It isn't everyday I receive a bomb by special messenger - not even in the P.I. business. To be truthful, it was a first ... and - I hoped - a last.

'Course, hopes didn't change the fact that the package was waiting when I arrived that morning. I'd spent the earlier part of the day checking through an apartment and talking to neighbors - a missing persons case which didn't look like developing into much of anything - and hadn't come in until eleven.

When I arrived, I found Ted Brant on the computer, playing Doom III. Ted's my sometimes assistant, handles minor chores, does leg work that requires two good legs, takes an occasional repo job, hunts missing kids ... and plays computer games. Oh, yeah, he's also lead guitar in something called "The Mangy Hounds" - at least, I thought that was their current cognomen.

He'd also opened up that morning - it was Monday - and had signed for the package before leaving it on my desk ... together with the rest of the morning's mail.

"Fresh coffee, Ted?" The pot on the burner looked oily enough that it didn't need a detective to deduce its age. Besides, Ted prefers colas.

"Sure, boss, no sweat. Soon as I finish this level."

I nodded without saying anything. Ted's priorities were familiar enough.

I was leaning on my cane, considering whether to take the wheelchair down the hall - my leg was hurting from the morning's exercise - and make myself more comfortable when I noticed the package.

It wasn't very large - about five by seven and maybe two inches thick - and it was half-hidden under a couple of envelopes - the top one had Western Mutual's logo on the return and looked like a check but it was the package which caught my attention. That and the fact that one corner of the brown paper wrapping appeared oil stained.

There'd been a time when paranoia had been an occupational requirement. Habits die hard, right?

I lifted the envelopes - gently - and set them to one side.

Then, on second thought, I riffled through the envelopes, discarding two and stuffing the third in my hip pocket - the check from Western Mutual was weeks overdue and I didn't see any point in chancing further delays in getting a replacement ... assuming the worst.

No, assuming the worst, I wouldn't care ... and, assuming the best, the problem wouldn't come up. What I was assuming was somewhere in between ... a not-too-happy medium.

The brown wrapper had a printed address - H. D. Agency and the street and suite numbers. No name, no city, state or zip code, no stamps or labels. The stained corner extended along two edges - at the bottom - for about a half or three-quarters of an inch.

I bent over and sniffed. A vague pungency - diesel oil and ... something.

I straightened up slowly, thinking furiously.

"Ted," I barked in my best command voice. "Game's over. Shut down and listen carefully. I want you to take my wheelchair and load the computer and monitor and take them to the elevator. Downstairs, I want you to pull the fire alarm, wheel the computer outside and wait. I'll be down in a minute."

I reached for the phone and punched a number I hadn't used recently.

* * *

I was closing the office door - and wondering whether to lock it or not - when the alarms went off.

Which meant that, between the duffel slung over my shoulder and my gimp leg, I wasn't going be the first one down the stairs. The elevators were out - as soon as the alarm sounded, both elevators should have automatically headed for the ground floor where they would wait, doors open, until an override key was used or they were reset.

I was glad I was only on the third floor. Of course the building only had eight floors in all but folk wisdom admonishes us to be grateful even for small favors.

I was also grateful that all of the important stuff - i.e. expensive or difficult to replace equipment - was elsewhere ... on shelves in the spare bedroom of my condo. The security there was better than here.

* * *

By the time I got outside - grateful as well for not having been trampled by the seventh-floor sweatshop crew or the fifth-floor steno pool ... or the lady carrying the typewriter and dragging a schnauzer on a leash - the sidewalk looked like a commercial for someone's annual going out of business sale ... or maybe it just looked like an office building emptied by a fire drill.

The office building - as well as the neighborhood - lay somewhere between respectable but reasonable and seedy but cheap. All of the windows were intact and reasonably clean but a new paint job would have helped.

My neighbors ranged from professional offices such as doctors and dentists - some new and on the way up, some older and sliding down - to insurance and collection agencies, a couple of temp employment offices and at least one sweatshop. The ground floor held a hardware store, one deli, two cafes, a newsstand - with a backroom devoted to triple-X-rated videos - and, wedged between a barbershop and an office supply store, one ATM machine. The rest of the neighborhood was similarly upscale and yuppie-oriented.

The attraction to me, of course, was simple - the rent.

When I'd finally decided to acquire an office - after a year of operating out of my apartment - I'd been hesitant about obligating myself to too heavy an expenditure in rent.

Since I didn't need a fancy front - most of my contact with clients was on-site, not in my office - the two room suite - utilities included - had appeared ideal.

Of course, that was before Ted had joined me and when my monthly billing had been both relatively meager and sometimes irregular. Today, with a steadier income and a need for better arrangements, I'd been considering the possibilities of moving to better quarters ... one of these days ... just as soon as I had some time.

Outside, two black-and-whites were already present, their flashers adding a touch of color to the scene while the boys were conscientiously trying to persuade people to move away from the building. It was all according to the book.

The four officers - two salsa, one salt and one pepper - were all strangers. I passed the duffel to Ted, then approached the pepper since she was closest. "Bomb squad on the way?" I asked for confirmation while glancing at her tag.

She paused in her exhortations to a pair of ladies - Arabics I guessed from their head scarves - whose English was less than comprehensible. "You call it in?" she asked.

"Third floor, suspect package," I confirmed.

"Grounds? Or just a hunch of some kind?"

"Lieutenant MacPherson, retired," I tapped my bum leg with my cane. I wasn't offering an introduction but stating my authority.

"Robinson," she confirmed her tag. "Yeah, squad's on the way. Situation?"

"Stable, small device. Probably ANFO. 'Bout two pounds. Clearing the east side should be sufficient. Package is on the desk in my office. I left the door locked when I came down."

ANFO - that's ammonium nitrate mixed with fusel oil - diesel if you prefer. Nothing fancy but it makes a bang. Two pounds wasn't enough to bring down the building but it was enough to break a few windows ... and falling glass is no joke.

Officer Robinson nodded, then unclipped her mike to relay the information.

* * *

The fire trucks blocked the street while the firemen and additional officers helped clear the crowds. I'd sent Ted - and the wheelchair and cargo - off to an early lunch at a diner a block and a half distant ... with orders to stay there until I came ... or called.

It didn't take long for the bomb squad to show - San Francisco P. D. has one of the best in the nation and one of the best response times as well. Of course, being less than two miles distant helped as well but I was still pleased with their prompt arrival.

It wasn't hard to spot Sergeant Bristol - if his two soft blue eyes separated by a nose resembling Mt. Shasta weren't enough by themselves, his mop of dark red, kinky hair was almost the same shade as his skin. Bristol claimed membership in every racial minority in existence ... citing equal measures of Apache, Masai, Irish and Lebanese in his ancestry. I'd known him as a patrolman back before I'd left the force when he'd been backup on a few cases I'd worked.

I hadn't known about his transfer to the bomb squad but, given Bristol's easy manner and relaxed style, I had to think that it fitted him well.

We exchanged pleasantries - briefly - then I filled Bristol - and his partner - in on the situation, my assessments and my office layout before handing over my keys.

It was with mixed feelings that I watched Bristol and his partner - both muffled in protective gear and carrying shields and a large pouch of metal mesh and kevlar fabric - enter the building. Partly I was feeling guilty - at sending someone else to clean up a problem which had been aimed at me - and, more than partly, I was also feeling relieved that the problem was being handled by more competent hands than mine. I'd had the routine training in explosive and incendiary devices but I had no illusions about my expertise.

At Officer Robinson's insistence, I retired behind the police lines.

She was right, of course, but I didn't have to like it.

* * *

The reappearance of Officer Bristol and his companion was anticlimactic. They were still carrying the shields and the mesh bag and moving deliberately but carefully but it was about as exciting as watching a training film.

As the mesh satchel was lowered into the truck-mounted bomb bucket and the lid closed, I exhaled suddenly, surprised to discover that I'd been holding my breath.

Then watching the truck being driven away - slowly but deliberately - I realized I wasn't sure what would happen next. Use a small trigger charge to set off the package? Probably. They'd take it someplace safe first - someplace open where it wouldn't do any damage.

I was also rather shaky with relief.

Then I wondered what Bristol had done with my keys.

* * *

Once the bomb squad departed, it was the fire marshals' turn. Standard procedure, they were on the scene and, until they'd checked the building, no one would be allowed back in. Likewise, someone would be around wanting my statement but, since Officer Robinson had already shooed me away from the immediate scene, I figured my statement could wait.

In the mean time - meaning before anyone did start looking for me - I stepped around the corner and walked down to the diner where I'd told Ted to wait.

Inside, I found Ted punching buttons on one of the video arcade machines at the back. The wheel chair, computer and duffel bag were parked to one side. What the game was, I had no idea except that it didn't need a detective to figure Ted was winning. With Ted, that was a given.

