Blood Hunt Page 4

  “Go home to your wife.”

  Harry waved on his way out.

  Garreth kept typing. Some time later Evelyn Kolb came in and picked up her tea thermos. “Did you get your teletype from Denver? I think Leyva put it under something on your desk.”

  “Under?” Under, for God’s sake. It could have vanished forever.

  But he found it under the bodega murder book...a description of Mossman’s jewelry. A man’s gold Rolex with functions doing everything but answering the telephone; a plain gold man’s wedding band, size 8 inscribed: B.A. to G.M. 9-4-73.

  Next week was their wedding anniversary. What a hell of a present.

  The last item caught his interest even more than the Rolex...a sterling silver pendant two inches long, shaped in the outline of a fish with the Greek word for fish inside the outline. Was that enough silver to bother stealing?

  Maybe the killer just disliked Christian symbols. Faye and Centrello looked at cults in the Adair murder.

  The teletype went on to report that Mossman’s wife knew of no enemies, just business rivals. Of course, that would have to be checked out. For now he typed up the jewelry descriptions for a flier to distribute to the pawnshops, then finished his reports.

  2

  “No more. Bu yao,” Garreth said to the waitress who extended the coffeepot toward his half-empty cup.

  Instead of catching a quick bite, he had come to his favorite Chinese place, Huong’s. A hole-in-the-wall greasy chopsticks eatery up an alley off Grant Avenue that served some of the best fried rice and egg rolls in San Francisco. Marti had loved the food, too. For Huong’s, they learned to use chopsticks and ignored the greasy smoke that seeped out of the kitchen, covering the walls and Chinese signs on them with a coat of dingy gray. And they had Lien teach them enough Chinese to order, and tease the waitress.

  With a nod and a smile, the girl turned away.

  He drained the cup and stood, reaching for the check with one hand and into his pocket for the tip with the other. At the cash register he paid the withered little old woman almost hidden from sight by the machine. “Delicious, as always, Mrs. Huong.”

  She smiled in return, bobbing her head. “Come back again, Inspector.”

  “Count on it.”

  Outside, he walked down the steep alley to Grant Avenue and stood on the sidewalk, surrounded by passing evening throngs of tourists and the bright kaleidoscope of shop windows and neon signs with their Chinese pictographs. Rather than go home, maybe he should turn over a few rocks in Wink O’Hare’s neighborhood. This was about the time of day the little vermin was most likely to stick his head out of his hole. On the other hand, just a few blocks up the hill, Grant Avenue intersected with Columbus Avenue and Broadway in the beginning of North Beach’s bright-lights section, and somewhere among the bars and clubs sang a tall red-haired woman who might or might not be involved in murder.

  He stared up the hill, weighing the choices. Finding Wink should have priority — he still had the gun he had presumably used to shoot the bodega’s owner — but evening in North Beach frankly appealed to Garreth far more than Wink’s turf. He had his sources keeping eyes and ears open, and as long as he was on his own time anyway...

  He turned uphill.

  Chinatown gave way to blocks of glittering, garish signs proclaiming the presence of countless clubs. Barkers paced the sidewalks, calling to passersby in a raucous chorus...beckoning, wheedling, leering, each promising the ultimate in exotic entertainment inside his club. Garreth absorbed it all, color and noise, as he threaded his way through the crowd...also keeping alert for unnecessary bumps against him and fingers in his pockets. He spotted some familiar faces...about the time they recognized him, too, and swiftly faded into the crowd.

  He hailed a barker he had met on previous occasions. “How’s business, Sammy?”

  “All over legal age, Inspector,” Sammy replied quickly. “Come on in and see the show, folks! All live action with the most gorgeous girls in San Francisco!”

  “Any redheads, Sammy?”

  Sammy eyed him. “Sure. Anything you want.”

  “Maybe a very tall redhead, say five ten, with green eyes?”

  The barker’s eyes narrowed. “This redhead got a name? Hey, mister!” he called to a passing couple. “Your timing is perfect. The show is about to start. Bring the little lady in and warm up together. What do you want her for, Mikaelian?”

