

SCAR

TISSUE

By

Mark Gummere

Published by Mark Gummere at Smashwords

Copyright Mark Gummere 2011

ISBN 978-1-4581-0081-8

**Smashwords Edition, License Notes**

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CHAPTER ONE

Marty Milner was already a little high when he parked his car in the drive-way of the furniture warehouse a little after ten p.m. He took a small vial of coke from his jacket pocket, took a fresh pop, and left the car. It'd been a week since Marty had any sex and he was hoping he'd find Lucinda. He went into The Blue Light on Golden Gate and moved through the crowd.

"You seen Lucinda tonight?" Marty asked the bartender.

"Earlier. Not in a while." The bartender poured Marty a shot of Old Grand Dad.

"Tell her I'm looking, should she come back." Marty threw down the whiskey and left the bar.

There were three hookers working the corners a half a block down the street, but Marty wanted Lucinda. He approached the Asian propped up on 4 inch heels wearing a red mini skirt on the southeast corner, and smiled. "Hey China, Lucinda anywhere around?"

"Black girl, not the right girl for you," she said.

"She's right for tonight. She around?"

"Don't know," she said, and moved away.

Marty walked another block, turned and circled back, and then he saw her. She was getting out of a silver sedan alongside the curb. The car pulled away and Marty hollered, "Lucinda!" She turned toward him.

The motel on Polk was one Marty had used before. He'd done a favor for the owner once when he brought him a twenty-year-old punk who had tried to rob him with a baseball bat and alcohol induced bravado. Marty looked the other way while the owner beat the hell out of the kid. Marty had been given free rooms ever since.

Marty and Lucinda did a few lines of coke and Marty set up a little portable Ipod and docking station and they danced to some slow rhythm and blues. They swayed about the room, and slowly undressed one another. It was a set they'd played before.

Lucinda once said she was twenty-four, same age as Marty, but he wasn't sure. Some nights she looked eighteen and other nights thirty. One night, while she was taking a shower, he went through her purse and found three sets of i.d. She was twenty-four year old Lucinda, twenty year-old Trudy, and twenty year old Helen, with addresses in San Francisco, Portland, and Las Vegas. He didn't really care if one of them was the real girl or not. What he did care about was the sex. They went at each other, slept for an hour, did some more coke and rolled again. It was three thirty in the morning when Marty dropped her off. When he got home he drank a beer and was smiling when he climbed into bed. He loved being a cop.
CHAPTER TWO

It was a Sunday morning in October, and I'd have preferred a quiet lazy day to stretch out on the couch with the newspaper and junk food and football on television. But you don't always get want you want, and I'd promised my daughter-in-law I'd come over to meet and talk with her childhood friend Ray Rhodes. Rhodes had been arrested and was out awaiting trial. He was charged with possession of cocaine and an unregistered handgun.

"Ray has a record," Kathleen said, when she first called. "And so the gun thing is also a parole violation."

"He sounds like a good friend to lose," I'd said.

"He says he is innocent, and I believe him. I want to believe him. He said he'd never seen the drugs or the gun and the police set him up."

"Why would they do that?"

"He doesn't know. Just talk to him, okay? As a favor?"

I wasn't looking for any type of work, and I hoped I wouldn't find any, but at least the trip from San Francisco to Berkeley would result in some time with my grandkids, Kit and Katy. I pulled on an extra-large black golf shirt over my blue jeans, ran a comb through my salt and pepper hair, and poured the last from a pot of coffee into a to-go cup, and walked to the back of the house. Lou, my four-year old Dalmatian, scampered up to see me from behind the bushes where he liked to hide in waiting for the neighborhood cat. He barked a hello, followed me into the garage and climbed into the backseat of my Buick.

I backed the car out into the street, turned on a country and western radio station, and waved to my overly industrious Korean neighbor, who was on his hands and knees trimming the edges of the small patch of lawn that passes for a front yard in many of the houses in San Francisco's Sunset District. The Sunset is quiet and comfortable. It's also often shrouded in fog as it sits up close to the scenic Northern California coastline. This morning, however, the fog was minimal, the sun was breaking though, and life wasn't too bad. And, if I could extricate myself from whatever involvement Kathleen had planned for me with her friend, the day might turn out just fine.

The traffic was light and I was across the Bay Bridge and onto University Avenue in about thirty minutes. I made a right hand turn at the corner of California Street, where there still stood one of the oldest House of Pancake restaurants in the state. It was also one with a colorful history.

"The waitresses used to sell LSD, mescaline, and peyote, right at the table," my son Keith said one morning when we were there for breakfast.

"This was the 60's?" I said.

"Yeah, I heard the story too many times for it not to be true. Customers could actually be seen sprinkling some hallucinogenic like so much powdered sugar right across the tops of their waffles or pancakes. "Yes, I would like the blueberry pancakes, orange juice and Window Pane, please!" Amazing, huh?" Keith said, laughing.

"Forty years before you arrived."

Keith had come to Berkeley for school, and met Kathleen while they were students. Married for eight years, Keith was still at the university, but now as a teacher. He'd followed my father's lead, who was a history teacher, into the academic world. Better that he follow my dad, than his own, I always felt. After twenty four years with the Pasadena Police Department in Southern California, and after my wife's death from cancer, I'd started drinking too much and caring too little. The Chief of Police and I came to a mutual agreement that it was time for me to leave. Teaching history hopefully will not leave Keith with the sort of damaged psyche his old man was still trying to repair.

At California and Channing I pulled over in front of the brown shingled two story house Keith, Kathleen, Kit, and Katy called home. It was a nice looking place, weathered but not beaten, used but not worn, a house with character. I let Lou out of the car and we walked up the brick path that separated the well-manicured lawn on the left and a large oak tree on the right. Kit's bicycle was on its side on the wooden steps that lead up to the front porch and front door. I was about to knock when the door swung open and five-year old Katy jumped up against my legs. Lou did circles and barked.

"Grandpa!" Katy shouted. I picked her up and kissed her. She's a wisp of a girl, with short cut brown hair and freckles splashed across the bridge of her nose. Her green eyes sparkled. She jumped down and went for the dog. "Louie, Louie!" She ran into the yard and the dog obediently followed.

I went into the house, closing the door behind me as Kathleen got up from an overstuffed couch in the living room off to my right. Also rising from the couch was someone I assumed to be Ray Rhodes. Kathleen was wearing black jeans and a man's white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up over a pink t-shirt emblazoned with a Save the Dolphins logo. She was barefoot.

"Hi Lucky," she said. Kathleen occasionally called me Dad, sometimes Robert or Bob, and if a more formal introduction was required, Mr. Lucas. Otherwise it was Lucky.

We met in the middle of the room, she stood up on the toes of her tiny five foot two inch frame and wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed my cheek. Her long brown hair was piled on top of her head and held in place with a thin laminated stick painted red and black. When her hair was left to hang straight it reached her waist, but with a quick flick of her hands she could pile the whole mess up at the base of her neck, poke a stick in it and forget about it. It was the sort of maneuver I'd watched her perform before that seemed to defy the laws of gravity, but one women could accomplish without a second thought. She had the same green eyes and scattered freckles she'd passed on to Katy, and a big easy smile.

"Keith and Kit are out at a bookstore or a sporting goods store, but they'll be back soon," she said. She made a slight turn, slipping her hand beneath my elbow, and gestured with her free hand toward the couch. "And this is my friend Ray. Ray, this is my father-in-law, Lucky."

Rhodes stepped forward and put out his hand. "Hi." Rhodes was medium height and medium build, with thick black hair, oiled and combed high and styled like a young Johnny Cash. He was dressed in tan slacks, a white t-shirt and a Hawaiian print short sleeved shirt left unbuttoned. On his right arm, peeking beneath the sleeves of his shirt was the bottom of a decorative tattoo.

"Ray."

"Here, sit down Lucky," Kathleen said. She slid a chair closer to the couch. I took the seat and Ray, after a slight hesitation sat back down on the couch. "You want some coffee or something?"

"Sure," I said.

Kathleen left for the kitchen.

I looked after her, and then at Ray. "So? Kathleen says you're in some trouble. Tell me about it."

Ray moved about on the couch, shifted his weight. He sipped from his own cup of coffee, and then pulled out a rumbled pack of Camels from his front shirt pocket.

"Kathleen's indulging me with the smokes. You want one?"

"No, thanks. An occasional cigar in the backyard is about it for me."

He lit his cigarette with a Blue Flame wooden match snapped against the thumbnail of his right hand, broke the match in half and dropped it in the ashtray. "I'm glad you're willing to help."

"I haven't said I would."

Ray looked surprised. "Well, then what are we doing? I thought..." he let his voice drift off as he took a drag from the cigarette.

"I don't know much, okay. I know you got busted. I know you've done some time. And I know Kathleen. She asked me to come and talk with you. That's why I'm here. Beyond that we'll just have to see. Maybe I won't like you. Maybe you won't like me."

Kathleen strolled back into the living room, handed me a cup of coffee, and slid back on the couch beside Ray. "I don't want to interrupt," she said. "I'll just listen." She patted Ray on his knee, in a reassuring, almost motherly gesture.

Ray went into his story.

"It was last week. In the City. I live there. Like you, I guess. Anyway, I get pulled over and I get out of the car. Probably a mistake, but I did. Right away the cop wants me to stop. Puts his hand up, like a crossing guard at a grammar school. I asked what's wrong and he points at the tail light. Says it's broken. I walked to the back of the car because I didn't know there was a problem with the light, and the cop gets almost defensive. Says I told you to stop. The he looks at me kind of funny and says, he knows me."

"You know him?"

"Never seen him. He's a young guy, maybe mid-twenties. Tells me to go stand on the sidewalk. Watches me as I move from the street and then out of the blue asks me did I ever do any time. Says he guesses I have. Says he doesn't like ex-convicts. That was his word, convict, like I was a leper. Tells me not to move from the sidewalk, and then he steps to the car and opens the passenger's side door and starts looking around. I hollered at him about probable cause and all that, but he ignored me. Just yells, "Stay by the fucking wall." Ray paused at looked at Kathleen to measure her reaction to his words.

"Just tell your story Ray," she said.

"Yeah." Ray seemed to relax for a moment, but as he resumed his story the anger returned. "So I'm standing there, against the wall. And what do you know, after a minute or two he's out of the car and he's holding a baggie full of coke bindles and a gun. I coulda shit."

"And then what?" I asked.

"And then I'm busted is what!"

"Anyone else, a friend, girlfriend, use your car?"

"No. And I'm married. Not her at all."

"Go on."

"There's not much else. Driving to the station and then at the station cop wants me to just admit the coke and the gun are mine. It'll go easier on me if I do. That line, but I don't say anything, except that the stuff isn't mine. I say that. Beyond that, nothing. And I say, I want to call my wife, I say that."

"She come down?"

"Yeah, sure. She called some bail bondsman too. But there wasn't going to be any bail before a hearing. I squat there for the two days before the hearing, and the Court assigns me a P.D., some guy named Tetlow. And he got me out, but he's overloaded, man. Like all those P.D.'s, caseloads up the ass. I figure I might still need help and I remember Kathleen telling me about you at some point. I don't know when." Ray looked at Kathleen.

"Last year, I think it was. Some random conversation," she shrugged her shoulders at me, as if she couldn't recall why it would have been a part of a conversation and uncertain if she'd overstepped some boundary.

"Yeah," Ray said. "So I called her. I can't go back to prison. And certainly not for this."

I finished my coffee, and thought briefly about the pleasures of my semi-retirement. I didn't want to get involved in this mess, and were it not for some childhood friendship with Kathleen I wouldn't be. Maybe I could still find a way out.

"Why were you in prison before?"

Ray pushed out his lips, pulled them back, and ran his tongue around the corners of his mouth. He rubbed at his eyes. He was full of stalls and mannerisms. It didn't make him worthless, but it didn't make him necessarily likeable. At least not to me. He lit another cigarette.

"Vehicular manslaughter," he finally said. "And possession of marijuana." He took a deep drag from the smoke. The memory was not a pleasant recollection. "I was with a buddy. We were drunk. I crashed the car and he died." Ray scratched at his arm and the sleeve covering the tattoo slid up to reveal a dragon with fire billowing from the nostrils. "I did three years for it. I've been out for six months."

"Your wife, what's her name? She didn't know anything, right?"

"Carol, but I told you, she hadn't used the car, she wasn't involved."

"Hey, I'm asking. Just trying to ask questions."

"Fuck it," Ray said, and stood up from the couch. Kathleen reached out to grasp his arm.

"Ray," she said.

"I'm going to use the head." He released himself from Kathleen's grip and left the room.

I looked at Kathleen. "Kathy, I don't know about this. Is he telling the truth? I don't know. You don't know. He's in trouble and he's scrambling. I would be too, but..." I paused. Kathleen was listening in the way she always did, closely and carefully, with a finely focused attention that studies your face and the emotion of your voice. "So, there is that. Plus, he doesn't have cash for a lawyer. What's that say to me? I'm pro bono on this?"

"You're right, Lucky," she said. She smiled and tilted her head to one side. "It was maybe a bad idea on my part. I just thought, well, if you could hear his story. I've known him since we were kids, like I told you. He's not a bad guy. Things just haven't always broken his way, and sure some of that is his own fault. I know that. But some people have more bad luck than good. More than their share. You know what I mean?" Kathleen exhaled a deep breath, as if she were at the end of a speech. She sat back against the couch and cuddled with one of the pillows. "And you're right about the money. You can't work for free. I mean even if he is innocent."

She was doing it to me. I knew it, and she knew it, and still she was effective. Playing her hand in a well measured, deliberate fashion, showing each card only at the precise time. Kathleen would never view her manner as manipulative, which would sound unsavory and distasteful. She would prefer to see herself as persuasive. Either way it worked. At least with me.

"Even if he is innocent?" I said. "Oh, Kathy, that's bad."

"Lucky, maybe just a day. Spend one day and see what you think. I'll pay you."

"Oh, just stop it. You know I couldn't have you pay me. I'd feel like I was taking money away from Kit and Katy's college fund or something."

"Well, that's true," she said, trying not to laugh. I joined her in the laugh as Ray walked back into the living room. He was uncertain as to the source of the laughter, but the stern look he brought in to the room slowly gave way to a smile. He sat back down on the couch and we resumed talking about his case.
CHAPTER THREE

The six months since Ray had been out were a combination of odd jobs and scattered employment.

"I got a friend with a painting business. Doing residential jobs mostly, some buildings. He needed some help for a couple months, but it didn't last. And I wasn't much of a painter anyway, especially up on the scaffolding in the wind. Not fun, man. Then I worked for a moving company. Made two trips to Oregon and one to Washington while the regular guy was out, but he came back. That boss hooked me up with a bartender thing for a few weeks, but I got into a fight with a customer who turns out to have been a regular in the place for ten years, so I got fired. I'm hoping to get something. Have a chance at a warehouse in South City, and maybe something out at the airport moving cargo with Fedex."

"What are you doing for money?"

"Carol's working."

"Ray, tell Lucky about Bones. And the others." Ray hesitated and Kathleen said, "Bones went to high school with us. Used to be a drug dealer. But I hadn't heard his name him for years until Ray mentioned him. Tell him."

"Bones and a couple friends from the past came around after I got out. They were bent. I didn't want any part of it, and I told them that. I haven't seen them in at least three, four weeks."

"Give me their names and addresses if you got it."

"Why?"

"Ray if I have to explain everything to you this isn't going to go anywhere. Don't ask me to do that. It won't work. I just get as much information as I can, and then I look at, push it around, and decide what to do."

Kathleen hopped up from the couch and grabbed a writing tablet and a pen from a small end table near a wall mounted telephone. She handed it to Ray.

"Give me the lawyer's contact info, too. And if you want me to, I'll spend a day or two on this and then we'll see what's on the table. That work?"

"Yes!" Kathy snapped. Her freckles seemed to glow.

"Yeah, okay. Thanks." Ray adjusted the tablet on his lap and started writing.

The front door jerked open and seven year old Kit ran into the house.

"Grandpa!" he shouted. He was carrying a new football, still in the box. Keith came in behind him, carrying two bags of groceries.

"Hey, kid," I said. He came up to me and gave me a one armed hug. "Give me the football and help your old man."

Kit turned, looked at Keith trying to close the front door with his foot, and dropped the football in a box in my lap and scurried to help his dad.

