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  “May I come along, too?” Fowler asked.

  The last thing Garreth wanted. “Aren’t you shadowing Girimonte?”

  “Yes of course but I’ve already spent some hours observing her on the phone.”

  One of her elegant brows arched. “Not very dramatic I know...but it’s how we work, Mr. Fowler. Much more efficient use of time in this case than driving back and forth across town and hunting for parking space. However...Harry, it’s your call.”

  Garreth silently willed no, no, no. The farther he kept Fowler away from Harry, the smaller the chance of the writer hearing the name Bieber and piping up: “What a coincidence. Did you know there’s a family of that name where Mikaelian works?”

  The old partner telepathy still worked. Harry shook his head at Fowler. “Sorry. It’s just a drive-by, no more dramatic than watching Van on the phone...and Garreth and I have catching up to do, which is bound to bore you.”

  Fowler’s expression went rueful. “Yes, of course. Until later, then.”

  Riding down in the elevator, Harry said,“Did I read you right...not wanting Fowler along? I guess he really put your back up in Baumen.”

  “Anna is a dear old lady, a kind of surrogate grandmother...and he left her in tears.” Time to change the subject. “How did you find the apartment...and do you have it under surveillance?”

  “No surveillance. Her landlord and neighbor, one Adam Turner living upstairs, says he hasn’t seen her for over a year. He’s said he’ll let us know if she shows up. But we aren’t the only ones interested in her. A man’s been coming by almost daily for several weeks to see if she’s there, and for the last couple of days has asked Turner if anyone else is asking about her.”

  “I assume you’ve talked to this visitor?”

  “No.” Harry sighed. “All we have is a description: fifties, five-ten, 180 to 190 pounds, grey at the temples. He’s never given Turner his name and hasn’t come in a car that Turner’s seen...so we don’t have a vehicle description or license number. A second consideration is, if we talk to him, we might alert Barber and risk her splitting again. Oh, now she’s calling herself Micaela Garrett, by the way. Cute, huh. And the apartment is in North Beach, practically next door to her old place. Like she’s daring us to find her.”

  Daring him to find her, Garreth reflected. Practically waving a red flag at him. Only...that failed for some reason.

  “Well, we did and we didn’t find her.”

  Garreth blinked. “How’s that?”

  “Her car was located in long-term parking at SFO shortly after you left town. No one told me until weeks later because it seemed a dead end. The rentals section of the Chronicle had been left in the car with several apartments circled and in canvassing those, this one turned up. The name Micaela Garrett got everyone excited, except...Turner didn’t recognize Barber’s picture. According to him Garrett is a trannie, male living as a female...in her thirties with black hair and thick glasses.”

  A disguise, of course...perfect for someone Lane’s size...but a disguise nonetheless which Lane expected him to discover...the unlikely coincidence of name and location sure to make him haunt the place looking for her. Except...he got Harry shot and left town before the car was found. A chill ran through him contemplating the consequences if he had stayed here and encountered her in his throes of emotional chaos. Her offer of companionship had been so seductive in Baumen, what chance would he have had resisting it here? What might she have turned him into.

  “How did you decide this is her place after all?”

  “Van went through the old case record and learned Art Schneider asked the Telegraph Hill landlady what bank the rent checks were drawn on, thinking he’d find a new address for Lane that way. Turned out an accounting firm paid it. He got a warrant for their records but hit a dead end because while they’d been paying all Barber’s bills at the request of a long-time client named Marie Rodek, she’d now cancelled the arrangement.”

  Rodek being Lane, Garreth bet. As Rodek, she could change “arrangements” and provide money for herself in a new identity with no questions asked.

  “The warrant unfortunately didn’t cover obtaining the name and address of any new ‘protege.’ They did give us Rodek’s address — in the spirit of cooperation, supposedly — but it’s in the Caribbean...a one-room cottage with no phone in the mountains of some isolated island, where according to local authorities she’s rarely home anyway. A mystery women...not to say a ghost.” Harry shook his head in disgust. “Anyway, after reading that, Van asked Turner who was paying Michaela Garrett’s rent. Want to guess his answer?”

  “The same accounting firm.”

  “Bingo. And that’s one too many coincidences, despite Miss Garrett not looking like Lane Barber. So...here we are.”

  He parked with wheels turned into the curb and pointed at a blue house two houses down from the corner...with the stairs rising along the front of the house forming an overhang sheltering steps leading down to a lower door.

  “Barber has the lower level.”

  It looked half underground. A more comfortable apartment for a vampire than his garage space or her previous apartment.

  Squinting at the building through his glasses, Garreth realized the apartment could tell him in two seconds if he destroyed her or not. When an elderly woman in Baumen died at home, he had no trouble entering the house despite the lack of a previous invitation in. It apparently took a living occupant — whether at home or absentee — to bar him from a dwelling.

  He climbed out of the car. “Harry, drive around the block...slowly.”

  Harry frowned. “What are you going to do?”

  “The mystery man wonders if anyone else is asking about Miss Garrett. Let’s see what happens when someone does.” He shut the car door. “Go.”