"Ted?"

"Yeah, boss. What's cooking?"

"Everything's quiet. We can go back now."

"Sure, let's see if I can wrap this up good. Stupid game." He seem to be trying to punch all the buttons, repeatedly, at once. In response, on the screen, a female figure in fantasy armor seemed to be trying to fly through the air upside down, backwards and spinning ... then suddenly froze. Everything froze.

"Bug in the system," Ted grinned, turning. "Freaks out the CPU." He reached for the wheel chair, then led the way out.

Outside, "Wan'ta fill me in?" he asked. "Or's this just for laughs?"

"The package this morning?"

"Yeah?"

"Who delivered it?"

"Some messenger. Why?"

"Know who it was."

"Not really. Just a messenger. Why?"

"The package was a bomb, that's why."

"Bomb? - Out-a-sight! Hey, I didn't hear anything. What's matter? Didn't blow?"

"I called the bomb squad, Ted. For disposal."

"And I missed it all? Bummer!"

"You'd rather have stayed and maybe left the computer to enjoy the show?"

"Yeah, guess that'ud be a real downer. So what happened?"

I gave Ted a quick sketch of the events ... and a lecture on bomb handling - which boiled down to "Don't! Let the experts handle it!"

By the time I'd finished, we were back at the building where people were now being allowed to return. I dropped the subject while we waited for an elevator to take the computer and gear back upstairs.

Officer Bristol had left the door unlocked. No big surprise - doubtless he'd had other things on his mind.

While Ted was setting the computer up - priorities ... his, not mine - I stowed the duffel behind the desk. I'd unpack it later. Nothing immediate, just some of my more expensive gadgets - like the my night scope, a couple of cameras and my Casselgrain lens. Most of the important equipment - like bug tracers and some of my marginally legal surveillance equipment - was elsewhere. Unlike my condo, this office was low security as well as low rent.

"Tell me about the messenger," I invited. "What did he look like?"

"Huh? She, boss - zaftig blonde, longish back with sidewalls. Nose ring on the left. Black and green skins, Bauer inlines, raked skull pan with Lady Blue logos, blue checked shirt. North Face pack, blue, black and orange. Got it?"

I paused for a moment to translate - seems like these days you need a dictionary to talk to anyone under thirty. Blonde I understood and "zaftig" I guessed at. "Longish back with sidewalls" - had to mean hair cut short on the sides, longer on top and back. "Black and green skins?" Spandex? That would go with the inlines - shorthand for inline skates ... roller blades. Skull pan I assumed meant a helmet. I wasn't sure if Lady Blue was a manufacturer or, more likely, some band or such. The blue checked shirt? Blue plaid could be gang colors or could be nothing. Since she was working, not cruising, probably nothing.

Mentally, I gave Ted an 'A' for observation - now, if I could only get him to think ...

"Which service?" I prompted.

"Something funny," Ted decided. "A-start."

I mulled his pronunciation over for a moment. "Try 'a STAR ti'", I corrected. "Look it up. Check in Bullfinch or Brewers." I gestured toward the book shelf. "It's Greek mythology, moon goddess or some such." And a courier service.

Like everything else, courier services seem to be changing. A few years ago, delivery messengers only rode bicycles and carried radios tied to a local commercial service. Now days, it could be anything from bikes to skateboards and roller blades. And, now, it was cellular phones.

Couriers were strictly a downtown operation, carrying small packages, documents, other lightweight goods from one office to another - the underpinnings of San Francisco's financial district. They also tended to be young and healthy - lots of sunshine, lots of exercise.

Cellular phones. "She carrying a phone, Ted?"

"Course." Like it was stupid question.

"You get the number?" Almost as safe as betting on his winning the video game.

"Chill city," Ted's voice sounded hurt - the vanity of the very young. "Not her type. Guess she swings the other way."

I tried not to smile. Ted was a tanned, smooth six foot plus topped in a explosion of blonde curls he kept tied in a brush at the back. Clean shaven except for a wispy goatee - or what was trying to be one - I guessed he was probably considered attractive by the other half ... well, most of them, anyway.

"Think you could find her?" It was a rhetorical question.

"Up Market to Grant," he agreed. "Outside Sharper Image. If she's not there now, she will be."

"So? Find her ..."

"Gotcha, Boss." Ted grinned. "Strong arm her?"

"Try honey first," I suggested without adding, "She might hurt you."

"Gotcha."

* * *

Detective Graimon was another familiar face - we'd never been close friends but we had worked together a few times. Still, it had been a couple of years ... back when I still had two legs.

Graimon had changed since I'd seen him last. It looked like he'd been spending too much time behind a desk and not enough on the street. Nothing drastic but I figured he was ten - fifteen pounds heavier. Starting to sag around the jowls. Bit baggy below the eyes. A little more gray around the temples. Well, none of us were getting younger.

No matter, I smiled as he entered but stayed where I was, giving him a chance to look around.

"Afternoon, Mac," Graimon crossed to the desk and extended his hand. "A little excitement I hear."

"Been a while, Frank," I greeted him. "What's the word?"

"You're suppose to tell me. You been irritating someone special lately?"

Not that I knew about - aside from the unknown bomber, of course - but simple answers weren't going to satisfy Graimon any more than they've satisfied me in the same circumstance.

I only had one major case open at the moment and it hadn't gone anywhere ... yet. Certainly not far enough to get anyone's attention and, even so, it wasn't the kind of thing that prompts a bomb as a response. I had a couple of minors - missing persons - which were about as innocuous as the P. I. business can get. And I wasn't scheduled to appear in court - no reason there for anyone to try to put me out of action.

Most of my work was commercial ... and preventive rather than responsive. Boring but profitable ... and safe. Granted, there were the occasional upset employees ... usually caught with their hand in the till or monkeying with the accounts. Sometimes these prompted verbal threats - usually an offer to punch my lights out or something similar - sure but nothing that should be taken seriously. And I was more accustomed to getting thank you notes - usually with checks attached - than hate mail.

The big job was a surveillance on a local mall - except this was that one that hadn't had time or gone far enough to generate any animosity ... not unless there'd been a leak that I found hard ... no, impossible to imagine.

* * *

The North Wood Mall - which was neither north nor wooded - was a sprawling complex located out toward Hunter's Point. The mall had only been opened for a couple of years and was another part of San Francisco's renovations following the Loma Prietta quake some years ago. Normally, the mall wasn't any place I paid much attention to but, last Wednesday morning, I'd had a call from one Irene Zappa, requesting a private meeting at my office.

I'd agreed, suggested two o'clock and had given her directions. Then, after our conversation, I'd done a bit of research - nothing paranoid, I just like to know who's calling ... and, maybe, why.

Ms. Zappa turned out to be a surprise. It didn't take too long to find her - it would have taken less time if she'd mentioned Diversified Security Services up front.

After a call to the reference desk at the library with a request to check their periodical index, I sent Ted over for copies of several magazine and newspaper articles.

DSS was a well established private security firm, supplying patrol and guard services to corporations and businesses around the northern peninsula. They were neither the largest in the region nor the smallest but, by appearances, they were an up and coming corporation. More immediately relevant, as of six months ago, Ms. Zappa was DSS's current CEO.

* * *

Why the CEO of one of San Francisco's larger private security firms was requesting a meeting with one of San Francisco's smaller private investigator agencies was definitely question enough to pique my curiosity.

Granted, I did handle a lot of industrial security work - businesses and small retail operations were a big part of my clientele but I didn't handle security guards. My specialty was oversight, checking operations for weak spots, identifying potential problems before they became problems ... and, of course, catching culprits after the fact.

Originally, after leaving the force, I'd started by doing seminars on preventing shoplifting and pilferage, identifying counterfeit bills, employee screening and, naturally, denying burglars access ... or, at least, denying them undetected access. This was a familiar enough field for me since I'd spent the last four years - on the force - doing essentially the same thing: specializing in industrial and retail crimes.

During my first year as an independent - a consulting investigator - I'd worked out of my home. Because I'd moved four times during that period, trying to find a domicile where I felt comfortable and reasonably sure that I could get out in a crisis - meaning either fires or earthquakes - colleagues - meaning friends from the department - had hung the title "Homeless Detective Agency" on me, presenting me with a plaque with the name during my third relocation.

I'd liked the name and kept it ...

Admittedly, I'd shortened it for letterheads and such - using the briefer H. D. Agency as my corporate cognomen - but it was still the Homeless Detective Agency plaque which greeted visitors to my office. Those who did visit my office - now that I had an office - were a minority since most of my work still took place on the clients' premises.

Later, when I began handling missing persons cases, the name acquired a new relevance. But that - as they say - is a different story.

