7

The short burp of a siren behind him several blocks later brought a quick rush of anxiety—was Kostmayer coming back for something?—which quickly escalated to low panic with a glance in the rearview mirror. The flashing light behind him came not from a light bar but the pop-on bubble of an inspector's car. Had Kostmayer's partner used Garreth's name in checking the registration? Had word of it reached Serruto?

Biting his lip, he pulled over. The other car stopped alongside. He found himself looking into the long face of Dean Centrello, and beyond him to a grinning Earl Faye at the wheel, hair as much of an unkempt mane as ever.

"Small world, isn't it?" Faye said.

Garreth groaned inwardly. A chance meeting. That bitch Lady Luck. He had had to hunt for someone to talk into running his registration but when the last person he wanted was a fellow cop, two former colleagues fell over him before he even managed to leave North Beach.

He forced a smile. "Hi, guys."

Centrello shook his head incredulously. "It really is you, Mikaelian."

Faye said, "I told you so. If you'd watch the evening news like a normal person instead of insisting your family eat supper around a table and talk to each other, you'd have recognized him, too." He grinned at Garreth. "Hey, man, it's good to see you again. Where you headed?"

Garreth shrugged. "Just driving."

"Oh, I thought maybe you'd made the guy who's been visiting the Barber chick's apartment. Harry said you were watching the place this afternoon."

A string of profanity ran through Garreth's head. So much for secrecy. With Faye's motormouth, Serruto would know about this meeting before the end of the day. "All right, yes. I got lucky, too. I have the man's name and address. I was just headed back for Bryant Street to tell Harry."

"That's two breaks for Takananda today," Centrello said.

Garreth raised his brows, and breathed a sigh of relief that neither man appeared to notice that driving west was a strange way to reach Bryant Street to the south.

"Someone dropped a dime on the Mission clinic shooter," Faye said. "He and Girimonte are out now picking up the turkey. Hey, we're headed downtown, too. Follow us on in and we can catch up on old times while you wait for Harry."

Garreth saw no way to refuse without arousing curiosity, if not suspicion. He gave them his broadest smile. "Sure. Great."

Riding up in the elevator at Bryant Street, he felt the same prisoner sensation he had felt when meeting the reporters in Baumen. Faye and Centrello seemed oblivious to his discomfort, though. If anything, Centrello's expression contained envy. "Harry says you're into running these days. It's sure thinned you down."

"Sometimes I think about running," Faye said, "and then I start wondering why should I deliberately inflict pain on myself and deprive my brain of oxygen. I remember this case last year. We were called out to the Great Highway early one morning for a body in the northbound lane by Golden Gate Park. More of a grease spot, really. The dude is squashed flat. Almost every bone broken. And the first car must have dragged him . . . smeared blood and skin down the highway for a good hundred feet."

Garreth could not help smiling. Faye always relished a story with gory details.

The elevator stopped. They stepped off. Faye never missed a syllable. "He must have been hit by a dozen cars before people realized what was going on and someone blocked the lane so the traffic would go around. He turned out to be a runner. Went clear around Golden Gate Park every morning. Had for years. We figured he was a hit and run, but you know what the post turned up? He'd died of a heart attack. He was dead before the first car hit him. Can you beat that? Here's this dude running miles every day and in great shape, then all of a sudden . . ." Faye snapped his fingers. "Think about it, Mikaelian."

Garreth chuckled.

The amusement died in an icy drench of dismay as they walked into Homicide. He stopped short, staring.

In Serruto's office Julian Fowler stood up, smiling.

Garreth swore silently. What was the writer doing here?

Fowler came out of the office, followed by an attractive young woman and a poker-faced Serruto. "I dare say this is a bit of a surprise, Mikaelian."

The height of understatement. Garreth dragged his feet loose from the floor to move farther into the room. "I . . . thought I left you in Kansas."

Fowler grinned. "Sorry, no. I followed you. Or to be perfectly accurate, I preceded you. I flew out on Friday, after Anna told me you were going on holiday. Thanks to Miss Kirkwood here and the rest of the Public Relations section, who have been a marvelous help, I'm ready to start my research."

