of blue-painted plywood. Yet the former owner — if that was what the raggedy man was — had hinted that a few people still managed to get into the building, however foolishly. There had to be other entrances.
He had looped the short pry bar onto his belt, hanging it down inside his pants. A palm-sized flashlight rested in his jacket pocket.
On the building's west side, a broad patio and swimming pool were visible through the trees and shrubs pressing against the fence. Steps rose from the patio level to a terrace on the south side, overlooking the city. All this was dimly illuminated by streetlights along Sunset, and the general sky-glow reflected from the broken cumulus clouds above the city.
Michael glanced over his right shoulder at the lighted windows in the Hyatt across and down the street. Two instances of breaking and entering in one night. Superstitiously, he thought that might make things twice as bad as they had been after the night of his first passage through Clarkham's house…
He couldn't enter from the front without risking discovery. He strolled east on Sunset until he reached a side street and then walked downhill and doubled back to approach from the rear.
An open-air asphalt parking area, still accessible from the street behind, abutted a blank concrete wall on the hotel's east side. Michael saw there was no easy entrance from that direction.
On the west side, a garage in the lower depths of the building offered spaces for forty or fifty tenants. The entrance was blocked by a run of chain-link and a securely padlocked swinging gate. The iron-barred gate that had once rolled along a track on rubber wheels was no longer in place. Within, one space was still occupied by an old rusted-out Buick.
The rear doors and service entrances were covered over by sheets of blue plywood. He looked up to the top of the building. More broken-out windows.
With a sigh, he stood in the darkness, hands thrust into the pockets of his jacket, and closed his eyes.
How to get in… without noise, without drawing any attention…
No inner answers presented themselves. The mental silence of Earth prevailed; no Death's Radio, no supernatural clues, simply Michael Perrin, on his own.
He felt around the boards covering the rear doors. The pry bar would make a horrible racket pulling out these nails — would anyone notice?
"I thought you'd be back."
He tensed and immediately probed the aura of the speaker. Rotten vegetables — a supermarket full of dead produce, ancient thoughts, old dreams: the ex-owner. Michael could barely see him in the darkness; he stood inside the fence, at the south end of the footpath to the pool, little more than a gray smudge against the bushes beyond.
"I didn't think you were a reporter. You must have known them… the two women. But what would a young kid like you have been doing with them? I figure one was a circus fat lady, the other… Who knows?"
"I'm just curious about the building," Michael said.
"It gets to you, doesn't it? So pretty. Like a pretty woman, and you're all optimistic, and you find out she's a real whore. Well, she's not a whore, but she's not what you'd expect. She was built well. She still meets earthquake standards. Work of craftsmanship and art. You want to get in?"
"Yes."
"Just look around?"
"Right."
"You seem okay. Not the kind to set fires or worse. Why don't you follow me. I…" The blur rummaged through a pocket with an arm. "… have a key. Old key. Maintenance entrance. Go back around to the lot"— he pointed east—"and jump that short wall, then crawl along the fence until you meet me here."
"You're not afraid to go in?" Michael asked.
"No. You're not afraid to go in with me, are you? I'm maybe not harmless, but I'm clean. Took the bus to my sister's in Venice, showered, cleaned my grubbies out, and not with Woolite, either." He chuckled dryly.
Michael did as he was instructed and soon faced the man on the path. There was no menace in him, only a
He had looped the short pry bar onto his belt, hanging it down inside his pants. A palm-sized flashlight rested in his jacket pocket.
On the building's west side, a broad patio and swimming pool were visible through the trees and shrubs pressing against the fence. Steps rose from the patio level to a terrace on the south side, overlooking the city. All this was dimly illuminated by streetlights along Sunset, and the general sky-glow reflected from the broken cumulus clouds above the city.
Michael glanced over his right shoulder at the lighted windows in the Hyatt across and down the street. Two instances of breaking and entering in one night. Superstitiously, he thought that might make things twice as bad as they had been after the night of his first passage through Clarkham's house…
He couldn't enter from the front without risking discovery. He strolled east on Sunset until he reached a side street and then walked downhill and doubled back to approach from the rear.
An open-air asphalt parking area, still accessible from the street behind, abutted a blank concrete wall on the hotel's east side. Michael saw there was no easy entrance from that direction.
On the west side, a garage in the lower depths of the building offered spaces for forty or fifty tenants. The entrance was blocked by a run of chain-link and a securely padlocked swinging gate. The iron-barred gate that had once rolled along a track on rubber wheels was no longer in place. Within, one space was still occupied by an old rusted-out Buick.
The rear doors and service entrances were covered over by sheets of blue plywood. He looked up to the top of the building. More broken-out windows.
With a sigh, he stood in the darkness, hands thrust into the pockets of his jacket, and closed his eyes.
How to get in… without noise, without drawing any attention…
No inner answers presented themselves. The mental silence of Earth prevailed; no Death's Radio, no supernatural clues, simply Michael Perrin, on his own.
He felt around the boards covering the rear doors. The pry bar would make a horrible racket pulling out these nails — would anyone notice?
"I thought you'd be back."
He tensed and immediately probed the aura of the speaker. Rotten vegetables — a supermarket full of dead produce, ancient thoughts, old dreams: the ex-owner. Michael could barely see him in the darkness; he stood inside the fence, at the south end of the footpath to the pool, little more than a gray smudge against the bushes beyond.
"I didn't think you were a reporter. You must have known them… the two women. But what would a young kid like you have been doing with them? I figure one was a circus fat lady, the other… Who knows?"
"I'm just curious about the building," Michael said.
"It gets to you, doesn't it? So pretty. Like a pretty woman, and you're all optimistic, and you find out she's a real whore. Well, she's not a whore, but she's not what you'd expect. She was built well. She still meets earthquake standards. Work of craftsmanship and art. You want to get in?"
"Yes."
"Just look around?"
"Right."
"You seem okay. Not the kind to set fires or worse. Why don't you follow me. I…" The blur rummaged through a pocket with an arm. "… have a key. Old key. Maintenance entrance. Go back around to the lot"— he pointed east—"and jump that short wall, then crawl along the fence until you meet me here."
"You're not afraid to go in?" Michael asked.
"No. You're not afraid to go in with me, are you? I'm maybe not harmless, but I'm clean. Took the bus to my sister's in Venice, showered, cleaned my grubbies out, and not with Woolite, either." He chuckled dryly.
Michael did as he was instructed and soon faced the man on the path. There was no menace in him, only a
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