then those with ads that their rookie contacted for them. They visited people who had reported animal mutilations to the Humane Society. Garreth did not like most of the cultists he met — some he detested on sight — but he found them educational: women who simultaneously attracted and chilled him, people he would have taken for dull businessmen on the street, and some, too, who looked like escapees from Hollywood horror movies. No group, though, had a tall red-haired female member.
None of Mossman’s jewelry appeared in the pawnshops.
At the same time, they kept prodding their contacts for Wink O’Hare’s hiding place. Garreth spent his evenings in North Beach on a systematic search for the singer.
One week after Gerald Mossman died, Garreth found her.
4
The singer looked every bit the babe Suarez said, and she did tower in boots with six inch heels. Dressed in a satin shirt and jeans, she glided between the tables of the Barbary Now, singing a sentimental Kenny Rogers song. And what a voice. Singing about lighting up his life brought a vivid memory of Marti and a lump in his throat. He had to fight off blurred vision to concentrate on the singer. The red hair, black in shadow, burned with dark fire where the light struck it, and hung down her back to her waist, framing a striking, square-jawed face. Watching her walk, Garreth remembered the description the bellboy had given of the woman in the Mark Hopkins lobby. She had to be the same woman. Surely there could not be two like this in San Francisco. He would slip something extra to Velvet to thank her for finding this woman.
The hooker had called the office that afternoon. He and Harry were out, but she left a message:
So here he and Harry were, and here was a redhead.
“Nice,” Harry said.
Garreth agreed. Very nice. He beckoned to a barmaid. “Rum and Coke for me, a vodka collins for my friend, and what’s the name of the singer?”
“Lane Barber.”
Garreth did not blame Mossman for having stared at her. Most of the male eyes in the room remained riveted on her throughout the song. Garreth managed to tear his own gaze away long enough to see that.
The barmaid brought their drinks. Garreth pulled a page out of his notebook and wrote on it. “When the set finishes, will you give this to Miss Barber? I’d like to buy her a drink.”
“I’ll give it to her, but I’d better warn you, she has a long line waiting for the same honor.”
“In that case…” Harry took out one of his cards “…give her this instead.”
The girl held the card down where the light of the candle on the table fell on it. “Cops! If you’re on duty, what are you doing drinking?”
“We’re blending with the scenery. Give her the card, please.”
Three songs later, the set ended. Lane Barber disappeared through the curtains behind the piano. She reappeared five minutes later in a strapless, slit-skirted dress that wrapped around her and stayed on by the grace of God and two buttons. She made her way through the tables, smiling but shaking her head at various men, until she reached Garreth and Harry.
She held out the card. “Is this official or an attention-getting device?”
“Official, I’m afraid,” Harry said.
“In that case, I’ll sit down.” Garreth felt her legs rub against his under the small table as she pulled up a chair. She smiled at Harry. “
“So I hear. I’ve never been there.”
“That’s a pity.” She turned toward Garreth. “And you are —?”
“Inspector Garreth Mikaelian.”
She laughed. “A genuine Irish policeman. How delightful.”
Irish through and through, true, despite his name, that she apparently heard as McSomething. Which it had once been — McAlan — until his grandfather’s apparent sudden move to Sacramento from Chicago in 1929. A fact he discovered accidentally as a boy, but asking his grandmother about turned her grim and earned him a tight- lipped order to never, ever mention it again. Some day he would really like to investigate his grandfather’s background.
A thought jerking him back to investigation at hand…where studying Lane as well as possible in the club’s dimness, he realized with surprise she was not really a beautiful woman. Her voice and the way she moved, and something radiating from her, almost irresistible in its magnetism, made her seem beautiful. She looked barely twenty.
“Now, what is this unfortunately official visit about?” she asked. “It can’t be a traffic ticket; I haven’t driven anywhere in weeks.”
“Were you working last week?” Harry asked.
She nodded. Oddly, her eyes reflected red in the flame of the candle. Garreth had never seen that in humans before. He watched her, fascinated.
“Do you remember speaking to a man on Monday who was in his thirties, maybe your height when you’re barefoot, wearing a red coat with black velvet lapels and collar? He was with four other men, and four young women.”
She shook her head. “I must have talked to dozens of people that night. I’m afraid I can’t recall any particular one.”
“Maybe this will help.” Garreth showed her the picture of Mossman.
She tilted it to the light of the candle and studied it gravely. “Now I remember him. We didn’t really talk, though. I flirted with him while I sang because he was nice-looking and the one member of the group who didn’t have a companion. As he left, he came over to say how much he liked my singing.” She paused. “You’re from Homicide. Is he a suspect or a victim?”
The lady was cool and fast on the uptake, Garreth reflected. “A victim,” he said. “Did he come back here on Tuesday?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. He asked me out, but I didn’t go. I don’t date married men.”
Harry said, “We need to know exactly what he said and did Tuesday. What time did he come in?”
She frowned in thought. “I don’t really know. He was here when I did my first set at eight. He stayed all evening and we talked off and on, but not too much. I didn’t want to encourage him. Finally I told him I wasn’t interested in going out with him. The bartender, Chris, can confirm that we sat there at the end of the bar. About twelve-thirty he left.”
Garreth made notes by the light of the candle. “Was that the last you saw of him?”
“Yes. Lots of men don’t know how to take no for an answer, but he did.”
“I suppose you have a fair number of guys hitting on you. Do you ever take anyone up on the offer?”
She smiled. “Of course, if the man interests me. I don’t pretend to be a nun. What business is it of yours?”
“Where do you usually go, your place or his?”
Her eyes flared red in the candlelight, but she replied evenly, “Yes.”
Garreth dropped the subject, recognizing evaporating cooperation. There would be time enough later to question her about Adair, if need be. “I’m sorry; that was irrelevant. I’ll need your name and address, though, in case we want to talk to you again.”
“Of course.” She gave him the address, an apartment near Telegraph Hill.
“Are you a permanent resident of the city?” Harry asked.
“I travel a good deal, but this is home base, yes.”
“Are you a native like Harry there, or an immigrant like me?”
“Yes,” she replied, and when their brows rose, she smiled. “Women are more fascinating with a bit of mystique, don’t you think? Leave me mine until you absolutely must have the information, can’t you?” She glanced