Ray left the house shortly after Keith and Kit arrived, and I stayed through dinner. I got home around nine o'clock and telephoned the Public Defender assigned to Ray's case, Edwin Tetlow. He wasn't particularly happy about being called on a Sunday night, and I apologized, but I didn't really care if he liked it or not. I explained who I was, and my relationship with Ray and said I'd like to meet with him in the morning, if it was at all possible. Tetlow said he had to be in court on Bryant Street at ten, but agreed to meet before that somewhere near the courthouse.

"Let's meet at eight-thirty. Cafe Roma is across the street from the courthouse. And if you could, bring me a copy of Ray's arrest report." Tetlow agreed and quickly hung up the phone. He may not have been especially friendly, but at least he was quick about it.
CHAPTER FOUR

At twenty-seven minutes after eight Tetlow walked into the coffee shop. He side-stepped a young woman dressed in a dark suit carrying a to-go cup and nodded at her as she left. He walked toward the rear where I was sitting in the last booth chewing on a bear claw and washing it down with coffee. I'd described myself on the telephone the night before, and he paused briefly when he was beside my table.

"Mr. Lucas?"

"Yeah. Tetlow? Thanks for meeting me. Sit down." Tetlow is one of those guys who will never look comfortable wearing a suit. Some guys are born to them. Some are not. The suit was an off the rack choice, flat brown in color and hung on Tetlow's thin six foot frame like the Scarecrow's clothes in The Wizard of Oz. His wire frame glasses were tilted slightly to one side, as if they had slid down his nose, and he didn't have the time or the inclination to straighten them. Of course, maybe he hadn't noticed.

He plopped his briefcase on the floor and set a stack of manila folders on the table top.

"You want something? A coffee?"

"Huh" he brushed at his business cut straight brown hair. "What? Oh, yes a cof...coff...coffee. Than...thanks."

I hadn't noticed the stammer the night before during the telephone conversation, but then I'd done most of the talking. I wondered how it played in the courtroom. I waved a hand at the girl behind the counter and mouthed the word, "Coffee", and pointed at Tetlow.

Tetlow was digging through the folders on the table. He opened two before he found the one he wanted.

"This is the Rhodes stuff. He turned a couple of pages, adjusted the glasses which had slipped down his nose to the point of being ineffective. "The arr...arrest report is in the...in there t...t...too." He slid the pile across the table to me.

"Can I keep these?"

The waitress arrived with an empty mug and set it in front of Tetlow, filled it and topped off my own cup.

"Yes, you c...can," he said. He reached for the cream canister and fed his coffee. "I went b...b...by my office...this mor...morning and made copies."

"Thanks." I was impressed. Despite his disheveled appearance Tetlow was an early riser and apparently a hard and efficient worker. I glanced briefly at the set of pages he had given me.

"I called Ra...Ray last night," he said. "About yo...you. Jus...jus...just to clear it with him. He is th...th...the client."

Another point for Tetlow. He was conscientious. He called Ray and he told me about it, just to be sure I wouldn't make any assumptions about his professionalism or his allegiances.

"Is he guilty?" I asked, closing the file of papers.

"I don...don't know. I'll do my be...be...best to beat th...th...the charges."

"That's lawyer speak. What does your gut tell you?"

"I'm a law...lawyer, Mr. Lucas...sometimes...it's best not to kn...know t...t...too much. It does...doesn't really matter, you know."

"What do your feelings tell you?" I pushed.

"I don...don...don't examine my fe...feelings in that way, and that's the tru...truth. But, if it ma...ma...makes any difference t...to you, I can tell you I work in the pub...pub...public defender's office, because I like to hel...hel...help people who might not always get a fa...fair shot. It's impor...important work."

"Checks and balances. You guys and the D.A's office."

Tetlow smiled, "Yes, exactly."

I put Tetlow at around thirty years old and on the side of the good guys, deferring private practice and the financial benefits to work on things he felt important. Most guys I knew went into the law for the money. That was their wheel. Of course, having a good heart didn't necessarily make Tetlow a good lawyer. Either way, he was the card Ray drew, for better or worse.

"I gotta get going now," he said. He gathered his files and slid from the booth. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a business card and handed it to me. "Keep me informed."

"I'll do that. One more thing. How many cases you working on right now?"

"Seven...seventeen, He said. "So extra help is al...al...always wel...welcomed. Maybe Ray is one of th...the...lucky ones."

"Maybe," I said as Tetlow turned to leave. I had my doubts that Rhode's would consider himself one of the lucky ones, but then everything is a matter of perspective.

CHAPTER FIVE

After Tetlow left, I ordered some breakfast and started reading Rhodes' file. The Police Department's arrest report differed significantly from Ray's interpretation. The broken tail light was the reason the car was initially stopped, but the Officer stated that Ray's belligerent attitude was the reason the problem escalated. The report stated Rhodes got out of the car without being asked and aggressively confronted the Officer. When the Officer asked for identification Rhodes supposedly went into a verbal tirade about police harassment. The Officer stated Rhodes' behavior was sufficiently contentious to ask him to move to the sidewalk, away from the car. The Officer again asked for identification, which Rhodes removed from his wallet and tossed it at the Officer, while continuing to swear and curse at the Officer. Instructing Rhodes to "Calm down", and stay on the sidewalk, the Officer moved to the car, basing his decision to look in the car upon Rhodes' behavior.

Inside the car, beneath the passenger's front seat the Officer found a cellophane bag filled with individual bindles of cocaine. He also found a loaded .45 caliber hand gun. At this point the Officer made the arrest.

The tone of the report was hardly surprising. The cop didn't work who wrote a report where the suspect emerged in a favorable light. Still, I thought I might learn something more if I could talk to the cop who made the bust. I noted the Officer's name at the bottom of the report: It was Martin Milner.

Nourished by a hash browns and two egg breakfast, I stood on the sidewalk outside the Cafe Roma and used my cell to telephone Lieutenant McNamara, a cop I'd known in Pasadena when we were both young. He'd moved north after three years in Pasadena, but we'd kept in touch, and saw more of each other since I'd come to San Francisco.

"Mac, it's Lucky."

"Hey! What's up?" McNamara said.

"I want to use you," I said.

"Nothing new there. What is it this time? Want an illegal wiretap? Try to persuade a Judge you're innocent of running red light?"

"Ha, ha! No, nothing so stressful for you, though I'll keep those offers in mind. How about a wiretap on a Judge?"

"Yeah, right. Listen, I'm driving here, and California says I'm not supposed to talk on the phone while operating a car. Pussy ass law, but what are you going to do?"

"I know what you'd do. You're doing it. You're ignoring it."

"Well, you got me there."

"I'll be quick. I want to drop your name. I plan to try and talk to an Officer Milner, works out of Vallejo Street station. He made a bust of a guy I know and the two versions I got seem to differ quite a bit."

"There's a shocker for you," he said.

"Yeah, I know. But anyway, using your name to get the guy to see me might help."

"I thought you were retired, or semi-retired? You're running around looking into cop matters again? Who's the guy?"

"Friend of a family member. Not my friend, but I got dragged in. Name is Ray Rhodes. You wouldn't know him."

"Nope that doesn't mean a thing to me. But, sure you can tell the Officer it would be appreciated by the Lieutenant if he took the time to see you."

"Thanks. And let's do a dinner or make it over to Golden Gate fields to see the nags run and lose some money."  
"Deal. Now I got to get off the phone. I see a patrol car coming up beside me and I'm scared I might get a ticket." He was laughing as he disconnected the call.

I telephoned the Vallejo Street Police Station and asked for Milner. I was told he worked the swing shift, did I want to leave a message. I left the message, knowing it would probably have a fifty-fifty chance of being delivered, but then also used McNamara's name to see if I could pry a personal number for Milner from the cop on the phone. It worked, and I telephoned Milner's home.

"Yeah?" the groggy voice on the other end of the call answered, as if the call had woken him.

"Officer Milner?"

"Yeah, who's this?"

I explained who I was and what I wanted.

"And I should see you because the Lieutenant says he will consider it a personal favor. Even though we don't know each other."

"That's about it." Even young Cops realize that requests from their superiors in the department are ignored at their own peril. "Won't take long. Fifteen minutes."

"This guy? What'd you say his name was? Rhodes? He's a friend of yours?" He sounded as if he coming more fully awake.

"Listen, can we meet today? Lieutenant McNamara said..."

"Yeah, yeah." He interrupted me before I could even push a little bit more with the influence. "Okay, listen my shift starts at three. I'll meet you around two at Clown Alley. It's a burger joint on Columbus in North Beach, close to the station."

"See you then."

I walked to my car and decided to kill some of the next four hours looking at some of the guys on the list Ray had provided. There were three guys who had come by to see him more than once. One of those names was the guy called Bones, the drug dealer Kathleen also knew from high school. Since Ray was also caught with drugs, and this Bones character was in the business, I would start with him. Maybe Ray was in thick with Bones and dealing drugs, and maybe I'd get a feel for that from Bones. Maybe yes, and then maybe no. Bones had an address on Waller Street in the Haight, which was the opposite direction of where I'd be meeting Milner, but there wasn't any part of this favor for Kathleen that was set up for my convenience.

The Waller Street place was an old Victorian subdivided into four flats. There were four mailboxes on the porch lettered A through D. Bone's last name, Staggers, corresponded with B. I knocked on the door, waited, rang the bell and knocked again. Nobody came to the door. I turned to walk down the steps leading from the porch when the door to apartment A opened. A gigantic guy with a beard and shoulder length hair stepped onto the porch. He had on greasy black jeans and motorcycle boots, and a Levi jacket with the sleeves cut off, and worn over a dark grey sweatshirt. He looked at me, and there was a brief moment of recognition, of understanding. He knew I had something to do with the law or the cops or the courts and I knew he had something to do with the other side. Sort of recognition between two professionals.

"You want something?"

"I'm looking for the guy in B, next door."

"Why?"

"Because I want to talk to him. I'm not a cop."

"No?" he replied in a sarcastic tone.

"Retired," I said. "I just want to ask him about somebody. About something I'm helping on. I'm not looking to cause anybody any trouble."

"Say you. But he ain't here anyway. He's gone man. This time for a while."

"He leave San Francisco?"

"If he wants to stay healthy, he did."

"Know where?"

Something in my manner seemed to relax Goliath a bit, and he shook his head, almost smiling. "No, I don't know where. But he crossed some people he should not have fucked with, and he does not want them finding him." He pulled the door to his apartment closed behind him and moved down the steps of the porch. "He's in the shit this time," he added.

I watched him cross the street and climb on a Harley Davidson motorcycle. He kicked started the bike and drove off, leaving me all alone on the porch and feeling abandoned, so I left too.

I still had time before meeting Milner to swing by the Mission District address Ray gave me for Angel Deza. I slipped down Oak Street to Webster, made a right, and weaved my way across Market Street and into the Mission. A smiling, tiny Latina, maybe nineteen and not more than five feet tall, with shiny black hair hanging to the middle of her back, and hoisting a baby on her hip answered the door.

"Angel's not here," she said. "But he should be back later this afternoon." She had a beautiful smile and was surprisingly friendly to a stranger obviously not from the neighborhood. "You can come back."

"I might do that. I'm a friend of a friend. I just want to talk to him for a couple minutes."

"Okay," she said in lilting, almost sing song voice.

She was cute as a dream.
CHAPTER SIX

I was sitting in Clown Alley on Columbus at one thirty finishing a lunch of a cheeseburger and a diet coke. It was the sort of lunch a schizophrenic dieter orders. At least I skipped the fries.

A few minutes before two a young good looking uniformed cop walked in. He had a full head of thick black hair, a good build, and an easy smile. He stopped to say hello to one of the young girls working behind the counter, and I got up from my booth and approached him.

"Officer Milner?" I extended my hand. "Robert Lucas."

Milner blew an air kiss to the girl and turned to face me.

"How you doing?" he said, and shook my hand.

"I've got a table." I motioned to the booth in the corner. "You want something?"

"Cindi will bring me some coffee. That's enough."

We moved to the booth and Cindi brought Milner his coffee, and removed my dishes. "Anything else?" she asked.

"No thanks," I said.

"So what's up?" Milner said. "You said the Rhodes thing?"

"Yeah. I just want to hear your side of things. About that night. But there's two things I should tell you. One, I'm an ex-cop, so I'm on your side. Two, I'm looking into his bust as a favor for family, and I'm not real crazy about getting involved."

Milner held up three fingers.

"Three things," he said. "You're a friend of an SFPD Lieutenant. That's why I'm here."

"Right, three things. Point is..."

"What do you want to know?" Milner interrupted as he reached for a couple packets of sugar and emptied them into his cup of coffee.

"Just what you remember about the stop. Your impressions." There was no need to mention I'd read his report.

"I pulled him over in North Beach. His tail light was busted and that's a violation. I was just going to mention it to him. I wasn't even going to give him a fix-it ticket. Not even that. Simple. It had been a good night. Nice and quiet. I wasn't on him. He's the one who fucked it up."

Milner repeated his story just as he'd written it up. It was so closely detailed, in fact, I wondered if he had gone back and re-read the report. It would make sense. Cops can't remember the details of every bust and every report.

"Rhodes said you told him you recognized him. And that you knew he was an ex-con? That true?"

"Well, that's just bullshit. I'd never seen him before. Some guys like to believe their persecuted. Always the victim. Nothing's ever their fault, ya know? It's always on the other guy."

"There is that."

"So you know." He sipped from his coffee and then asked, "Where were you a cop?"

"Pasadena. Almost twenty-five years."

"Long time"

"Yeah. So with Rhodes. He was the reason you eventually searched the car?

Because of his behavior?"

"Yeah. His stressed out attitude. If he'd stayed in the car he could have given me the registration himself, it would have gone done like juice. But he had to make it a confrontation. His behavior gave me cause for the search. I found the registration in the glove box, but I dropped it on the floor. I shined my flashlight to find it, and that's when I saw a glimpse of the piece underneath the seat. I looked more closely and found the drugs. Under the seat? I mean, c'mon. At least put the shit in the trunk. Asshole." He backed off, momentarily softening his tone, perhaps realizing he didn't know the specific connection between me and Rhodes, and I had mentioned family. "If he'd kept his composure nothing would have happened and he'd have been on his way. I mean it started off with a tail light, right. Would have been the end of story."

"And you wrote it up, just like that?

"Just like that," he said.

"Alright," I said. "Thanks. I appreciate your time. I'll let McNamara know, too."

"You do that. Even though I don't know him. Tell him to pass along to the Captain of the Vallejo Street Station how friendly and cooperative I was. He's my top dog."

"I'll tell him."

I moved out of the booth and took a twenty out of my wallet and laid it on the table as Cindi arrived back at the table with a pot of coffee and a piece of cherry pie on a plate. She slid the plate onto the table in front of Milner.

"Something sweet for you Marty," she giggled. Marty's hand moved toward Cindi and squeezed her leg. I left, and neither Cindi nor Marty seemed to mind.
CHAPTER SEVEN

The cheeseburger hadn't settled all that well in my belly and I found myself walking down Columbus trying to convince myself that a short shot of scotch would settle my intestinal turmoil. Sometimes any flimsy rationale will work. I found my way to Specs, a small bar nestled in an alley across from City Lights Books. Keith told me one night when they'd come into the City for dinner that a lot of the old beat poets used to fill their beaks at Specs, as well as Toscas and Vesuvios and a few other long standing North Beach havens, and the place still felt isolated from a world running on fiber optics, computer chips and wireless information waves.

I don't drink much anymore, not since I drank way too much for too long following the death of my wife. For months I couldn't seem to get through the day without four or five drinks, and it began to affect my work and my judgment. The Police Chief and I were friends and had a couple good long talks. He finally told me to quit drinking or he'd fire me. I went him one better, I quit drinking and quit the force. Eventually, I moved to San Francisco to be closer to the kids. I didn't drink for almost a year. I'll have something now and then, but the desire to erase things is gone and I can enjoy a good drink.

I sat on a stool at the bar and ordered a pour of Glenmorangie single malt.  
It was beautiful in its rusty amber color sitting in the clean thick glass. A small bit of perfection sipped from the glass. I savored the smoky taste and pulled out the slip of paper with the names Rhodes' provided. In addition to Bones and Deza, there was Charlie Ramus who was renting a room in a place on Post Street. Ray had met Ramus while serving his time. I'd swing by his place and make another pass through the Mission. I patiently sipped my drink dry and left the bar. My stomach felt better and I congratulated myself on my diagnosis and prescription.

