Blood Walk Part 46

Mrs. Stroda bit her lip. "Come in, then." She stepped back inside the neo-Spanish house, opening the carved door wide though her expression said she longed to close it in their faces. "I think I'd like fresh air." She led the way through to a deck looking out over the bay, where she stood at the railing with her back to them, fingers white on the wrought iron.

Garreth sat down in a redwood chair. "I'm sorry to be bothering you. I wouldn't if it weren't important."

Without looking at him she said, "It's been ten years. You'd think I'd have gotten over it by now, or at least come to terms with it. Instead-it's like it happened yesterday, and I still don't understand why! He was twenty-four, with everything to live for, and he-"

She turned abruptly. "What do you want to know?"

He hated himself for opening old wounds. "I need the names of people he saw regularly before he died."

She groped for a chair and sat down. "I don't know who his friends were. The last two years Christopher became a total stranger."

Protest rose in his throat. She had to know something more, anything, even a single name! He forced his voice to remain soothing and patient. "Think very carefully."

He doubted she heard him. Her fingers twined tightly together. "I wish I could find that woman and ask her what she did to him."

The hair rose on Garreth's neck. From the corner of his eye he watched Fowler's eyes narrow. "What woman?"

She shook her head. "Someone he met in Europe the summer between college graduation and medical school. That's when he changed."

"Do you know her name?"

"No. He never talked about her. We just happened to learn from friends of friends that he'd been in a serious car accident in Italy and would have died except that this woman he was traveling with gave blood for him and saved his life. We asked him about it but he kept saying it was nothing and he didn't want to talk about it." She drew in a shaking breath. "Over the months he had less and less to say to us. He dropped out of medical school, and stopped seeing his friends . . . withdrawing, slipping farther away each day, until-" She turned away abruptly.

Garreth fought to keep his face expressionless. Until the widening gulf between Stroda and humanity became unbearable. Going off the bridge was certainly one solution to the pain.

"We thought it was drugs," Mrs. Stroda said, "though he always denied it. I guess it wasn't. The autopsy didn't find any." She turned back. "Who are these people you're looking for? Could they responsible for what happened to him?"

If only he could tell her. Except that could cause far more anguish than it cured. "I can't tell you much about them, but no, they didn't cause your son's death."

She let out her breath. "Good. So I don't have to feel guilty about not being able to help you."

"Perhaps one of your daughters knew something," Fowler suggested.

Mrs. Stroda stiffened. "No! I won't have them hurt again! Allison was only fifteen at the time. How could she know his friends?"

"Mrs. Stroda, it's very important that we find these people," Garreth said.

Fowler nodded. "Lives depend on it . . . sons and daughters of other mothers."

Mrs. Stroda flung up her head, catching her breath.

"Fowler!" Garreth snapped.

But Mrs. Stroda shook her head. "No, he's right. I'll give you the girls' addresses and phone numbers." She stood and disappeared into the house.

Garreth turned on Fowler. "That was a cheap shot!"

The writer smiled. "But effective."

"The end justifies the means?" Garreth said acidly.

The smile thinned. "Don't go casting stones, old son. I've noticed you're not above deceit and manipulation when it suits your purposes."

Garreth opened his mouth . . . and closed it again. What did he think he was going to say, that he acted for a righteous cause, that he tried not to hurt anyone in the process? Rationalizations. No matter how reasonable, they did not change the fact of deceit.

Mrs. Stroda reappeared with a sheet from a memo pad. She held it out to Garreth. "This time of day Janice will be at work.

I've included that address, too."

Fowler glanced over Garreth's shoulder at the sheet. "Your daughter Allison is at the Stanford Medical School. Following in her brother's footsteps?"

"Tracking him might be a better description." Years and grief looked out of Mrs. Stroda's eyes. "Allison is studying to become a psychiatrist. Good day, gentlemen."

6

Good was not quite quite how Garreth could describe the day, not when he opened painful old wounds in three people in vain.

Neither Allison Stroda nor Janice Stroda Meers, who worked in a crisis center near the University of San Francisco campus, would tell them any more than their mother had. Maybe the situation would be better with Thomas Bodenhausen. The police report had listed no next of kin for him. Bodenhausen had lived comfortably for a night watchman. The apartment building, a solid Victorian structure, offered its tenants a beautiful view of the Marina and the Palace of Fine Arts. The apartment manager, however, offered little, certainly not help. Frowning at Garreth from the open doorway of his apartment, he said skeptically, "Bodenhausen? Six years ago? Officer, you can't expect me to remember a tenant who left that long ago." He eyed the badge case still in Garreth's hands. "Are police interns paid?"

