He took a deep breath. He knew now what he could do…the same job he had been doing before. Before he found some way to end this unwanted unlife, he would hunt down the red-haired vampire. It takes one to catch one might be truer for this case than any. He would hunt her and he would make her accountable for what she had done to Adair and Mossman and to Harry and him. If it took him to the end of the earth and time, he would find her.
Hunter
1
Lit by the single light above the sink across the kitchen, the liquid in the cut-glass tumbler had the rich, dark red of Burgundy. Garreth, at the table, turned the tumbler in his hands, wondering sardonically what Marti’s Aunt Elizabeth would think of the end to which her crystal wedding gift had come. The sodium citrate suggested by the Crime Lab tech as an anticoagulant worked. In the refrigerator four half-gallon plastic milk bottles — carried empty to the pier in a backpack — sat filled with still-liquid blood, enough to last him at least a week. A lot of drained rat bodies fed the fishes tonight but the slaughter was worth it.
He sipped the blood almost idly, playing with it as a wine taster might. This Rattus ‘83 is a bold vintage, speaking to the palate with lively authority, while -
Garreth cut off the thought, ending the game. He played not for amusement, he knew, but to delay, to avoid considering the problem he had set himself. Just as he had avoided it yesterday afternoon and most of today by focusing on obtaining the sodium citrate. Now he faced it: how could he hope to find Lane Barber on his own when the combined facilities of the department were failing to? Had his melodramatic resignation been premature?
No, he had no choice. He endangered fellow officers’ lives. Even if he managed to pass a psych evaluation and be allowed to carry a badge again. Besides, as a “free agent” he could spend all his time chasing Lane, and since he knew what she was he might think of leads not considered by humans. Perhaps he could learn how she thought, too.
He emptied the glass, rinsed it clean, and started pacing the apartment.
First question: Where could she go?
Unfortunately, probably anywhere. In forty-odd years of singing, she must have made many connections. She could no doubt travel to any large city in the country, or perhaps even around the world, and through those connections find a new job. She could change her identity, something she must have honed to a fine art.
One thing in his favor: habit. The famous modus operandi. She drew her food supply from customers where she worked…small, intimate clubs which offered ample opportunity for meeting customers. The Barbary Now and several other clubs the agent named where Lane had worked were all that type. How many such bars and clubs existed within the United States? Thousands? Hundreds of thousands?
Garreth sighed. Finding her in North Beach had been simple compared with the task that faced him now. Her bite gave him all the time in the world for hunting her but his bank account did not. He needed to find her before his money ran out. And he knew too little about her to narrow down her possible avenues of escape.
The blinking light on his answering machine caught his eye. Anger flared in him. Someone had been in the apartment today and plugged in the phone he unplugged on coming home from the hospital. Police, he felt sure…admitted by the landlord for a “welfare check” since he left untouched the notes they put on his door yesterday afternoon and evening. The department was looking for him, of course…not out of concern this time but to talk about the shooting. Something he could not endure right now.
As he had yesterday, Garreth unplugged the phone and deleted the messages without playing them back. Even if one concerned Harry. He could not bear to hear if Harry died, nor deserve to know if he lived.
Turning his back on the phone, he resumed considering what he had about Lane. Names, for one. She called herself Barber now, but the name on that envelope had been Bieber, and that on the car registration and driver’s license, Pfeifer. They sounded German. Did she choose those names from familiarity with them? Could she have come from an area populated by people of German descent?
As if an answer to that helped. There had to be hundreds of Germanic settlements across the country. Tomorrow — well, Monday, he needed to find someone who could tell him where large Germanic groups had settled. Maybe one with a 67-something or something-67-something ZIP code.
Or perhaps he could learn all he needed the one place she might shed her facade…home. He still had a couple of hours to daylight, time to search her apartment. Except…could he get in? It was a dwelling and his invitation in came before she killed him. Now…
Every fiber of him recoiled at the thought of facing that fire again. Better to take no chances and get someone to invite him in.
He made himself lie down on his pallet and rest…but not let daylight pull him into sleep. At eight o’clock he looked up the number of Lane’s landlady and called her. “Mrs. Armour, this is Inspector Mikaelian. We met at your home last week.”
“And you’re just as much an early bird today.” She paused. “Some people sleep in on Sunday.”
In the mild tone of reprimand he heard what he had not before, a touch of southern belle. So…give her a touch of gentleman in return. “I know that, ma’am, and I’m so sorry to disturb you…” Though picking up on the second ring revealed she had been awake. “…but this is a murder inquiry and we really need to look at her apartment again. Can you meet me there with the key?”
“I already gave a key to an Inspector Takananda,” she said in a puzzled voice.
“Yes, ma’am, but my partner is out on another case and left the key locked in his desk. It’s an big imposition, I know, but this is important.”
Her sigh came over the wire. “All right.”
He took the bus, leaving his conspicuous car at home. Experimentally approaching Lane’s door confirmed his fears about entering. Fire licked out at him before he even touched it. He backed off to wait for the landlady.
Mrs. Amour drove up minutes later dressed for church. Rolling down her window, she held out the key. “Will you return this as soon as possible? It’s the only other one I have to the apartment.”
Not helpful. Leaning down to the window, he pulled off his glasses, and, despite the searing memory of what this did to Harry, stared her in the eyes. “Please walk through with me.”
“All right.” She climbed out of the car.
He put back on his glasses. “I can see you’re going to church so I really appreciate this. It’s so helpful to have someone along who’s familiar with the apartment.”
She looked simultaneously flattered and impatient. “Will it take long?”
“It shouldn’t.” Once he was in, she could leave any time.
After unlocking the door, she pushed it open.
He kept back. “After you, ma’am.”
She walked in and began switching on lights. When he still hung back, she frowned over her shoulder. “Well, come on in. I don’t have all day.”
The pain vanished. Garreth quickly followed her into the livingroom. “Tell me if you think anything is missing. What she’s taken might give us some idea where she’s gone.”
Mrs. Armour turned around in the middle of the room. “She has lovely things, doesn’t she? She collected them from all over the world.”
Spent good money, too, Garreth judged. Though no art expert, he recognized quality in the paintings and some small pieces of sculpture. Toys resting on the bookshelves between sections of books drew more of his attention, however…several old-looking dolls, a miniature tea set, a cast-iron toy stove. Items from her childhood? He studied a type tray hung on the wall, its sections turned into shelves holding an assortment of small objects that reminded him of the “treasures” he had collected in an old tin tackle box as a boy.