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  The voice of Ron Cohen outside the office door distracted him. “...my week for Martians.” Talking to John Leyva it sounded like.

  Martians? Garreth opened his eyes and sat up.

  Fowler evidently heard, too. His eyes had lit with curiosity. “What about Martians?” he asked as Cohen came in and headed for his desk.

  Cohen’s partner Tom Hale, a burly newcomer to the detail, said, “It’s what Dr. Thurlow calls corpses like the dead hustler we got handed today.”

  “Why?”

  Cohen shrugged. “‘Anatomical anomalies’ to quote him.” He rolled an eye toward Garreth. “Apparently the guy Barber killed was another.”

  Fowler grinned. “Wicked. What anatomical anomalies I wonder.”

  Garreth’s neck prickled. What anomalies indeed...but the ID of Cohen’s victim concerned him more at the moment. A hustler with anomalies like David Knight. Maruska? Since it would be possible, but stretching coincidence, to be anyone else. He kept his voice casual. “I take it your guy didn’t die the same.”

  “Nope.” Hale opened the murder book he carried to a page of Polaroids. “Someone with a serious beef worked him over.”

  Fowler took a look and recoiled. “Good god!”

  It was Maruska. Almost unrecognizable. The remains of his nose spread sideways across the right side of his face. The left eye and cheekbone had been reduced to bloody pulp. The angle of his head indicated a broken neck. Shattered hands looked like his killer stomped them.

  Which made two vampires killed in the same area, both at night when they should be almost invincible. A vampire had to be responsible...and despite the different manner of killing, surely the same vampire. Unless he wanted to believe the coincidence of two killer vampires.

  “Do you have any witnesses?” Fowler asked.

  One question too many from a civilian, it appeared. Cohen’s voice went flat. “We’re looking.”

  But the way Hale looked ready to answer, then turned away at a glance from Cohen, suggested they had found some.

  Garreth’s mind raced. Was it someone who saw his encounter with Maruska...such as the barker for Pussycat Palace down the street? If not, sooner or later they would...and it never looked good being late to the admissions party.

  “I ran into Maruska around one-thirty,” he said...and in the detectives’ sudden stillness and narrowed eyes read he was who their witness or witnesses saw. He grimaced. “More accurately, he ran into me. I was walking around thinking I didn’t remember Broadway being that noisy and crowded when he came out of nowhere, grabbed me from behind, threw me up against a building, and accused me of trying to horn in on his turf! God knows what he was on. Did you see any of it, Fowler? You were up the block near Kearney.”

  Fowler started as the detectives looked around at him, then frowned in thought. “I do dimly recall seeing a man pushing someone...and then moments later walking away. But I didn’t realize you were the one being pushed. My attention was more on a unique-looking woman up that stepped sidewalk.”

  Cohen turned back to Garreth. “A punk like that roughing you up must have made you mad.”

  Garreth pointed at the Polaroids. “That mad? How big a wack job do you think I am? No, I was through with him once I crushed his nuts and made him back off.” He closed a hand into a hard fist in illustration, then held up both to show the lack of cuts and bruises.

  Cohen sighed in what sounded like grudging acceptance of Garreth’s story...but he still asked. “Where did you go after that?”

  “Colma, to visit my wife’s grave.” When a skeptical glance flew between the two, Garreth added, “Go check out the photo of me in my Baumen PD uniform I put in the headstone vase.”

  “We need a statements from both of you.”

  They nodded.

  Serruto came out of his office. “What’s the word on your victim last night?”

  Garreth braced himself for the lieutenant hearing about the clash with Maruska...sure to be followed by hard questions regarding the reason for his presence in North Beach and what else he had done there.

  “Martian,” Fowler said.

  Serruto blinked. “What?”

  Fowler grinned. “That’s how your pathologist refers to Mr. Maruska, I’m told. Something to do with physical peculiarities.”

  “Nothing to do with his murder,” Cohen snapped.

  Fowler shrugged. “Nonetheless, I am intrigued and would like to learn more. It’s all grist for the creative mill. May I go down and see if Dr. Thurlow will speak with me?”