* * *

Since Ms Zappa had specifically requested a confidential meeting, at one-thirty, I sent Ted over to canvass Golden Gate Park with the latest crop of missing persons reports - mostly teenagers. It was a long shot but Ted had good rapport with the kids and, occasionally, a lead would turn up that way.

Fisherman's Wharf was another hunting ground as was the beach area in good weather but, today, it was mostly to keep him occupied for the afternoon. It wasn't a case of trusting Ted or not - just a case of insuring that the client was comfortable. Ted had been working with me for nearly six months and, not only did I trust him, but I thought - with seasoning and experience - he'd probably become a pretty good detective.

Having heard him play, it was certain Ted had a better future as a gumshoe than a musician.

* * *

Ms. Zappa arrived promptly at two. I recognized her from the news photos - short cropped hair, silver blonde, pleasant facial features. I hadn't figured her for a petite 5'4" - somehow I'd expected someone larger - but her handshake was firm without being pushy and she had a certain no-nonsense manner which seem appropriate.

My offices aren't fancy - two rooms and ample windows but not one of your more upscale areas of town nor one of the newest buildings. The outer office - my nominal reception area - held a desk, chair and telephone extension along with a couch for visitors. Since I didn't have the kind of walk-in traffic to warrant a receptionist, it was also - more often than not - empty but was, occasionally, used by visiting associates or temporary assistants.

The inner office was my sanctum - bookcase and cabinets lined one wall, the computer occupied a table on the other side while my desk was positioned with my back to the windows. The view wasn't that impressive and I preferred the light behind me rather than in my face.

For visitors' comfort, I had the blinds closed as well.

Ms. Zappa accepted the chair I offered, then watched with polite curiosity as I resumed my seat. I wasn't surprised that she'd done her homework - successful executives generally do. I just didn't know how much she'd done.

"Captain Matheson recommended you," she began. "And what I've heard about some of your - ah - unorthodox surveillance techniques is interesting."

My unorthodox surveillance techniques were really quite simple - I employed a number of street people - homeless individuals - as covert operatives on an as-needed basis. People practice so hard not to notice the homeless that they become as invisible as the shrubbery ... which is ideal for many kinds of surveillance.

Responding to Ms Zappa's comment, I replied: "Thank you," nodded, then waited for more.

"Are you always this laconic?" Ms Zappa smiled slightly.

"No," I thought about leaving it at that, before adding "But you haven't told me why you called yet."

* * *

The heart of the problem was the North Woods Mall where DSS supplied security services. It seemed that North Woods stores had been experiencing unexpected increases in shrinkage rates. Some shrinkage was expected - shoplifters, petty theft by employees, that sort of thing.

The reason for Ms. Zappa's call was that 'petty' wasn't in the description any more and she - Ms. Zappa - was suspicious of DSS's own employees. A case of quis custodiet ipsos custodes and all. Or, if you don't like Latin, 'who watches the watchers'.

In this situation, I was the equivalent of calling in outside auditors.

And I had a few questions, starting with: "Exactly who all knows you're here today?"

"No one, Mr. MacPherson, absolutely no one. When I requested a confidential meeting, I meant confidential on both sides. Actually, I'm playing golf right now ... with a client."

"A client you trust?"

"As a matter of fact, Virginia is the manager at North Woods. And she is the one who brought this matter to my attention in the first place. I've asked her to keep a lid on things - to give me a chance to investigate. As far as anyone knows, Virginia and I are playing golf this afternoon - we do occasionally. Further, I left the office and dropped my car at the dealer's for service. Then I took a cab to the golf course at Lincoln Park where I joined Virginia for lunch. After lunch, while Virginia joined a three-some, I caught another cab and came here. I'll return the same way. I'm not a fool, Mr. MacPherson."

No, I didn't think she was. But I also didn't think she was telling me everything.

"That's a lot of trouble to go to just to ask me to catch a few crooked guards. Would you like to tell me the rest?"

"No." Ms Zappa shook her head calmly. "Not at the present time. You're correct, of course. I do have my suspicions. I'm not sure just how big this is. Let's take it from here for the moment. If there's more, I'll let you know ... But I have some checking of my own to do first."

"Who else knows about this. Your secretary?"

A head shake.

"Other executives?"

"I've mentioned this to no one."

"Board members?" I persevered.

"No."

"Husband?"

"He probably knows I'm upset about something but he hasn't asked."

"Does he work for DSS?"

"No, he's a professor of Business Administration at U.S.F."

I didn't ask about boyfriends - she didn't strike me as the type. And, no, I don't mean the type not to have gentlemen friends - on that you could have fifty-fifty odds, either way. But, if she did, she wouldn't talk to them about something like this.

Which left her friend Virginia - who had opened the question in the first place - and Captain Matheson - who'd recommended me. The situation sounded pretty tight. Not that I'd have turned it down anyway, just that I like to know the playing field.

We spent most of the afternoon discussing options and possibilities. That and using the computer to draw up a letter of agreement to cover my services. A lot of it was routine ... but not all. Among other things, the letter included a definition of acceptable evidence, set initial limits on expenditures - subject to renegotiation if warranted - and spelled out the general objectives of my employment - i.e. to discover if employees of DSS were involved in theft or other malfeasance related to their contractual presence at North Woods Mall. Provisions also spelled out DSS's responsibility toward the H. D. Agency and it's employees.

And, not least, the letter included a bonus clause - a hefty one - for satisfactory completion of the assignment.

For a retainer, I accepted Ms. Zappa's personal check - for five thousand dollars.

It was a bit more than usual ... but the job was unusual too.

* * *

Most of that evening, all of Thursday and early Friday had been spent preparing for the investigation. I'd started arrangements for the operation on Wednesday and, by Thursday, I'd gathered my 'crew', passed out a few advances and had arranged a meeting for Friday morning - at my office.

I'd handed Ted the job of coming up with a map of the North Woods mall - and the surrounding area - figuring that keep him busy for a while. It had - but not how I'd expected.

Ted's solution to an area map was to download a high-altitude photo of the area - from the University's geology department archives - and massage it with an art package to produce a rough but serviceable map of the immediate area. Hell, he'd even added street names.

He'd also supplied an interior map by accessing the county's planning and building records.

I didn't give Graimon all the details - first, I didn't think they were relevant and, second, I didn't think my client would appreciate his questions. Since I'd dropped Captain Matheson's name in the conversation, Graimon didn't press ... not too hard, anyway.

* * *

Friday morning was one of those times when my offices were definitely too small. Not only did I not have seating for ten - including myself and Ted - but I barely had standing room for everyone.

I kept it short, beginning by passing out sketch maps of the North Woods Mall, making sure everyone understood where the mall was located and which bus routes would get them there. Then I gave them instructions. What I wanted was for each of them to visit the mall, wander through the main concourses, visit the food court if they liked, but - particularly - check around the outside of the mall and pay attention to the main entrances but also to the service entrances, docking bays and delivery entrances.

I'd marked each map with a target area. I wanted each of them to find a location - somewhere away from the mall proper - where they could keep the assigned areas under surveillance ... preferably without being observed themselves.

While my irregulars were surveying the territory, I'd spent the early afternoon catching up on a few other jobs.

And, since nothing had actually happened until Saturday and since I'd only reported verbally to Ms. Zappa on Sunday, I honestly doubted that there was any connection with Monday's package. Like I said, it was too brief a time to have raised any dust ...

* * *

My other active case was a walk-in on Friday afternoon.

"You find people, right?"

The lady across the desk - girl, really - was in her mid-twenties ... and attractive enough, I supposed.

Her dark green skirt outlined good hips while her pale-gold blouse was almost too tight and her silver-blond hair was a tribute to the chemists' art. She wore a light jacket - reasonable for San Francisco, the weather's rarely hot and never at this time of year - and was carrying a brown handbag. Her shoes were black, low heels, indifferently polished. The effect was reasonable - not exactly rags but not terribly expensive either.

I also figured that she was adding about five pounds annually ... meaning by thirty she'd be plump and fat by forty. Still, at present, she was ... well, statuesque seemed to fit. Not that it mattered - I didn't like blondes anyway ... at least, not her type.

"You have somebody missing?" I figured a boy-friend had gotten cold feet and split - probably he'd seen the future and decided not to stick around - but you never know ...

"My mother," she surprised me. "She hasn't been home and she hasn't called. She always calls ... to check on me, I suppose. You know what mothers are like."

I did. I certainly met enough of them. Of course, the ones I met usually weren't at their best - distraught mothers searching for runaways generally aren't. On the other hand, mothers whose kids run away may not be the best samples in the first place.

Kids whose mothers run away are a rarer occurrence.

"Where does your mother live?" I queried.

"Here, of course. Over on Potrero."

"And you?"

"In Oakland." Local then, across the bay.

"Have you been to the police?" It was an obvious question but ...

