8

Holle's house matched the BMW for quiet elegance . . . faintly gothic, three and a half stories of red brick with pointed windows gleaming gold in the late afternoon sunlight and an entrance of broad double doors set into a pointed stone arch. Eyeing it, a sharp pang of apprehension stabbed Garreth. He found himself reluctant to leave the car. A reaction to his grandmother's warning, or perhaps a Feeling of his own? Or was it more from this sense of indeed being just a ride-along that had grown in him as he rode in the back seat, like a civilian or prisoner, while Harry and Girimonte up front gleefully rehashed their capture of the Mission clinic shooter, reliving a shared experience of which Garreth had no part. Another match burning on his bridge.

Garreth forced himself out of the car. Misgivings or not, he had to hear Holle's answers, and head off dangerous ones.

Fire licked at him as he approached the doorway.

A middle-aged woman in a light gray dress answered the bell. A strong scent of perfume drifted from her. After studying Harry's identification with a frown, she opened the door wide. "Please come in. I'll see if Mr. Holle is available."

The flames in Garreth snuffed out.

She left them waiting in a baronial-looking hall with wood paneling and a soaring ceiling while she disappeared up the broad staircase.

Girimonte rolled her eyes. "Jesus. I like Emeraude, but that woman smells like she bathes in it. I wonder how a servant gets away with so much perfume."

A few minutes later, when a man matching Harry's description of Lane's caretaker came down the stairs, Girimonte's question had an answer. Leonard Holle reeked of cologne himself, a spicy male scent but still so strong it overpowered even the blood smells around Garreth. Holle could not have smelled a pig sty next to him.

He put on his glasses to take their badge cases and read the identification. "Inspector Girimonte, Sergeant Takananda, and . . ." His brows rose at Garreth's silver oval shield with its blue Seal of Kansas in the center, so different from the seven-pointed stars the other two carried. He looked up with a smile. "You're a long way from-" Both sentence and smile died in a start.

Panic washed through Garreth. That was recognition flaring in Holle's eyes, and since it had not come until he looked up from the ID to Garreth himself, it had to be recognition not of who but what he was. And it could not be because Holle himself was also a vampire. Beneath the heavy scent of his cologne lay a blood smell. Lane had had none.

". . . from home, Officer Mikaelian," Holle finished. He handed back the badge case.

"Officer Mikaelian has special knowledge in this case and is working with us as a consultant," Harry said.

Holle's eyes did not leave Garreth's face. "What case is that, Sergeant?"

"Do you suppose we might sit down somewhere to discuss it?" Girimonte asked.

Holle blinked. "Oh. Of course." He glanced toward an archway and the living room beyond, golden in the late sun shining through the front windows. "I think we'll be most comfortable in the library:" Turning toward the stairs, he led the way up to the next floor.

Breathing came no easier. Holle did know. The library had drapes as heavy as those in Lane's or Garreth's apartments. With the doors slid closed, the only light came from a lamp Holle switched on.

He waved them to deep, leather easy chairs around a fireplace and took another for himself. The leather, smooth and cool and smelling faintly of saddle soap, squeaked as Garreth settled in. Around them bookshelves filled the walls from floor to ceiling.

Holle leaned back with another squeak of leather, stroking his mustache. "Now, what's this about, Sergeant?"

"You've been collecting the mail at an apartment in North Beach belonging to girl named Barbara Madell."

Holle hesitated only a moment before replying. "Yes. Is there some problem with that? I have her keys and can show you a letter from her asking me to look after the apartment while she's gone. I've done it often before."

"She's a friend of yours then?" Girimonte asked.

Holle considered. "More a friend of a friend, but she needed someone who could be expected to stay in one place so I ended up with the job."

"That's a bit unusual, isn't it?" Girimonte said. "Asking a near stranger to look after your place?"

Hone frowned. "Not among my circle. What is this about?"

"How long has it been since you've seen her?" Harry asked.

The frown deepened. "I'm not sure. About a year and a half I suppose. Sergeant-"

"She's been gone that long and you've never worried? Or is that common in your circle, too?"

"It is with Lane. She's a singer and a footloo-"

"Lane?"

Holle rolled his eyes. "That is her name . . . Lane Barber."

"Then how do you explain the name on the mailbox?"

"Oh for god's sake! Names are a game with her. She's always changing the ones on her mailbox. Sometimes there are groups of them, all outrageous. Surely that can't be what this is about. As far as I know, using different names is no crime if there's no intent to defraud."

"What this is about, Mr. Holle," Girimonte said with a thin smile, "is murder."

Holle stiffened. "I beg your pardon?"

Harry leaned forward. "On August 30, 1983, a visiting businessman named Gerald Mossman was dumped in the bay with his throat cut and neck broken. We have evidence linking Lane Barber to the death."