  Serruto frowned. “You’re waiting for Girimonte and Takananda to come back with that warrant, aren’t you?”

  “True, but Officer Mikaelian is of the opinion we won’t be allowed into the apartment, and if that is the case...” Fowler spread his hands. “...I would rather spend the time being educated about Martians.”

  After several moments, Serruto nodded. “Call first.” He headed back for his office.

  Without asking further questions about the case. A temporary reprieve, Garreth knew, but welcome. The fallout might not be as bad if Serruto had a statement to read instead just hearing Garreth was the last person they knew to see Maruska alive.

  He dialed the Medical Examiner’s office for Fowler, then turned to Cohen. “Give me a form and I’ll type up a statement.”

  Shortly Fowler said with satisfaction, “Dr. Thurlow will see me in half an hour.”

  “Then you’d better get busy giving your statement to Inspector Hale,” Cohen said.

  While Fowler sat down with Hale, Garreth rolled the statement form into Harry’s typewriter, swearing silently. He had hoped Thurlow would be too busy. Fowler once wrote horror novels. What if something Thurlow said suddenly made him believe in vampires? If he were there, could he prevent that? “It could be interesting. If I finish this I might join you.”

  “Do.”

  Except for lying about everything between leaving Harry’s and visiting North Beach, he made the statement as detailed as possible. Typing fast, he explained the sleeplessness that sent him driving, reported a fictional route around the north end of the city that ended at the Embarcadero, recounted his visit to Afterglow, described every second of the clash with Maruska, and listed times and approximate times where they agreed with his story. He even included observing Fowler.

  “Christ, I didn’t need War and Peace!” Cohen said when Garreth signed the three pages and handed them over.

  Just in time. Fowler tapped his wristwatch.

  “I didn’t want to leave anything out. If you spot something, I’ll happily revise when I’m back from hearing about Martians.”

  Thurlow saw them in his office instead of the autopsy room, to Garreth’s relief. Entering the facility he realized with his sharpened sense of smell, the odors here — decomp that no air cleaner could completely remove, intestinal contents, rotting blood — assaulted him harder than ever. In the autopsy room itself they had to be overwhelming.

  Thurlow smiled at him. “Well you’ve changed a bit since I last saw you, Mikaelian.”

  “You remember me?”

  “I remember all my surviving patients. How are you doing?”

  Of all possible answers, a flip one came out of his mouth. “Carping the diem.”

  Thurlow nodded. “Sensible.” He pulled off his scrub cap, leaving his greying thatch as stiffly on end as if gelled. “We’re busy with the usual grim weekend harvest, but when someone wants to talk about my Martians, I can always make time for it.” His eyes gleamed above his half glasses. “The poor things have been waiting fifteen years for attention. What do want to know?”

  Fowler stopped in the middle of opening a notebook. “Fifteen years? How many have you had?”

  “Counting the three this week— ”

  “Three!” That jolted Garreth. Another vampire had died?

  Thurlow nodded. “A little hooker last Friday...Mei Li, or Jade. She was murdered, too, poor thing. Blunt force trauma to the back of her head, apparently
from being slammed into a wall. Then her killer stamped on her neck until he crushed her spine, and finished by kicking in a few ribs. Almost as vicious a killing as Mr. Maruska’s.”

  Committed by the same individual. Had to be. Taken by themselves, the deaths of Maruska and this hooker might be part of turf war, but then why kill Knight, and in such a different manner?

  Thurlow frowned. “It’s interesting that these three have all been murders, so different from the rest.”

  “What happened to the rest?” Garreth asked.

  Thurlow’s eyes glazed in thought. “Abraham Beaumont, accidental death by tetrodotoxin in 1969. He was head chef at the Royal Charleston Hotel, where they served puffer fish, full of that poison and lethal if not prepared right.” He refocused on Garreth and Fowler. “Interesting fellow, Beaumont. He had African tribal scars on his face, and old scars on his ankles that looked like they’d been made by shackles. If I’d seen him a hundred fifty or two hundred years ago, I’d say he’d come off a slave ship.”

  He might well have, Garreth mused.