* * * *

Charlie Ramus lived in a cheap hotel that rented rooms by the day, week, or the month. One of many places around the theatre district, just a few blocks west of Union Square. These places are the little bridges between the flop houses and dollar strip shows of the Tenderloin proper, and the lower ridge of the better neighborhoods, beginning just a couple blocks up the hill in the other direction. Walk down the hill from Geary Boulevard toward Market Street and the drinks get cheaper, the food greasier, and the alleys more dangerous. Go up the hill and the sidewalks are cleaner, people walk little dogs on leashes, and nobody is sleeping in doorways.

I found a place in front of Ramus' address with a broken parking meter that was wrapped in a cloth sack. The foyer of the hotel was decorated with two straight-backed oak chairs on either side of a large mirror mounted on the wall to my left. Straight ahead was an iron pull grate elevator, and to my right was a registration office with a small hinged window like the ones at the race track where you place your bets. I could see the desk clerk looking frozen in a metal chair with a pillow cushion, staring at a small black and white television with a coat-hanger antenna. His grey hair was matted flat against his skull and his sallow skin spoke of a lifetime lived under artificial light in musty rooms.

"Hey. How you doing?" I said.

He leaned up from his chair.

"Yeah?"

"Hi. I'm here to see Charlie," I said, leaning against the counter top on my side of the window.

"Charlie?"

"Ramus, sorry. Charlie Ramus."

"He just left. I saw him leave. Maybe five minutes ago." He turned his attention back toward the television.

"Know when he'll be back?"

The television program went into a commercial break and I got the clerk back.

"What? No? You think I know. I don't know," he said. He moved a wad of chewing tobacco from one side of his mouth to another and then bent down slightly and shot a stream of juice into some unseen receptacle. "You think they tell me? It ain't like that. Don't want to know anyway. Don't care, mostly, you know. I'm just here until the clock says it's time to go. Leave a note if you want to. I'll stick it in his mailbox, but don't know when he'll get it. Or if."

"Charlie working these days? Got a place of employment? Does he..."

"Now how would I know that," he said, cutting me off in mid-sentence. "Would I know that? I doubt it. Not at tall." His television program returned from commercial and he refocused his gaze on the small screen and I wasn't even there. People were tuning me out quite easily, it seemed. First Milner and his waitress at Clown Alley and now the hotel jasper.

I walked back to my car and slid down Taylor Street to Market, made a right, and then a left turn at Delores Street. I drove past Delores Park and saw a drug transaction going down beneath the sunset glow painting the park. I made another left at 23rd Street and pulled over near Valencia. Sitting on the stoop of the house at the address I had for Angel Deza were three locals drinking beer from quart bottles and smoking cigarettes. Two of the three were in their late teens to early twenties, and the third guy was at least thirty. Maybe the mentor and his students. One of the young ones spoke to me as I approached the house.

"You lost?"

"Nope, but you're a smart one. I'm looking for Angel Deza. You know him?"

"I don't know," the kid said. ""What's he look like?

"Got no idea."

"That ain't much? Hey Ronnie, you know this Angel?"

Ronnie smiled and I noticed the tattooed teardrop on his cheek beneath the corner of his left eye. He didn't speak, but shook his head back and forth.

"What about you?" I asked the older, harder guy at the top of the stairs.

He took a deep drag from his cigarette and a pull from his malt liquor. "You know Deza? I'm a friend of a friend. Just want to talk to him for a minute. No trouble."

"I might know him. Who's your friend?'

"Ray Rhodes"

He smiled, and said, "You're a friend of Ray's? You don't look like someone he'd have as a friend."

"Well, let's say we share a friend. I'm trying to help with a problem."

"Oh, yeah? I heard something. He got popped. I'm Angel. You got this address from Ray?"

"Yeah."

"So you're not a cop?"

"No, I'm not."

"I told him man. I told him he should be with me. No drug deals. For sure no weapons. I told him."

"Ray says he was set up. The drugs weren't his. Never saw the gun before."

Angel laughed. "That's what he should say, man. What would you say?"

"I believe him." I didn't know whether or not I believed Rhodes, but while I talked with Angel I could pretend I did.

"Well, that's good. Then you're a good friend to have. But I don't know nothing about it. I talked to Ray about some other things and he wasn't interested. That was it."

"What sort of things? I asked.

Angel tilted his head, and looked at me like I was asking him to take off his clothes and run around the neighborhood naked. Was I somehow defective in the head?

I regrouped. "Okay. But can you do me a favor. Actually you'd be doing a favor for Ray." I reached in my wallet and pulled out a business card that only has my name and a phone number printed on it. I handed the card to Angel. "If you do hear of anything, give me a call. Or call Ray."

Angel slipped the card into the right breast pocket of his long sleeved brown shirt and smoothed down the over-flap.

"One more thing. Do you know a guy goes by the name of Bones?"

"Sure I know that loser. Don't like him. Why you ask about him?"

"Bones had been to see Ray. Wanted him to get involved in some things."

"Las drogas," Deza said.

"Probably, yeah."

"No probably 'bout it."

"How about Charlie Ramus?"

"Who's that?'

"Another name from Ray."

"I see. Like you got mine too. Ray don't know who his friends are, huh?"

"You know him?"

"Name means nothing to me. Okay?" Angel took another swallow from his beer. "I think that's all for now, friend of Ray's."

"Okay. Thanks," I said. I turned and walked away, while trailing behind me in the wind I could hear the laughter of another joke shared at my expense.
CHAPTER EIGHT

The next morning I got up early and took Lou for a run on the beach. He runs, I walk and throw the tennis ball he chases. By eight thirty we were back from the beach and finished with breakfast. We both had Cheerios, but Lou's were mixed with some wet dog food and he skipped the banana and the orange juice. I read the paper for a while, put Lou in the back yard, backed the car out of the garage and headed to Ray's place. I'd left a telephone message the night before that I'd be stopping by to talk.

Ray and Carol Rhodes rented an apartment on Divisadero Street, a couple blocks up from Geary, past Mt. Zion Medical Center Hospital. Those few blocks are mostly made up of small businesses, and cafes and deli's to feed the hospital staff. The street is busy with traffic, but there are a few scattered buildings still renting apartments with manageable rents that are a swap for the noise.

The street level front door was ajar and I entered the building, walked up the two flights of stairs to Ray and Carol's apartment and knocked on the door.

No response, so I knocked again.

"Yeah?" a woman's voice said from the other side of the door before pulling it open.

"Hi," I said, when I saw the woman staring back at me. She was younger than I expected, maybe twenty-one, twenty-two. "I'm Lucky. I know Ray. I called last night and left a message for Ray. Said I would be stopping by. Are you Carol?"

"Yeah." She brushed at her unkempt hair with a small hand with long brightly painted red fingernails. "I heard your message." She turned from the door, leaving it open and moved back into the apartment. "Come on in. Ray's not here though."

I walked into the apartment, leaving the door partially open behind me. The place was small, and smelled stuffy and stale, the way rooms do that don't get adequate ventilation. The smells of sex and sweat and smoke and food collect themselves into a presence, an invisible mass that shifts and drifts from room to room, looking for walls to climb, ceilings to cling to, cracks to invade.

"Is Ray coming back?" I asked. "He heard my message?"

She was stretched out on a couch pushed into one corner of the room. She was barefoot and wearing jeans and a tiny white halter top that didn't cover all of her breasts when she moved. Her skin was in need of a little sunlight, and her bleached blonde hair was well cut, but the dark roots were beginning to show. Yet, there was something soft around the corners of her mouth and a little spark flickered out from her eyes, despite the smear of dark eye shadow. Her face had nice lines and her skinny frame would be envied by waiting lines of aspiring models. But she had not taken care of herself and she was getting by on youth and looks that wouldn't hold up well as she aged.

"What time is?" she asked, rubbing at her eyes.

"A few minutes after ten."

"Well, Ray's not here. He was drinking last night. We had a fight. I just woke up. He's gone."

Cops hated answering calls for domestic fights. Nine times out nine they couldn't settle it, couldn't make it better, couldn't accomplish squat, and what was most troubling was that they would often see reflections of their own relationship problems. Guns or knives could be involved, and even the trusty frying pan had been known to come upside the head or against the back of more than one cop caught in the middle of a domestic fight. A husband might be beating on his wife, and the cops arrive and restrain him, only to have the wife get pissed off at the cops and start yelling at them to not hurt her husband. I thought I was long past being involved in this type of mess, but apparently I was wrong.

"And you don't know where he went?"

"No, I don't. I heard him on the phone this morning. Woke me up when it rang, but I fell back asleep. He was supposed to wake me. Now I'm going to be late. I got to get to work."

She pushed herself off the couch and walked toward a back room of the apartment. She was pulling off her top as she neared the door to the bedroom.

"You got a car?" she shouted from the room.

"Yeah sure."

"Give me a ride," she said, though it didn't sound like a request. "It's close."

I heard some water running. I heard her gargle and cough and spit and moan. She flipped on a radio and some thrashing guitars collided against drums. From the street below I heard a bus drive by, car horns honk. I heard a bottle break and somebody shouting about "Motherfuckin' Jesus".

After ten minutes Carol came back into the front room. She'd changed her old jeans in for newer black ones, her halter top in for a deep red t-shirt, and put on some black cowboy boots. She'd pushed her hair around with a brush and added some pale red lipstick. She grabbed a faded blue denim jacket from the back of a chair and swung a red leather purse over her shoulder.

"Let's go," she said.

"You'll tell Ray I was here? Tell him to call me?"  
"Yeah, sure. When I see him." She was already out of the apartment and moving down the hall as I followed her and shut the front door.

"We need to make it to The Penthouse. O'Farrell at Polk," Carol said as I started the car and she looked in the mirror of her compact and worked on some make-up details. The morning shift at The Penthouse, a strip club with a colorful past that included shootings, mob business, and charges of police protection.

"I'm not proud of the work, ya know," Carol said as we neared the club. "But it's job. And I make decent money."

"I'm not judging you," I said.

"Yeah, well, I'm not the college type. And when Ray was in jail, well...," her voice trailed off and left the sentence unfinished. "I can look good," she added. "And I like to dance." The afterthought sounded as though Carol was trying to convince herself more than me.

I pulled the car over to the curb in front of the club. It was a few minutes before eleven. A short redhead in a mini skirt and a black girl in a bright yellow jumpsuit were let into the club by the doorman. To one side of the entrance door, behind a red velvet rope, waiting for the early bird opening, were two Asian men who looked like tourists, a college aged kid in a baseball cap, and a guy in a business suit with his back to the street as if he were afraid he might be recognized.

Carol got out of the car, started toward the club, and then paused. She came back to the car and opened the door. "Hey, you know, I'm glad you're trying to help Ray. We both are. Ray and me. He should have been home this morning. I'll tell him. And thanks for the ride, too."

Carol closed the car door and moved toward the club. The doorman smiled at her and opened the door. The adjacent door opened at the same time and a janitor came out pushing a trash can. I could see into the lobby of the club. A fat lady with silver blue hair was sitting behind a counter with a cash register, adjusting her glasses, getting ready for the customers anxiously waiting to shuffle inside.
CHAPTER NINE

I wasn't far from Ramus' Post Street address so I continued down O'Farrell and turned left on Leavenworth to Post and slid into a spot just vacated by a Comcast van half a block from the hotel. Sitting in the reception office, like he'd never moved, was the old guy from the night before. The television reception was distorted and I watched him fiddle with the coat hanger antenna. I leaned against the counter and watched him work. I could have been invisible.

"Damn thing," he eventually said, and turned off the set.

"You work all the time," I said.

He was still annoyed with the television. He slapped it.

"What?" he said. He looked at me.

"You work long hours, I guess. You were on last night."

"You want something?"

"Yeah, Charlie Ramus. Came by to see him. Room 304, right?" I was guessing, but Ray said it was on the third floor.

"306, Jesus."

"Right," I said. As I left the old guy turned the television back on and was getting ready to again do battle with his version of modern technology.

I turned toward the elevator and watched the noisy metal grate open. A tall black man, maybe in his seventies, stepped into the lobby. He was dressed in grey slacks and a powder blue long sleeved shirt, buttoned to the neck. Black shoes. He carried a dark charcoal colored hat in one hand. The clothes might have been thirty years old, but were sharply pressed and worn with pride. He saw me coming to the elevator and held the grate open for me.

"Good morning, sir," he said.

"Good morning."

"Be careful of the latch. Sometimes it doesn't catch when you slide it. Doesn't hold."

"I'll check it. Thanks."

"Just a helpful hint," he said with a wink.

He used both hands to carefully place his hat on his head, and I watched him glide toward the front door and the outside world as the elevator slowly began its ascent to the third floor. The third floor hall was lit by three ceiling lights. The one window at the end of the hall had been painted a muddy military green in an apparent attempt to keep out unwanted sunlight. Any hour, day or night, and the hall would look the same. Three in the afternoon could be three in the morning. Ramus' room was down the hall to the right, and as I neared the room I could hear some jazz seeping out into the hallway. I hoped it was an indication Ramus was home. I knocked on his door and the music was replaced by the sound of a radio disc jockey. Ramus didn't come to the door so I knocked again. Nothing. I reached for the door knob. The door was unlocked and I went into the room.

The smell had not yet turned sour, but it wouldn't be long. The blood was drying on the floor where it had made a temporary run for the door before settling at the edge of a throw rug. The source of the blood wasn't far away. Charlie Ramus, or at least someone I assumed to be Ramus, was on the floor, propped up against the edge of a couch. His neck hung awkwardly off to one side, and there was an ugly mess of blood where his throat had been cut and opened. The blood had run down his neck, his shirt, and then onto the floor. His eyes were still open and he appeared to be staring off to some secret place, as if there was a moment or two when he saw his death coming and he tried crawling for that place of safety, knowing he'd never make it.
CHAPTER TEN

It wasn't long before Charlie's room was filled with cops. Homicide detectives, guys from forensics, a woman taking photographs, and a funny little guy with a thin moustache and a bow tie from the Coroner's Office.

The first cop on the scene was Officer Frank Cole, from Robbery, not Homicide. He explained he'd been just a block away when he'd heard the call go out. He was pleasant enough as he asked me questions: Did I know Ramus? Why was I there? Did I touch anything? Did I see anyone else? I shaped an explanation that was close to the truth, but that kept Ray's name out of it. I also dropped McNamara's name in the hope it would help free me from spending the whole day in the musty room filled with the smell of Ramus'corpse. Of course, after going over things with Cole, I had to repeat the story to the lead Homicide Detective. It was while I was talking to him, and I was sitting in a chair next to a small ugly formica topped kitchen table, that I saw it. In the chipped blue glass ashtray was a crushed out non-filtered Camel cigarette, and a Blue Flame wooden match snapped in half. It was the same combination I'd seen Ray use when we first spoke in Berkeley.

It almost two o'clock by the time the cops were finished with me. I rode the elevator back down to the lobby and was walking to the front door when the old hotel clerk hollered at me.

"You kill him?"

I turned to face him. He was perched in his chair, leaning against the wall.

"You the perpetrator?" he said with what he used as a grin.

"Not this time," I said. I momentarily thought about asking him if he had seen Ray this morning, but decided against planting any ideas that might not already be in place. "I told the cops I thought you did it."

"That's a good one. Yes, sir." He quickly turned his attention back to his little television, apparently through playing with me.

I walked down Post Street, past my car, which now had a ticket on the windshield, over to Geary, and into Lefty O'Doul's restaurant. I had pastrami on rye, macaroni salad, and a beer. I hadn't had a beer in the afternoon in sometime, but then it had been a while since I discovered a corpse, especially one as ugly as Charlie Ramus.

After lunch I called Tetlow's office. A squeaky voiced receptionist told me he was in court, but would be calling in at some point to check on messages. Did I care to leave one? I left my name and number. I also called Ray at home, and he answered. He sounded drunk, but agreed to stay in place until I could come over and talk.

It took ten minutes to get to Ray's apartment.

"Come on in," he'd answered when I knocked. "Door's open."

Ray was pretty well into his drunk. There was a half empty quart bottle of Old Crow on the coffee table and a dirty glass on the floor. He was stretched out on the couch smoking a cigarette.

"Hey, you. Wanna drink?" he slurred.

"No, I don't"

Ray leaned up from the couch and picked up his glass from the floor. He reached for the Old Crow and refilled the glass and took a drink. He flicked his cigarette toward the dirty plate he was using as an ashtray, but fell short and the ash floated down to the carpet.