"They ... I filed a missing persons report but ..."

"But?"

"They didn't seem very interested ... I mean, they just said that she'd probably turn up. That people usually do. They said that I should call them as soon as I heard from her."

"And?"

"Look, Mr. ... Mr. ...?"

"MacPherson," I supplied. "James MacPherson. And you are?"

"Sorry. Evelyn Schaefer. I ... I guess I'm a little upset, Mr. MacPherson," she apologized.

"Maybe you'd like to sit down," I suggested. My neck was getting tired looking up at her. "Coffee?" I offered.

"No, thank you but no coffee." She accepted the chair but sat upright, clutching her handbag in her lap. "I've had too much coffee today. I ... I could use ..."

"Take a right, down the hall on the left, third door," I directed. "Light switch is on the left."

"Thank you," she stood rather stiffly, then hung her handbag on the chair before walking out.

I watched the door close, then wheeled myself around the desk.

The contents of Ms. Schaefer's handbag was pretty routine. One purse - her driver's license and credit cards matched her library card, A couple of pictures, one of a man in his late twenties, one of a boy in his teens. Twenty-odd dollars in bills. Elsewhere in the handbag, I found a checkbook - address in Oakland - a book of stamps, an address book, a pocket calendar, lipstick, makeup kit, facial tissues, tampons, two condoms - I raised an eyebrow - and a couple of letters. She was also carrying a thick romance novel. - the kind with a cover featuring a half-dressed blonde Hercules holding an elaborately dressed woman in an awkward posture.

Nothing terribly remarkable.

I left the handbag hanging and wheeled over to the coffee pot.

* * *

When Ms. Schaefer returned, I was back behind my desk, dictating a letter to a couple in Sacramento. I'd - Ted had - found their son ... but he didn't want to be found ... and, from what we'd learned, he had his reasons. He was old enough to decide for himself ... which meant that all I could do was report that he was well and safe but declined further contact. Still, he had agreed to allow me to accept letters on his behalf, perhaps that would offer some consolation. It was all part of the job - whether I liked it or not.

I clicked off the recorder and slipped it in the desk drawer, then gestured toward the chair while my other hand pressed a switch under the desk, starting a separate recorder. Routine precaution and more for my review than anything else but still ...

"Now, Ms. Schaefer," I picked up the conversation where we'd left off. "Suppose you tell me about your mother."

* * *

An hour or so - and a couple of cups of coffee - later, Ms. Schaefer - she preferred Eve - was running down ... which was okay, I had enough for the present.

I wasn't real sure that there was a case here in the first place - the odds were that the police were right, that Eve's mother would turn up in due time. Probably with a new boy friend.

On the other hand, this was Friday, Eve hadn't heard from her mother since Wednesday and the lady in question wasn't in her apartment. Further I had her - Eve's - check for three hundred, a key to her mother's apartment and a letter authorizing me to enter ... and several pages of notes.

Eve's mother's name was Helen Platt - after her second husband. She was also divorced from Mr. Platt who resided in Chicago. I had his phone number and address and - no - Eve hadn't called.

Eve also had a step-sister in Ohio - I suggested she call both ... as well as her own father, her mother's first husband, who lived in Riverside, Orange County, down south around LA. Other relatives included two uncles - one somewhere in Oregon and the other in Alabama - and a grandmother in Tampa, Florida. Typical close-knit family ...

Ms. Platt's age was early forties - Eve wasn't certain.- and she worked for Viscount Services. I knew them, a maintenance agency handling cleaning and such for a lot of downtown firms.

No photograph. Eve had given the only one she'd brought to missing persons but promised to send me another.

The key was to the apartment on Potrero. Eve had gone there first but hadn't found anything. No disarray, she said, nothing out of place and nothing she could identify as missing.

"A couple of dresses," she'd told me. "But they could have been at the cleaners. They weren't in the laundry ... I mean, there wasn't much in the laundry hamper. Just a pair of panty hose and a blouse."

"Any luggage missing?"

"No," Eve thought a minute. "I don't think she has any - she usually borrows mine if she's going somewhere."

"Does your mother have any pets? Cat? Dog? Goldfish? Parakeets?"

"No, she always said an apartment was no place for pets. I guess that doesn't apply to fish but ... no."

"What about plants?"

"Oh!" Eve's hand flew to cover her mouth.

"Yes?"

"She ... she does. Oh, nothing fancy but she has a lot of ivy and ... I don't remember what they're called ... spiky things. Variegated something or others. I guess they looked all right, I really didn't notice. I mean, they were there They hadn't wilted or turned brown or anything. At least, I think they hadn't."

"That's okay," I reassured her. "I'll check them. What about her mail?"

"I don't know," she thought about it. "I didn't check that ... I don't have a key, there's a box in the lobby."

"Does she have an answering machine?"

"No, nothing like that."

No particular boy friends - at least, none that Eve knew about - and Mrs. Platt didn't drive - or didn't have a car, anyway.

It was enough to start - and the next step was to see if there was a case at all.

"You go on home and get some supper," I instructed - it was nearly seven and I was hungry myself. "I'll check around and I'll call you tomorrow."

As I wheeled myself from behind the desk to escort Ms. Schaefer out, I could feel her eyes focus on my missing leg. "Don't worry about it," I assured her. "I get around."

"They told me ..." she hesitated. 'They' meant someone at missing persons - the reaction was familiar. So was the delay - most clients are too upset to notice minor details like that.

"Forget it," I responded. "I'll call you."

* * *

After seeing Ms. Schaefer out, I returned to my desk and extracted a canvas duffel from under the desk, then wheeled myself down the hall - fourth door on the left.

A few minutes later, I returned to leave the wheelchair and collect my cane. The empty pants leg - with George back in place - was now unrolled and hanging normally. Only the too-smooth shoe on the left foot was a give-away and not many people noticed that anyway. Of course, there was the cane and the limp but lots of people limp.

Good days, I wore George all the time ... but there were bad days as well when I could hardly stand - literally - to rely on my treacherous prosthesis. It was days like this that I used the chair ... as much as I could.

Except that a wheelchair wasn't the easiest way to start checking around. For phone calls, it didn't matter ... but this was going to be leg work.

Missing persons would have already checked the accident reports and hospital records. That was a given - anything obvious like that and I wouldn't have been contacted in the first place.

* * *

Viscount Services was located in an old warehouse - a small one - in the poorer section of Chinatown. It wasn't a business which required a fancy store front ... or even that much floor space. The warehouse had seen better days but, now, appeared to be split between Viscount Services and something called GreenSpace, Inc. Neither's sign was particular pretentious - Viscount's was black lettering on a white background simply announcing the name with the street address confirmed in smaller print below.

I parked a half block distant and walked back. Not because I wanted the exercise but simple habit. Besides, it's a little harder to refuse entry to a man on foot - especially a gimp - than it is to turn down someone who's car is immediately visible. While I was at it, I took a quick look around.

The lot adjacent to the GreenSpace side, protected by a chain link fence - topped with coiled razor wire - was divided between a parking space for mixture of pickups and panel vans and, toward the back, three rows of plastic-covered greenhouses. To each side of the gates, a rather ragged row of medium shrubs and small trees stood in large planters.

On the Viscount side, the equivalent space - where I assumed their vans lived when not in service - was a weed-bordered expanse of nothing surrounded by more chain link. Like the GreenSpace side, a ragged row of greenery made an ineffective hedge along the front.

Except for the outside security lights, the GreenSpace side was dark. On the Viscount side, a light of light under the main entrance was echoed by glimmers escaping from the larger cargo doors. A button next to the door sounded a faint buzzer somewhere inside.

While I waited for a response, I leaned heavily on the cane, trying to keep the pressure off my missing limb.

* * *

"You're hard people to locate," I greeted the young man opening the door. "You know how much trouble I've had finding this place? Mind if I come in?"

The kid answering the door was wiping his hands with a red mechanic's rag. His fingernails and stained levis matched the rag The tee-shirt advertising Wasted Brain - which I assumed was a band of some sort - looked prophetic.

"Sure you got the right place, Mac?" The youngster stepped back quickly enough - a simple reaction to the fact that I was just a little too close and moving. Not pushing, just subtly invading his personal space.

As he stepped back, I slipped past - letting the cane narrowly miss his foot which forced him back another step - then waited politely for him to lead the way. Simple trick, start them moving and they keep moving - just don't push too hard. Too much and they react by being stubborn.

"Jason Kimbrough," I introduced myself as the kid started toward the office. "Pacific Mutual. I believe Mrs. Platt's expecting me?" I extended a card as I spoke.

The kid was right next to me - and I was still too close - which made him reach across awkwardly with his left to accept the card. Not being impolite exactly, just keeping him off balance and a little annoyed - he was less likely to ask the wrong questions that way.