  “A date, Sammy. What else? Who do you know with that description? She sings in the area.”

  Sammy laughed. “Are you kidding? We’ve got more showgirl redheads than the stores have Barbie dolls. Come on in and see the show, folks! Real adult entertainment, live on our stage! Our girls have curves in places most girls don’t have places, and they’ll show you every one!”

  “I need names, Sammy,” Garreth said patiently.

  Sammy sighed, not patiently. “Names. Who knows names? Try the Cul-de-Sac across the street. There’s a red-haired singer I seen there. And maybe in the Pussywillow, too. Now, will you move on, man? You’re spoiling my rhythm.”

  Grinning, Garreth moved across the street into the Cul-de-Sac. Yes, a barmaid said when he ordered a rum and Coke, they had a red-haired singer. She came on after the dancer.

  He sat down at the bar, which ran around the edge of the stage. A nearly-naked blonde dragged an enormous cushion out onto the stage and proceeded to writhe on it in simulated ecstasy. In the midst of her throes, she rolled over, saw Garreth watching her with amusement, and said in a bored monotone, “Hi, honey. And what’s your day been like?”

  “About like yours, unfortunately, hours wasted grinding away at thin air,” he replied.

  A fleeting grin crossed the blonde’s face.

  The singer appeared presently. Garreth left. The redhead’s hair color was bottle-bred brass and she looked old enough to have sung on the Barbary Coast itself.

  He talked to barkers on down the street, collecting a notebook full of possibilities, but checking them out, he found women with the wrong color of red, wrong height, and wrong age. In two hours he checked over a dozen clubs with no success and stood on the sidewalk outside of the last with an ache working its way up from his feet. He looked around, seeking inspiration.

  “Hi, baby. All alone?” a husky voice asked behind him.

  Garreth turned. A woman in her thirties with elaborately curled dark hair arched a plucked, painted eyebrow at him. “Hi, Velvet,” he said. Her real name, he knew from busting her when he worked Patrol, was Catherine Bukato, but on the street and with the johns, she always went by Velvet. “How’s your daughter?”

  Velvet smiled. “Almost twelve and more beautiful every day. My mother sends me pictures of her regularly. I may even go home to see her this winter. You up here working or playing tonight?”

  “I’m looking for a woman.”

  Velvet hitched the shoulder strap of her handbag higher. “You’re playing my song, baby.”

  “The woman I want is red-haired, young, and very tall. Taller than I am. She sings somewhere around here. Would you happen to know anyone like that?”

  Velvet’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “I tell you what. My feet are killing me. Why don’t you play like a john who has to work up his courage? Buy me a drink where I can sit down for a while and I’ll think on it.”

  Garreth smiled. “Pick somewhere.”

  She chose the nearest bar and they found seats in a rear booth. She ordered, then kicked off her shoes and stretched her legs out, propping her feet up on the seat on the far side of the booth.

  She closed her eyes. “That’s what I needed. You know, for a cop you’re almost human, Mikaelian.”

  “Every Thursday night.” In the right quarters, inexpensive kindness could reap valuable benefits. Velvet’s sharp eyes and ears missed little on the street.

  A fact she knew he knew. Opening her eyes, she said, “So let me pay for the drink. Who’s this woman you’re looking for?”

  Garreth gave her a detailed de
scription.

  Velvet’s drink came. She sipped it slowly. “Tall? A singer? Yeah, I’ve seen someone like that. I can’t remember where, though. What did she rip off?”

  “I just want to talk to her.”

  Velvet’s drawn brows rose again, skeptical. “Oh, sure.”

  “If you have a chance, will you ask around? Its important I find her.”

  Velvet eyed him a moment, but then nodded. “How can I refuse someone who always asks about my kid? You have a kid, Mikaelian?”

  “An eight-year-old boy named Brian.”

  For the remainder of the time it took her to finish her drink, they talked children and showed each other the pictures they carried. As Garreth handed back Velvet’s snapshot of her daughter, the prostitute started to laugh.

  “What’s funny?” Garreth asked.