"Shit..." he said. "Making a bit of a mess here, ain't I?" He used his bare foot to rub the ash into the nap. "There, that's better."

Watching Ray I wondered if I should just chuck the whole thing. I didn't need to be wasting my time with the Ray Rhodes' of the world. Just how far does family loyalty extend?

"So, what's up Lucky," Rhodes asked.

"You're a sorry bastard, you know that?"

"Uh oh, somebody's having a bad day."

"You kill Charlie Ramus this morning?"

The question slapped him. He tilted his head, opened his eyes more widely, as if consciously trying to focus.

"Because somebody did him. And you've been there."

"Wait a minute," he said. I had his attention for the first time. "Wait just a goddamn minute. What makes you say that? Charlie's dead?"

"I saw your cigarette and matches combination in his ashtray, Ray. You've been in his room."

"I ain't been nowhere. Been right here all morning."

"Ray, you're stupid. I was here earlier this morning. I talked with Carol. I even gave her a ride to work. She told me about you receiving a telephone call and that shortly after that you left the apartment. You maybe thought she was asleep, but she heard you. She told me about your fight last night."

"That's not right," he said, shaking his head back and forth. "Not right." He rubbed his hands across his unshaven face, through his hair. He pushed out his lips and exhaled a deep breath. "She shouldn't be telling you our stuff."

"That's not the point here. The issue at hand is that you're lying to me. I'm trying to help you, and you're lying. I don't care about you, and I'm only doing this for Kathleen, but I will turn and walk out without a second thought, you keep this up."

"Alright, alright..." he said.

"What do you know about Ramus' murder?"

"I was there. You're right." He took a swallow of the bourbon. "I even saw him. He was already lullabied when I got there this morning."

"You want me to believe he was dead when you got there and then you sat down and smoked a cigarette? That was your butt, right."

"Yeah, probably, but that wasn't today. I was there two days ago. Maybe from then."

"So tell me about this morning."

"I got this phone call. Some guy. Didn't even know him. Said he was calling for Charlie. A friend of Charlie's. Charlie asked him to call, he said. Said Charlie would meet me at his place and that he'd learned something about my bust. Something he thought might maybe help me out. I should meet Charlie in half an hour at his place. So I went over there. " He crushed out his cigarette.

"Anyone see you? There's an old guy, works at the front desk. He see you? Speak to you?"

"I didn't talk to no one, and I don't know if anyone saw me. I wasn't looking,"

"Okay. Go on."

"I went up to the third floor, to Charlie's room. I knocked on the door, and somebody said to come in. I stepped in and was right away, bang, hit on the back of the head! I was gone, and when I woke up I saw Charlie on the floor and all the blood. Was a lot of blood, man. I don't know how long I was out, but I knew to get the hell out. Ran down to the other end of the hall and used the fire escape to leave the building."

"Somebody knocked you out? That's your story?"

"Yeah, that's my story, because that's what happened. I didn't kill anybody. I'm telling you."

Ray reached for another cigarette and lit it with one of his wooden matches. He broke the match in half and dropped the two pieces onto the plate ashtray. It was an old habit he performed without even thinking much about it. Sort of like lying.
CHAPTER ELEVEN

An hour after leaving Ray's apartment my cell phone rang, and Tetlow was on the other side.

"What's on yo...your mind?' he asked.

"Your client's case might get more complicated?"

"Have you b...become the bearer of b...b...bad news?"

"Perhaps." I explained to him about finding Ramus and my subsequent conversation with Rhodes.

"You think he w...will be arrested for it?"

"I don't know, but it's a possibility. We should talk some more. Do you have friends you can touch for a background on Ramus?"

"Yes."

"Good. When can we meet?"

"Later today, early even...evening, w...will work. You're in the Sunset? I have t...t...to go out that way. I can c...come by."

"I'll head home now. I'll be there the rest of the day." I gave Tetlow my address.

"Okay, in a c...couple hours."

I drove home as the fog was moving in, took a shower, and was reading a book about Somali pirates when Tetlow arrived.

"I've got good news, and b...b...bad news," he said, as he sat in the chair I had been in.

"Let's hear it." I plopped onto the small couch across from Tetlow.

He opened his briefcase and handed me a folder. "The bad news is that the cops have found what they b...b...believe is the m...murder weapon. You told me earlier they hadn't f...f...found one. They're running tests on it now. They also m...m...made the connection between Ramus and Rhodes."

"They know they did time together?"

"Yes."

"That's pretty quick. Where'd they find the weapon?"

"That's what I th...th...thought too. Don't know any de...details."

"What's the good news?"

"Ramus has a pretty dir...dirty b...b..background. Could be lots of g...g...guys in his circle do this type of thing. Look at the file."

I looked at the pages stapled together. Ramus' record went back twelve years, starting with an arrest for auto theft when he was eighteen. That was followed by a bust a year later for robbery, two arrests and one conviction for assault, and a heroin possession and sales charge. He'd done two terms for a total of four years.

"See the l...last one?"

There was also a report of a recent arrest for armed robbery. Ramus did a jewelry store, but as he sped away he crashed into a telephone pole while avoiding another car that ran a stop sign. Ramus was knocked loopy and suffered a concussion, a crowd gathered, and when the police arrived they found not only two bags of diamonds and jewels, but an unregistered gun.

"The rob...robbery was just a couple weeks ago."

"So?"

"Look at the last p...page," Tetlow said.

I flipped back to the final page of the arrest report and saw a bold red stamp in letters larger than the others. It read: DISMISSED.

"They kicked it," I said.

"Why?"

"Hell, could be a lot of reasons."

"I guess, but it seems odd. And you d...d...don't think Rhodes is in...involved this killing?"

"He's lying whenever he thinks it will help. He's not too smart. But this murder? I don't know. Maybe I don't want him involved because of my daughter-in law's friendship with him. His alibi is shit though."

"What would b...b...be his motive?"

"He claims Ramus was going to help him with this other thing. The case you caught. Though I don't see how that could be much. I don't see a motive."

Tetlow shook his head from side to side, and adjusted his glasses as they slipped down his nose. "I should ha...have b...been a gardener or something. Work...working with the earth. My dad was a g...gardener. Never got sick, never under any p...p...pressure, never had p...people lying to him."

"My old man was a teacher," I said.

Tetlow closed his briefcase and got up from his chair. He smiled at me. "May you and I sh...should have p...paid closer attention."

I started to hand the file back to Tetlow, but he raised his hand.

"You keep th...that. Maybe you'll see something. We'll t...talk more."

Tetlow left and I returned to my chair and re-opened Ramus' file. I re-read the background information and the police report on the initial arrest for the jewelry store robbery and the final dismissal of the charges. I didn't see a thing I hadn't noticed before until I reached the bottom of the final page and saw the name of the officer handling the case. It was Officer Frank Cole.
CHAPTER TWELVE

Marty Milner stood in front of his bathroom mirror wearing only a pair of black bikini briefs. He was freshly shaved and showered, and he ran his hands through his black hair and slapped at his flat stomach muscles.

"Fit as a fucking fiddle," he said.

He went from the bathroom back into the bedroom. Naked, with her knees propped up balancing a bowl of cereal, Clown Alley Cindi watched Wheel of Fortune on a twenty four inch flat screen television sitting atop a small table.

"You're a TV junkie, girl." He leaned down and kissed one of Cindi's tits. "I like the game shows. Competing with the contestants."

"You ever beat them?"

"Sure. Not all the time, of course. But sometimes. On this show at least."

Milner angled over to a small bedside table where a small pile of cocaine rested on a round blue plate. He scooped up a small pile and using the straw also on the plate hit both nostrils.

"I got to go out for a while. But I'm coming back with a surprise for you. Stay here." He moved back to the bed and ran a hand along the inside of Cindi's thigh. "But don't get dressed, baby," he winked at her.

Milner left his apartment and drove to his mother's house. He fixed a leaky faucet in the kitchen sink and changed a couple light bulbs in ceiling fixtures. He had a cup of coffee and a piece of the homemade pie his mom always had waiting for him.

"You're a good son, Marty," his mom was saying as he readied to leave. "Nothing at all like that louse of a father."

"I love you too, mom," he said. "I'll talk to you later."

From his mother's house he drove to see Leo, the low cost car parts supplier extraordinaire, at his warehouse. Marty's two year old Mustang was crying for new chrome spinner rims and his order had arrived the night before.

"You know, Marty," Leo said as he counted his money, "You could direct other business my way, and it would reduce your costs even more. Like a commission, you know, 'bro."  
"No, I don't think so, Leo. Have to deal with too many criminals," he said, laughing. "I'll keep this just between you and me."

"Just think about it," Leo said, twirling the ends of his thin Fu Man Chu moustache. "Money to be saved, money to be made. That's my slogan."

Marty climbed behind the wheel of his Mustang and slid out into the streets with his new three hundred dollar discounted custom rims looking sharp. Marty made one more stop before returning home. When he walked into his apartment he could hear the television still on in his bedroom and the sound of Cindi's high pitched giggle.

"Is that you Marty?" she called.

"Yeah, it's me." He walked into his bedroom and leaned against the door frame. Cindi had on a pink satin Teddy with thin straps that covered only her breasts and her belly.

"Did you bring me a surprise?"

"Yes," he said.

"What is it? Is it something to eat?"

Milner smiled. "Well, yeah. You can."

"Is it something you know I like?"

"I don't know. I don't think you've ever had it before."

"Well, what is it?"

Milner stood to one side of the door frame. Tall and black and elegant, Lucinda walked past Marty and into the bedroom.

"Cindi, say hello to Lucinda," Milner said.

Lucinda smiled a little devilish grin and moved toward the bed. Cindi straightened up, a little tense. She tossed her head back and her face lost all of her previous enthusiasm.

"I don't get it Marty," she said.

Milner followed Lucinda and they sat on either side of Cindi. "Oh, I think you understand, baby. It's another step in your education."

Lucinda reached for one of the thin pink straps at Cindi's shoulder. "You're very pretty Cindi," she said.

"Marty?" Cindi said.

Milner reached for the second shoulder strap and slid it down Cindi's arm. The teddy fell to Cindi's stomach. Lucinda leaned across the edge of the bed and fondled one of Cindi's breasts and kissed the other one.

Milner tuned off the bedside lamp and used the remote to shut off the television. Then he leaned into Cindi and slowly, gently pushed her back down on the bed.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Lieutenant McNamara's telephone call interrupted the first morning in a week I'd slept past seven o'clock. Old habits die hard. It was seven fifteen.

"You awake?" he asked. "You don't sound awake."

"I am now."

"Good. That's good. I've got some news to start your day."

"I'm all excited."

"Your pal Ray Rhodes was arrested this morning. For killing some guy in a downtown residence hotel. As a matter of fact, I think you know about it. Seems like I read or heard somewhere that you found the body."

"Shit," I said, sitting up in the bed.

"You are excited. I can tell. You want to come down and talk I'll fill you in?"

"Give me an hour," I said.

"Make it thirty minutes. I've got a full plate today. See you soon," he said and hung up.

I got out of bed and went into the study where I had contact information for Tetlow. I called his house, his office and his cell phone, got no answer at any of them, and left messages for him to call me. I triggered a pot of coffee and took a five minute shower. Lou was fed and put into the backyard for his daily reconnaissance, and I was walking into McNamara's office a few minutes before eight.

Mac is short and round and bald. He has a thick face and a misshapen nose that was rearranged three times when he was a not very good boxer in the Marines. He was wearing a short-sleeved blue shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, and a striped tie. "You know I just saw a re-run of Kojak last week. You're looking more and more like him every day." I sat down in the slat backed oak chair across from his desk in his office.

"That's very original."

"You've heard it before."

"You done?"

"Yeah," I said.

"You know Lucky, when you first asked me about the Rhodes thing the other day, I think I asked you to not stir up trouble. I say something like that? I think I did. I'm pretty sure I did."

"It's amazing Mac, listening to you. You ask questions, answer them, and then validate those answers all by yourself. You don't need another person to have a conversation."

"I wish I wasn't having this conversation. Which I wouldn't be having if I wasn't such a nice guy. Considerate even."

"You're a peach Mac."

He laughed, "Yeah that's me alright. Anyway, Rhodes was brought in early this morning. As far as I know he hasn't said anything. Only that he didn't do anything to anybody. That and he hollered for his lawyer. Convenient that he already has one, huh?"

"What brought the arrest?"

"Clerk at the hotel. Detectives showed him some photographs of guys connected in some way with victim. Known associates type of line-up. Guys he was in prison with or arrested with before. Old guy pointed at your buddy."

I recalled Ray telling me the desk clerk had not seen him and I wondered if he'd been lying or just missed it.

"Has he been charged?"

"Not yet. He's going to be. There are fingerprints in the room and on the knife they think is the murder weapon."

"Where did they find the knife?"

"In a dumpster in an alley behind the hotel. Big six inch blade Buck knife."

"Fixed with the victim's blood and Rhode's fingerprints. That what you're saying?"

"You're not losing a step in your retirement are you?"

"So he kills the guy and then dumps the knife right outside in an alley?"

"You were a cop. Brains aren't something all these guys got in excess. Maybe your pal is one of the not so bright ones. Maybe he panicked. Hell, I don't know. I'm not a shrink. But there's a connection between them from prison. Maybe there was an old grudge, something lingering that went wrong between them."

"You're saying there's no motive yet. That right?"

"I'm saying they don't have one yet. Right now, no. Doesn't mean they won't find one."

"Keep me posted?" I asked.

"Nothing is more important."

I left his office and stopped by the water cooler for a drink. Two cops came around a corner and walked toward me. The older cop was plain clothes in a shirt and tie with a shoulder holster and a badge clipped to his belt, and the younger cop was in uniform. The older cop had his arm draped casually across the shoulders of the younger man. They were laughing, and when they got close to me it was the young cop who spoke.

"Looks like more trouble for your friend Rhodes," Marty Milner said.

"Yeah, it does."

"I know you," the older cop said. He removed his arm from Milner's shoulders and got a paper cup and drew some water from the cooler.

"Yeah we met."

"You're a friend of the guy arrested for the hotel murder?"

"Sort of," I said, but I had the uneasy feeling that Officer Frank Cole knew the answer to his question before he asked.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I was waking to my car when my cell phone rang.

"It's Tetlow."

"Morning."

"Sorry I missed your earlier ca...calls. They ab...about Ray?"

"You heard?"

"I'm on my way to s...s...see him."

"Okay. You know there's something else. Just learned. It's two cops. Connected to Ray and to Ramus and to each other. One is Milner, the young cop who originally busted Ray, and who I met and spoke with. Other one is an older, veteran guy. Officer Frank Cole. Cole was the first cop on the scene after I called in the Ramus mess. He was also the officer involved in the robbery case against Ramus. The one where the charges were dropped. This morning I learned they're buddies."

"Yeah? Interesting, b...b...but maybe not unusual. C...c...cops are connected in lots of ways. Co...coincidental is my guess."

"Probably," I said. "Let's talk later."

"Bye."

I had the Ramus file in my car and re-read the report on the jewelry robbery. I wanted to pull a bit on the string that connected Ramus and Cole. The store Ramus had hit was the Lee Wong Jewelry Store on Grant near Jackson in Chinatown. I headed in that direction.Wong's place wasn't going to be open for another hour so I found a café and ordered a couple eggs, a bagel with raspberry jam and coffee. I bought a paper, read the sports section, and worked the daily chess problem until my coffee was cold and my frustration level with the chess solution high. As I walked back to Wong's, I telephoned Kathleen.

Keith answered the other end. "Hey Dad."

"What are you doing home? Don't you have young minds to corrupt this morning? "

"A flexible schedule is a teacher's luxury."

"One of the few, I'd say."

"You're right about that. What's up?"

"Looking for Kathy. Got some news."

"Actually she just left for San Francisco. Had some meeting at the zoo, and then she was hoping to find you. She called you at home this morning but you didn't pick up. I'm sure she'll try again on your cell. She's wondering about her friend."

"Well, her friend is in more trouble."

"What else?"

"He's been arrested again. This time for murder."

"Holy shit."

"I'll fill you in later. When I know more."

"Dad, you know you can pull out of this thing. You don't have to do this. You don't even know the guy."

"I know. Unfortunately, I know your wife, and I said I'd look into it. Didn't expect it would spin out like this."

"Well, it's your call."  
"How's the kids?"

"Good. I just got back from taking them to school."

"Later, then."

