3
That thought echoed in Garreth's head all night. Even in the exhausting light of morning, sitting on Harry's desk with the squadroom's stew of tobacco smoke, coffee, aftershave, and blood scents washing around him and Centrello droning through an update of his and Faye's cases, urgency drummed at Garreth. Find the violet-eyed vampire.
His gut knotted. Of course, if he did he courted disaster, according to I Ching and his grandmother's Feeling. But retreat meant danger, too, and surely it was better to meet danger head-on than in retreat.
The question still remained of how to find her, and no matter how often he asked it, now or last night while slipping out of the house to Golden Gate Park to fill his thermos from a horse in the police stable—a closer source of blood than the rats on the waterfront—one answer came up: the number the housekeeper phoned. A number somewhere in the address book Harry had locked in his desk last night.
The reporting voice became Harry's. ". . . call from a pawnshop owner last night. He left a message. A watch like the one taken from the liquor store clerk during the robbery has turned up at his shop. Van and I will check it out this morning once she's back from prying the autopsy report on Maruska out of the coroner's office. Holle and Count Dracula—whose name we're still trying to learn—should be posted today or tomorrow. That open window at Holle's isn't going to help us make a case against anyone. The lab found no evidence of forcible entry and the only prints belong to the housekeeper and another woman who cleans part time. It looks like the killer spotted and took advantage of a window someone left open."
"Let's hope he left more in the bedroom then," Serruto said. "Your turn, Kolb."
The front of the top desk drawer felt slick and cool under the sliding exploration of Garreth's fingers. He touched the handle, tried it tentatively. Locked. His hand itched with the desire to wrench the drawer open. A glance around, though, found Fowler eyeing him and he pulled the hand back to shove it in the pocket of his coat.
Kolb finished her report. Serruto nodded. "That's it, then. Carry on, as our esteemed author-in-residence might say." He poured himself a cup of coffee and vanished into his office.
Fowler raised a brow at Garreth. Have you thought about our discussion? the expression said.
Harry came over to sit down at his desk. Garreth moved off it.
He had thought about the discussion, yes . . . all last night while he filled his thermos and wondered how to find Irina. As much as he appreciated the offer and the support it represented, the idea of a partnership did not appeal to him. How could he effectively hunt Irina when he had to appear to be hunting Lane? On the other hand, Fowler had a point about his fame opening doors, not to mention his presence providing an alibi. All things considered, then . . . Garreth dipped his chin. You're on.
Fowler smiled.
Occupied with unlocking his desk and taking out the address book, Harry missed the exchange.
Girimonte swept in from the corridor waving a sheaf of papers. "Got it." She dropped the autopsy report on Harry's desk and lighted a cigar. "I gave it a quick read on the way up in the elevator. No surprises."
"You mean he wasn't a Martian after all?" Fowler asked.
Did he have to bring that up? Garreth glanced sidelong at Girimonte, but if she connected the other dead men the assistant M.E. mentioned with whatever she had decided about Garreth, she showed no sign of it.
She shrugged. "I don't know what anomalies Welton was so excited about. So Maruska was obviously healthy and athletic when the total lack of body fat and minimal intestinal contents should indicate severe starvation. There's something about the color of the liver indicating a high iron intake and tarry feces being present without a site for upper G.I. bleeding, but . . . all I see that's really different is his teeth."
Garreth's stomach lurched. He peered over Harry's shoulder at the report. ". . . unusually sharp upper canines, grooved on the posterior side." His tongue traced the grooves down his own fangs. At least the pathologist had missed the fact that the teeth extended and retracted.
"How disappointing," Fowler murmured. "I had hoped for green blood at the very least."
Girimonte blew cigar smoke at him. "Vulcans, not Martians, have green blood."
Garreth smoothed his mustache. Martians. Maybe there was another lead after all. If those bodies were vampires, too, then someone they knew must be a link to others of the blood in the city, others who might point the way to Irina.
"This is very interesting, I'm sure, but,"—Harry pushed to his feet—"we have a pawnshop owner to talk to, and after we've followed that lead as far as it'll go, we need to look up Holle's friends to talk about possible enemies." He waved the address book. "Shall we hit the bricks?"
Garreth debated hurriedly. Following one lead meant abandoning the other for a while. Which way to try first. No contest, man. The one without Girimonte. He smiled at Harry. "While you're working on the liquor store shooting, I think I'll go over the files on the Mossman and Adair murders with Mr. Fowler. We can catch up with you later."
Fowler blinked, then grinned. "Capital."
"Go over the old files." Girimonte's eyes narrowed. She tapped the ash off her cigar.
"Yes of course." Fowler's brows rose. "What do you think, that we'd go haring off on our own?"
"The thought crossed my mind."
"Well, you're wrong . . . again," Garreth snapped. "After going over the case files, at most we might visit the Barbary Now and the alley where Lane attacked me, to let Mr. Fowler soak up local color. Nothing more." He focused on her as he said it, though, not looking at Harry.
Harry eyed him and Fowler.
"Cross our hearts and hope to die," the writer said cheerfully. Harry shook his head and started for the door. "Come on, Van. Contact Dispatch for our Twenty when you two want to catch up, Mik-san."
Fowler waited until the door had closed before turning to Garreth. "Right. Now, old son, suppose you tell me what you really have in mind."