It was a nice card - two color print, even had my picture on it. One of my favorites - I make up a couple of dozen at a time, different names, different titles. Set them up on the computer then run them off on a color printer at Kinko's using microperf business card blanks. The only things legit on the card were the phone number - one of my spare lines - and the fax number ... which was answered by a computer anyway.

As for the address, that would reach a discreet answering / postal service on the fifth floor of a high-security office building. It was a good arrangement and nothing anyone was likely to tumble too.

"Mrs. Platt?" The youngster answered. "There's no Mrs. Platt here."

"Viscount Services, right? She works here doesn't she?"

"Uh, yeah, could be ... but she's not here."

"That's strange, we'd arranged to meet here. I do have her check," I patted my coat pocket before adding, "But I need her signature on the release forms. Look, sonny," - his fault he hadn't given me a name - "it's eight o'clock on a Friday evening and I'd rather be taking my wife out to dinner. Instead, I'm here at Mrs. Platt's request. I'd really like to wrap this up and get out of here. Suppose you could tell me where I can find the lady?"

Inside, the warehouse was still a single structure, split down the middle by another chain link fence - this one without the razor wire topping. On the Viscount side, the fence doubled as a rack for tools and a place to stack cartons of toilet paper, cleaning supplies and other materials. The GreenSpace side was dark.

On the Viscount side, against the outside wall, partitions and a ceiling created an office space which was better lit than the rest of the interior. Naturally, I'd headed for the office as we talked.

Inside - such as it was - I settled heavily on the corner of a desk. It felt good to get the weight off.

"Uh, look ..." He glanced at the card. "Uh, Mr. Kimbrough, I really don't know. I mean, I'm just here to repair some of these carpet cleaners and stuff. Things are always breaking down. You need to talk to the manager and she's only here during the day - comes in about eleven."

"And won't be back until Monday, right?"

"Uh, yeah, sure."

"Look, if I have to come back Monday that means that I've got another trip down here and then another trip to meet Mrs. Platt and ... Look, son, I've got other things to do. What about you help me out and I'll stake you to a beer or two?" I held up a five folded between two fingers.

"Make it a ten, Mister, and you're on." The youngster's face brightened remarkably.

Suited me. I produced a second bill to match the first and waited. If I'd offered a ten in the first place, he'd have demanded twenty.

When he tried to reach for the bills, I smiled, folding my hand to move the cash out of his grasp.

"Okay, Mister," he nodded. "Just give me a sec." He pulled a clipboard off the wall and started thumbing slowly through the papers. His lips moved as his finger ran down each page - not one of the world's literary wonders.

"Ah, here we go," he grinned.. "Slade, Altman and Geary, Attorneys." He added an address on Shipley, then continued. "And they do a place on Third, Magic Carpets."

"They?"

"Yeah, she teams with a lady name of Grady, Mary Grady. They take care of those two places regularly. That fix you up?"

"Sounds pretty good," I agreed, extending the bills. "They'd be there now?"

The kid took the two bills before answering. "Usually, yeah. 'Cept neither one's been in yesterday or today. Note says a couple of subs are working those two locations. Guess you're out of luck." He grinned, satisfied with himself for having scored one.

I frowned, irritated, hiding a smile underneath. "Maybe the substitutes know something," I suggested.

"Better come back Monday," he disagreed. "Maybe you'll have better luck then."

"Maybe so," I conceded feigned disappointment before tucking my notebook in my pocket and heaving myself off the desk to exit. "Well, enjoy the beers anyway. I guess I'll get home for supper."

* * *

Since I wasn't married, supper wasn't any rush and the two five's had bought me some information ... and some questions. I'll grant the possibilities weren't exactly endless but they had expanded ...

Mrs. Platt had been married twice and had two kids - so I didn't figure she'd disappeared with a lesbian lover. So where did Ms Grady come into it? I mean, we seem to have two ladies missing ... and I wasn't figuring coincidence.

Also, it didn't look quite as abrupt as it had originally. Viscount must have had some notice if they'd supplied substitutes.

No, that didn't jibe, not quite. If they simply hadn't shown up on Thursday but had been replaced today, that would be understandable. Place like this probably had a lot of turn-over.

On the other hand, the kid had said the note referred to 'subs' - which sounded a bit more like a planned absence.

It was probably nothing. Most likely the pair had gone off to visit friends or something. Attend a wedding, maybe? So Mrs. Platt had forgotten to call her daughter. Hardly a crime of major proportions.

There was a Szechwan place, I'd figured on hitting for dinner. On the way, I could check the lawyer's offices and the Magic Carpets. Economy of effort.

* * *

The SOMA area - South Of MArket - is a mixture of the old and shabby and the newly yuppie-fied. One block can be old residential hotels, second-hand stores and convenience - i.e. liquor - stores while the next is upscale condos and pricey boutiques.

The offices of Slade, Altman and Geary, Attorneys were in the second type of location where two buildings now fronted on a shared courtyard produced by the removal of a third. The attorneys occupied the second floor front, above an art gallery featuring Southwestern paintings, sculptures and weavings. The gallery was lit, the offices were dark. According to the signboards, the rear offices were a real estate agency.

Across the courtyard, the ground floor front was an upscale greengrocer. In the rear was hair salon - the kind where an Andy Jackson gets you a trim ... but styling is extra. Upstairs were more offices - two dentists and a dental hygienist

At the back of the courtyard, a brick waterfall was silenced for the night..

There was no Viscount van in sight.

* * *

Magic Carpets was only a couple of blocks distant and the area was definitely less gentrified but still trying.. Magic Carpets had a corner location with floor to ceiling glass windows backed by mini-spotlights displaying an assortment of rugs ranging from traditional arabesque designs to modern themes in sculpted pastels. The building's second floor might have been offices at one time but, now, appeared vacantly barren.

On Third, the Magic Carpets building was flanked by a modern, window-less industrial structure displaying the title: TrenData Resources. The single door was set in a deep alcove and flanked by tall, frosted windows. One wall of the alcove held a speaker panel and a call button.

Around the corner and across a narrow alley, their second neighbor was a seven-story building with Rankin and the date 1932 inscribed in the marble girdle between the first and second floors. Inside, in the lobby, letter boards listed the occupants of the various offices.

Again, no Viscount Services van was evident and, beyond the window spots, the interior of the Magic Carpets building was indifferently lit. There was certainly no evidence of a cleaning crew.

It had been a long shot anyway. And I still wasn't sure that there was any real mystery in the first place. For all I knew, the substitute crew might be taking their own supper break.

It was definitely time for mine.

* * *

"I don't like it. Why'd you tell him anything!"

"I didn't. Here - here's the card. You're so smart, check it out yourself."

* * *

Saturday morning, I had a date to go sailboarding on the bay. Naturally, it was foggy but the forecast was promising an early burn-off and I was looking forward to getting out. Seems like I spend too much time cooped up in the office - that or sitting in my car watching someone.

Sailboarding sound odd? Not the sport for a one-legged gimp? Hey, beats the hell out of jogging.

Besides, you should meet my partner, Tye. He's the one who got me into it - on a dare. And, since we'd met in rehab - he's a therapist / trainer - it was kind of hard to turn down. After all, I've got one more leg than he does.

Okay, so he uses a modified sailboard - one with a pedestal seat and special rigging. Doesn't matter, we've been doing this for nearly two years, weather permitting, and he still out sails me. Does the Bay To Breakers run in a wheelchair too. Tye's the one who's nuts - not me.

Oh, did I mention that it's also a great way to pick up the ladies?

* * *

Regretfully, Saturday evening would be business. The regrets were because I'd met a rather lovely lady on the bay that morning. Or should I say "in the bay"? She'd and her friend had been too busy watching the gimp and the leg-less wonder and had overturned their sunfish. Naturally, Tye and I had gone to the rescue and, as a reward, had been invited to lunch.

But that was another matter - one which I'd pursue at a better time.

This evening I'd scheduled the stakeout job on the shopping mall where the shrinkage rates had recently taken a turn for the worse ... or worst. The North Woods Mall was a sprawling structure with six main entrances as well as dozens of store entrances and seven delivery bays. While I was betting on the delivery bays, there was still no way I could cover then all by myself. And I certainly wasn't planning on depending on chance to catch the perps.

The alternative was my crew of 'irregulars'.

And, this evening, at seven, we were due to meet for another briefing - and dinner - before going to work.

My 'irregulars' are homeless people. Sound odd? Like a one-legged man on a sailboard?

Think about it. Where else could I find eight or ten operatives available on short notice and already trained to blend into the background? The homeless - street people - are today's pariahs. Society's untouchables. The people that most folks simply ignore. They're there but nobody notices them. Even if they're giving them a handout, people really don't notice them.

