Giving Up The Ghost

I was up for most of the night tossing and turning. Again. This time the sun was nearly up by the time I fell asleep. I just couldn't get comfortable. Perhaps that would explain why this next dream was so strange.
I can't remember exactly what was going on. For one, I dressed in a gray suit. I hate suits. A dress shirt and tie, that's my normal attire, but slacks and a blazer? No thank you. That wasn't the weirdest part, though. I was driving, barreling down the road, and there were sirens in my wake. In the back of my mind I noted that they were with me, and that, wherever I was going, I had to hurry.
I drove up to the front of an office building and ran in, police cars pulling up behind me. It was dark inside, but my eyes adjusted to the shadows quickly enough as I ran up the stairwell to a mid level. I dashed over to a corner office, but when I got there, I could tell I was too late. Whatever I was looking for wasn't there.
The muted sound of a closing door caught my attention and I was running again, this time back the way I came. There was a figure making it's way down the stairs, and I went as fast as I could after it. When it got to the ground level, it made for a window and leaped through, disappearing into the night. I didn't waste much time standing around. Somehow I knew where it was going next.
I got back into the car and floored it, making my way to a residential neighborhood. It kind of reminded me of the suburbs of West Covina, right by the freeway. The house I stopped in front of even reminded me of where my Grandmother lived with the family on my father's side.
I got out of the car, and made my way quietly up to the door. It was open. As I crept in, I patted my pockets and the inside of my coat. I was thinking I'm wearing a suit, being followed by black and whites, I must have been a cop in this dream. So why aren't I carrying a side arm?
A sound from the nearby bedroom made me wish I had a blade, at least. When I opened the door, I saw a tall male figure, possibly caucasian or hispanic, in black pants and a dark gray hooded sweatshirt. He looked up when I entered and vanished. I blinked in surprise, but the sounds of foot steps heading toward the back spurred me to give chase. I made it to the back yard just in time to see him step on some conveniently placed boulders to jump over the fence and out of sight. I knew I could do the same, maybe even catch him. But something compelled me to stop.
In spite of the fact that his hood was up, I knew who he was thanks in part to his rather distinctive eye wear. Or rather who it was supposed to be. He's a main character in a book I'm working on, a master thief as silent as the grave. Yet the thief I was chasing made too much noise for it to be the same guy. And even in a dream, why would I be chasing the alter ego of my alter ego...