  “So he was Black?” Fowler said.

  “Like carved from ebony.” Thurlow smiled. “Which made it interesting to have his body claimed by a very blonde young woman insisting she was his sister. Her comment at the time has stuck with me. ‘No matter what skin we wear, we are of one blood.’ And she’s right, we’re all human.”

  Not everyone, Garreth reflected. That echo of Irina’s statement about being linked by blood made her sound like another vampire...Beaumont’s maker or offspring.

  “And he had the same anomalies as this Chinese hooker and Knight and Maruska?” Fowler asked.

  “As did my other two Martians, both of them Caucasians.” Thurlow leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. “It’s all so puzzling. Identical anomalies in different races. Except, of course, we’re all descended from that first human woman in Africa...so maybe there’s a recessive gene that just hasn’t manifested itself in most of us.”

  “You still haven’t said what’s anomalous about these people,” Fowler said.

  “Oh, yes, yes.” Thurlow sat forward again. “Of course that’s what interests you. Well, it’s mostly internal, except for the teeth...unusually sharp canines grooved on the lingual side.”

  Garreth tongued the grooves on his own fangs, thankful that at least the ability to extend did not reveal itself in autopsy.

  “Externally they look normal and healthy...lean with good muscle tone and skin remarkably free of blemishes or scars...aside from a few very old ones like those on Beaumont’s ankles. Incredibly, even the hooker.” Thurlow glanced at Garreth. “How many hookers have you known who didn’t use drugs...but little Jade was absolutely clean, skin like porcelain. No needle tracks, new or old, anywhere, no indication she snorted cocaine. Amazing. But open them up and they have the GI tract of famine victims! Shrunken stomach and duodenum, colon and distal two-thirds of the small bowel atrophied. It doesn’t make sense. They must eat...but what is it that leaves nothing to excrete?”

  Garreth froze. Shit! How could their nature more obvious? Especially to an ex-horror writer.

  Yet Fowler barely glanced up from his notes. “Is there anything else unique about them?”

  “Well, their blood is interesting...beginning with a high red cell volume I’d expect to see in someone who’s been at extreme altitudes...or a blood-doping athlete.”

  He had more to add, but not in comprehensible English and shortly Fowler interrupted. “I think that’s more technical than I’ll ever need. Aside from Beaumont’s ‘sister,’ have you met any family members?”

  Thurlow’s eyes lit up. “That’s a thought...see if the gene runs in families. Unfortunately, the only proven family member I’ve met was Christopher Stroda’s father when he came to identify his son’s body, and I recall him as a husky man, rather like you used to be, Mikaelian.” His shook his head. “A very sad case. A suicide in May 1974. Christopher had been a football star and top of his class in high school and looked to be finishing his first year of pre-law at Harvard with near perfect grades. Then after Spring Break in the Florida Keys, where he miraculously survived a car crash that demolished the vehicle, he dropped out of school and came home in a deep depression. He refused all offers of help, just lived in his room until he drove to the Golden Gate bridge and jumped off. Inspector Kolb played his suicide tape for me, which except for the part asking his family to forgive him was as baffling as his anatomy...saying he realized Anita — no one the family knew — only meant to save his life but had destroyed it instead and he couldn’t bear the thought of an existence endlessly pretending to be what he no longer was.”

  Garreth sympathized with that. He had once considered the bridge himself...except he wanted Lane more than death right then.

  “No family showed up for the other one?” Fowler said.

  “That would be Abigail Shaw, victim of a multi-car pile-up on the Great Highway in ‘79. No, no family. Her employer claimed the body.” Thurlow smiled. “I remember considering the irony of someone employed by the Philos Foundation attaching an emphatic Do not use my organs to her driver’s license. Not that there was anything useful left when we peeled her out of her vehicle.”

  Current ran down Garreth’s spine. A vampire worked for the Philos Foundation? Irina might, too...except he had trouble seeing the woman Lane described as traveling to all those fine hotels as someone punching a timecard. Writing “our organization” also had a more proprietary sound than he would expect from an employee. But it suggested what Maruska dismissed, vampires hanging out together. Now he really wanted to talk to Holle.