  Her teeth gleamed in the dimness of the bar. “What a pair we are, a cop and a hooker, sitting in a bar talking about our kids.” She drained her glass, sighed, and fished around under the table for her shoes. “Well, time to go back to work. Thanks for the coffee break.”

  They headed for the door.

  “I hope this won’t make trouble for you with Richie, getting nothing for the time,” Garreth said.

  She looked up at him. “Look, if it isn’t too much trouble, maybe you could give me a little something, a kind of advance on information I’m going to give you? It’ll help with Richie.”

  He dug into his pocket for his billfold and came up with two tens. “One for Richie Soliere and one for you to buy something for your daughter, all right?”

  She folded away the bills with a smile. “Thanks a lot.” Then she tossed her head and dropped back into her husky “professional” voice. “Good night, baby.”

  He watched her walk off into the crowd, then counted what remained in his billfold. The impulsive generosity had nearly cleaned him out. It would make the rest of the swing through North Beach a dry trip. He hoped Velvet gave him a good return on his investment.

  3

  Rob Cohen raised a brow at Garreth. “That’s the third time you’ve yawned in the last five minutes. You single guys sure lead a fast life.”

  Harry regarded Garreth sharply, however. “You worked all night after all?”

  Garreth shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep.” He gave Harry a recap of the North Beach canvas. “It was a waste of good shoe leather, though; I didn’t find her.”

  “Maybe you’re lucky. Your hexagram this morning was number forty-four, Coming to Meet. ‘The maiden is powerful. One should not marry such a maiden.’”

  A sudden chill raised the hair down Garreth’s spine. He wondered at it. I Ching’s prophecies usually neither disturbed nor encouraged him. He thought of Grandma Doyle’s Feelings. However, he made himself slap Harry’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Taka-san. I have no intention of marrying any maiden in the near future.”

  Too late he realized that the flip response had been wrong. Harry’s almond eyes went grave. “You know the text isn’t to be taken literally. What’s the matter?”

  The chill bit deep into Garreth’s gut. “Nothing.” A lie? He could not be sure. His chest felt so tight he had trouble breathing. “Guess I’m just superstitious enough not to like having that caution turn up when I’m hunting a woman.” He hurriedly changed the subject. “Here’s the flier on Mossman’s watch, ring, and pendant that’s going out to the pawnshops.”

  Harry read it over. “Good.”

  The tightness and chill eased in Garreth. “What do you want to do this morning?”

  “I think one of us ought to get started checking out cults and the other see if anyone around China Basin saw anything Thursday night.” Harry pulled out a quarter. “Flip for it? Loser takes the cults.”

  Garreth chose tails. The quarter came up heads. Harry grinned as he left for China Basin.

  Garreth sat down with the Adair file and read through the reports to see which groups Faye and Centrello had investigated. On the half dozen he found reports on, only one had a formal name, Holy Church of Asmodeus. The others were listed by leaders’ names. The groups varied in size, organization, and object of worship. Some seemed to be satanists or devil worshipers. Others appeared to be variations of witchcraft and voodoo. One group claimed to be neo-druids.

  All, however, had been rumored to use blood in their ceremonies. A few admitted it, but insisted it was either animal blood or small amounts from members, voluntarily given. Analysis of blood samples on altars and instruments confirmed that most was animal blood. One of the few human samples proved to be A-positive like Adair’s, but investigation of the group failed to establish access to Adair by any of the members and more detailed analysis of the blood sample ruled it out as Adair’s.

  Nevertheless, Garreth called Dennis Kovar in Fraud. “Denny, what complaints have you had in the past year about oddball church and cult groups?”

  Kovar laughed. “How much time do you have to listen? I don’t need to lift weights after picking up the current file a few times a day. Parents and neighbors are all out for the blood of these groups.”

  “What about the groups? Do you have word that any of them are using blood?”

  Silence came over the line for a moment before Kovar answered. “What are you looking for?” He listened silently to Garreth’s reply, then said, “I don’t have many complaints about those groups. They aren’t asking for monetary donations. They keep a low profile so they won’t be noticed. Talk Angelo Chiarelli. He’s undercover full-time for Narcotics, but he’s fed me information on some of these fraudulent church groups and contacted a few kids in the cults for Missing Persons. Maybe he can help you.”