The young woman smiled. "It's a pleasure to work with such a well-known writer."

The air in Garreth's lungs felt thick, as though tainted by garlic. Research! That had to mean records of the case . . . the report of fingerprints found in Lane's Telegraph Hill apartment, prints identified as Madelaine Bieber's from the records of her 1941 arrest for assault. and photographs of Lane obtained from her agent. "You don't mean you're still thinking of writing about this case?"

"Too right!" Fowler's light eyes glittered. "It's absolutely fascinating. You're going to make a marvelous protagonist."

Every detective in the room turned to stare. Except Serruto, who leaned against the side of his office door with arms crossed and gaze fixed on the far corner of the ceiling.

Panic welled up in Garreth. His one protection against someone realizing that Mada Bieber and Lane Barber were the same person was their apparent age difference. Fowler's background in horror legends, though, made him the one man capable of seeing the real truth in the facts, of seeing how Lane could be Mada and what she was . . . and by extension, what Garreth Mikaelian had become. He made his voice casual. "What about the war story you came over here to research?"

Fowler shrugged. "That'll wait:" He raised a brow. "You're bloody reluctant, I must say. Most people would love to be written about." One brow arched. "I can make you immortal, you know." Both brows skipped. "You find that amusing?"

Garreth bit back his wry smile. "No." Just redundant. "Mr. Fowler, I'm not most people. Count me out of your project."

The woman from Public Relations frowned. "Officer Mikaelian, the department has agreed to extend Mr. Fowler every possible courtesy."

"I don't work for this department," Garreth pointed out. "Lieutenant, may I wait for Harry in your office?"

One corner of the lieutenant's mouth twitched. He waved Garreth by, then followed him in and closed the door. "I'm glad someone else doesn't want to join the circus." He eyed Garreth. "You look exhausted. Are you that out of shape for stakeouts?"

Garreth started. "What stakeout?"

Serruto ticked his tongue against his teeth. "What stakeout. Mikaelian, I can see the parking lot from my window. I watched you drive out in Takananda's personal car. Why would you use a vehicle other than your own except to be less conspicuous, and why would you want to be inconspicuous except—"

"All right." Garreth sighed. "Yes, I was watching the apartment for Harry."

"And?"

Garreth showed him Holle's name and address. "Here's the guy who's been looking after the apartment. I swear I did not accost him and interrogate him, Lieutenant sir. I didn't even tail him. I only took down the license number and ran a registration check."

"Good boy." Serruto glanced toward the squadroom. "Ah. Ms. Public Relations has taken her pet away and the conquering heroes have returned." He opened the office door.

Harry and Girimonte swaggered into the squadroom. Harry shook clasped hands above his head. "We got the turkey! He's signed, sealed, and delivered to the jail."

Thumbs went up around the room.

"Did you get the gun, too?" Serruto asked.

Girimonte lit one of her sleek cigars. The sweet smell of it drifted past the lieutenant to Garreth, temporarily drowning the blood scents. "Of course. It's at the lab." She blew a perfect smoke ring.

Harry headed for the coffee pot. On the way he caught Garreth's eye. "How was your sightseeing this afternoon, Mik-san? Has the old town changed much? Glad to see the cable cars back?"

Garreth grimaced. "Forget the subterfuge, Harry; Serruto knows everything:" He slid around Serruto out of the office to hand the notebook page to Harry. "However, I did see the individual we hoped I would."

Harry's sheepish wince vanished into a grin. "The luck of the Irish." He passed the page on to Girimonte. "Well, partner, let's run Mr. Holle through Records and pay him a visit, unless you're hot to start on the shooter's paperwork?"

"Hot for paperwork?" Girimonte blew another smoke ring and bared her teeth. "Harry, honey, I have absolutely no interest in starting any of it without you. We've got all night to write reports." In one sinuous motion she stubbed out her cigar and headed for the door.