12

Driving north along the Embarcadero, Garreth sucked in his lower lip. Now what? He still needed information on Irina. Calling on Holle at this time of night was probably not socially acceptable, however, even if the man did keep company with vampires. His thermos also needed refilling. Despite the risk of Lien discovering the contents of the thermos, he decided he preferred to have several days' food supply on hand than to count on being able to slip out hunting every night. But it was rather too early now to skulk around piers after rats. Someone might see him. The traffic remained heavy along here and would be so until the clubs in North Beach closed at two o'clock.

North Beach. Garreth pursed his lips. Lane always found her supper there. Maybe Irina had discovered the same hunting ground. And maybe someone had seen her.

He parked just off the Embarcadero at the foot of Broadway. From there he walked up toward Columbus and within a few blocks had plunged into the show he thought about so often while watching Baumen's Friday and Saturday night cruisers. Baumen must have tempered his memories, though, because he did not remember the sounds, lights, and smells as being this overwhelming . . . a bright sea of neon signs, jewel strings of head and tail lights from four lanes of traffic, rumbling motors, honking horns, human voices calling and laughing, the raucous voices of barkers rising above all others as they shouted the virtues of the shows in their particular clubs at the humanity swarming along the sidewalks. The crowds jostled Garreth, people wearing everything from ragged jeans and torn sweatshirts to evening clothes, smelling of sweat, tobacco, alcohol, marijuana, perfume and cologne, and . . . blood.

Hunger surged in him, searing his throat. He shoved clenched fists into the pockets of his sport coat. Were the blood scents really so much stronger now than he remembered from that first visit up here after his change, or was it that all blood smelled alike to him then? Experience had taught him the subtle differences between individuals . . . and between the clean, salty metallic scent of healthy blood and the sour, bitter, or occasional sickeningly sweet edge warning of pollution by disease and foreign substances.

Good thing you're not hunting supper here, he reflected. So many of the men and women pushing past him smelled of tainted blood, more than he had ever noticed in Bellamy or Baumen. It almost killed his appetite. Almost. Some people, it was obvious from appearance alone, had been indulging in drugs and alcohol. With others it was just as obvious that their problem was disease. Some, though, looked outwardly so healthy. In Baumen, where he knew people, he could usually stop to greet someone like that and in the course of a conversation casually remark that the person did not look well and perhaps should see a doctor. Here, as in the theatre in Bellamy, Garreth had to make himself let them go, even the man who passed him arm-in-arm with a healthy-smelling young man.

Watching the couple, Garreth suddenly listened to his own thoughts and grimaced bitterly. He walked up what he had always considered a vital, pulsing artery, where before he had always found excitement in the crowds and color, and what did he think about? Blood.

Setting his jaw, he made himself forget about his thirst and look at faces. Familiar ones began emerging from the crowd, mostly hookers, pimps, pickpockets, and assorted other vermin out from under their rocks for the night. Unlike on previous visits to the area, though, they failed to recognize him in return. Several of the hookers even started to approach him, then veered off with a disgusted expression that told him they had belatedly spotted that indefinable something in his moves and carriage which stamped him cop.

Only one portly, well-dressed man failed to notice him; the pickpocket was too intent on prey, a couple at the corner with the flashy look of well-heeled tourists. Garreth watched the dip start forward to "accidentally" bump the man and in the course of it relieve the tourist of his wallet.

Garreth glided close behind. "I wouldn't, Hickham," he murmured. "The tree of evil bears bitter fruit. Crime does not pay. The shadow knows."

Then from the corner of his eye while he pretended to be focused on a display of sexy photographs outside one club, Garreth watched with an inward grin as the pickpocket flung around looking in vain for a known face that had to be the source of the voice.

An instant later, glee died into dismay. Beyond Hickham, pedestrians surged across the street at the light change. Among them came another familiar face . . . Julian Graham Fowler's.

Shit. Garreth spun away and hurriedly joined the crowd crossing to the next block up before the writer could see him. Of all people to meet. Not that it should be unexpected; every tourist visited North Beach sooner or later. What lousy luck Fowler chose tonight.

After half a block Garreth glanced back and to his relief, saw no sign of Fowler. Even without the writer around, though, hunting Irina was a problem with nothing to go on but the description Lane mentioned once in passing.

A mulatto hooker eyed him and brushed on past. He fell into step with her. This might be the place to start. "Don't rush off, honey. Talk to me."

She rolled her eyes. "We got nothing to talk about . . . Officer." She shook her head. "I don't know where Vice finds you kids. Don't you have height and weight requirements anymore?"