  A call to Narcotics produced a promise to pass on Garreth’s request. “You understand we can’t go calling him every day, and he’s pretty busy doing his own job to run errands for other details.”

  Garreth sighed. “He doesn’t have to work on my case. I just want information on blood-using cults he may know about.”

  “We’ll get back to you.”

  He even called the Humane Society about complaints of people killing and mutilating animals and went out to buy underground papers. When Harry came back to the office around two, they exchanged notes over coffee and doughnuts.

  Harry’s interviews in China Basin produced nothing for them. The underground classifieds had some cult ads, but no direct means of contacting the groups.

  “We’ll have to get some scrawny kid straight out of the Academy who can get past their security,” Garreth said. “The ASPCA has some complaints of animal mutilation we might follow up on, too.”

  “What about Chiarelli?”

  “Still no word yet. Here’s everything Records currently has on the cults Faye and Centrello investigated.”

  And what, Garreth wondered, leaning back in his chair with a sigh, did it mean until they knew where Mossman had been? Until then, they had no way of establishing opportunity for the cults. Checking movements was treadmill work.

  Still, it needed to be done, and over the next four days they visited the cult groups Faye and Centrello listed, then those with ads that their rookie contacted for them. They visited people who had reported animal mutilations to the Humane Society. Garreth did not like most of the cultists he met — some he detested on sight — but he found them educational: women who simultaneously attracted and chilled him, people he would have taken for dull businessmen on the street, and some, too, who looked like escapees from Hollywood horror movies. No group, though, had a tall red-haired female member.

  None of Mossman’s jewelry appeared in the pawnshops.

  At the same time, they kept prodding their contacts for Wink O’Hare’s hiding place. Garreth spent his evenings in North Beach on a systematic search for the singer.

  One week after Gerald Mossman died, Garreth found her.

  4

  The singer looked every bit the babe Suarez said, and she did tower in boots with six inch heels. Dressed in a satin shirt and jeans, she glided b
etween the tables of the Barbary Now, singing a sentimental Kenny Rogers song. And what a voice. Singing about lighting up his life brought a vivid memory of Marti and a lump in his throat. He had to fight off blurred vision to concentrate on the singer. The red hair, black in shadow, burned with dark fire where the light struck it, and hung down her back to her waist, framing a striking, square-jawed face. Watching her walk, Garreth remembered the description the bellboy had given of the woman in the Mark Hopkins lobby. She had to be the same woman. Surely there could not be two like this in San Francisco. He would slip something extra to Velvet to thank her for finding this woman.

  The hooker had called the office that afternoon. He and Harry were out, but she left a message: If you’re still looking for that redhead, try the Barbary Now after 8:00 tonight.

  So here he and Harry were, and here was a redhead .

  “Nice,” Harry said.

  Garreth agreed. Very nice. He beckoned to a barmaid. “Rum and Coke for me, a vodka collins for my friend, and what’s the name of the singer?”

  “Lane Barber.”

  Garreth did not blame Mossman for having stared at her. Most of the male eyes in the room remained riveted on her throughout the song. Garreth managed to tear his own gaze away long enough to see that.

  The barmaid brought their drinks. Garreth pulled a page out of his notebook and wrote on it. “When the set finishes, will you give this to Miss Barber? I’d like to buy her a drink.”

  “I’ll give it to her, but I’d better warn you, she has a long line waiting for the same honor.”

  “In that case...” Harry took out one of his cards “...give her this instead.”

  The girl held the card down where the light of the candle on the table fell on it. “Cops! If you’re on duty, what are you doing drinking?”

  “We’re blending with the scenery. Give her the card, please.”

  Three songs later, the set ended. Lane Barber disappeared through the curtains behind the piano. She reappeared five minutes later in a strapless, slit-skirted dress that wrapped around her and stayed on by the grace of God and two buttons. She made her way through the tables, smiling but shaking her head at various men, until she reached Garreth and Harry.