The question caught Garreth off guard. He had never expected anyone to ask for details of his cover story. His mind raced.

"Yes . . . living expenses anyway. I think you'll remember this tenant, Mr. Catao. He-"

"Who pays you?"

Impatience stung him. He had no time for this; he had to find Irina! "My department of course. About Mr. Bodenhausen-"

The manager's brows went up. "So the city gets extra officers like you two for free?"

Who was this b.a.s.t.a.r.d, a member of the budget council? "No. They profit. My department pays a fee to send me here. Now, may weplease talk about Thomas Bodenhausen!"

Catao spread his hands. "I told you, I don't remember him."

Garreth sighed in exasperation. "He died, Mr. Catao. You must remember that . . . a fire and explosion at a construction site?

A flying piece of metal decapitated the night watchman?"

"Oh." Recognition bloomed in the manager's face. "Him.Yes, I remember that guy . . . but I still can't tell you much. I didn't know him. He'd been here since before I took over as manager fifteen years ago and he was a good tenant . . . quiet, always paid his rent on time, kept his apartment in good shape. What's this about? I heard that fire and explosion was an accident."

Garreth opened his mouth to reply. Fowler cut in first. "I'm considering making it sabotage for the purpose of my book."

Catao focused on Fowler for the first time, eyes narrowing. "Your book? Aren't you an exchange from Scotland Yard?"

Despite the urgent situation, Garreth had to bite back a grin. Fowler's expression was the epitome of innocent surprise. "Did we give you that impression? I'm terribly sorry. No, I'm a writer. Officer Mikaelian introduced me as Julian Fowler but my full name is JulianGraham Fowler. The San Francisco police are very kindly cooperating in some research I'm doing and they lent me Officer Mikaelian to-"

The manager's eyes went wide. "TheGraham Fowler? Who wroteMidnight Brigade andWinter Gambit ?"

Fowler rubbed his nose. "Well . . . at the risk of learning you consider them trash, those are two of my efforts, yes."

"Are you kidding?" The manager grinned. "That Dane Winter is great. Have you read the books?" he asked Garreth.

"Not those two." The evasion avoided an admission that he had not read any of Fowler's books.

The manager shook his head. "You ought to. He's this guy who's past fifty and the hotshot kids in British Intelligence keep trying to claim he's over the hill but he can still spy rings around them all. He doesn't go getting himself beat up all the time, either.

When you're our age you'll appreciate seeing a hero like that for a change. Hey, why are we standing out here in the hall? Come in, Mr. Fowler." He led the way into his livingroom. It smelled of a sweetly fragrant pipe tobacco.

"It's gratifying to hear my heroes are appreciated:" Fowler strolled over to the bay window. "What a magnificent view of the bay. Are you sure you can't help us with Bodenhausen?"

The manager's forehead furrowed. "d.a.m.n, I wish I could. But I just never knew him."

"You said he took good care of his apartment," Garreth said. "That sounds like you were in it."

"Yeah, from time to time, when something needed fixing."

"Was anyone else ever there? Or do you know if he was particular friends with any of the other tenants?"

The furrows deepened. "Keith Manziaro, I think. Once when I was up in his apartment he was telling his wife about fighting the Battle of Bull Run against Bodenhausen."

"Bodenhausen was a war games buff?" Fowler asked.

"More than that." Catao grinned. "His spare bedroom where he spread those battlefield maps on the floor looked like a museum. I mean, he had muskets and swords and Civil War rifles all over the walls. He even had some military uniforms from the Revolutionary and Civil Wars, handed down from ancestors who'd worn them, he told me."

Possibly Bodenhausen himself had worn them, Garreth mused.

"And he also had this letter he claimed was signed by George Washington, freeing another ancestor who'd been a slave at Mount Vernon. I don't know if I can believe that, but it makes a good story."

A letter signed by George Washington! Garreth caught his breath. That letter and the other relics would be priceless heirlooms to most families. Who had Bodenhausen's belongings gone to? A friend who could appreciate them, perhaps a fellow vampire?

