The Ancient Rain Read Online Free Page A

had been shot to death in the robbery out on Judah.
    She’d seen the gang through the windshield of her mother’s car: four of them in the parking lot—according to her story; and possibly a fifth, a female lookout sitting on a bench at the corner. One of the men had stripped off his mask as he came out of the bank. With the help of a police sketch artist, she’d identified that man as Bill Owens. But she’d been barely eleven years old, and there’d been other, contradictory evidence.
    Elise’s story—her long struggle to bring the case to court—had been in the papers off and on. She had been portrayed variously over the years: as an innocent victim, a person obsessed with justice; as a woman who had lost touch with reality, casting stones haphazardly, looking for someone to blame. Whose view of what happened was no more reliable now than it had been then. Even those law officials who sympathized—who remembered the case—had grown weary of her. On more than one occasion she had criticized the judges and lawyers, the prosecutors and politicians.
    Some of these same people stood behind her on the podium now.
    â€œMy mother—” She hesitated. “My mother was just going to the bank—to cash her overtime check. My father had finally just gotten a job, too, our lives were turning for the good, and we were going to have a celebration. But all that changed, in one awful instant…”
    The woman was not a professional orator, but she had an earnestness that was hard to resist. Still, there seemed something strained, a modulation not quite under control. When Elise Younger left the microphone, she appeared to buckle for an instant, her knees weakening, or maybe just her heel giving way, catching on the concrete. Sorrentino was quick to take her arm, and as he did so, Dante saw the disdainful glances of Blackwell and his assistant. Sorrentino did not have the grace of the others on the stage. He was a working-class guy under it all, with a jacket that wouldn’t button and a misshapen hat. And the way he hurried to Elise Younger, there was something a little too hungry there.
    Guy Sorrentino was in his sixties, a small man, thick through the shoulders. An ex-cop. He’d lived in the Beach in the old days, but had been pushed off the force. Or had pushed himself.
    Truth was, Sorrentino’s son had died during the First Gulf War, in the early nineties, and things had fallen apart for him after that.
    So what was he doing here with Elise Younger?
    At this point Blackwell himself took the podium. He did what prosecutors always do, avoiding the particulars of the case—or pretending to—so as not to jeopardize the trial, but at the same time letting the public know his people were on duty, getting results. Seeking publicity while not seeking. Getting the jump on the defense. “We can’t talk specifically about this case, about any of the details, because we do not have the slightest intention to try this case in public. I will just say the simple fact, and that is: Earlier this morning, Bill Owens was served with a warrant for his arrest by officers Leanora Chin and Steve White.”
    Chin stood at his side, and everyone knew why. They wanted the Asian face in the camera.
    The police were happy to oblige.
    â€œBut I would like to take this opportunity to make one thing clear. Law enforcement in San Francisco, together with federal officers and Homeland Security, are all committed to bringing terrorists to justice. No matter when the crime happened, no matter if the perpetrators walk among us, or on foreign soil. Decades might go by, but we will continue to be vigilant. We will find you.”
    *   *   *
    In a little while, they opened it up to the press, and it was the usual dance, with reporters pressing for details, and the police having little to offer. It was the kind of conversation he’d heard so many times it was