Lee Killough - Blood Hunt

She folded away the bills with a smile. “Thanks a lot.” Then she tossed her head and dropped back into her husky “professional” voice. “Good night, baby.”

He watched her walk off into the crowd, then counted what remained in his billfold. The impulsive generosity had nearly cleaned him out. It would make the rest of the swing through North Beach a dry trip. He hoped Velvet gave him a good return on his investment.

Rob Cohen raised a brow at Garreth. “That’s the third time you’ve yawned in the last five minutes. You single guys sure lead a fast life.”

Harry regarded Garreth sharply, however. “You worked all night after all?”

Garreth shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep.” He gave Harry a recap of the North Beach canvas. “It was a waste of good shoe leather, though; I didn’t find her.”

“Maybe you’re lucky. Your hexagram this morning was number forty-four, Coming to Meet. ‘The maiden is powerful. One should not marry such a maiden .’”

A sudden chill raised the hair down Garreth’s spine. He wondered at it. I Ching’s prophecies usually neither disturbed nor encouraged him. He thought of Grandma Doyle’s Feelings. However, he made himself slap Harry’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Taka-san. I have no intention of marrying any maiden in the near future.”

Too late he realized that the flip response had been wrong. Harry’s almond eyes went grave. “You know the text isn’t to be taken literally. What’s the matter?”

The chill bit deep into Garreth’s gut. “Nothing.” A lie? He could not be sure. His chest felt so tight he had trouble breathing. “Guess I’m just superstitious enough not to like having that caution turn up when I’m hunting a woman.” He hurriedly changed the subject. “Here’s the flier on Mossman’s watch, ring, and pendant that’s going out to the pawnshops.”

Harry read it over. “Good.”

The tightness and chill eased in Garreth. “What do you want to do this morning?”

“I think one of us ought to get started checking out cults and the other see if anyone around China Basin saw anything Thursday night.” Harry pulled out a quarter. “Flip for it? Loser takes the cults.”

Garreth chose tails. The quarter came up heads. Harry grinned as he left for China Basin.

Garreth sat down with the Adair file and read through the reports to see which groups Faye and Centrello had investigated. On the half dozen he found reports on, only one had a formal name, Holy Church of Asmodeus. The others were listed by leaders’ names. The groups varied in size, organization, and object of worship. Some seemed to be satanists or devil worshipers. Others appeared to be variations of witchcraft and voodoo. One group claimed to be neo-druids.

All, however, had been rumored to use blood in their ceremonies. A few admitted it, but insisted it was either animal blood or small amounts from members, voluntarily given. Analysis of blood samples on altars and instruments confirmed that most was animal blood. One of the few human samples proved to be A-positive like Adair’s, but investigation of the group failed to establish access to Adair by any of the members and more detailed analysis of the blood sample ruled it out as Adair’s.

Nevertheless, Garreth called Dennis Kovar in Fraud. “Denny, what complaints have you had in the past year about oddball church and cult groups?”

Kovar laughed. “How much time do you have to listen? I don’t need to lift weights after picking up the current file a few times a day. Parents and neighbors are all out for the blood of these groups.”

“What about the groups? Do you have word that any of them are using blood?”

Silence came over the line for a moment before Kovar answered. “What are you looking for?” He listened silently to Garreth’s reply, then said, “I don’t have many complaints about those groups. They aren’t asking for monetary donations. They keep a low profile so they won’t be noticed. Talk Angelo Chiarelli. He’s undercover full-time for Narcotics, but he’s fed me information on some of these fraudulent church groups and contacted a few kids in the cults for Missing Persons. Maybe he can help you.”

A call to Narcotics produced a promise to pass on Garreth’s request. “You understand we can’t go calling him every day, and he’s pretty busy doing his own job to run errands for other details.”

Garreth sighed. “He doesn’t have to work on my case. I just want information on blood-using cults he may know about.”

“We’ll get back to you.”

He even called the Humane Society about complaints of people killing and mutilating animals and went out to buy underground papers. When Harry came back to the office around two, they exchanged notes over coffee and doughnuts.

Harry’s interviews in China Basin produced nothing for them. The underground classifieds had some cult ads, but no direct means of contacting the groups.

“We’ll have to get some scrawny kid straight out of the Academy who can get past their security,” Garreth said. “The ASPCA has some complaints of animal mutilation we might follow up on, too.”

“What about Chiarelli?”

“Still no word yet. Here’s everything Records currently has on the cults Faye and Centrello investigated.”

And what, Garreth wondered, leaning back in his chair with a sigh, did it mean until they knew where Mossman had been? Until then, they had no way of establishing opportunity for the cults. Checking movements was treadmill work.

Still, it needed to be done, and over the next four days they visited the cult groups Faye and Centrello listed, 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.

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: If you’re still looking for that redhead, try the Barbary Now after 8:00 tonight.

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.