"Mr. Catao, what happened to Bodenhausen's belongings after he died?"

Catao blinked at Garreth. "His executors took it all away, of course."

"Executors? Who were they?"

"h.e.l.l, I don't remember." He rolled his eyes as Garreth frowned. "Christ, what do you think, I have a photographic memory? I saw the name once six years ago when this guy shows up with a key to the apartment and papers signed by Bodenhausen making some museum or something his executor."

"Museum?" Garreth frowned. "A local one?"

"I don't know. Probably not. I didn't recognize the name. Hey, I didn't pay much attention, okay? The papers looked legal so I let them have Bodenhausen's things and forgot about it."

A throb started behind Garreth's forehead. "Naturally," he said wearily. Did not know. Did not remember. Had paid no attention. Had forgotten. The same d.a.m.ned roadblocks over and over again. "Isn't thereanything you remember? What the man looked like maybe? The markings on the moving van?"

"I remember the guy's car."

That was a start. "What about his car?"

Catao grinned. "The name of the museum was on the plates. I remember thinking museum work must pay pretty well for him to be driving a BMW."

The hair rose all over Garreth's body.Lady Luck, you b.i.t.c.h, I love you ! "This guy, was he in his fifties, average height and weight, graying hair, mustache, gla.s.ses?"

"I'm not sure about a mustache and gla.s.ses:" The manager's forehead creased with the effort of remembering. "But the rest sounds right. How-"

"Thank you very much, Mr. Catao: " Garreth hurried for the building door. "Sorry to have bothered you. Have a nice day."

At the car he waited impatiently for Fowler to catch up. The man who came for Bodenhausen's belongings had to be Holle.

How many men in San Francisco drove BMW's with personalized plates carrying the name of an organization which might be mistaken for a museum name? The Philos Foundation. This made four people with links to that organization: Irina, Holle, Bodenhausen, and Corinne Barlow . . . two of them part of the murder case, three of them vampires. Too many people for pure coincidence. Philos bore looking into.

Fowler unlocked the car. "h.e.l.lo, h.e.l.lo. Something he said put a piece in the puzzle, did it?"

Sooner or later the writer would have to be given some answers, but . . . not yet. "Maybe." Garreth climbed into the car and lay back in the seat, giving up the fight against daylight's drag for a few minutes.

"Maybe?" Fowler said. "You know it b.l.o.o.d.ydid. That was Holle you described. Now what's the connection?"

Maybe he needed to confide in Fowler a little at least. "It was Holle. The connection is the Philos Foundation. But since Harry and company will end up there sooner or later, too, on their way through Holle's address book, we can't afford a straightforward visit:" Garreth closed his eyes. "Head for Union Street. We'll think up something devious on the way."

7

All that distinguished the yellow-with-brown-trim Foundation headquarters from the other shop-filled Victorian houses around it were drapes instead of some commercial display inside the bay window and a discrete bra.s.s plate on the door at the top of steep brick steps.Philos Foundation, script engraving read.Please ring for admittance.

Fowler pushed the bell.

A minute later the door was opened by a slim young woman whose modish dress and frizzy mane of hair made her look like a fashion model. A spicy scent that smelled equal parts cinnamon and clove wafted out of the house past her. "Good afternoon. May I help-" She broke off, staring past the writer at Garreth.

His gut knotted. She recognized him for what he was! If she said anything in front of Fowler . . .But she said only: "Please come in."

Garreth followed her and Fowler inside, feeling as though he were walking into a mine field.

Judging by the house's interior, the Philos Foundation suffered from no shortage of money despite its non-profit status. Garreth could not help but compare the bargain furnishings and poster-decorated walls at the Bay Mission Crisis Center with this thick carpeting and a front room furnished in chrome-and-leather chairs, modern sculpture, and signed/numbered prints. The spicy odor became more p.r.o.nounced, drowning the blood scents in the room.

The young woman sat down at a desk made of chrome and gla.s.s. An engraved nameplate said:Meresa Ranney. "What may I do for you, Mr . . .?"

Fowler smiled at her. "Warwick. Richard Warwick. A friend of mine came over here to work for your organization several years ago and as I'm in town for a bit, I thought I'd look her up. Corinne Barlow."

While Fowler occupied the receptionist Garreth strolled around the room, trying to look idle . . . peering out the bay window, touching sculpture, eyeing the prints . . . all the while studying the house covertly.