I pocketed my cell phone just as I arrived at the front door of the Lee Wong Jewelry Store. Mr. Wong was a small man with glasses, bent over almost in half from a lifetime of working buckled over at jeweler's bench. As the first customer of the day, I was warmly greeted, but his smiled faded immediately when I explained I wanted to talk about the recent robbery at his store.

"That all over," he said, waving his hand in the air for emphasis.

"I know that," I said. "But..."

"All done, now," he said. He moved behind a glass display case and pretended to be rearranging the necklaces on view.

"Mr. Wong, I'm just curious why the case was dismissed. Did you have anything to do with that?"

Wong looked up at me from his crouched position behind the display case. "All finished, I said. Don't want any more. Don't want go to court. Nothing. I drop the charges, okay. I keep my part of the deal."

"What deal?"

Wong stood up. "What you mean?" he asked. "Who are you? You cop? I have work to do." Wong turned away and slipped behind a navy blue velvet curtain separating the customer's half of the store from the workshop in the back. As I was wondering what part of what deal Wong felt he had kept, a couple of new customers entered the store.

"Hello," the man said.

"Hi, the owner should be right with you. He's in the back. Feel free to look around."

"Why thank you," the wife said.

"Not at all," I said, and moved to the front door.

"Look, Grace, here's some necklaces with rubies," the husband said, already looking to buy.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I was concerned about Carol, with Ray back in jail, and drove to her Divisadero Street apartment. She didn't answer the door, so I went back to my car, dropped down the few blocks to The Penthouse, and parked in the loading zone in front a few minutes after eleven. The front door was propped open for the morning customers, and the blue haired cashier had been replaced by a beefy thick necked buster with acne who looked like he might have played football at some point and lived on a diet of ice cream and steroids. He had a big unnatural sized head and the cartoon shaped muscle definition of a former weight lifter. Probably hired to bounce randy customers getting too friendly and touchy feely with the girls. This morning he drew the door and the cash register.

"Twenty dollars," he said as I approached. A little red cardboard sign on the counter explained that I was fortunate enough to get the Early Bird rate. The mid-day prices jumped to twenty-five and the evening price was thirty dollars.

"Are the evening shows more exciting?" I asked.

"What do you mean?

"Different pricing."

"Buy a ticket now and it's good all day. Then you can decide."  
"Wow. That's a deal."

Thick neck looked at me like I was an idiot.

"So, you want a ticket?"

"I'm not sure. I'm looking for a friend. Girl who works here. Carol Rhodes."

"You're friends with one of the girls, huh," he asked with a sneer.

"That's right."

"You a father looking for his stray?"

"No, I'm not."

"Well, there's no girl...no Carol works here."

"You know all the girls?"

"Of course," he said proudly.

"Well she works here," I said, and described her.

"That's Devin," he said.

"Ah, the theatrical stage name," I said.

"Oh yeah? That's not her real name." He nodded his head as if he'd just learned some important new piece of information. "Well, whatever her name. She ain't here."

From behind a mirrored door to my right a girl came out dressed in a yellow satin bikini with sequins glittering on the small triangle at her crotch. She had on four inch heels and was carrying a pack of Salem's and a thin silver lighter.

"Hi Ronnie," she said to steroid boy.

"Hi Amanda." Ronnie drooled after Amanda as she moved down the hall and disappeared behind a curtain.

"Ronnie, help me out here. When is she scheduled to work?" I took a ten dollar bill from my wallet and slid it across the counter. "Carol. Or Devin."

"Carol?" he looked perplexed, and I wondered if Ronnie might have just reached the top of his achievement level at The Penthouse, but then his thick paw moved for the money. Maybe he wasn't as slow as he appeared. He smiled and reached below the counter and came up with a clipboard. He turned the top page and ran his finger down the page. "Here it is. Six tonight. Six to midnight."

"You got a cell number for her by any chance."

"Sure, but you can't have that. Lot of wackos work on chasing these girls, you know. Can't give out that kind of stuff."

I showed Ronnie another ten.

"No way, man. Not worth it. I'd get fired."

"Okay. Thanks."

"So you're not coming in?" he asked as I turned and walked out.

Back outside, I immediately had my attention focused on the Meter Maid about to write me a parking ticket.

"Hey, wait a minute," I hollered.

She turned toward the sound of my voice.

"Official business," I said.

"Yeah?" She dropped her hands to her hips and struck a pose. "What kind of official business? Are you an official pervert?"

"I'm a cop," I lied and quickly flipped open my wallet and flashed my badge.

"Think I'm an idiot? That's not SFPD."

"Pasadena. I'm working on something, an investigation that brought me here. This place."

"Uh, huh." She was not impressed.

"Come on now, give me a break. You know Lieutenant McNamara?"

"McNamara works at Bryant Street?"

"Yeah," I said.

"Yeah, I know him."

Thinking we now shared a bond, I smiled. "You also a friend?"

"No, not really. In fact, I wrote up his wife a month ago, after she also tried to use his name to get out of her ticket. I got lit up about it from my boss. So, no I wouldn't call him my friend."

"Oh, sorry about that."

"Yeah, I'm sure you are. But I don't want to hear it again, so you get a pass. But be careful with your official investigation. You could catch an official disease."

She was pleased with her little joke and turned away. As she pulled away from the curb the sputtering vehicle coughed and spit and sent clouds of black and grey smoke back in my direction.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Happy to have escaped a fifty dollar parking ticket, I got back in the car and drove to Ramus' hotel. The old guy at the desk had identified Rhodes, though Ray said he didn't think he'd been seen. I figured I'd check on the old guy's memory.

The lobby of the hotel was quiet and empty. The sound of the television was absent and I didn't see anyone sitting behind the reception counter. After a minute the elevator started making ancient metal commotions and came down to the lobby from the upper floors. The metal grate slid back away from the latch and the distinguished looking black man I'd met before stepped from the elevator. Beside him was a young scrawny kid in his early twenties with a bad haircut and tattoos on both forearms. They both paused momentarily when they saw me, the kid turning briefly to close the elevator grate.

"Hi," I said.

"Yeah? Can I help you?" the kid asked.

"I don't know." I made eye contact with the black man who nodded a greeting. "I was looking for the guy who works behind the reception desk. Elderly man."

"That's Henry," the kid said. "Not here today. Doctor's appointment or something. I'm your huckleberry. You need something?"

"Maybe. Maybe, you both can help me. I'm working on the homicide from the other day," I said, hoping my tone and carriage would lead them to assume I was SFPD.

"Oh, yeah?" the kid's energy level lifted, and the black man eyed me with a new curiosity.

"An arrest's been made. Henry identified one guy. But maybe you guys know things, too. You know Ramus at all? Friendly with him? Ever speak with him?"

"Not me," the kid said. "I remember thinking when I heard about it, I don't even know this guy. Asked Henry about him, after it happened. Name on the register. That's it to me. Just a name. Nothing more. Must have missed him the shifts I was working."

"We were on the same floor," the black man said. "Third floor. He was just down the hall. But I didn't know him. Maybe once or twice he said something to me. Once he asked me for a cigarette, I think. I don't smoke. Seen his type though. All my life seen this guy. Trouble on him like a suit of clothes."

"How about visitors? People who might have come to see him? People asking about him? People not residents here in the hotel?"

The black man tilted his head, as if a recollection had returned to snuggle in the forefront of his brain. "Seems like I remember seeing you here before," he said with a small smile. "Showed you about the elevator catch. You're not a resident."

"Yeah, that's right." I had no reason to believe he knew I was the one who found Ramus' body, or was previously looking for him. I described Rhodes to them. "That sound like anyone you might have seen before?"

"Lots of people in and out of this hotel, sir," the black man said. "Lots of types."

"I understand."

"That could fit lots of guys around here." the kid said. "Hell, around anywhere."

"Could be that sounds familiar," the black man said, after re-thinking my question. "When you say the thick black oily hair. That rings a bell. See a guy like that. Don't know about that day, though. Or when it might have been. Don't know that."

"I think I might have seen that guy, too. Now that George says that," the kid added. "Hair combed kind of high. Like a pompadour. A rock-a-billy cat."

Having two more witnesses who could identify Ray having been at the hotel was not the best news. Hoping to call into question Henry's memory, I accomplished little except to add more of Ray's meat to the pot. I figured my best move might be to leave. So I did.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Kathleen was sitting in a metal rocking chair on my front porch drinking a soda when I pulled in my driveway. Lou was beside her, but jumped up off the porch to greet me. Unconditional love.

"Hi Lucky," Kathleen said. She stretched her arms high above her head and got up from the chair.

"Kathleen. Been waiting long?"

"I don't think so. Sort of lost track of the time in the peace and quiet. It's a rare treat for me."

"Someday you may have more than you want," I said. I wrapped my arms around her and gave her a kiss of the cheek. I unlocked the front door, and as we entered the house, Lou ran past us toward his water dish in the kitchen.

Kathleen drifted toward the couch and dropped her purse on the floor.

"You don't get lonely do you? I think of you as the self-sufficient type. The rock of independence." She sat down on the couch, glanced at the cover of a coffee table book about the history of San Francisco, and then shifted her attention to the brass framed photograph of my wife Patti. She ran a finger around the edge of the frame like a caress.

"I don't mind being alone," I said. "But everybody gets lonely at times."

"Of course. You're right. Keith called me, and told me he spoke with you. Ray is in more trouble?"

"Yeah. Serious trouble."

"Did he do it? Did he really kill someone?"

"I don't know. Police seem to think he did." I told her everything I'd learned the last few days. I told her about meeting Tetlow and Milner, Cole, and Carol, and about the Chinese jewelry store robbery, and finding Ramus.

"I don't know what to say, Lucky. I never thought something like this would happen. That'd I'd be getting you involved in something so...so, what...so ugly."

"I know that."

Lou ran back into the living room dripping water from his mouth and carrying a chew stick. He plopped down next to Carol and went to work on the stick.

"You can just stop, Lucky. I would completely understand. Hell, I would like it to go away now too. Who knows what else could happen?"

"I'm sort of involved now. I'll hang with it for another day or two. Plus you can't beat the pay."

"Ha, ha," Carol laughed. "I offered to pay you."

"Just messing with you."

"Tell me about Ray's wife. What's she like?"

I described Carol from a physical angle, staying away from the job description and from making too many moral judgments I couldn't back-up, though I did say I thought she was too young to be married.

"You and Patti were about twenty when you were married, weren't you?"

"Yeah, we were. But there weren't drugs and prison terms in our future."

We talked a little longer and then Kathleen left for home across the bay. I stretched out on the couch and wondered about Ray and Carol and their uncertain tomorrows. Soon I was asleep. I went into a dream and saw Patti and me in the early years of our marriage. We looked like kids playing dress up games, trying to be some ideal we weren't even sure how to define. What we didn't know about life sometimes triggered fights. And there were scars. I damaged things pretty good one time when the responsibility of family life was getting me down and I was feeling sorry for myself. I went on a week-long drinking binge and ended up in a Hollywood apartment with a former girlfriend. The girlfriend misread the signals and eventually called Patti. At first I lied, which of course made things worse. A year passed before we slept together.

I woke up from my nap sometime after six. I didn't feel rested and I wasn't in a good mood. I poured myself a drink and threw it straight back. I was drinking more in the past week and enjoying it less. It wasn't an equation built for confidence and efficiency. I took a long hot shower and made some dinner.

It was around ten o'clock when Tetlow telephoned.

"Hope it's not t...too late? But, I saw Ray," he said. "Thought y...you'd wa...want to know. There's g...g...going to be an arr...arr...arraignment tomorrow."

"What's your sense of this? Of his involvement?"

"You n...never know, but h...he doesn't seem .like he cou...could do this type of thing."

"I hope you're right. Let me know how the arraignment goes."

"Sure," he said. "Good night."

A little before eleven thirty, not interested in sleeping, I made myself a cup of coffee and got back into the car and headed for The Penthouse. It was twelve o'clock on the nose when I pulled to the curb across the street and down a hundred feet from the club. There was another car in my loading zone spot from earlier in the day. I waited in the car and at twelve fifteen the doors to the club swung open and I saw Carol walk out and go straight to the passenger's side door of the car at the curb and get in. The car pulled away from the curb, and as it headed down the street I made a u-turn.

The car was an early 80's Corvette, black in color with mag wheels. The body shape gave the taillights an easy to follow outline. The traffic was not too thick to make tailing the car difficult, but not so light that I needed to worry about being spotted. If the person you're following isn't suspicious it's not too hard to remain unnoticed.

He took a left off O'Farrell at Larkin and used it all the way to Union where he made a right and slid into North Beach. At Stockton Street, he slowed down to a crawl and pulled into a driveway. The garage door opened automatically, but the driver got out of the car and went into the garage. He moved a box that was in the middle of the garage. The light in the garage cast a bright glow that splashed out to the driveway and car. When he turned back and moved to the car it was easy to recognize Officer Frank Cole.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The bars had closed, but Marty wasn't ready to call it a night. Not yet. He was working his way through a new stash of blow and looking to play. His Mustang headed toward Lucinda's place on Polk Street.

A teenage kid was huddled in the doorway of Lucinda's building flaming up a joint.

"Get out of here, kid," Milner said.

"Says you?" the cocky kid snapped. "Fuck off, man."

Marty slapped him across the top of his head. "SFPD cutting you a break, junior. Move on."

"Jesus, guy can't slip a reefer in peace no more," the kid complained and left the safety of the sheltered alcove.

Milner pulled on the street level door and the barely functioning lock rattled in the frame. He was looking for the buzzer to Lucinda's apartment when a young couple came up to the door and had a key.

"Evening," Milner said, as polite a church deacon.

"Hello," the man said, and without a second thought held the door open for Milner after his companion was safely inside. They moved to a first floor apartment and Milner ran up the stairs to the second floor, and knocked on Lucinda's door. He heard movement inside the apartment.

"Who is it?" Lucinda said.

"It's me, baby. Marty. Let me in."

"It's late, Marty. Not tonight. You should have called."

"I'm a surprise package. C'mon, open up." He kicked at the door with one of his thick black boots.

"Marty, no. I've got company."

"Get rid of him. Or let me in and I'll get rid of him. C'mon, girl."

Milner heard Lucinda say something to the person inside and then turn the lock on the door and open it a few inches. She leaned against edge of the door, but Milner could still see her black eye and bruised cheek.

"Not tonight, Marty. Please."

Milner's foot was wedged in between the door and the frame and he leaned with his shoulder and pushed on the door. Lucinda fell back into the apartment.

Her entire face was hell and gone. There was dried blood around her left ear and an ugly welt sat up on her forehead.

"What the hell happened to you?"

Lucinda moved to the midnight blue velvet couch cramped in one corner of the room. She pulled her thin red waist length robe around her around as if it were a safety net.

"You shouldn't be here, Marty."

"I asked what happened?"

"I'm what happened," said a voice to Milner's right. Stepping into the living room from the kitchen, parting the strands of colored plastic beads separating the two rooms was Leon. All five foot nine and two hundred and fifty pounds. His Jeri curled shiny black hair fell to his shoulders and his skin glistened as if it had been polished. When he smiled the little diamond embedded in his front tooth sparkled.

"When they let you out Fat Boy," Milner said. He was feeling good. He shifted his weight and focus to Leon. "Pimps getting early release programs?"

"Marty," Lucinda said. "Don't" She pulled her bare feet up to the couch and curled them under her ass. "Leon..."

"Shut up, Lucinda," Leon said.

"Seeing you on the loose again gives me a case of despair, Leon." Milner nodded back at Lucinda. "And still beating up women."

"What was mine before is mine again." Leon reached into the front pocket of his cream colored linen slacks and came out with a knife folded into a pearl case. He slipped the blade out to dig ceremoniously at a fingernail.

"Lucinda isn't yours. She was maybe confused before. Not anymore. She's got clarity and her new world doesn't have a place for you."

"Yeah, That so? How you going to keep me out?"

"Make it more trouble for you to keep her than it's worth."

"You going to protect her? Provide the bitch with safety? I ain't worried about you, schoolboy. Get the fuck out of here." Leon removed the knife from his fingernail and let his arm drop to his side.

A tiny coke inspired explosion went off in Marty's head and he took two quick steps toward Leon and landed a full contact kick in Leon's groin. Leon bent over and Milner grabbed a handful of shiny oily hair, pulling Leon's head flush into his upraised knee. Leon's nose detonated blood. He dropped the knife and reached for his face. Milner was dancing. He swayed from side to side and shoved Leon against the wall. He threw a hard right hand that popped Leon's ear. He stepped to his right and kicked at the side of Leon's left knee. Bone cracked and Leon screamed.