  While Harry drove away Garreth lowered his ball cap to the top of his glasses and slogged down the sidewalk to the apartment. Today would have to be bright and clear. At least moving slowly gave her landlord, watching through the blinds upstairs, time for a good look before he moved into the shade of the stairs and descended the three steps to Lane’s door.

  Shade...but no heat. Holding his breath, he eased up to the door and laid both hands flat on the wood. No fire! Relief left him almost weak. Lane was dead. Positively! He had killed her and she lay for all time under the rose bush in Baumen.

  But now they had a new problem...finding not the killer they knew but an unknown one. The woman with violet eyes?

  He climbed the stairs to the upper apartment, past a plaque on the square post at the bottom reading: Adam Turner, CPA. On the porch at the top he gritted his teeth against fire and pushed the door bell.

  The head of the fortyish man answering reached the middle of Garreth’s chest.

  After a second to shift his gaze down to the man’s face, Garreth pulled off his ball cap and slapped on a grin. “Hi there. I’m looking for Micaela. I’m a friend of hers in town for a few days. She doesn’t seem to be home right now and I wondered if you know when I can catch her?”

  “I’m sorry, no.” Turner had a surprisingly deep voice. “She’s been away for a while. But another friend of hers seems to think she’ll be back soon. You can leave a note for her, too.”

  The mystery man went in and left a note? “I’ll do that. Thanks.” He saluted with the cap before putting it back on.

  Downstairs again and hidden from Turner’s view by the stairs, Garreth glanced around to be sure on one else saw him, either, then leaned into the door.

  Wrench!

  Doubled over inside panting with pain, he spotted an envelope on the floor under one boot. Garreth picked it up and leaned against the wall turning it over in his hands until pain drained away. Mystery man had shoved the note through the mail slot. Not friend enough to have a key.

  Except he knew Lane’s real name. Mada was written on the sealed envelope.

  Garreth tore it open. The square handwriting on the envelope continued on the sheet insid
e.

  Mada,

  We need to meet. Despite our differences, we are linked by blood and I desire to keep you safe. I cannot be more specific in writing about danger that threatens, so I ask please...when you receive this, contact me through our organization...which I still encourage you to join even though you sneer at its benefits to humans. Ask for Leonard. Trust him; he is a friend of our kind.

  Irina

  He stared at the note. A chill ran through him...less for the mention of danger than the signature. Irina. Lane said a woman named Irina brought her over, a woman Lane described as having violet eyes.

  Although she sent the note via Mystery Man, might she still be somewhere in town, just unwilling to risk leading the danger to Lane’s door? Mystery man could answer that...if found. Go hunting the man on his own, however, and word was bound to reach Serruto. He needed Harry’s help...without revealing the existence of the note. Mada’s name would raise too many questions about her connection to Lane...and certainly set wheels turning in Fowler’s head.

  Garreth slipped the envelope in a pocket of his windbreaker. Then gritted his teeth and leaned into the door.

  Wrench!

  Outside, he sank to his heels against the door to wait out the pain...a position less likely to worry Harry than finding him doubled over. A needless precaution as it turned out. Fifteen minutes later, Harry had still not returned.

  Something must have come up involving another of his cases. And he would leave with a clear conscience, knowing Garreth could find his own way back to the Hall. Unfortunately, none of the options appealed to Garreth. Forget walking during daylight. Cabs were expensive and the idea of taking a bus, drowning in enticing human blood scents, made his teeth ache and throat burn with hunger.

  In the end he counted the cash in his wallet and climbed the stairs again to ask Adam Turner to call a cab.

  Chapter Fourteen

  During the ride to the Hall and return to Homicide, Garreth mulled over the information in Irina’s note. The way she used Leonard’s name sounded like it was his given name, but would she call him by that when the rest of her reference to him, including the description “a friend of our kind”, suggested he was probably unknown to Lane. Which posed an interesting question. Were there really other humans like Grandma Doyle who not only accepted the existence of vampires but did not hate or fear them as evil? If Leonard were a last name, though, why not say Mister Leonard? Maybe she was being enigmatic to protect the man in case the wrong party read the note? That fit with her vague identification: “our organization.” “Our” did not include Lane, since Irina wanted her to join. So did it mean Irina and this Leonard, then — since he could be reached through it — or maybe “our” as Irina and other vampires? An organization of vampires? Would vampires ever organize to benefit humans?

  Someone poked his shoulder. “Earth to Mikaelian.”

  He started, and glanced sideways to see Evelyn Kolb, Homicide’s other female inspector, beside him in the elevator. If Girimonte came across as a panther, Kolb seemed, deceptively, like a friendly house cat...black nurse-style shoes, print blouse under a jacket of a lighter brown than her slacks.

  She peered at him over her glasses. “Ah...he hasn’t gone deaf. I’ve said your name three times, you know.”

  Here in the elevator Garreth felt comfortable peering back at her over his glasses. “You recognize me? No one else up in the detail earlier did.”

  She smiled. “I’ve looked at the pictures you sent Harry.” Suggesting others had not.

  “And you’re speaking to me.”

  The elevator halted. She stepped out with him following, and waited until closing doors left them alone in the hall, before answering. “You might have been forgiven for freezing at O’Hare’s place, because everyone knew you weren’t in any condition to be in on that bust, but not after you bailed rather than man up and face the shooting inquiry.”

