Mrs. Armour opened the grille with a frown and led the way up a steep flight of stairs to a sunny kitchen looking out over the fog that shrouded the lower marina and bay. “Which one, and what have they done?”
“I don’t know Lane Barber has done anything. She merely knows someone involved in a case I’m investigating.”
The frown faded. She sat down at the table, returning to the toast and coffee that Garreth’s ring had obviously interrupted. “Coffee, Inspector?” When he accepted with a nod, she poured a cup for him. “I’m glad Miss Barber isn’t in trouble. Actually, I would have been surprised if you’d said she was.”
Mrs. Armour, too? Garreth added cream and sugar. “You know her well?”
“Not personally, but she’s one of my best tenants. I have a number of properties in that area and most of them are rented by restless young people who are here this year and gone the next. I wish you could see the state they leave their apartments in. It’s appalling. But Miss Barber pays her rent on time every month and when I have her apartment repainted, as I feel ought to be done every few years, her place is always spotless. She takes beautiful care of it.”
Garreth stopped stirring his coffee. “Every few years? How long has she been a tenant?”
Mrs. Armour pursed her lips. “Let’s see. I think I’ve had her apartment done twice. She must have been with me about ten years. No…I’ve painted three times. She’s been there fourteen years. She’s my oldest tenant.”
Fourteen years? Garreth blinked. “How old was she when she moved in?”
“Very young, but at least twenty-one. I remember she told me she was singing in a club.”
Garreth stared at her. The singer was twenty-one fourteen years ago? That face above the candle had not belonged to a woman in her thirties. Although her level of sophistication seemed more commensurate with that age than with twenty-one. Had she had a face-lift, perhaps?
“What has her friend done?” Mrs. Armour asked.
For a moment, Garreth struggled to think what the woman was talking about. “Oh…he died. In the time Miss Barber has been your tenant, have you ever had any trouble with her? Has the apartment smelled…strange, or have neighbors complained of strange people coming and going?”
Cult types. It occurred to him that if she lived in the middle of a shifting population, former neighbors may have seen things present ones could not know about.
“Smelled strange? Like marijuana?” Mrs. Armour sat bolt upright in indignation. “Certainly not! I’ve never had a single word of complaint about her.”
Garreth could not believe in this paragon. It was obvious, however, that Mrs. Armour was not going to add any clay to the lady’s feet, so he thanked her for her help and headed for the Hall.
As he came into the office, Harry said, “You’re supposed to call Narcotics.”
Garreth peeled out of his coat. “I hope it’s about Chiarelli.”
It was about Chiarelli. An Inspector Woodhue said, “It’s arranged for you to meet him. Join us in the garage at twelve-thirty.”
Garreth hung up. “Let’s hope Chiarelli can help us.”
“Maybe. But your hexagram this morning said, ‘Success in small matters. At the beginning good fortune; at the end, disorder.’”
Garreth grimaced. “Thanks. I really needed to hear that.”
He thought about his conversation with the landlady on the Barber girl’s age. A strange lady, this redhead. He ran her name through Records. It came back negative for local and state, negative NCIC. She never had even a traffic ticket. In fact, she had no driver’s license.
That brought a frown. She said something about not having driven for a while when they talked to her. Had she been only joking?
“Do you think she can be thirty-five years old?” he asked Harry. “She looks much younger.”
“Lighting in that bar would make Methuselah look like an adolescent.” Harry raised his brows. “Why so concerned about her age? Isn’t that part of the mystique?”
“Maybe there’s such a thing as too much mystique.” The first chance he had, Garreth decided, he would ask the lady a few pointed questions and dispel some of it.
7
A voice over Woodhue’s radio said softly, “It’s going down now.”
Suddenly the old warehouse filled with narcotics officers. Garreth hung on Woodhue’s heels, remembering his instructions: This is the drill. We’re busting a buy. Chiarelli, who’s going by the name Demesta, will be there. You’re a hot-dog cop along for the fun. When Chiarelli bolts, you go after him.
The men involved in the buy scattered like cockroaches before a light. Garreth searched among them hurriedly, looking for someone who matched the description Woodhue had given him — a lean runt in an oversize old army jacket — but he could not see Chiarelli. In the melee and half dark, he had trouble distinguishing any particular individual.
Then Woodhue pointed and barked, “Get Demesta!”
Garreth saw the army jacket then, faded to pale green, with dark patches where the insignia had been removed. It dwarfed the man inside it, a man who bowled over an officer and was vanishing into the junk littering the building. Garreth took after it.
Chiarelli went out of a broken window in a shower of flying glass from remaining shards in the frame.
Trying to avoid cutting his hands as he followed, Garreth swore. See the stupid cop jump out the window, he thought sardonically. See him break his leg.
Somehow he landed outside without crippling himself and looked up in time to see his quarry scramble across a set of railroad tracks and disappear into a passage between two more warehouses. Garreth pounded after him. At the beginning, good fortune? The hell. It looked more like disorder all day.
A hand reached out of a narrow doorway to grab Garreth’s coat and jerk him inside the building. “Let’s make this fast, man,” Chiarelli said. “You’re interested in cults?”
Garreth nodded, panting. “I have two men who’ve been bled to death through needles stuck in their necks. We think maybe a cult did it.”
“Like the Zebra murders? Christ!” Chiarelli shuddered and crossed himself. “So you want the names of people or groups who might use blood in their rituals.”
“Right. Can you help me?”
Chiarelli sighed. “I’m not really next to that scene, you know, not unless some group also uses drugs, but…I guess I’ve heard a few things. Give me paper and a pen.”
Garreth handed him his pen and notebook.
Chiarelli printed with the speed of a teletype and talked almost as fast as he wrote, passing on more information than he had time to write. “Some is just addresses, not names. There have been weird stories about this house on Geary. Screaming and smells like burning meat.” He had similar comments on every person or address he wrote down. When finished, he handed the notebook back. “Will that help?”
Garreth glanced over the pages, amazingly legible for the speed at which they had been written. “I hope so. Thanks.” He started to turn away.
“Wait a minute,” Chiarelli said. “We have to make it look good for me or I’m blown.”
“I’ll just say you outran me.”
He shook his head. “Not good enough. You don’t look like you’ve been chasing me all this time.”
“How do you want to handle it, then?” He saw Chiarelli’s fist double and stepped back, shaking his head. “Hey, not that — ”
But the fist was already in motion. It sank into Garreth’s stomach. He went down onto hands and knees in a wheeling galaxy of pain and light. His gut rebelled at the treatment by rejecting what remained of his lunch and he huddled retching on the dusty floor.
A wiry arm slipped under his and helped him to his feet as the paroxysm subsided. Chiarelli’s face floated beyond a blue haze, grinning. “Just relax. You’ll be all right in a couple of minutes.”