"Marty stop it!" Lucinda shouted.

"How's things, Leon?" Milner said. He was sweating and smiling.

"Fuck you," Leon said.

"Get up," Milner said.

"You broke my fucking leg,"  
"Use the other one and pull your ass out of here. Lucinda's off your calendar." Milner stepped into the kitchen and grabbed a dirty dish towel and threw it to Leon. "Here."

Leon slowly gathered himself with the help of a chair. He held the rag to his nose and dragged himself out of the apartment.

Lucinda was quietly crying and shaking on the couch, arms holding arms, curled into herself, into a fleshy ball of damage and fear. Milner sat down beside her. He pulled out a baggie of blow from his pocket and pulled close the little end table at one end of the couch.

"Don't worry, baby," he said. "Marty's the doctor for you with the private prescription."
CHAPTER NINETEEN

Awake with a headache and a bit of an attitude I drove to Carol's apartment in the middle of the morning go-to-work traffic. She wasn't home. I drove back into North Beach and parked near Cole's place. I had to wait about thirty minutes before I saw the black Corvette slide out of the garage. Navigating some of the smaller streets in Chinatown, Cole eventually blocked a drive-way on Grant Street, two doors from Lee Wong's business. I found a place next to a fire hydrant where I could see the front of the store. Carol stayed in the car, and I was considering approaching her when, five minutes later Cole came back to his car and drove away. I followed.

Cole went through the Broadway tunnel, crossed Van Ness and made a left on Divisadero, and a couple minutes later pulled over to the curb across the street from Carol and Ray's apartment. Dressed as she had been when she left The Penthouse the night before Carol climbed out of the car. I circled the block until I found a place to park and then went to visit Carol.

Denial is the first and the easiest defense. Convince your accuser they've got things wrong, that their assumptions are tangled up, and maybe they will go away. Drug addicts and alcoholics are the prime movers of the strategy. Carol tried it with me.

"Carol, what's your business with Frank Cole?"

"Who?"

"Carol?"

"What? What are you talking about?"

"I just followed you home from his place. He dropped you off across the street."

Her eyes and face went into a scramble, but couldn't find a way out, so she attacked. "You followed me? What's that about?"

"I came to The Penthouse last night. I saw you leave with Cole. What's the story? How come you're dancing with a cop?"

Carol lit a cigarette and kicked off her shoes and paced the room and chewed at her fingernails.

"What do you want? You followed me, now you come here again and stand around pushing me with questions. I don't have to listen to you."

"I'm trying to help Ray. We both know that. This looks like part of something moving at bad angles. You're sleeping with a cop who may or may not be involved in a murder and Ray is sitting in jail. So I'm asking. Talk to me."

She exhaled a deep breath and threw herself into a chair. Her voice softened. "Shit. Okay. Yeah, I know him." Her shoulders collapsed and she seemed to shrink and get younger. A little girl knowing she's done wrong. "I met him when Ray was in trouble the first time. I was scared. With Ray, I thought maybe I'd finally met someone I could be with for a long time, maybe someone with a solid center, you know? Then he goes to jail. I met Cole and he helped get me the job that I have now. He said he felt sorry for me. He said he could arrange it maybe I could see Ray a little easier, maybe more often than the normal visiting times. At least he'd try."

"Did that happen?"

"No. He said there were problems. But he was nice to me. I needed that. We shared some time."

"That was then. This is now."

"I tried..." she bit her upper lip, crushed out her cigarette and immediately fired another one. "But it's hard. I tried to break it off, but he's got a way. He can convince me of stuff."

I thought about marital infidelity and the price it can extract. Is it better to know about an affair or to remain ignorant? Perhaps it depends on which side of the bed you were on. If Carol's twist with Cole didn't directly affect Ray's case, I'd leave it alone.

"He's using you, Carol."

"I know," she said, almost with a whimper. A single teardrop slid free from one eye and dripped down her cheek. "I know," she repeated, and in a moment the first teardrop was followed by a river.
CHAPTER TWENTY

As expected the judge denied Tetlow's request for bail. The hearing lasted five minutes. Carol and I sat together in the courtroom and, after the judge's decision, Ray was granted a minute to talk with Carol. They exchanged a light kiss. I spoke with Tetlow and told him about the relationship between Carol and Frank Cole. I also mentioned Cole's return visit to Lee Wong's jewelry store.

"I think I would like to do a little digging into Cole's past," I said.

"I've d...done some," Tetlow said. "I met with a c...cop f...f...friend who knows Cole a bit. He t...told me Cole's not originally f..f...from around here. Came from San D...Diego. Been here a few years."

Tetlow paused and we both turned to watch the bailiff separate Ray and Carol. He took Ray toward the rear of the courtroom and through the doors connecting to hallways that led back to the jail. Carol stood motionless, watching her husband leave her again, disappearing behind tall blond doors.

"Cole's single. Wid...widowed," Tetlow added. "Young t..t..to be a widow, huh?"

People had said the same thing about me not that long ago. "It happens," I said.

"I guess."  
"I know some people with San Diego. I'll call down there see if anything else comes up with Cole."

Carol approached us. She was dressed in a simple flower print dress and without make-up. She looked almost innocent, damaged and sad, but innocent.

"I want to go home," she said softly.

"I'll take you," I said.

"No. I'll take the bus or a cab," she said. "I want to be alone."

"Let me give you cab fare," I said, reaching for my wallet.

"No, thank you," she said. She turned without another word and left the courtroom.

"You feel s...sorry for her?" Tetlow asked.

"Sure. Happiness doesn't look like part of her future. Not right now, at least."

"Yeah. I need t...t...to spend some t...time with her...talk about her as a witness."

We walked through the courtroom doors and into the hallway.

"Can you win this?" I asked.

"I plan to."

I smiled. "Confidence is good."  
"Success is better," Tetlow said. He glanced at his watch and picked up his pace. "I'll see you," he said, and walked away.

Outside the Hall of Justice, I telephoned a friend who was twenty three years into a career with the San Diego police department, and told him what I wanted.

"What's in it for me?" he asked.

"Eternal gratitude," I said.

"What's that buy me?"

"The comfort of friendship."

"I repeat my question, what's that buy me?" he said. He was laughing as he disconnected the call.

I got to my car and headed back to Chinatown. Cole's morning visit to Wong didn't feel right. Wong probably wouldn't be any more cooperative than he was during my first visit, but this time I had a plan. I was going to lie.

Wong was not happy to see me when I entered the store. He and a young girl had been helping two women customers. Wong slipped his glasses from his face and let them dangle on a string around his neck. He said something in Chinese to the girl, glanced at me briefly, and shuffled into the rear of the store, behind the curtain. I followed him.

Wong was seated on a metal stool next to a workbench.

"This area private," he said.

I flipped open my wallet, briefly flashing my badge. "You know what I.A.D. is Mr. Wong?"

"No," he snapped.

"Internal Affairs Department," I said. "Cops who investigate cops. We're the police for the police."

"Good for you." Wong lifted a half smoked non filtered cigarette from an ashtray and lit it and pinched it between his thumb and index finger, both stained an ugly yellow.

"I'm looking at Officer Cole."

Wong smoked and stared at me.

"I believe you know him."

Nothing.

"He's the cop who worked on the robbery of your store. The robbery where you dropped the charges. Also the cop who came by here this morning. That cop."

Wong dragged twice at his cigarette and before it was about to burn his fingers dropped it to the floor and put it out with the heel of his shoe. He lifted his glasses and wiped at the lenses with a small cloth he grabbed from the workbench. He held them up to the ceiling light before slipping them back on.

"What did he want this morning?"

"He's a liar. Big liar," Wong spit out, anger rising in his voice.

"About what?"

"He tell me he help with immigration problem for my cousin."

"What sort of problem?"  
"We do each other a favor, he say. If I drop charges against robber he help me get a work permit for cousin so he can stay in United States."

"Cole's not with immigration. He's just a cop."

"How I know who can do what? He say he can help. But he does nothing. That's why I call him and yell at him. Then this morning he come back. Like you say. Tell me to leave him alone and not call him. Threaten to cause me trouble."

"Cole came to you and asked you to drop the charges against Charlie Ramus, the guy who robbed you? I want to make sure. Is that right?"  
"Yes."

"And he is threatening you now?"

"What? You not listening? That's what I say. He say he make me lose business license."

"That won't happen Mr. Wong," I said. I had no authority to make promises, but I made them just the same. Just like Cole.

"Say you!" Wong said. Maybe he knew the situation better than I thought he did. He spun around on his stool, flicked on a table light, and focused on a gold clasp and necklace on his workbench. "You go now. We done talking."

In the front of the store the sales girl was saying good-bye to her customers who seemed pleased with their new purchase. Everyone was smiling as the sales girl held the front door open. When she closed the door and turned toward me her smile disappeared. After a moment she reached back to the door and opened it and walked away from it. I was clearly not a popular guy in Lee Wong's store.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Frank Cole was becoming more intriguing every day. He was involved with Ramus before his death, he'd lied to Wong and was now threatening him, and he was sleeping with Carol Rhodes under the pretense of helping Ray. He was not exactly the sort of cop most departments would consider an asset. I drove to the Vallejo Street station hoping to talk with Cole, but as luck would have it, at least my sort of luck, the desk Sergeant informed me he was not around.

"Frank was in early, but is up to Marin. Testifying in court up there. I know because he was bitching about it for half an hour before he left."

I was so close to Cole's place on Stockton Street I decided to visit. With Cole trapped in a Marin courthouse I would have plenty of time to peep around. As a former cop, I'm supposed to be vigilant about not breaking the law, but there are times when the more important issue is just not getting caught.

I found a place to park around the corner a block from Cole's flat, guarded by a parking meter that had lost its coin box. A recent rash of thefts against the City had been in the form of parking meter coin boxes that were literally sawed off from their support poles. The entire block had been hit, and the grey metal poles lined the sidewalk like victims of a mass decapitation.

The street level door to Cole's building was manned by an old Schlage lock above the door knob and a dead bolt lock. I've worked hundreds of locks over the years and learned most of the configurations. It took less than a minute to work the Schlage lock and the dead bolt had not been set. There are a lot more people who have dead bolts than those who use them.

The door to Cole's second floor flat had a newer lock, but locks that somebody made are locks somebody can pick. It took a minute and a half and I was inside Cole's flat. It was neat and spacious, but the furniture and the décor were undistinguished, except for what looked like a new black leather couch that was the center piece of the living room. A splash of magazines and newspapers littered the glass and metal coffee table sitting in front of the couch, and two mismatched chairs sat close to either end of the table. I didn't know what I was looking for, but that can often be the case. I just poke around and see if anything speaks to me.

I looked in the thin single drawer of a small writing table, flipped through the three shelves of books stacked into a wooden bookcase, and drifted into a small dining alcove taken up by a round wooden table and two metal and cloth chairs. There was an old two drawer wooden chest sitting beneath the widow. The top drawer was filled with bills and envelopes and ink pens and stamps. The drawer below was more interesting. Tucked into the back corner of the drawer was a clear bag of what looked like more than an ounce of white powdered drugs. I opened the baggie, licked the tip of my little finger tapped into the powder. I put the finger to my tongue. It was cocaine. I shut the drawer and went through the kitchen, but found nothing I wouldn't find in my own kitchen.

The door to the bedroom was closed, but when I pushed it open I almost knocked over a digital video camera perched on a tripod and pointing at the bed. I grabbed one of the three legs just in time to keep the whole contraption from crashing to the ground. I repositioned it. Next to the tripod, mounted on the wall, was a large flat screen television. A Blue-Ray DVD player rested on a mass produced entertainment center console. On a shelf below the DVD player was row of self-labeled DVD cases. The thirty or so cases were labeled with initials: C.S., D.K., E.L. P.B. and many others.

I flipped on the power to the television and the Blue-Ray and hit play. The disc already in the machine spun into action, and after a few seconds the television was filled with close-up images of Carol Rhodes and Frank Cole. They were in Cole's bed, naked. Carol had her knees curled up under her ass and she was bending down. Cole was lying on his back, with one hand behind his head, smiling as Carol moved up and down on him.

I stopped the DVD, removed it from the machine and replaced it with one of the other discs. The scenario was roughly the same, but Cole was with a different girl. He was taking her from the rear while looking at himself on camera. Like Carol, this girl looked to be in her early twenty's. Like Carol she was also too thin, and her skin was the same sort of unhealthy pasty white color. Cole started slapping the girl's ass as he neared climax and I stopped the machine. I removed the disc, put it back into its case, and replaced the original disc.

I spent another ten minutes going through the place, but found nothing else of interest. Still, the discovery of the sex videos and the drugs more than made the visit worthwhile. I left the flat and was opening the door to my car when another car drove by. It was Marty Milner. I wasn't sure if he saw me or recognized me, but he was looking in my direction.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

It was eleven in the morning when Marty Milner left Lucinda's apartment. The two of them had finished Marty's coke and eight bottles of beer. Lucinda finally passed out, naked on the floor while Marty tried to get an erection and failed. Milner felt like hell, tired but wide awake, stretched out on the edge of a dull knife. He drove to his apartment and took a shower. He drank the one beer he had left in his refrigerator and walked around, still on edge. From the brass bowl on his dresser in his bedroom he took the set of keys to Frank Cole's apartment that Frank had given him few months earlier as a back-up set. Marty wanted some more coke, and he knew Frank was holding. He drove into North Beach, and was at a stop sign waiting for a mother pushing a baby carriage to pass through the crosswalk, when he saw who he thought was Lieutenant McNamara's buddy Robert Lucas come out of Cole's building. Lucas looked quickly up and down the street and then headed up Stockton Street, away from Milner. Milner drove slowly up Stockton. He watched Lucas turn the corner and move to a parked car. Milner drove past Lucas, circled the block and parked in the driveway of Cole's building. Milner knew that Cole had been scheduled to be in court in Marin, but he also had no doubt he had seen Lucas come out of the building. Milner rang the doorbell for Cole's apartment. There was no answer. He repeated the process. He wondered what the hell Lucas was doing at Frank's place, when Cole was in Marin, and how he even knew where Frank lived. He was too wrecked to think deeply and settled on using his keys to Frank's place and digging in for some more blow.

Milner went right for the stash parceled out some from the baggie into the small tin canister he carried, and then chopped up two big rails on the coffee table and slid them home. The coke rebalanced the world and Milner stood up from the couch and smiled. "Yeah, that's better."

He went into the bedroom and bent down at the Blue Ray player. He flipped through the discs until he found the one he wanted. He replaced the disc inside the machine and pushed play. Two girls, one Black and one Chinese, moved about Frank's bed, licking and kissing and probing each other.

Thirty minutes later Marty helped himself to another rail, grabbed a beer from Frank's kitchen and stuck it in the back pocket of his jeans. He put everything in the apartment back in the original places and left. He climbed behind the wheel of his Mustang, popped the top of the can of beer, and backed out into the street. He never noticed the shiny black BMW pull away from the curb to follow him. In the backseat of the BMW Leon smoked a cigarette and scratched at the cast on his leg.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

I don't sleep as well as I used to, and usually it is more of a curse than a blessing. Tonight, however, my restlessness might have saved my life. It was a few minutes after three o'clock when I heard the first sounds. I sat up in bed and focused my attention toward the front of the house. There had been a quick snap, glass breaking. The front door to the house has six decorative window panes built in. I guessed one of them had been broken. Then I heard the front door swing open and make a familiar creaking sound as it dragged ever so slightly across the tiny warped spot in the wooden floor. And I heard two voices, whispering. I reached to bedside table and opened the top drawer. I cradled my Smith and Wesson. I removed the safety and slid out of bed. I stepped quietly across the carpeted floor to a spot by the bedroom door. From behind the half closed door I could peer through the opening between the door and its frame. There were two men, each dressed in dark clothes and ski masks. One of the two carried a large flashlight. The other one had a gun. The beam from the light swept the floor and the walls of the living room. After a moment the pair moved toward the rear of the house, and my bedroom.

I slowed down my breathing and stepped further behind the door, up against the wall. I could hear them cautiously, quietly, sliding their feet along the carpeted hallway. Another whisper I couldn't decipher. Then they were in the bedroom. I moved from behind the door and said, "Drop the gun."