"Lane?" Holle's jaw dropped. "That's impossible."

"Before he was killed," Garreth said, "someone drained him of blood. The autopsy found two punctures in his neck that the pathologist said could have been made by large-gauge hypodermic needles."

Holle stared hard at Garreth. "And you think a charming young woman like Lane

would do such a . . . barbaric thing? Ridiculous! You should be looking for some demented cultist."

"On September 7th she attacked and attempted to kill Officer Mikaelian here, who was a member of the San Francisco Police Department at the time," Harry said. "She bit him savagely on the throat."

"I can hardly be mistaken about who attacked me. How could you not be aware that we were looking for your friend? The papers were full of news of the case at the time, complete with pictures of Miss Barbar as a suspect."

"I-" Holle swallowed. Sweat gleamed on his forehead. The acid smell of it cut through the spicy sweetness of his cologne. "I was in Europe from the middle of August to the middle of September. I never heard anything about the case, I swear. When I came home, there was an envelope with keys and a letter from Lane saying she was leaving and would I look after her new apartment. I had no reason to think it was any different from the other times."

"Did she say where she was going?" Harry asked.

Holle shook his head. "I doubt she knew. I gather she just travels where the urge, or some man she's attached herself to, takes her."

"Suddenly you're visiting the apartment more frequently according to her neighbors. Have you received word that she's due back soon?"

"No." Holle shook his head emphatically. "I haven't heard anything from her."

"Then why the increase in visits?"

For a moment Garreth wondered if he were going to answer. Holle's eyes flickered behind his glasses, as though his mind was racing frantically. His gaze slid back toward Garreth. "A friend of hers came to town and wanted to reach her. So I kept going over hoping Lane would have come back."

"What's the friend's name?" Girimonte asked.

Garreth held his breath. Holle had not contradicted him at the mention of hypodermic needles, though he must know that Garreth knew what made those punctures, and he was being evasive about the reason for checking Lane's apartment so often. Still, there was always a chance he might mention the name Irina.

"I-I'm sorry, I don't know," Holle said.

In relief, Garreth resumed breathing.

Harry frowned. "How the hell can you not know? You talked to this person, didn't you?"

To Garreth's astonishment, the panic in Holle evaporated. His face smoothed and his voice steadied. "I never met her before. Mutual friends in Europe had told her that I might know where to reach Lane."

"Exactly what is this circle of people you run with, Mr. Holle?" Girimonte asked.

Holle sighed. "Before my parents died and left me this house, I worked for one of the airlines as a ticket agent. There is a subculture among airline employees. Since we had free flight privileges, we often flew different places for weekends, to a jazz festival or the Mardi Gras or the opening of a new opera. Just about anything. We stayed with friends when we got there. Except very often the friend wasn't someone we knew directly. Sometimes the friend's friend wasn't even home. It isn't uncommon to be given a key, stay in the house, and leave without ever meeting the people who live there. By the same token, friends and friends of friends of friends stay here with me while they're in San Francisco. I've stopped working for a living but I've kept my friends."

Harry's almond eyes narrowed. "And Lane's friend came by one of these indirect connections?"

"Exactly."

Garreth glanced around the darkened library. All those friends of friends could not just be airline employees.

"Yet she never told you her name?" Girimonte asked.

Holle sighed again, this time in exasperation. "Of course she told me, but I have a terrible memory that way. I don't know it would help you anyway, since if she had had any idea where Lane is, she wouldn't have come to me. If I remember her name, or I hear anything from Lane, I'll contact you immediately. I really can't believe Lane is involved in anything so . . . psychotic, and the sooner she can clear her name, the better." Holle stood. "Is there anything else you need?"

"Not for the time being, no." Harry gave him an inscrutable oriental smile. "But we'll keep in touch."

Holle's steps faltered only a moment as he crossed to slide open the doors. "Of course."

Smiling politely, he saw them down to the front door.

As it boomed closed behind them, Girimonte bared her teeth. "We ought to have leaned on him, Harry. You know he's lying."

And hiding a hell of a lot, Garreth thought. "But not lying about knowing where Lane is."

Harry nodded. "I'm pretty sure he didn't know anything about Mossman's murder or the attack on Garreth, either."

Girimonte scowled up at the house. "I'll bet he believes Barber did it, though, and what about that story of some friend looking for her?"

"Oh, I think that's true enough," Harry said. "The lie is he doesn't remember the friend's name. We may have to chat with him again about that, but for the time being, since Records says he's clean, we'll leave him alone. Besides, we have reports to write, partner . . . which we'd better start if Garreth and I want to make it home before Lien's dinner dries up in the oven."