay window on the first level. Two cars, a Chevy sedan and a Buick, were parked out front, the Buick in the narrow driveway. There were also two police carspartially blocking Garza’s view of the front steps. But Garza knew that his target was at home.

Twenty minutes ago, one of the cops had leaned against Garza’s truck and asked for his license and registration and an explanation for his presence. It was not the first time he’d been carded, and Garza handed it all over, license, registration, plus a discount card for a local fast-food restaurant. The name on the ID was Luis Perez. The truck, too, was in Perez’s name. Perez was long dead and buried in Guadalajara, but his ID lived on.

Garza told the cop in deliberately accented and hesitant English that he was waiting for the homeowners to wake up because he didn’t want to “make, uh, loud sounds? Noise? With grass cutter.”

English was Garza’s native language. He was of Mexican descent but had been born and raised in San Diego, so was able to cross the border at will. Which he did.

The cop had returned Luis Perez’s ID, noted the plate number, and returned to his patrol car. Garza moved the truck down the block, but still with a desirable view, then settled back in the driver’s seat.

Today was a workday for Garza. Many self-important individuals and families were living in the eight three-story houses across the street, but the owner of number 1848 was the enemy.

Garza pulled his knit cap down over his ears and pulled up the hood on his sweatshirt while watching the target house in his rearview mirror. A ceiling fixture came on, lighting up the second floor. Garza checked his watch: 7:40. The targetwalked past the window and another light went on. That would be the bathroom.

Garza watched the interior house lights go on and off. Then at 7:55 a.m. the owner of number 1848 left through the front door in a hurry. As he descended the front steps and reached his driveway, Garza could see that the man was dressed in a golf shirt and carrying a nice set of clubs. It pleased Garza to see that number 1848 would be enjoying his last day.

The man was just a stride away from the blue Chevy sedan when a woman called to him from the open second-floor window.

“Hon, can you drop off the dry cleaning on your way out?”

The target called back, “Sorry, Sandy. I’m already running a little late. Call you later. Love you.”

The man got into the Chevy, pulled away from the curb, and turned north toward 22nd Street. One of the squad cars pulled out behind him. Taxpayer-funded protection.

Garza noted the time, his target’s stated busy day, and the rear guard protecting the important man. Seven minutes later, “Sandy” ran out of the house wearing jeans and an SF SPCA sweatshirt, and carrying a garment bag. She opened the back door of the Buick and hung the bag from a hook above the door. Once she was in the driver’s seat, she backed out onto the street. She waved to the cops in the remaining cruiser and drove away, with them on her tail.

CHAPTER45

GARZA DROVE HIS vehicle at normal speed and took a left turn from 22nd into an alley that ran behind the row houses. He parked two blocks away, near a different row of two-hundred-year-old cupcake houses.

There was no traffic and no one in sight when Garza got out of his truck, unlatched the tailgate, and pulled several items from the bed: a hand rake, pruning shears, and a machete. He put the tools into a canvas bag.

After slinging the strap across his shoulder, Garza walked along the alley behind the row houses, avoiding a swing set, a trampoline, and a shed with a sign on the door readingGIRLS ONLY. Security cameras would pick up a bent, brown-skinned gardener in worn jeans, a hooded sweatshirt showing at the neckline of his blue peacoat, and a knit cap pulled down over his ears.

Garza stopped at the rear door of number 1848.

He listened for shouts, or the barking of dogs. Hearing only a distant sound of someone playing a 1980s hit music station,Garza removed a chisel from his coat pocket and popped the old lock on the ground level back door. The hinges creaked as he pulled the door open a few inches.

No alarm sounded. Sandy, Garza assumed, had forgotten to double bolt the doors or set the alarm. He stepped inside a dim, dusty utility space. Hefting the bag of tools, he closed the door and was in total darkness.

Within a couple of steps, Garza tripped over something like a metal pipe, the metallic clanking against the concrete floor sending a spear of panic through him as he fell to the ground. But he got his hands out in front of him, breaking his fall, and then he lay still. He listened until he was sure that no warning sounds were coming from inside the house.

Garza’s eyes adjusted to the dark. He moved the pipe out of the way and secreted the machete between two side-by-side shelving units. He thought about what the two men in his crew were doing, how his boy was making out, the number of hours until his target came home divided by how long it would take him to drive back to Guadalajara.

Tiago Garza peeled off his coat, tossed it to the floor, and, using it as padding against the cold concrete, settled in for a rest. It would be at least ten hours before his target came home and went through his nightly routine.

CHAPTER46

ALMOST TWELVE HOURS later, around eight fifteen in the evening, Tiago Garza stood near a vertical heating duct, which carried down the muffled sounds of the couple upstairs talking over dinner. A little later, he heard the clinking of dishes as they cleaned up.

Garza napped. When he woke up, he could just make out the sounds of the laugh track to a late-night talk show coming from the bedroom TV on the second floor.

He waited another hour and ten minutes. It was now after 1 a.m. The house was quiet. Garza stepped out of his hiding place, did some stretches, put his coat back on, and patted his pocket, reassuring himself that the .22 was there. Picking up his machete and keeping his head down, Garza climbed a half dozen steps and opened the door leading into the kitchen and the rest of the house.

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