I've used them before. A lot of ways. Like scavenging though dumpsters for evidence, for example. If someone spotted me dumpster-diving, they'd be suspicious, right? But let someone wheel a shopping card full of plastic bags down the alley and go poking though the trash and nobody pays the slightest attention.

Or put someone in three shirts and two coats sitting on the sidewalk with a styrofoam cup in front of them outside a business and nobody will play the slightest attention. They can sit there for hours, making notes of license plates and snapping pictures with a concealed camera.

Or, in this case, where I needed eyes to cover a host of different sites ...

Friday morning, using the 'maps' Ted had created, I went over the layout of the North Woods mall with my irregulars before sending them "shopping" to check out the mall first hand.

My instructions had been simple. "I want you particularly to look for places around the parking lots where the service entrances can be kept under surveillance. Preferably from a distance and somewhere that you can keep out of sight. All you have to do is be able to spot them going in - with a truck or car or van - or bringing something out and then call me on the radio so I can shoot them coming out."

* * *

"Yeah, I traced both numbers - and they don't match the address. Still think he's some harmless nothing?"

"So? You get a name?"

"Yeah, he's a private dick, butthead!"

"So? Insurance agencies hire detectives don't they."

"Sure ... and they use phony address so business won't come knocking on the door."

"You don't know it's phony."

"I went by the building and checked the address board. Not only ain't there an office but there's no such suite listed. The H. D. outfit checks though ... Go away and le'me think. I'll come up with something ..."

"We could buy a hit ..."

"With what? I'm so close to tap city, paying for plane tickets and everything. You planning to tell Mojo we need another couple of grand for a rub out ... Aside from the vig on what we're already in for, I don't want him figuring we're turning into a bad risk. Forget it. I think I've got a idea ..."

* * *

Dinner was catered by Carrow's in a private dining room - it wasn't extravagance, it would be on my bill. And, if Carrow's thought a private dinner for ten - most of whom were shabbily dressed - was strange ... well, this is California.

Also, I'd stipulated no alcoholic beverages - not being a prude or anything, just that a couple of my otherwise reliable irregulars had a low tolerance for temptation. Other than that, it was no limits - order anything you liked.

Over dessert, we'd gone over the layout again with my crew showing me the spots they'd picked out.

One - Gary - had decided to settle in a dumpster. I'd agreed it was a good choice if you could stand it. Then he told me it was for paper only, not trash from the food court. Made sense.

Jane and Pietro had picked locations in the shrubbery surrounding the mall. Location which were close in but well concealed.

A couple of choices I'd had to veto - too exposed or too distant or poor surveillance - but, overall, my irregulars had found good spots.

Last, we agreed on code names before I passed out hand-held CB radios for everyone and binoculars for those who might need them. The code names - which I noted on my sketch map at their locations - ranged from Cannonball and The Jersey Kid to Madame Lu. And, no, she wasn't a madame and hadn't been as far as I knew - she just liked the song.

I also passed out thermos bottles filled with coffee and sack lunches - the odds were it could be a long night.

Six of the crew fitted in my VW vanagon while Ted - my semi-assistant - squeezed three more in his Subaru.

After dropping my passengers at two sides of the mall - and reminding them to be cautious going in - I positioned the van behind a twenty-four hour convenience store where I paid the night clerk a ten for "parking". I also allowed him the impression that my presence was 'official' - which it wasn't but a small vicarious thrill wouldn't hurt him any.

Per instructions, Ted would be joining me in a moment. Ted was my relief man. His job was to be available to run errands, deliver fresh coffee, spell me for a rest break, whatever the situation required. I'd also send him around periodically to make sure everyone was awake. Stakeouts are deadly dull at the best of times.

I wasn't expecting anything for hours - the mall wouldn't close down until nine and there'd be cleaning crews in and out until midnight, some even later. But, you never know.

The main thing I was interested in would be any vehicles being loaded after hours. Probably meaning a vehicle being driven into one of the delivery bays but it could be almost anything.

While I waited - my orders were radio silence except to report suspicious activity or other major or minor emergencies - I checked my camera and night scope. The camera - like the binoculars and radios - was a second-hand 35-mm I'd found in a pawn shop. The night scope was a different matter - new and expensive.

And then there was the 6.5-inch Casselgrain lens. The Casselgrain lens was one of my favorite treasures - I'd picked it up for eighty-five bucks at a swap meet ... a real steal ... which it probably had been. If you're not familiar with them, the Casselgrain is a bit over six and a half inches aperture and scarcely more than that in length. It also dwarfs the camera it's attached to but it has the light-gathering power and magnification of a medium-sized telescope ... which is essentially what it is.

Between the Casselgrain and high speed film together with the ample lighting in the shopping mall lot, I didn't figure to need the night scope but I'd brought it anyway. It was easier to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it.

* * *

By eleven, I decided to relax the radio silence rule. I'd been monitoring the CB channel for better than two hours without hearing a peep from anyone except a request from Madame Lu for a rest break. At any rate, nobody else seemed to be on 29 so I figured a little chatter might help the monotony.

* * *

By two in the morning, I was having trouble staying awake. I switched the radio from classical to a heavy metal station - I couldn't stand the stuff but I needed the irritation. The fact that Ted brightened up and started playing air guitar as accompaniment helped as well - it was like trying to rest on a pincushion ... and I'm certainly no yogi.

* * *

It was two-thirty when Tinker Belle gave the alarm - the delivery bay doors she'd been watching were opening from inside.

"Confirmed, Tinker Belle," I responded. "Sit tight, I'll check on baby." Ted was out making the rounds. It was a relief to kill the radio before starting the van. "Ted?" I keyed the mike again. "Wheels time. Come on back. I'm moving to cover. Let me know when you're ready."

Tinker Belle's location was covering the back side of the mall - which was reasonable. I cruised down a side street and around until I reached a spot with a distant but adequate view of the target. The cool night air was bringing in a layer of fog but the paved parking lot was still warm enough to keep things clear at ground level.

Further, the low fog layer reflected the parking lot and street lights, giving the entire area a soft but adequate illumination.

I rested the camera on the window sill - the Casselgrain was heavy and, with magnification, needed steadying for a clear view.

Looking down hill across the parking lot, the big lens made the view perfectly clear. I could even see two figures inside together with what looked like a cart and boxes. It looked like we had our rabbit. I snapped a couple of shots for luck, then settled back to wait.

* * *

It didn't take long before a panel van appeared.

It took even less time for the two security guards - the uniforms were easy but I figured their faces would come out on film as well - and the driver to transfer stacks of boxes from the dolly to the van.

I snapped photos as fast as the autowinder could handle.

When they'd finished with the first load, I keyed my mike. "Listen up, folks. Jane's taking charge - you know the rendezvous. They're all yours, Jane. Just give us time to get clear. Ted? You in position?"

Jane would see to getting the crew home which - for most of them, meant the Fourth Street Mission. The guys at the Mission are pretty understanding and the fact that my irregulars would be returning at four in the morning was no problem. I could also trust her to collect the radios and glasses and bring them by the office tomorrow - well, Monday anyway.

"I'm just west of you," Ted reported. "Down a side street. I have them eyeballed. Who takes the lead?"

"We'll wait and see which way they exit," I advised. I dropped the mike and switched to my second camera, swapping the Casselgrain to the new one - it was faster than changing film.

The second dolly looked like clothing and was loaded by the arm load. Tossed in as quickly as possible while one of the perps was bringing out a third dolly. It was more clothes.

I was out of film before they finished but enough was enough and what I had was definitely overkill.

Jane was on the radio, issuing instructions: "Time to start moving out. By the numbers. Cannonball, Space Cadet, you go first." They were on the far side and safest to move first. "See you at the rendezvous. Rest of you relax. Don't want the rabbit to worry."

"Roger" and "Gotcha" were the responses from the two Jane had ordered out.

A few minutes later, she added Pietro - he was Peppe Le Pieu - and Terry - The Jersey Kid - to the recall list. Both, I recalled, were near the ends of the mall and well out of view. Tinker Belle, of course, was right on top of the action and both Black Bart and Kojak were in semi-exposed positions. They'd have to wait until the van was gone.

It looked like three dollies were the perps' limit - for tonight, at least. It hadn't taken them fifteen minutes. Very smooth.

The van took the nearest exit from the mall - just east of the position I was watching from - and turned east as well.

"They're east bound," I spoke to Ted. "I'll take the lead, you follow by a block. I'll give you route instructions as we go."

A minute or two later, we were east bound in light traffic on Clipper. "Ted, go ahead and pass us both and take a forward tail. Try to keep a two block lead. I'll call the cross streets as they reach them."

I didn't think they'd spotted us - they looked too confident of themselves, driving at a reasonable speed, not too fast, not too slow. Still, if they did make us, with Ted in a forward tail, he could always slow up and let them pass him and then pick up the tail while we took another route. Or, if we looked like going a ways, we could simply switch off before they got suspicious.

