stepped back, shaking his head. “Hey, not that — ”
But the fist was already in motion. It sank into Garreth’s stomach. He went down onto hands and knees in a wheeling galaxy of pain and light. His gut rebelled at the treatment by rejecting what remained of his lunch and he huddled retching on the dusty floor.
A wiry arm slipped under his and helped him to his feet as the paroxysm subsided. Chiarelli’s face floated beyond a blue haze, grinning. “Just relax. You’ll be all right in a couple of minutes.”
Garreth would have gone for Chiarelli’s throat, but he could only lean against the wall and concentrate on breathing.
“ Sorry, man; it has to look real.”
No worry about that , Garreth reflected bitterly.
“ See you around, man.” Chiarelli slipped out the door.
Garreth continued to lean against the wall for several more minutes, then made his way slowly back to the site of the bust.
Seeing him coming, Harry exclaimed, “Garreth!” and rushed to catch his arm. “What happened? Are you all right?”
Garreth leaned against a handy car, holding his stomach. “Bastard ambushed me. I thought I was never going to make it up off that damned floor.”
“ So you let him get away, hot dog?” Woodhue said.
Several prisoners snickered. Garreth glared at them. “Next time I won’t bother chasing him. I’ll hobble the son of a bitch with a piece of lead.”
Harry helped him to a car. “Nice acting,” he whispered.
Remembering Chiarelli’s smirk, Garreth said, “Who the hell is acting?”
He sat silent all the way back downtown. Not until they had left the Narcotics officers and returned to Homicide did he give the notebook to Harry. “We’d better run these names, then find out who owns or lives in these houses.”
Harry regarded him with concern. “Are you sure you’re all right? Maybe you ought to go home and take it easy the rest of the day.”
“ I’m fine. We have work to do.” He started to take off his coat and winced as the motion stretched bruised muscles.
Harry hustled him toward the door. “Go home. I’ll tell Serruto what happened.”
“ I’m fine,” Garreth said.
“ No one who refuses time off can possibly be fine. Go home.”
Eyeing Harry’s frown, Garreth sighed. “Yes, papa-san.”
He left Chiarelli’s pages of his notebook with Harry and headed for his car. After slipping the key into the ignition, though, he sat without starting the engine. As much as he hurt, he hated the thought of going home. He ought to give up the apartment with all of its sweet and painful memories and find another. Perhaps one of those places around Telegraph Hill that Mrs. Armour owned.
The thought of them told him what he really wanted to do. He wanted to see Lane Barber again, to talk to her by daylight and find answers for the increasing number of questions she raised about herself. Then he started the engine.
8
She did not come to the door until Garreth had rung the bell five times. He realized she must be sleeping and would find his visit inconsiderate and inconvenient, but he remained where he stood, leaning on the bell. She finally opened the door, wrapped in a robe, squinting against the light, and he discovered that even by daylight, she looked nothing like a woman in her thirties. If anything, she seemed younger than ever, a sleepy child with the print of a sheet wrinkle across one pale, scrubbed cheek.
She scowled down at him. “You’re that mick detective. What — ” Then, as though her mind woke belatedly, her face smoothed. He watched her annoyance disappear behind a facade of politeness. “How may I help you, Inspector?”
Why did she bother to swallow justifiable irritation? Did police make her that nervous? Perhaps it was to observe this very reaction, to see what she might tolerate to avoid hassles, that he had persisted on the bell.
“ I’m sorry to wake you,” he lied. “I have a couple of important questions to ask.”
She squinted at
But the fist was already in motion. It sank into Garreth’s stomach. He went down onto hands and knees in a wheeling galaxy of pain and light. His gut rebelled at the treatment by rejecting what remained of his lunch and he huddled retching on the dusty floor.
A wiry arm slipped under his and helped him to his feet as the paroxysm subsided. Chiarelli’s face floated beyond a blue haze, grinning. “Just relax. You’ll be all right in a couple of minutes.”
Garreth would have gone for Chiarelli’s throat, but he could only lean against the wall and concentrate on breathing.
“ Sorry, man; it has to look real.”
No worry about that , Garreth reflected bitterly.
“ See you around, man.” Chiarelli slipped out the door.
Garreth continued to lean against the wall for several more minutes, then made his way slowly back to the site of the bust.
Seeing him coming, Harry exclaimed, “Garreth!” and rushed to catch his arm. “What happened? Are you all right?”
Garreth leaned against a handy car, holding his stomach. “Bastard ambushed me. I thought I was never going to make it up off that damned floor.”
“ So you let him get away, hot dog?” Woodhue said.
Several prisoners snickered. Garreth glared at them. “Next time I won’t bother chasing him. I’ll hobble the son of a bitch with a piece of lead.”
Harry helped him to a car. “Nice acting,” he whispered.
Remembering Chiarelli’s smirk, Garreth said, “Who the hell is acting?”
He sat silent all the way back downtown. Not until they had left the Narcotics officers and returned to Homicide did he give the notebook to Harry. “We’d better run these names, then find out who owns or lives in these houses.”
Harry regarded him with concern. “Are you sure you’re all right? Maybe you ought to go home and take it easy the rest of the day.”
“ I’m fine. We have work to do.” He started to take off his coat and winced as the motion stretched bruised muscles.
Harry hustled him toward the door. “Go home. I’ll tell Serruto what happened.”
“ I’m fine,” Garreth said.
“ No one who refuses time off can possibly be fine. Go home.”
Eyeing Harry’s frown, Garreth sighed. “Yes, papa-san.”
He left Chiarelli’s pages of his notebook with Harry and headed for his car. After slipping the key into the ignition, though, he sat without starting the engine. As much as he hurt, he hated the thought of going home. He ought to give up the apartment with all of its sweet and painful memories and find another. Perhaps one of those places around Telegraph Hill that Mrs. Armour owned.
The thought of them told him what he really wanted to do. He wanted to see Lane Barber again, to talk to her by daylight and find answers for the increasing number of questions she raised about herself. Then he started the engine.
8
She did not come to the door until Garreth had rung the bell five times. He realized she must be sleeping and would find his visit inconsiderate and inconvenient, but he remained where he stood, leaning on the bell. She finally opened the door, wrapped in a robe, squinting against the light, and he discovered that even by daylight, she looked nothing like a woman in her thirties. If anything, she seemed younger than ever, a sleepy child with the print of a sheet wrinkle across one pale, scrubbed cheek.
She scowled down at him. “You’re that mick detective. What — ” Then, as though her mind woke belatedly, her face smoothed. He watched her annoyance disappear behind a facade of politeness. “How may I help you, Inspector?”
Why did she bother to swallow justifiable irritation? Did police make her that nervous? Perhaps it was to observe this very reaction, to see what she might tolerate to avoid hassles, that he had persisted on the bell.
“ I’m sorry to wake you,” he lied. “I have a couple of important questions to ask.”
She squinted at