15
A note waited on Garreth's door when he reached home after the shift: Helen Schoning's bold, square handwriting in dark green ink on pale green paper.
Garreth,
Your old partner in San Francisco called after you left for work. No wonder you were such good friends. He's a delightful man; great fun to flirt with. He wants you to call him back as soon as possible.
Helen
Garreth pulled down the note and smiled at it as he unlocked the door and went inside. He had opted to keep his phone an extension of the Schoning's instead of putting in a private line, and times like this he never regretted the choice. Having missed Garreth, Harry Takananda had probably found it much more pleasant talking to Helen than he would have leaving his message on a machine.
Only one small chill marred the pleasure of talking to Harry, wondering what he wanted. Call him back as soon as possible did not sound like a social call.
Garreth glanced at the clock. It was too early yet; they would still be asleep.
He changed out of his uniform, showered, and drank a glass of blood, then settled into the easy chair with a book and read until he knew Harry would be getting ready for work. He punched Harry's number.
Lien Takananda answered. The sound of her voice spread warmth through Garreth and brought a quick image of her . . . wrapped in her comfortable old terry robe, her black helmet of hair streaked with gray but her face still smooth as a girl's. Her voice also brought back the hours she had spent patiently talking at the wall of misery enclosing him after Marti died, battering through it, forcing food into him . . . dragging him back into life.
"Lien, this is Garreth."
"Garreth?" Her voice warmed even more. "Hello! Oh it's good to hear your voice. How are you?"
Guilt stabbed him for not having called more often.
Harry's voice came on another extension. "Is this really Garreth Doyle Mikaelian? So you still remember our number after all. I wondered if maybe you'd forgotten since you never call and now you're a nationally famous cop."
Garreth pictured Harry, too, black eyes glinting with mischief, belt straining to hold in a waistline spread by Lien's excellent cooking and the copious amounts of sugar Harry always added to his coffee. Garreth winced. "You saw that story out there, too?"
"Oh, yes, Mik-san, though I have to admit you were a bit hard to recognize with that funny stuff on your upper lip. When did you grow that?"
"I think you're thinner than you were in the last picture you sent us," Lien said. "Are you taking care of yourself?"
"Lien, you sound like a mother; quit fussing at him," Harry said.
"I'm not fussing. I just want to be sure he's all right. You looked so uncomfortable, Garreth."
"What he looked like, honorable wife, was the stereotype of the hard-assed cop. Garreth, couldn't you have taken off the dark glasses? You've sure become addicted to those things."
"Terrific," Garreth said in pretended disgust. "Is this what you wanted me to call you for, insults?"
"Call. Oh. No. I called because after the item about you and the Danner brothers, I thought you might be interested in another fugitive who's surfaced: Lane Barber."
Shock jolted Garreth. Lane! "Surfaced? What do you mean?" That was impossible. Neck broken, burned, buried under roses. Impossible! He sat bolt upright, fingers digging into the phone receiver. "Has—has someone seen her?"
"Not her personally," Harry said, "but last week we found the apartment she moved into after lamming out of the one on Telegraph Hill. There's been a man in and out and it's only a matter of time until she shows up, too."
Guilt pricked him again, but this time because he could not tell Harry they were wasting time and manpower. "That's great," he lied.
"Yeah. I wish you were here. You deserve to be in on the kill . . . so to speak."
Garreth started again, prodded by an idea. Time away from here might be just what he needed . . . to avoid the bloodmobile and Fowler and that reporter, to think about his relationship with Maggie. "Maybe something can be arranged. I'll get back to you this evening."
Not until he had already hung up did it occur to him to wonder: if Lane's ghost haunted him here where she had lost to him, what might it do where she had been strong and triumphant?