  He winced. Yeah, of course. “You don’t feel the same?”

  She hesitated a moment. “Harry stands by you.”

  Not exactly no, just following Harry’s lead.

  They headed around to Homicide.

  “Speaking of Harry, why aren’t you with him?”

  “He had to take off while I was chatting with Barber’s landlord. Do you still bring tea to work?” While the blood he slugged down in his car just now before entering the Hall had taken the edge off his thirst, the Hunger craved something warm.

  “When the alternative is drinking the coffee here?” She rolled her eyes. “I never leave home without it.”

  In the office, Harry’s cup sat empty on his desk. Kolb filled it from the pump thermos tucked under her desk and Garreth carried it back to Harry’s desk. By this time of day, what remained in the thermos had gone from hot to tepid but it still soothed his throat. He pulled over the yellow pages sitting on the corner of Harry’s desk and sipped the tea while he fingered the directory, seeking inspiration. Where did he start looking for a nameless foundation? Maybe try one of Grandma Doyle’s tricks?

  He balance the book on its spine between his hands, then pulled his hands away and let the directory fall open. It opened to Hospital Equipment and Supplies. Not exactly promising. He tried again, and it opened in the same place.

  Okay, since he had nothing better to do...see if it meant anything.

  But a study of the exposed pages found no hospital supplier suggestive of an organization. Would he have better luck with the white pages?

  At movement beside the desk he looked up to find Serruto eyeing him...and beyond the lieutenant, everyone in the room, too. All of them, maybe including Kolb, taking this as another sign of him being loony? Screw them.

  “My mother does that with the Bible, for guidance,” Serruto said. “Why are you using the yellow pages?”

  “Same reason: guidance.” No need to lie. “When Harry left me at Barber’s place — where is he, by the way?”

  “Girimonte got a possible name for the Mission clinic shooter. They went to bring him in. Go on about Barber’s place.”

  Now to see if his story would fly. “I chatted up Turner. He made me. He said, ‘I can’t tell you any more than I have the other cops.’ But then his pager went off and he did think of something more. On one of the mystery man’s visits he got paged and asked to used Turner’s phone. Turner heard him say, ‘This is Leonard.” and then, ‘Don’t worry; ours is a humanitarian organization.’”

  Serruto frowned thoughtfully. “So we have a name — no indication whether it’s his first or last — and a reference to some organization. Do you really think you’re going to find your man in hospital supplies?”

  “Does the Bible give your mother good advice?”

  He smiled. “It’s all in the interpretation, isn’t it?”

  Like Lien’s consultation of I Ching.

  “If you do come up with anything, you give it straight to Takananda.”

  Garreth nodded. “Understood.”

  He tried a third time after Serruto returned to his office. Same result. Garreth sighed. So how should he interpret the hospital supplies pages...assuming there was a psychic reason for the book opening here.

  With no idea, he moved on to the white pages. They fell open on HO listings. If Irish spirits had any hand in this, they seemed stuck on that letter combination. It would have been more encouraging to land on the L’s.

  Or maybe not, he decided after a look back in the book at the Leonard listings...and finding dozens.

  Back to HO, then, and despite a feeling of just killing time, he checked the first column. It gave him two listings with Leonard as the first name. He wrote them down and started on the next column as Harry and Girimonte rolled in, Fowler in their wake...all with a bounce in their step. And carrying cartons of Chinese takeout.

  Fowler grinned broadly. “You missed some wicked fun, Mikaelian.”

  Moving from Harry’s chair to a side chair, Garreth fought a surge of envy.

  “I drove by the apartme
nt to pick you up when I got radioed to meet Vanessa,” Harry said, “but I didn’t see you.”

  That must have been while he was inside...finding the note in time to keep others from seeing it. Relief replaced envy. “I was probably up talking to Turner.”

  “Learn anything useful?” Harry sat down and began opening cartons on his desk.

  The scents from them brought a sharp surge of memory...sharing other lunches like this with Harry, dinners with Marti at Huong’s, their favorite greasy chopsticks hole-in-the-wall up an alley off Grant Avenue.

  Girimonte and Fowler pulled her desk chair and side chair to the side of Harry’s desk opposite Garreth.

  Serruto came out of his office. “From your expressions, I take it the tip on the clinic shooter worked out.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Now Girimonte purred. She peeled chopsticks out of their wrapper and broke them apart. “The mother of the nurse who died called and said she thought the shooter was her younger daughter’s ex-boyfriend. She said he blamed the nurse sister for the breakup and has a violent temper.”

  “We went to ask his mother if she knew where he was so we could chat with him,” Harry said. “Of course she claimed she had no idea of his whereabouts...but we heard a grunt back in the house and found sonny going out a window. We chased him two blocks into a parking garage.”

  “Uphill!” Fowler dug into a carton of lo-mein.

  “And in there,” Harry said, “he yells at us he has a gun and will use it if we come nearer. That tells me we have the right guy...only we don’t know if he’s bluffing. So I’m all set to call for backup and surround the place when Van suggests using the dog.”