on, don’t she?”
“You’ve no idea,” said Dain. He sighed. “Hell, it was worth a shot.” He stood up. When he did, his hand hit the file and knocked
it off the edge of the desk. “Shit.”
Bending to retrieve it, he grunted slightly as if with effort. With his left hand he palmed the mug shots that had slid from
the folder, stuck out his right to Kaler. They shook.
“Anyway, many thanks. What hospital’s Andy in? I gotta fly back this afternoon, but maybe—”
“Wouldn’t do any good, he’s still in intensive care.”
Dain shook his head. “Fuck of a note. Well, anyway, give him my best when you get in to see him.”
“Sure thing.”
Dain spent half a day working the O’Hare parking lots and shuttle buses with Broussard’s mug shots, then spent most of his
flight to San Francisco studying them. Even with the flat police lighting and the dehumanizing circumstances, her beauty shone
through. Exotic was a good word. Deep tan or dark skin, dark eyes that challenged the camera, the cops behind the camera…
The surname suggested a reason for her dark rather wild beauty. As did the soliciting busts in New Orleans.
It was going to be another routine operation. He would find them, Maxton would get his bonds back, Zimmer would probably get
roughed up a bit, and that would be that. He might as well be working for legitimate clients on the right side of the law
for all the good this was doing him.
Who would need a hitman in the Jimmy Zimmer bond caper?
Homicide had been jumping all morning. A tourist from Cincinnati had wandered into Emergency at S.F. General complaining of
a headache, then had fallen dead on the floor. They had found a .22 slug in his brain. The cabbiewho delivered him to the hospital had picked him up on Eddy Street in the Tenderloin.
A thirteen-year-old shot a fourteen-year-old dead with an A/R on full automatic in the parking area of one of the Western
Addition housing projects in an argument over a crack concession.
When police arrived at a rather nice Victorian on Elizabeth Street on a neighbor’s complaint, they found a seventy-three-year-old
man watching
Santa Barbara
with a self-righteous set to his jaw and a bloody claw hammer in his hand. His sixty-eight-year-old wife lay on the floor
in front of the TV. She had wanted
One Life to Live.
In his private office Randy Solomon was working on the preliminary paperwork on the three killings. He was wearing a short-sleeved
shirt, his jacket over the back of his chair.
Dain came through the open door. He was wearing horn-rims and a conservative three-piece suit and was carrying a slim attaché
case. Randy hadn’t laid eyes on him for over a year. His face hardened as he did an exaggerated double take.
“Well, well, the big private eye. A whole year, nothin’, then here comes Jesus Christ. Down here slummin’, white boy?”
Dain sat down in the visitor’s chair.
“Why the hardnose, Randy?”
Solomon detoured around Dain to close the door, then came back so he could lean down into Dain’s face. He said softly, “I
knew a guy once—young, sharp, good mind, good investigator. Sweet wife and a nice little kid. Just getting started on his
own… looking for that big case…”
“And they all lived happily ever after,” said Dain.
Solomon ignored this. His voice was openly hostile.
“Know what I see now? A whore in a three-piece suit.”
“I do what I always did, Randy. Find people.”
“For the sleaze of the earth,” snapped Solomon hotly, “with that fag bookseller pimping for you.”
Dain was suddenly on his feet.
“What am I supposed to do, for fuck sake? Repos and wandering wives? The fuckers killed my family! Where else will I find
them except outside the law?”
Solomon looked surprised, then chuckled and went around behind his desk. The tension suddenly went out of both men.
“Shit, I might of known. You getting anything?”
“Another day older and deeper in
“You’ve no idea,” said Dain. He sighed. “Hell, it was worth a shot.” He stood up. When he did, his hand hit the file and knocked
it off the edge of the desk. “Shit.”
Bending to retrieve it, he grunted slightly as if with effort. With his left hand he palmed the mug shots that had slid from
the folder, stuck out his right to Kaler. They shook.
“Anyway, many thanks. What hospital’s Andy in? I gotta fly back this afternoon, but maybe—”
“Wouldn’t do any good, he’s still in intensive care.”
Dain shook his head. “Fuck of a note. Well, anyway, give him my best when you get in to see him.”
“Sure thing.”
Dain spent half a day working the O’Hare parking lots and shuttle buses with Broussard’s mug shots, then spent most of his
flight to San Francisco studying them. Even with the flat police lighting and the dehumanizing circumstances, her beauty shone
through. Exotic was a good word. Deep tan or dark skin, dark eyes that challenged the camera, the cops behind the camera…
The surname suggested a reason for her dark rather wild beauty. As did the soliciting busts in New Orleans.
It was going to be another routine operation. He would find them, Maxton would get his bonds back, Zimmer would probably get
roughed up a bit, and that would be that. He might as well be working for legitimate clients on the right side of the law
for all the good this was doing him.
Who would need a hitman in the Jimmy Zimmer bond caper?
Homicide had been jumping all morning. A tourist from Cincinnati had wandered into Emergency at S.F. General complaining of
a headache, then had fallen dead on the floor. They had found a .22 slug in his brain. The cabbiewho delivered him to the hospital had picked him up on Eddy Street in the Tenderloin.
A thirteen-year-old shot a fourteen-year-old dead with an A/R on full automatic in the parking area of one of the Western
Addition housing projects in an argument over a crack concession.
When police arrived at a rather nice Victorian on Elizabeth Street on a neighbor’s complaint, they found a seventy-three-year-old
man watching
Santa Barbara
with a self-righteous set to his jaw and a bloody claw hammer in his hand. His sixty-eight-year-old wife lay on the floor
in front of the TV. She had wanted
One Life to Live.
In his private office Randy Solomon was working on the preliminary paperwork on the three killings. He was wearing a short-sleeved
shirt, his jacket over the back of his chair.
Dain came through the open door. He was wearing horn-rims and a conservative three-piece suit and was carrying a slim attaché
case. Randy hadn’t laid eyes on him for over a year. His face hardened as he did an exaggerated double take.
“Well, well, the big private eye. A whole year, nothin’, then here comes Jesus Christ. Down here slummin’, white boy?”
Dain sat down in the visitor’s chair.
“Why the hardnose, Randy?”
Solomon detoured around Dain to close the door, then came back so he could lean down into Dain’s face. He said softly, “I
knew a guy once—young, sharp, good mind, good investigator. Sweet wife and a nice little kid. Just getting started on his
own… looking for that big case…”
“And they all lived happily ever after,” said Dain.
Solomon ignored this. His voice was openly hostile.
“Know what I see now? A whore in a three-piece suit.”
“I do what I always did, Randy. Find people.”
“For the sleaze of the earth,” snapped Solomon hotly, “with that fag bookseller pimping for you.”
Dain was suddenly on his feet.
“What am I supposed to do, for fuck sake? Repos and wandering wives? The fuckers killed my family! Where else will I find
them except outside the law?”
Solomon looked surprised, then chuckled and went around behind his desk. The tension suddenly went out of both men.
“Shit, I might of known. You getting anything?”
“Another day older and deeper in
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