Fine; let her assume he was SFPD. "I'm Homicide, not Vice. I'm looking for a woman who might have been hanging around the area the past week or so . . . small, dark hair, violet eyes. She isn't a professional, but she'll have been up here every night, hitting on a different guy each time."

The hooker snorted. "The amateurs cruise the bars, not the street."

"She has to walk through the street to reach the bars. You sure you haven't seen her?"

She thought a moment. "Violet eyes?"

"And dark hair. A petite woman, pretty. Foreign accent."

The hooker shook her head. "Nope. Sorry." She eyed him more closely, and smiling, moved closer. The scents of her blood and perfume carressed him. "You know, for being a cop and so skinny and all, there's still something kind of . . . interesting about you. Did you ever consider that just like you're not always on duty, neither am I?" Her voice went professionally husky. She leaned still closer, the warm, tantalizing scent of her blood setting hunger snarling in Garreth. "Your pistol starts weighting you down, little boy blue, come look me up." Her hand ran down his crotch. "The name's Anita."

If he stayed near her any longer, the hunger was going to take control of him and drag her into the nearest alley. "Anita," he echoed, and hurriedly moved away.

Distance helped push hunger back in its cage. A passing couple helped more. The reek of garlic from what had to be their recent Italian meal snapped around his throat like a noose. Garreth did not collapse or choke enough to attract attention, but he leaned against a light pole for support while he fought for breath. By the time air moved freely through his lungs again, hunger had vanished in the profound pleasure of breathing.

He resumed asking about Irina. Questions to several more hookers and a number of barkers through the area all brought negative replies, however. No one remembered a woman of that description.

A glance at his watch showed fifteen minutes until the bars closed. Smoothing his mustache, he frowned thoughtfully down the street and debated whether to try a few more questions or pack it in for the night and head for the piers.

The debate broke off as he felt eyes on him. Garreth turned to find a tall, lean young man in an Italian-cut suit glaring furiously. In one sweeping glance Garreth took in the carefully blow-dried hair, the silk shirt open halfway down the chest, and the bulging crotch of the tight trousers.

Garreth folded his arms. "What's your problem, cowboy?"

"You, Jack," the hustler snapped. "You're trespassing." His eyes flared red with the reflection of passing car lights.

Shock jolted Garreth. He sucked in his breath. A taste of the incoming air told him no scent of blood came from the other man, either. "You—you're another."

The hustler closed on him. "Right, and this is my territory, Jack. There's plenty of game here for everyone but you find some other block and fucking well stay there." Grabbing the front of Garreth's jacket and shirt, he jerked him almost off the ground. "Or I'll be forced to hurt you."

Any police officer learned to tolerate verbal abuse, but manhandling was another matter entirely. Garreth reacted without even thinking. A knee drove hard into the hustler's groin.

The man dropped into a groaning knot of pain on the sidewalk.

"Don't touch me," Garreth snapped. "Don't you ever touch me again, or you'll be the one hurt!"

People had stopped and were staring. Barkers for a couple of the clubs started forward.

Garreth whipped out his badge case for a quick flash at them. "Thanks, gentlemen, but I have it under control." He dragged the hustler to his feet and down the sidewalk. "Walk. We have things to talk about."

"We've got nothing to talk about." The hustler pulled loose from him and leaned against a building, grimacing. "I don't care if you are a cop, this is still my territory."

"I'm not after your fucking territory! Look, all I want is information."

"Information?" The hustler blinked, then frowned skeptically. "What kind of information?"

"On a woman . . . one of us. Small, dark hair, violet eyes. Eastern European accent. Have you seen or talked to her?"

"I don't think so, but then,"—the hustler grimaced wryly—"I don't move in exactly the same circles as some others of the blood around here."

The hair on Garreth's neck prickled. "Others? What circles?"

The hustler snorted. "Jesus. Where've you been living, Jack?" Then his eyes narrowed, a sly light glittering in them. "Say, maybe—"

"Ricky! Hey, Ricky," a female voice called. "Come on. I've got us a three—"

The voice stopped short. Garreth looked around and raised brows at a blond hooker behind him.

She stared back, eyes hard, then focused past him on the hus­tler, voice going casual. "A friend wants to buy the two of us a drink, Ricky . . . if you're interested."

After a hesitant glance at Garreth, the hustler said, "Sure I'm interested." He ducked around Garreth to follow her to a Continental at the curb. A man sat behind the wheel. As he climbed into the car, the hustler called over his shoulder, "I think maybe I can help you, Jack. Meet me back here in two hours and we'll discuss it."