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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 bastard, a member of the budget council? "No. They profit. My
department pays a fee to send me here. Now, may we please 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 Julian Graham Fowler. The San
Francisco police are very kindly cooperating in some research I'm doing and [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]