They turned toward me. In the glow from the flashlight I saw the man with the gun raise it and aim. I fired once. I aimed for his upper chest, but he had moved, jumping into a crouch, and the bullet found his head. His gun flew from his hand as he went back and hit the floor. His partner immediately kicked at the base of the bedroom door and it slammed up against me. I was off balance and he swung the flashlight at me. I raised my arm just in time to avoid getting hit in the head. The industrial strength metal flashlight was heavy and the blow sent a screaming pain through my forearm and up my shoulder. I turned to my right and got caught by a kick that landed on my hip. I dropped to my knees and fired the gun. He was hit in his shoulder and it spun him around, but didn't stop him. He dropped the flashlight, but we were both adjusted to the light. He reached behind his back and came up with a large hunting knife.

"Don't do it," I shouted. I thought I saw him smile through the mouth hole in his ski mask.

He bounced into some exotic martial arts spin and kicked out at me, catching my leg and sending me to the floor. I was on my back as he came at me, the blade of the knife in his hand ready to kill. I fired twice and he seemed to freeze in a pose just above me. The knife fell from his hand and landed beside my face. He collapsed on top of me, the blood from the bullet holes in his chest running down on me like two red rivers suddenly unclogged.

I pushed him to the floor and moved toward my bed. I sat propped up against the side of the bedframe. My pulse was racing. Everything had probably lasted no more than a minute, but there would be a hundred different details to later recall. The sound of the glass breaking. The door creaking. The flashlight. The gun shots. The knife. And on and on.

After a couple minutes, I slid over to the man closest to me, the first one to be shot. I pulled off his ski mask. He was Chinese, or maybe Vietnamese. There was a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead and his eyes were still open. They seemed to be staring at the ceiling, at the unusual shadows cast by the moonlight coming through the window. The man with the flashlight and the knife was also Asian. He could have been his partner's twin. They were both in their twenties, similar in size and build. They both had shiny black hair, cut short on the sides and left long in the back, and they both had small gold earrings in their left ear. It was only then that I heard Lou barking and growling and scratching at the back door.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

The black body bags were zipped closed and the two corpses were wheeled out of my house around six o'clock in the morning. The normally quiet Sunset had been awakened by a double homicide, and there were neighbors standing on their front porches and front lawns in robes and pajamas drinking morning coffee, while others watched through the front windows of their homes. There were three black and whites, two unmarked cars, and an ambulance eating up space in their neighborhood.

I had little doubt that Frank Cole was behind the shooters. Their arrival was too soon after my talk with Carol and my second visit to Wong's jewelry store. If either one of them had mentioned me to Cole he would have begun to put things together, and if Milner had recognized me in North Beach he might have also passed that information along to Cole.

I didn't mention any of these ideas to the cops on the scene. I had no proof and they wouldn't take kindly to any accusations against one of their own. I said I assumed they were thieves, or if not, maybe they were looking for someone in particular and had the wrong address. The homicide cops were less than convinced of either theory, but also not especially anxious to spend a hell of a lot of time worrying about it. From their perspective there were now two less bad guys running around causing trouble.

By seven o'clock I'd taken a shower, talked with Tetlow on the telephone, and was sitting in the kitchen with Lou at my feet having breakfast. It didn't go down well. The emotional residue from the shootings was almost physical, almost concrete. It'd been ten years since I had fired a gun in any fashion other than target practice, and thirteen years since I'd shot and killed Stephan Rojak one night in Pasadena after he'd shot a liquor store owner and was fleeing on foot. Rojak was one of only two people I shot at during my career, and the only one I'd killed. This morning I'd done the only thing possible, but the knowledge wasn't doing much for me. I'd killed two young men and I wasn't happy about it. Cole had raised the stakes. If I was right, he might have killed Ramus and was now after me. Still, I had no proof, other than Lee Wong's story. The video discs and the drugs in Cole's apartment were not evidence linking him to bigger crimes, and I'd found that stuff by illegally entering his apartment. The telephone ringing interrupted my deep thinking.

"Lucky? It's Jack. Didn't wake you did I"  
Jack Tanner was the cop in San Diego I'd called for background on Cole.

"No, I've been up," I said, smiling to myself at the irony of my response.

"Good. Well, I've got some stuff on your friend. Or whoever he is."

"Go ahead." I reached to the counter and grabbed a pencil and note pad.

"Cole joined the San Diego department when he was twenty four, after some time in the Army. A pretty good cop, but liked to party and fancied himself a ladies man. He was partnered with another cop, Jack Lake, for a couple years. But, Lake died. In a boating accident of all things. Lost at sea. Anyway, eighteen months later Cole married Lake's widow and adopted her ten year old daughter. Apparently, some cops thought it a little weird, but a lot weirder stuff than that goes on."

"Sure."

"Another six years pass, and then the wife commits suicide. Hooks up one end of a hose to the car exhaust and runs the other end inside the car. Has the garage door shut, starts the car."

"Who found her?"

"Next door neighbor. Walked by and heard the car running. Thought it weird and knocked on the front door. Got no answer and started looking around. One thing led to another."

"She leave a note? Any reason?"

"Nope. My informant said Cole was seeing other women, but he also said that had been going on for a while."

"So why kill yourself now? That it?"  
"Yeah, sort of. Anyway, three years later he left San Diego and moved to San Francisco. Surprised people down here, but people move."

"What about the daughter?"

"Don't know. Nothing sure about her. Off on her own, probably."

"That it?"

"All I got."

"Thanks, Jack. I appreciate it."

"Sure, Lucky. But fill me in. I thought you were retired? Living the easy life."

"Yeah that's me," I said. Finding corpses in hotel rooms, early morning shoot outs. Just kickin' back. "I'm just hooked into doing a favor for my daughter-in-law and this guy's name came up. Why don't you come up and visit sometime. We'll take a boat ride out to Alcatraz and you can see where Al Capone used to reside."

"Yeah? That's right, huh?" Jack said. "I just might do that. Go to a ballgame, maybe. When the Padres are in town."

"Let's make it happen. Thanks again." I hung up the telephone, and the house was quiet.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

The background information on Cole didn't give me anything. Lots of cops had trouble with marriages. Lots of them created or lived with broken or damaged families. I knew of cops committing suicide, and I knew of cops' wives doing the same, and there were certainly plenty of cops who worked in more than one police department during their career. But Cole's past was now of less interest to me than the present and the immediate future. Particularly my own. Since the first two assassins had failed to complete their job I was fairly sure Cole would be just as glad they were dead and unable to talk. What I was uncertain about was whether or not Cole would take another run. I decided to not wait for him to come again. I dug out my shoulder holster and slipped it on, reloaded the Smith and Wesson. I grabbed a light weight jacket and zipped it up and put Lou in the back yard.

I drove to Carol's apartment. It was a little after eight o'clock in the morning. Carol didn't answer her door buzzer. Three times. But someone finally came down the stairs and opened the street level door on their way out. I knocked loudly on Carol's door, and after shouting her name heard movement inside the apartment.

"Just a minute. Hang on," she groaned. She coughed a couple times, deep and almost angry, like smokers do when they disturb their lungs from a nap. "Who is it?" More coughing, and the sound of her moving toward the door.

"It's Lucas."

Carol opened the door. She was a mess. Her eyes were bloodshot and her eyeliner was smeared into black streaks under both eyes. Her lips were cracked and dry.

"Whata ya want?" she said. She'd already turned away from the door, leaving it open for me to enter the apartment. She stumbled over to the coffee table, and as she bent over to pick up a cigarette and the lighter, the terry cloth robe she had on didn't cover the ugly purple bruise on the back of her left thigh. She got the cigarette smoking and coughed. "Jesus, it's gotta be early. What time is?" she asked as she flopped herself on the couch.

"It's morning. What the hell happened to you in the last twenty four hours?"

The apartment was as stale and clammy as it was on my first visit. I noticed a rectangular mirror on the floor near the couch with a white dusty residue clinging to the surface. More drugs.

"Nothing happened to me," she mumbled, running a hand through a tangled mop of hair and wiping at her nose. "I just didn't sleep well, that's all."

"Looks like you didn't sleep at all. But, hell I don't care. I want to know about Cole. I want to know if you talked to him yesterday. After you left the court house. Did you call him? Did you see him?"

"You didn't say anything to Ray, did you? You didn't mention him to Ray?"

"No. Answer my question. Did you talk to Cole?"

"That's my business."

"Cole the one provides you with the coke?"

"What?"

"Did you talk to Cole about me?"

"Huh?"

"Did you mention my name to Cole?"

"About what?"

It was like trying to have a conversation with a rock. "Did you tell Cole I knew about the relationship between the two of you?"

"Yeah, I guess, I did."

"Why?"

"We were talking. I wanted him to know we had to stop. It couldn't last. I needed it to stop." The conversation was hard for her. She'd get part of an idea in her head but getting the words completely through her mouth took effort. She curled herself into a little ball on the couch. "Is that all you wanted? I'm kinda tired."

She was a damaged, but not yet destroyed, young woman, barely able to have a conversation, a huddled body collapsing in on itself, as if in retreat from everyone and everything. She closed her eyes, placed one hand to the side of her head, pressing in at her temple as if it were a button that would turn off the world. I left her alone.

I drove from Divisadero Street and snaked my way into Chinatown to visit Lee Wong. It was a short visit. The moment I walked into the store Wong looked at me, turned away from the counter where he had been arranging necklaces, and marched into the rear of the store.

His female assistant, somewhat startled looked from Wong to me.

"Yes?" she said.

I walked past her into the rear of the store.

"You not a cop," Wong shouted at me. He had taken a seat on a work stool and was anxiously lighting a pipe. He used the pipe as a pointer. "You lie, just like all the others."

"What do you mean?" I said, but I knew what he meant, and he knew I knew.

"Lie some more. You not cop. The other cop? I call him and ask about you. I.A.D. Shit! You not even a cop. Cole tells me."

"Why did you call him?"

"What? Why not? He supposed to help me. Maybe I think if I tell him about you, it will make him keep his word and help with immigration. Like promised before."

"I wouldn't count on Cole," I said.

"I not listen to you. You a liar, too. Just like him." Wong drew on his pipe and exhaled the smoke in my direction. "You just like him. Like Cole. Go away."

I knew Cole and I were not the same, but there would be no way to convince Wong of that. I left Wong silently smoking his pipe, locked into his world view of all cops as liars and users unworthy of trust.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

I drove from Chinatown into North Beach and exchanged parking places with an old Cadillac just two doors down from Cole's flat. My plan was to confront Cole with the things I knew and see what happened. He would dictate the rest of it. Quite a sophisticated plan.

I could feel the weight of the Smith and Wesson and the pull of the shoulder holster as I went up the steps to the front porch. Cole didn't answer the door bell. He could be out for a late breakfast, could be back in Marin testifying in court, or a thousand other places. Still, he was my priority, and I decided to wait around for at least a while to see if he showed. I crossed the street and went into a neighborhood deli called Dino's that had a sign in the front window saying Fresh Coffee. I bought a cup of coffee and two newspapers from a woman with an amusing nametag that read: Dino's Wife, and went back to my car.

I was finishing the coffee and the business section of the first paper when Marty Milner pulled his Mustang into the Cole's driveway. He set his emergency flashers going, and used a key to enter the building. He hadn't looked around the street, and didn't see me. Less than five minutes later Milner was back. He was dressed in black jeans with thick boots and a white shirt with the tails left hanging out and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. When he was behind the wheel of his car I watched him tilt his rear view mirror to look at himself. He ran his hands through his hair and wiped at his nose. He backed out of the driveway and headed up Stockton Street and I followed him.

Milner made a couple left hand turns, ending back on Columbus Street, took a right at California and then started sliding down the hill toward the Tenderloin. Near the corner of Taylor and Golden Gate he parked next to a fire hydrant, and I found a yellow zone across the street. He left his car and approached the three working girls half a block up the street. Morning prostitution is not exactly the high end of the working trade, but there are always some girls putting in a full day. Two of the girls were in miniskirts and their friend was in shiny red hot pants. All three stood tall on spiked high heels. Their clothes would work perfectly if anyone wanted to remake a 1960's movie about go-go dancers. All three were smoking cigarettes and seemed to know Milner. They laughed and one of the girls pointed up the street. Milner turned and left the group, as the girl in the hot pants cruised up to the curb where a silver haired grandfather pulled over in his white Lincoln. Another retiree with more time on his hands than is good for him.

Milner walked into a bar called Tiny's. From my car I could see the front of the bar and the grandfather in the Lincoln. The girl in the hot pants leaned into the passenger's side window, and after some discussion opened the door and climbed in. Gramps had scored his morning meal.

A couple minutes later Milner came out of Tiny's. He was with a young girl in tight blue jeans and a tank top. The two of them strolled to Milner's car and pulled away from the curb. I followed him to a motel on Polk Street where he drove into the parking lot. Milner went into the motel office by himself, and when he came out he waved at the girl waiting in the car. She followed Milner to the second floor and around a corner of the building and out of sight.

I wasn't excited about waiting for Milner and his date, but Cole wasn't home and I had no other plans. I turned on the radio to a sports call in show and listened to callers argue about which local team had the most rapid fan base. Forty five minutes later the girl came around the corner of the building on the second floor and walked down the stairs. She was adjusting a set of headphones and swaying slightly from side to side with her morning music. I left my car.

"Hold it," I said when I got close. She looked at me with a dazed, unfocused stare, and popped a bubble from her chewing gum. I flashed my badge at her. She stopped and I made a motion to her headphones. "Take those off."

She slipped the headphones from the top of her head and let them dangle around her neck.

"Listen I was just with one of your own up there. You can't mess with me for that."

"I can do whatever I want." Real tough guy talk. "I want you to walk with me back upstairs and lead me to the room you just left. You're going to knock on the door and tell Marty you forgot something. When he comes to the door you can leave."

She looked at me suspiciously. I wasn't asking her to do anything that made sense to her, but it also didn't sound difficult, and she wasn't getting arrested.

"I never seen you before," she said.

"That's good for you. Now let's go." I put my hand on her arm and turned her back toward the staircase leading to the second floor.

She led me past seven or eight rooms and then we turned the corner and stopped at 323. I mimed a knocking motion with my fist and she knocked on the door.

"Yeah?" Milner said from inside the room.

"It's Gina. I forgot something," she said.

"Come on in."

Gina looked at me and I moved my head to indicate she could take off, and she did. I waited until she was around the corner and I pulled out my gun. I turned the knob on the door and entered the room.

Milner was in a chair pulled up to a small round table. He was wearing only a pair of boxer shorts. There was a pile of coke on the table and Milner was leaning into the pile, holding on to a thin red straw that was stuck up his nose.

"Hi Marty," I said.

Milner jumped slightly, almost losing his balance. He righted himself and pulled the straw from his nose. He stood up from the chair.

"What the fuck? You!"

"You've got problems, Marty," I said.

"Where's Gina?"

"She's gone." I grabbed one of the two chairs against one wall, spun it around and sat in it facing Milner with my arms straddling the back of the chair. There was a wet motel towel on the floor and I picked it up and threw it at Milner. "Wipe that shit off your nose."

Milner followed my instructions. He looked too wired to be thinking clearly. The pictures weren't in focus and the world had tilted.

"We need to talk about Frank Cole, Marty. I don't really care about your drug use, though you obviously got a problem there. And I will use it to get what I want if you won't help me."

"What?"

"I can make you disposable. End your career, if I want to."

The paranoia that comes from doing a lot of coke seemed to be getting the better of Milner. He used the towel to again wipe at his face and at the back of his neck. "Why do you want to fuck with me?" he said.

"I don't really care about you, aren't you listening. I want Cole. I want to know about the bust of Ray Rhodes, and about Carol Rhodes. I want to know about Charlie Ramus and Lee Wong."

Milner stood up from the chair. "No...," he said. He shook his head from side to side as if trying to dislodge a nightmare. "I don't know about..." he couldn't decide what to say, what he should do. "Frank's my friend, almost like a big brother."

I startled Milner by jumping up from my chair and slapping him across the face with the back of my hand. The blow knocked him against the table with the stash of coke. Some of the drug went flying off the table onto the carpet. Milner looked crushed. A thin line of blood dripped from the corner of his mouth.

"Wake up Marty. It's story time."
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

I left Milner with enough to go back and see McNamara. I called him at the station.

"I need to see you. You got some time?" I asked.

"I've been sitting here waiting for your call," he cracked.

"Ha, ha."

"I heard you were in a scuffle this morning?"

"A scuffle?"

"It an older word, I admit it. You prefer something else? How about rumpus?"

"Mac..."

"You okay?"

"Yeah. I'm unblemished and absolute."