Give them two - three miles, I decided, then switch. Let Ted fall back and I'd pass to take the lead position. Alternately, if it looked like they were headed for the 101 or the 280, that would be the time to switch, with both of us in the tail position on the freeway but Ted in the lead and me behind. A sudden exit from the freeway is a great way to spot - or lose - a tail. And a certain one if it's a forward tail.

When the 280 started looking likely, I had Ted fall back, waited until he was in position, then fell further back myself.

Naturally, all guesses were wrong and the van passed the 101 entrance to take the Bayshore south, paralleling the freeway. Then, a mile later, turning again on Oakdale and heading for the south warehouse district between India and South Basins.

Two blocks later, the van pulled up outside an older warehouse. Ted reported the street number as he passed while I pulled up short of the target. "Make a loop," I suggested over the radio. "Let's make sure this isn't a feint."

"Doubling back," Ted reported, then "They've got a door open. ... Bingo, looks like they're unloading."

"Confirmed," I answered. "That's it. Let's go home."

The fact that it was nearly five when I got home was okay ... there was nobody waiting up for me and it had been a good night's work.

* * *

"Damn turkey's answering machine again, You've got the address. Why don't we just go over and trash the place? Won't be anyone around on Sunday."

"Because, gormless wonder, what good would that do? Now, a nice little surprise package will put the snoop out of the picture. There's too much riding on this and I'm not going back to jacking cars for petty cash. And I ain't going back to the slam. All you're sweating is juvie again - mess this up and I get hard time ... With what we can get out of this, I can start my own operation and go big time. Now, just hoist yourself over that f-g fence and fill the bag. A couple of pounds is plenty. Just wan'a pop the snoop's head off, not bring a building down."

"You sure about this? Who'd you learn this from."

"Public library, dope. Lots of things besides bits and bytes if you read a little. Now, hustle your buns."

"No damn rush if we can't get to him 'til Monday."

"Not for you maybe but I'm not spending all day hanging around this sweatbox. We finish the package then, tomorrow, you head up Market and pick out a messenger to deliver it. And, butthead, make sure it's someone who doesn't know you."

* * *

Ten o'clock Sunday morning was not my idea of the proper time to rise and shine - not on five hours sleep - but I forced myself anyway, pulling on slacks and a shirt but not bothering with George. Instead, I wheeled myself down to the elevator and dropped to the garage for my car.

Unlike my office building, the condo's a security building where you can't even enter the private garages without a passcard. Safe enough, I figured - I wasn't going to be gone that long. I left the wheelchair next to my parking slot and drove out to face the sunshine.

Naturally, it was foggy.

On the bright side, there wasn't any traffic.

I dropped the films at a Fast Foto drive-up - double prints, two hour service - and went back to finish my interrupted sleep.

* * *

It was nearly two in the afternoon when I woke up again. I took a leisurely shower and microwaved a couple of muffins before I felt human again - never have cared for all-nighters

This time, I strapped George back on my stump, then dressed properly before returning to the Fast Foto outlet for my films.

The prints weren't going to win any photo essay contests but they definitely told a story. Well, an anecdote, anyway.

Back at my condo, I stretched out in my favorite chair and took another look through the prints. The faces were clear enough ... for that matter, in a couple of shots, I could make out brand names and labels on the cartons. The Casselgrain was a great lens - pity the photographer wasn't better.

I made an arm for the phone, then fished Ms. Zappa's card from my pocket.

Her office number was answered by a voice mail recording. I left a message. "Ms. Zappa - James Mack here - I have the case of Merlot you requested. Call any time." The code word was Merlot. If we'd come up empty, I'd have simply said that the wines hadn't arrived or had been misshipped.

I made a second call to Ms. Zappa's home number and got another answering machine ... where I repeated the message.

Then I made a third - to the Fourth Street Mission - to leave word for my irregulars that the evening's exercise was off but I'd talk to them later.

I made my fourth call to Eve Schaefer but there was no answer - neither human or machine.

My last call was to my own answering machine, to pick up messages.

There were quite a few including one from a man who demanded that I should shadow his wife - I didn't take divorce cases and I'd already turned him down the last time he'd called. For that matter, I'd turned his wife down too.

Two calls were from solicitors, one for a carpet cleaning firm and one selling insurance.

And a couple were simply blanks - hang-ups with no message. Annoying, sure, but it happens all the time.

I left the messages where they were. Monday, I'd have Ted add them to the database together with the originating numbers which, thanks to caller ID, were recorded along with the time stamps. The two solicitors I'd let Ted call back some evening - he doesn't have the world's greatest sense of humor but ... well ... telephone solicitors annoy me and I figure they deserve payment in kind.

Caller ID - to me - was the greatest thing since sliced bread.

On the other hand, Ted had been claiming it was a phone company conspiracy ever since the California courts had finally decided - long after most of the rest of the country had caller ID - that identifying a caller's phone number was not a breach of privacy. Not that he objected to caller ID per se - it was just that he'd been working on breaking into the phone company computers and doing the same thing his way. Said they'd done it just to keep him from having any fun.

* * *

Late Sunday, Ms Zappa returned my call. After I reported my results, she was silent for a long moment. "You've definitely earned your bonus," she decided. "But I think the job's grown beyond what I thought. Can we meet tomorrow?"

"When would you like?"

"Tomorrow evening. Not your office ... somewhere ..." Hearing the decisive and collected Ms Zappa hesitate was strange. Whatever it was ... she was worried.

"Taratino's, on Fisherman's Wharf," I suggested. "Eight o'clock." The food was good and I could arrange a private table.

"Eight o'clock," she agreed.

"Ask for Templar," I decided. "I'll make arrangements."

"Templar," she confirmed. "Taratino's, at eight."

* * *

For once, I got lucky. Ted was actually home for a change. "You busy?" I asked the phone.

"Nothin' special," Ted admitted. "What's up?"

"Minor errand. How about going out to North Woods and buying a microwave oven. Nothing too expensive. And get it from one of the big chains."

"A microwave?"

"That's right. Try Circuit City or Office Max."

"What for?"

"I'll tell you about it tomorrow. But I want you to drop it off at a friend's shop. Guy's name is Johnny Scovil. He runs a repair shop over on Stockton." I gave him the address and directions - near Chinatown, it wasn't the easiest place to find. "I'll tell him to expect you. Okay?"

"You're the boss," Ted agreed. "I'll be there in a couple of hours."

"Ted?"

"Yeah?"

"Be sure you pay cash ... and wear gloves ..."

* * *

"Thanks, Johnny but I think orange smokes will be fine. Ted'll be by in a while to drop it off. ... No, there's no big rush - a day or two will be fine. ... Well, we could use a timer. Can you set one up for ... oh, what about nine AM, Thursday? ... Great. Now, there are couple of other items ..."

Did I mention that one of the nicest things about being private was that I wasn't under the same constraints as the official police? Of course, I didn't have the same authority either ... but life's like that - full of trade-offs.

* * *

Monday morning, I headed for the address on Potrero where Helen Platt - Eve's mother - lived. I'd left this for Monday for a couple of reasons. One was that people who disappear for a few days - a little vacation - tend to be back come Monday.

Except that a phone call from home hadn't been answered.

A second was that other people who might have been gone for the weekend should be back today. Also, since Mrs. Platt worked evenings, it stood to reason that friends who were neighbors would be those who were home during the day ... but who might also work at night.

The third was that I really wasn't sure there was anything to Mrs. Pratt's absence. I'd pretty well expected her to be back by now ... or to have called.

* * *

From the outside, the apartments were average - not new but fairly well maintained. Not expensive but not slums either. Some graffiti - tagging - but it didn't look like gang tags. Street was fairly clean, no trash scattered. Essentially it was shabbily genteel.

Standing outside, I used my cell phone to call Mrs. Platt's number. I could hear the ringing inside but no answer.

I used the key Eve had left with me. Nobody challenged my entry and nobody was inside.

The apartment was clean, almost scrupulously neat. Eve had been right - no disarray at all. Even the refrigerator was neat.

In the living room, the magazines were neatly stacked. The pillows on the couch were arranged just so. The potted plants all neatly trimmed, not a dead leaf in sight. The coffee table was covered with a floral shawl. The edges were precisely parallel to the floor on all sides.

The bedroom was more of the same. The bed looked like it would bounce a quarter. The contents of the closets were impeccable. The bureau drawers were almost mathematically precise.

The bathroom continued the theme.

Even the wastebaskets were empty ... with fresh liners.

If there were any clues, Mrs. Pratt had probably washed, dried and ironed them before throwing them away.

I returned to the living room for another look at the plants. Like Eve had said, a lot of ivy and some spiky things with variegated leaves.

