MOVING SMOOTHLY, DODGE FLIPPED open the large saddle-leather suitcase on the bed. The suitcase was already partially packed with underwear, socks, a sweater, slacks, loafers, a toilet kit. He turned to his wardrobe closet, opened the doors, stood still for a moment, considering. Santa Rosa—Northern California—a medium-size town. Meaning sports clothes, nothing flashy, nothing citified. He stripped shirts from hangers, selected a casual jacket, two pairs of slacks, a pair of sport shoes from the shoe rack. He threw everything on the bed, then carefully folded the clothing, packed them, put the shoes in plastic bags. He straightened, took his practiced traveler’s last-minute inventory, then closed the suitcase, locked it with a key from his key ring. He returned to the closet, slipped out a matching leather case from the shelf. He took the second case to the bed, where he unlocked it, opened it. Both halves of the case were filled with scalloped foam. Embedded separately in the foam were a Smith and Wesson .357 magnum with a four-inch barrel, a .22 caliber Colt Woodsman with a six-inch barrel, and a UZI machine pistol, along with a silencer for the Woodsman, three clips for the UZI, and two boxes of cartridges, one for the .357, one for the Woodsman. Two ice picks, both with weighted metal handles, completed the cache. Quickly, he checked the contents of the cartridge boxes, checked the operation of the two handguns and the UZI. Working with the guns, his touch was as deft as a musician’s, handling his cherished instruments.
He closed the second suitcase and tested the lock. Now he slipped into a blue blazer, took an envelope from the first suitcase. He opened the envelope and riffled the contents: approximately five thousand dollars in used bills. He put the envelope in an inside pocket of the blazer, checked for his wallet, checked again for his keys, and his pocket change.
Next stop, San Francisco.