"See, you get it. Well, I'm here. Come on in."

McNamara was sitting at his desk polishing off a glazed donut with a swallow of coffee when I walked into his office.

"The perfect cop," I said and sat down in a chair across from him and his large oak desk. "Is this brunch?"

"No, brunch implies there won't be lunch, and that would be inaccurate." He pushed a manila file folder across the top of his desk. I took it and opened it. Inside there were two rap sheets, each with an accompanying photograph paper-clipped to the top of the page. I recognized the men as the two Asian shooters who had tried to kill me.

"These two are Chinese. Members of the Wah Ching Gang. Imported from Hong Kong. Twenty-six years old and dead."

"I have nothing to do with the Wah Ching? I said.

"Independent contractors. Wah Ching is said to be selling the services of its members. Branching out you might say. Diversifying."

"How progressive of them."

"I read your statement, Lucky. It's pretty vague. Wrong target? You wouldn't believe that. I don't believe it," McNamara said as he finished off the last of his coffee.

"Why not? It happens. The Feds do it. Don't you watch 60 minutes?"

"No, I don't as a matter of fact."

"It's Cole."

McNamara stared at me. I gave him everything. I explained Cole's relationship with Carol Rhodes, and how they first got together when Ray went to prison. How Cole convinced Carol he could help her. I tied in Ray's eventual release and his return to Carol to his bust in North Beach.

"Milner told me Cole gave him Rhodes as sort of a target. Milner said the bust was clean, and it was only later that he learned Charlie Ramus had been involved in setting it up. Ramus planted the gun in Ray's car, and the dope. He was the one who busted the taillight on Ray's car. Milner said Cole told him about it later, and laughed about how smoothly it all went down."

"What was in it for Ramus?"

"Cole found Ramus. He knew that Ramus had been to see Rhodes, because Carol had mentioned it. The two of them had served time together. Ramus wanted Rhodes back in the life with him, but Rhodes was not interested. Ramus got pissed off. Ramus then got busted for the jewelry store robbery and Cole concocted his little plan. He got the store owner, Lee Wong, to drop the charges against Ramus by convincing him he could help Wong's relatives with some immigration problems. He told Ramus he could clear him in exchange for his help in framing Rhodes. But later Ramus got greedy and tried to squeeze a little more out of Cole. Milner wasn't sure, but he thinks Ramus wanted money after the robbery charges had been dropped. But Ramus overplayed his hand and Cole decided to take him out. He'd become a loose end. Cole had someone call Ray and tell him Ramus learned something about Ray's North Beach bust that could help him. Said Ramus wasn't mad any longer about the turn down.

"Ray took the bait and hustled over to Ramus' apartment. Old man in the lobby sees Ray. Cole had already killed Ramus and was waiting for Rhodes. He knocked him out, got Ray's prints on the knife and planted it where he knew it would be found. It was just a coincidence that I happened to be the one to find Ramus. It could have been anybody.

"So, now Cole had Ramus out of the way and Rhodes framed for the murder. On top of the earlier charges. The gun possession and the drugs. Things were looking good."

"Except you were digging around?"

"Yeah," I said. "Everything followed from Carol Rhodes. When I saw her with Cole I knew something wasn't right."

"But you've got no proof, Lucky. Did Milner tell you he knew Cole killed Ramus?"

"No. As a matter of fact, he didn't believe me when I put the story together for him that way. He said Cole was not a killer."

"So were waltzing around in theory here."

"I'm right, Mac," I said.

"Maybe you are. Sit on it. I can talk to some people you can't. I'll get back to you. And don't shoot anyone else for a day or two."

"You know Mac, I don't like this any more than you do. Crooked cops."

McNamara crimpled his paper coffee cup into a ball and threw it across the room. He snorted. "Yeah, shit," he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

Leon's black BMW pulled up alongside the curb in front of The Stud, a poor cousin to The Penthouse, where the girls weren't as pretty, the floors not as clean, and the clientele not as polite. It was not a long fall from The Stud to the street, from the lap dance to the street corner.

Leon climbed out of the back of the BMW with the help of his driver and his fancy new black cane with the gold handle and gold tip. An eighteen year old wanna-be gangster greeted Leon at the door and ushered him down to the back of the club. He used a key to unlock and open a door with a sliver plate mounted on it that said: Private.

The room needed a new carpet and ventilation. A worn burnt orange velvet couch sat up against one wall and two metal chairs were at either end of a square card table. A stand-up ashtray was littered with old butts and matches. Leon sat down on one of the chairs and removed a toothpick from the pocket of the bright red vest worn under his cream colored jacket. Three minutes later Frank Cole walked in the room.

"I like this Cole," Leon said, smiling, as Cole sat down on the couch. "You coming to me."

"Don't flatter yourself Leon. You've got a score to settle with Milner. That's why it's you. We both get what we want."

"Still, it sits right with me. You asking for my help, and all. You got that boy started on those drugs, Frank. Now it's become a problem. His problem and yours. Ain't that right?"

"Is Lucinda on board?" Cole asked.

"Girl do as she's told," Leon said.

"Good. Then twist it up tonight."

"Can do."

Cole reached into his leather jacket and removed a letter size envelope and handed it to Leon. Leon opened it and flipped through the cash. He sealed the envelope and slipped it inside his coat pocket.

There was a knock at the door.

"Yeah?" Cole said.

"It's Dani. Artie sent me," a voice answered.

Leon and Cole exchanged looks.

"Come on in," Cole said.

The door swung open and a petite little redhaired teenager entered the room. She was wearing a blue bra and matching blue panties, had a pale blue shawl wrapped around her shoulders, and moved cautiously on blue high heels. She looked from Frank to Leon and back to Frank.

Leon stood up from his chair and laughed. "She afraid she got to do us both."

"Leon's leaving, honey," Cole said. Dani looked relieved and moved toward the couch when Frank patted the cushion next to him. "Here sit down next to me."

"Some other time Dani. I like redheads," Leon chuckled and rolled the toothpick in his mouth from one side to the other. "I surely do," he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

Edwin Tetlow telephoned me at five forty five in the morning to tell me Marty Milner had been found dead of a drug overdose in a Tenderloin motel.

"It was a speedball," Tetlow said, referring to a dangerous blend of cocaine and heroin. "Syringe was on the fl...floor. He was s...s...still in a chair. Be...belt around his a..arm."

"How did you hear?" I was sitting on the edge of my bed.

"Friend of a f...f...friend. Was at t...the scene."

"It's Cole, I bet," I said.

"Why? It was an ov...overdose. Why C...Cole?"

I filled in Tetlow with the details of the previous twenty four hours.

"And y...you to...told McNamara this?" Tetlow asked. "You still n...n...need proof to help Ra...Ray."

I had walked into the kitchen with the phone and pouring water into the coffee maker.

"I'll get it," I said.

"Does C...C...Carol know about Co...Cole's role in this?"

"I doubt it. There's no reason Cole would tell her any of it. He spins it out to her that he's trying to help Ray."

"Sh... she doesn't st...st...still believe that does she?"

"I don't know what she believes." I added coffee to the coffee pot and flipped on the power switch and headed toward the bathroom.

"Talk to McNa...McNamara again. After this..."

"We'll see. Thanks for calling." I hung up the phone and turned on the water in the shower. Returning to sleep wasn't going to happen and I figured I might as well be clean if I had to be awake.

I soaped and shaved and dressed and put away two cups of coffee with toast and eggs. Then I got my gun. I checked the load and dropped it into the side pocket of my London Fog windbreaker. I set some food and water out for Lou, backed the Buick from the garage, and went to find Frank Cole.

The drive across town gave me time to think about Keith and Kathleen and the kids. I was supposed to be retired, taking the kids to ballgames and the zoo. We were supposed to be eating cotton candy and riding the ferry up to Sausalito. Taking train trips through the Napa Valley. Instead I was driving to confront a cop gone off the rails who had become a killer, and who, if left alone, would probably try to kill me.

I'd been to Cole's place frequently enough there were neighbors beginning to recognize me. After I parked the car and was crossing the street Dino's wife waved at me as she set out the morning newspapers on the rack. I waved back.

As I approached the front steps to Cole's building the garage door swung open and a bronze Honda Accord pulled out and turned up the street. Before the electronic door closed I hustled into the garage. There were two other cars parked in the garage, but not Cole's Corvette. Was this guy ever home? I didn't care. This time I would wait as long as it took. Through the rear of the garage was a door that led to a stairwell that led up the outside of the building to the back doors of the various flats. I located Cole's door, worked the lock and went in.

The flat was quiet, almost too quiet, and it was unsettling. I tried sitting down, but was too anxious, too juiced. I moved through the rooms, ending up in the bedroom. I opened and closed some closet doors and the two drawers on the small bedside dresser. I rolled over the bed to the matching dresser on the opposite side. For some reason I had not looked through these drawers during my first visit. Nobody's perfect, I guess. The top drawer was packed with a variety of pornographic magazines. In the second drawer there was a photo album. On the outside of the leather bound album, in raised letters, was the word: Family. I opened the album. The pictures were of Frank and Carol, but they were far different from the images on the video tape. These photos were five years old, ten years old. There were pictures of Frank and Carol with another woman. I pulled a couple pictures out of their protective sleeves and flipped them over. On the back of the pictures it said: Frank, Peggy and Carol. I stared at the photographs.

Jack Tanner told me Cole had married his former partner's wife and adopted her ten year old daughter. I flipped through the pages of the album. There were nude shots of Carol at different ages. There were photographs of Carol and her mom, nude on a bed. They were supposed to be laughing, but if you studied their faces it wasn't difficult to see the sadness behind their forced smiles. There were other photos of Frank and Peggy and Carol naked together, posing for the camera. A family album, indeed. Cole raped his underage adopted daughter and got his wife to participate. And when she could no longer stand it she killed herself. Carol at some point ran away, but Cole found her. He moved to San Francisco and back into her life. I replaced the photographs in their sleeves and put the album back where I'd found it. I stood up from the edge of the bed, angry and disgusted. I exhaled a deep breath and heard a sound. Someone was whistling. The front door opened and Frank Cole walked in.

CHAPTER THIRTY

I moved from the side of the bed to the bedroom door. I could see into the living room as Cole dropped his jacket over the back of a chair and flopped down on the couch. He reached behind his back and unsnapped from his belt a small leather holster holding a gun. He set the holster and gun on the couch and stretched his legs across the top of the coffee table. For someone who was involved in the murder of a civilian and the drug overdose of a fellow cop, Cole was remarkably at ease. He kicked off his shoes and rubbed his feet against one another. He rubbed at his face and yawned. I took the Smith and Wesson from my jacket pocket and left from the bedroom.

"Exhausted Frank?" I said. I leaned against the doorframe separating the bedroom from the living room.

Cole sat up, startled for a moment, and then leaned back against the couch. He was cool, had to give him that much.

"You?" he said.

"Me."

"You have become a real pain in the ass, you know that? How come you're such a pain in the ass?" He spread his hands out in front of him. "What's Ray Rhodes to you?"

"Nothing."

Cole turned his head slightly, glancing at the gun next to him on the couch. "Then explain it to me. Why are you even involved?" Cole pulled his legs from the table and leaned a bit forward in the couch.

"Family," I said. "You're sort of a family guy, aren't you Frank?"

"What's that mean?"

"I saw the pictures in the family album, Cole. Of you and Peggy and Carol. Saw the DVD with you and Carol, and I know about Peggy's suicide. Or did you kill her because maybe she couldn't take it any longer and threatened to tell someone. She wanted one last chance at saving her daughter from you. That close?"

"Fuck you."

"Tough talk, Cole. Charlie Ramus start talking to you that way? Everything began to spin out of control, didn't it? Escalated. First it was just Ray. Then Ramus and Lee Wong. And finally, Milner. Of course you didn't have to kill Wong. And your hired hitters left my house in body bags."

"Carol and I are family," Cole said. "This punk Rhodes is nothing. Carol needs better. I can take care of her. She's mine."

"People can't own other people, Cole."

For a moment Cole's concern sounded genuine, like the concern any father would have for his daughter, but it couldn't stand up. It wouldn't hold. Cole was a pervert who used his daughter like a slave, and possibly killed her mother. He was evil, and yet like others of his ilk, he could mask that evil from most of those around him. He could be a good cop, a stable cop, a widowed cop dealt an unfortunate hand. But he was also a killer, and his true self had no restrictions when his selfish desires were threatened.

"You shouldn't have broken in here, you know," Cole said. "You've got no authority. I came home and found you in my house. It's breaking and entering, and you my friend, broke and entered the wrong house."

Cole moved quickly, grabbing his holster and gun and diving to the floor. He was partially obscured by the coffee table. I stepped to my right and aimed. I still didn't have a clean shot, but Cole rose up from behind the table. He had the gun free from the holster and was raising it at me. I fired. The bullet hit Cole in the chest and knocked him back. I took another step to my right. Cole was working to recover his strength and still had the gun in his hand. He was trying to prop himself up using the edge of the coffee table. I shot him again and a large piece of his face left his head.

I moved next to Cole's body and knelt down. His gun lay next to his outstretched hand. I felt for the pulse in his neck. There was none. I got up and moved to the couch. I closed my eyes and focused my breathing, slowing it down with deep methodical breaths. The stillness was suddenly broken by a sound at the front door. Carol Rhodes was entering the living room. She saw me and froze. Then she saw Cole. She dropped her purse to the floor and raised her hands to her mouth and screamed. She rushed to Cole's body, and fell on him.

"No, no!" Carol yelled. "Daddy no!"

She began crying, quietly at first, then uncontrollably, hysterically. There were no moves to make. I sat perfectly still on the couch and watched and listened to Carol cry. After a minute she collapsed.

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

Carol Rhodes was admitted to a hospital and placed under psychiatric observation. It was three days before she was able to speak and another three days before she was willing to talk about her life with Frank Cole.

Following her mother's marriage to Cole, life seemed a little better. Her mother learned she could be happy again and that made Carol happy. But within the second year of the marriage trouble surfaced. Cole began making sexual references to Carol that soon moved right into molestation. And there was violence. Cole could be fun and caring one day and then be mean and nasty the next day. Sometimes within the same day.

"He could come home and give you a present he bought you, and then an hour later hit you. Then apologize, and then the next day it could happen all over again. We were afraid of him. Afraid to do anything that would upset him. And there was the sex." Carol hated Cole, but she loved him. She broke down several times as she told her story. The psychiatrists said Carol's feelings were not unusual given her circumstances. The psychological damage visited upon families of incest and abuse runs deep and can often be permanently debilitating. It might not matter if the incest was tied to a direct biological connection. Adoptive situations could be equally contaminating. There were layers upon layers of scar tissue.

Working slowly with the psychiatrists the police were eventually able to get a sworn statement from Carol detailing Cole's role in framing Ray. Cole had explained it to her one night, she said. "He always told me he was protecting me. Doing what was best. It was his job as my father, he said."

Using statements from Carol, Lee Wong, and myself, Edwin Tetlow was able to get Ray released from jail. Ray was naturally glad to be out, but the experience hardened him and made him bitter. He cursed all cops and everything about a system that had let him so easily take the fall for something he didn't do. He knew he was always just one crooked cop away from being set up and sent back to prison.

"Ex-cons have no chance," he said. He spent two days with Carol in the hospital, visited Kathleen one afternoon, and then disappeared. Kathleen was the one who thanked Tetlow and me for our help.

Carol agreed to a stay at the Napa State Hospital, a psychiatric facility. She stayed for almost two months. She had lost everything. Her natural father, her mother, and her step-father were dead, and her husband had run out on her. She was deserving of some help.

I learned about her leaving the hospital when she telephoned me one Saturday afternoon in January. I was sitting in the back yard drinking lemonade and eating ginger snap cookies. Lou was alongside me chewing on a rubber bone.

"I wanted to call and say good-bye," Carol said. "I'm leaving California."

"Where to?"

"I'm going up to Washington. I made a friend at the hospital and she invited me. I'm going to go stay with her for a while and see what I think about the place. I've never been out of California."

"You feeling okay?"

"Today I feel fine," she said. "And I'll settle for that."

"I wish you luck, Carol."

"Thanks. Good-bye."

I ended the call, but a minute later the phone rang again. It was a wrong number, and the caller acted like it was my fault. I turned off the phone and decided to leave it off until Monday morning. An executive decision. I stuffed another ginger snap in my mouth and swallowed the last of my lemonade. I was retired once again and I liked the feeling.

