Whistleblower

with a grim sense of humor.

If Jack ever showed up with the kit.

'It's 6:05,' Victor muttered. 'He's had an hour.'

'Give him time.'

'We're running out of time.'

'We can still make the bus.' She peered up the street, as though by force of will she could conjure up her ex-husband. But only a city bus barreled into view. Come on, Jack, come on! Don't let me down this time....

'Will ya lookit that!' came a low growl, followed by general murmurs of admiration from the crowd.

'Hey, pretty boy!' someone called as the group gathered on the corner to stare. 'What'd you have to push to get yerself wheels like that?'

Through the gathering of men, Cathy spied the bright gleam of chrome and burgundy. 'Get away from my car!' demanded a querulous voice. 'I just had her waxed!'

'Looks like Pretty Boy got hisself lost. Turned down the wrong damn street, did ya?'

Cathy leaped to her feet. 'He's here!'

She and Victor pushed through the crowd to find Jack standing guard over the Jaguar's gleaming finish.

'Don't—don't touch her!' he snapped as one man ran a grimy finger across the hood. 'Why can't you people go find yourselves a job or something?'

'A job?' someone yelled. 'What's that?'

'Jack!' called Cathy.

Jack let out a sigh of relief when he spotted her. 'This is the last favor. The absolute last favor—'

'Where is it?' she asked.

Jack walked around to the trunk, where he slapped away another hand as it stroked the Jaguar's burgundy flank. 'It's right here. The whole kit and kaboodle.' He swung out the makeup case and handed it over. 'Delivered as promised. Now I gotta run.'

'Where are you going?' she called.

'I don't know.' He climbed back into the car. 'Somewhere. Anywhere!'

'Sounds like we're headed in the same direction.'

'God, I hope not.' He started the engine and revved it up a few times.

Someone yelled: 'So long, Pretty Boy!'

Jack gazed out dryly at Cathy. 'You know, you really should do something about the company you keep. Ciao, sweetcakes.'

The Jaguar lurched away. With a screech of tires, it spun around the corner and vanished into traffic.

Cathy turned and saw that every eye was watching her. Automatically, Victor moved close beside her, one tired and hungry man facing a tired and hungry crowd.

Someone called out: 'So who's the jerk in the Jag?'

'My ex-husband,' said Cathy.

'Doin' a lot better than you are, honey.'

'No kidding.' She held up the makeup case and managed a careless laugh. 'I ask the creep for my clothes, he throws me a change of underwear.'

'Babe, now ain't that just the way it works?'

Already, the men were wandering away, regrouping in doorways, or over by the corner newsstands. The Jaguar was gone, and so was their interest.

Only one man stood before Cathy and Victor, and the look he gave them was distinctly sympathetic. 'That's all he left you, huh? Him with that nice, fancy car?' He turned to leave, then glanced back at them. 'Say, you two need a place to stay or somethin'? I got a lot of friends. And I hate to see a lady out in the cold.'

'Thanks for the offer,' said Victor, taking Cathy's hand. 'But we've got a bus to catch.'

The man nodded and shuffled away, a kind but unfortunate soul whom the streets had not robbed of decency.

'We have a half hour to get on that bus,' said Victor, hurrying Cathy along. 'Better get to work.'

They were headed up the street, toward the cover of an alley, when Cathy suddenly halted. 'Victor—'

'What's the matter?'

'Look.' She pointed at the newsstand, her hand shaking.

Beneath the plastic cover was the afternoon edition of the San Francisco Examiner. The headline read: 'Two Victims, Same Name. Police Probe Coincidence.' Beside it was a photo of a young blond woman. The caption was hidden by the fold, but Cathy didn't need to read it. She could already guess the woman's name.

'Two of them,' she whispered. 'Victor, you were right....'

'All the more reason for us to get out of town.' He pulled on her arm. 'Hurry.'

She let him lead her away. But even as they headed down the street, even as they left the newsstand behind them, she carried that image in her mind: the photograph of a blond woman, the second victim.

The second Catherine Weaver.

Patrolman O'Hanley was a helpful soul. Unlike too many of his colleagues, O'Hanley had joined the force out of a true desire to serve and protect. The 'Boy Scout' was what the other men called him behind his back. The epithet both annoyed and pleased him. It told him he didn't fit in with the rough-and-tumble gang on the force. It also told him he was above it all, above the petty bribe-taking and backbiting and maneuverings for promotion. He wasn't out to glorify the badge on his chest. What he wanted was the chance to pat a kid on the head, rescue an old granny from a mugging.

That's why he found this particular assignment so frustrating. All this standing around in the bus depot, watching for a man some witness might have spotted a few hours ago. O'Hanley hadn't noticed any such character. He'd eyeballed every person who'd walked in the door. A sorry lot, most of them. Not surprising since, these days, anyone with the cash to spare took a plane. By the looks of these folks, none of 'em could spare much more than pennies. Take that pair over there, huddled together in the waiting area. A father and daughter, he figured, and both of 'em down on their luck. The daughter was bundled up in an old raincoat, the collar pulled up to reveal only a mop of windblown hair. The father was an even sorrier sight, gaunt-faced, white-whiskered, about as old as Methuselah. Still, there was a remnant of pride in the old codger—O'Hanley could see it in the way the man held himself, stiff and straight. Must've been an impressive fellow in his younger years since he was still well over six feet tall.

The public speaker announced final boarding for number fourteen to Palo Alto.

The old man and his daughter rose to their feet.

O'Hanley watched with concern as the pair shuffled across the terminal toward the departure gate. The woman was carrying only one small case, but it appeared to be a heavy one. And she already had her hands full, trying to guide the old man in the right direction. But they were making progress, and O'Hanley figured they'd make it to the bus okay.

That is, until the kid ran into them.

He was about six, the kind of kid no mother wants to admit she produced, the kind of kid who gives all six- year-olds a bad name. For the last half hour the boy had been tearing around the terminal, scattering ashtray sand, tipping over suitcases, banging locker doors. Now he was running. Only this kid was doing it backward.

O'Hanley saw it coming. The old man and his daughter were crossing slowly toward the departure gate. The kid was scuttling toward them. Intersecting paths, inevitable collision. The kid slammed into the woman's knees; the case flew out of her grasp. She stumbled against her companion. O'Hanley, paralyzed, expected the codger to keel over. To his surprise, the old man simply caught the woman in his arms and handily set her back on her feet.

By now O'Hanley was hurrying to their aid. He got to the woman just as she'd regained her footing. 'You folks okay?' he asked.