  Fowler closed his notebook, stood, and held out a hand. “I think I’ve quite enough information for the time being. Thank you so much for your time. When I use this in a future book, you’ll find yourself effusively thanked in the dedication and I’ll make sure you receive several copies.”

  Riding back up to Homicide, Fowler fingered the notebook. “What do you think of the good doctor’s Martians?”

  Garreth shrugged, more concerned about what Fowler thought of them.

  “Come on, you have to love it,” Fowler said with relish. “Like I told Inspector Girimonte, the universe is stranger than we can imagine. It’s enough to make you believe in...”

  Here it came. Garreth braced to make a joke of it.

  “...aliens.”

  What? He almost choked in relief.

  “Can’t you see it? Energy beings who take over human bodies then feed off the life energy around them. Who knows who among us is at this moment a mere shell housing Og from Zog.” He cocked a brow at a man in a suit on his other side.

  The suit, who looked like a lawyer, backed away warily. So did two uniformed officers behind them.

  Winking at Garreth, Fowler tucked the notebook in the pocket of his jacket.

  Garreth pulled in a long, slow breath. Of course Fowler was joking about aliens, but had Thurlow referring to Martians really blinded the writer to the possibility of vampires? Whatever the reason, Garreth accepted it thankfully.

  Relief that lasted until they walked into Homicide and he spotted Serruto standing by Cohen’s desk reading what looked like his statement.

  Then Evelyn Kolb said, “You missed Harry and Van heading for Barber’s apartment but Harry said go ahead and follow them.”

  Garreth glanced at Serruto but the lieutenant went on reading. Maybe another bullet dodged? He turned to leave before Serruto decided to discuss the statement.

  “And, Mikaelian,” Evelyn called after them, “tell Harry that Ian will have the beer cold by six and the grill hot so you ought to try getting there at least when everyone else does.”

  A cook-out. Garreth grimaced. Terrific. A whole evening pretending to eat...and if he recalled, Evelyn and her husband had no dogs to sneak food to.

  As they left the building Fowler said, “We’ll need to take your car as I’ve left my rental at my bed and breakfast in favor of your excellent public transp
ort system and its opportunities for people watching.”

  Shrugging, Garreth pulled his ball cap down to his eyebrows and waded through daylight to the Escort. He wished Harry had mentioned the cook-out...not that he had any excuse to miss it.

  Halfway to the apartment, Fowler said, “You’ve become pensive. If you’re concerned the case will interfere with attending this evening’s soiree, I can assure you of Takananda making every effort to be there.”

  Garreth glanced across at him. “Why is that?”

  “Because it’s bad form for the host to be absent.”

  Harry? Garreth frowned. “Isn’t it at Kolb’s place?”

  “Yes...but nonetheless Takananda’s party. As I recall, the conversation ran something to the effect that knowing you were coming, Takananda wanted to slaughter the fatted calf. Inspector Girimonte pointed out that aside from the question of how many might consider your visit worth celebrating, with his wife away he lacked anyone to do the donkey work of arranging everything. But he was ready to have it catered if necessary, convinced, as he put it, that beer, brats, and hamburgers would rebuild all bridges.” Fowler smiled. “Taking pity on him, Inspector Kolb volunteered to provide the venue and the chef — her husband — if Takananda furnished the supplies.”

  Good old Harry. Not that it would work. Yes they could expect good attendance...but for the free food and regard for Harry, not for him. Still, it meant he definitely had to show up and be pleasant. Who could say. Miracles happened. Harry might be right.

  Chapter Nineteen

  At the apartment, Harry and Girimonte stood leaning against their car, arms folded, wearing expressions as dark as the sky overhead. Obviously they had been inside.

  He climbed out of the Escort. “What’s wrong?” Knowing quite well.

  Harry threw up his hands. “It’s Telegraph Hill all over again. Furniture and a closet full of clothes still there but no books, no pictures, no jewelry. Just like last time.”

  Fowler’s expression caught Garreth’s attention...disappointed, then pleased. “Last night do you think? At least that tells us she’s around close.”