I stuck a finger in one of the pots. The soil was more than moist - it was wet.

Which meant that someone had been here ... probably today.

I checked the rest of the plants. They'd all been freshly watered.

In the kitchen, I rinsed my finger, then looked around for a towel ... that is, for one that was designed for use, not just for looking pretty.

I settled for paper toweling ... and then wondered if I should throw in the trash or carry it out to the dumpster. The place had that kind of a feel.

Incisively, I folded the damp towel and tucked it in my pocket.

A small table in the living room served as Mrs. Pratt's desk. The single drawer held a neat arrangement of stamps, paper clips, checkbook and scissors. Her bills were neatly bound with rubber bands and notations showing when each had been paid and the check number.

The only things human in the room were the magazines - and even these were neatly stacked - which were devoted to games and contests. You know the kind? Full of tips on winning, accounts of the latest giveaways, how-to-enter articles, that kind of thing?

On a hunch, I lifted the shawl on the coffee table.

Sure enough, the table was supported by three low file drawers. Inside, folders were arranged alphabetically by contest sponsor.

It was nice to know Mrs. Pratt had at least one human failing. Otherwise, I might have thought that she'd been physically translated direct to heaven.

I locked the apartment behind me, mentally running through a checklist of lights, doors, etc., assuring myself that I'd left everything just as I'd found it. The damp paper towel was still in my pocket.

* * *

It didn't take too long to find the neighbor who'd watered the plants and - I'd been right - it had been this morning. If I'd arrived much earlier, I'd have found her at it.

Mrs. Yarrow was the arch-typical grandmother-type ... and, if there were any doubt, she not only showed me pictures of her grandchildren but also of her great-grandchildren.

Over coffee - and fresh-baked coffee cake - we got back to business.

"'Course Mrs. Pratt's gone - she and her friend won this vacation. A week at Disney World - all expenses paid. Kind of funny though, them having to leave on such short notice and all. Strange way to run a contest, don't you think?"

Strange, I agreed ... but then I've always found contests and giveaways strange. Even the great California lottery ... or, maybe especially ...

"So, of course I said I'd look after the plants. Mrs. Pratt wouldn't trust just anyone, you know. Very particular lady, she is. Almost peculiar, if the truth be told but then we all have our peculiarities, don't we?"

I nodded agreement. For coffee cake like this, I'd agree to almost anything.

"Like you, young man," Mrs. Yarrow continued. "Try to hide that lost leg, don't you? Even bent the shoe a few times to put wrinkles in the toe, didn't you? To make it look normal, right? 'Cause the foot doesn't bend?"

I blinked a few times - she was almost right. "Ah, not quite," I corrected. "The foot does bend - helps in walking. It just doesn't bend the same as a real foot. Why does that make me peculiar?"

"Makes you different, doesn't it? But you try to not to look different, right?"

"Kind of hard to be a private detective if I stood out in a crowd now."

"You put it that way, you're probably right. Hadn't thought about it like that. But most people don't notice now, do they?"

"Not the way you do, Mrs. Yarrow," I admitted. "Not even close. Maybe you should have been a detective."

"Maybe so, youngster. Four kids and a herd of grandchildren, a body learns to notice things. You need a hand sometime, give me a call and we'll try it."

"I might," I laughed. "I just might. In the mean time, if Mrs. Pratt shows up, you'll give me a call, okay?" I'd left her both my office and private numbers - something about this was still puzzling me but it didn't appear urgent. Just an itch that needed scratching.

* * *

Just to sweeten the pot, I gave Graimon the messenger ... verbatim ... and the agency name - correctly. Then I had to spell it for him. Of course, I did neglect to mention that I'd sent Ted out to find our lady of the rollerblades ... let him do his own leg work.

Since this was the tail-end of recounting several days of activity - and a lot of irrelevant details - Graimon wasn't as eager as he'd have been if I'd led with this tidbit. For that matter, I was a little tired myself.

On afterthought, I fished in my hip pocket, then passed the folded - and now pressed - paper towel across the desk.

"Here," I offered. "My final clue. You can run it through forensics."

"Right," he agreed, accepting the tissue. "And we'll send you the bill."

Okay, honors were even ... but I wasn't really trying to bait him, just kid him a bit.

"Seriously," Graimon rose and stretched, "you think of anything, you'll give us a call. Okay?"

"Seriously, I'd love to ... but I really can't imagine what's bothering anyone enough for a bomb. Ask me next week and it might be another story - except, if things go right, they'll have to send it from a cell block."

"Right, that's what they all say. Hey, keep your head down."

"I'll do that," I grinned. "And give my best to the boys at the station."

"And the girls?"

"Send them over and I'll handle that part myself."

* * *

About ten minutes after Graimon left, Bristol showed up, tossing my key ring on the desk and settling into a chair with a grin on his face.

"Bombs must really make your day." I was asking a question, not making a statement.

"Adrenaline high," Bristol responded. "Don't you know we're all danger junkies?"

"I'll stick to brandy, thanks. What happened?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Not a thing - you couldn't have set that one off with a sledgehammer."

"And I suppose you're going to tell me it was cookies from an anonymous admirer?"

"No ... just not a very good bomb."

I sat up a little straighter. "Say on, MacDuff ..." I misquoted the invitation.

"You were right in calling," Bristol continued. "Somebody tried ... just they didn't know what they were doing." His grin hadn't shrunk any ... I was still waiting for the punchline.

"Okay," I took a guess. "Bad trigger?"

"Nope," Bristol kept grinning. "Amateurish but functional. Cheap battery, toy rocket ignitor, butterfly contacts that would have snapped closed when you took the wrapper off. Not too shabby a job, good chance we wouldn't be talking."

Bristol just kept on grinning. Whatever the joke was, he was enjoying it tremendously.

"Dead battery?" I was guessing, grasping at straws.

"Battery was fine." Bristol shook his head ... still grinning.

I thought about it. "I smelled the diesel ... and the fertilizer ... so, if the battery and trigger were good, why didn't ..."

"It blow?" Bristol was loving it. "Would you believe ... the wrong fertilizer?"

It took a moment to sink in. "You're kidding!"

"No way, Jose. Wouldn't have hurt if you'd dropped it on your foot ... Uh, sorry," his expression changed suddenly. "I didn't mean ..."

"No sweat," it was my turn to grin. "Except how the hell does someone mess that up?"

"Don't know ... but I wish they'd do it more often. The perps thought they had ANFO, you thought so too. So did we, for that matter ... until we got it opened."

"How come? I mean, I thought you'd take it someplace safe and detonate it?"

"Thought about it, that's usual but, well, this was only a two-pounder and nothing exotic. We decided to use it as a training exercise. What with the Unibomber and copycats, we're getting more of these small package bombs. This seemed like a good one to vet a couple of rookies.

"We took it out to the training grounds, set up a couple of cameras and put two men in using shields and remote manipulators. Had them dust it and photograph it before trying to go in and get a sample of the material.

"Anyway, when they pulled out a sample - it was mixed with fusel oil - and brought it back for evaluation, you could have knocked me over with a feather."

"Okay ..." I was waiting.

"The ammonium nitrate? It wasn't. I'm not sure what they used ... or why ... but it wasn't ammonium nitrate. Some kind of fine pellet material, kind of chalky but solider. Hard to tell what with the diesel soaking it but definitely inert.

"Oh, yeah. They'd put a handful or two of hardware in - shrapnel effect stuff - mostly small screws, nuts, bolts, washers - nothing heavy but effective.

"Anyway, we're sending samples and packaging over to the state labs and circulating a report but, I'll tell you honestly, I think this is a first."

"Papers will love it," I agreed, and then realized what I'd said. Suddenly it wasn't quite so funny - I'd had my fill of publicity a few years past ... back when I'd lost my leg and then had tried to rejoin the force. It was a political cartoonist who'd hung the label "Chester" on me - from a character in the old Gunsmoke series who also limped. At the time, the series was enjoying a revival on a local station.

If someone remembered now and revived the moniker, I could just see the headlines: "Chalk Bomber Threatens Chester."

No, it wasn't funny at all.

* * *

It had been nearly three years since I'd lost my leg. It had also been the only time in my career - all fifteen years of it - that I'd fired my weapon ... except on the range.

My partner - George Anstrum - and I were on our way back from investigating an industrial burglary when we caught the "shots fired" call reporting a location scarcely a block distant down the Embarcadero.

San Francisco's Embarcadero runs two and a half miles along the bay front and, years ago, was the heart of the shipping trade in the bay. With the Ferry Building at mid point, even-numbered piers run to the south and odd-numbered piers run to the north, ending at Fisherman's Wharf, the current heart of the tourist trade. Today, the shipping industry has moved across the bay and many of the piers - those which are left - are devoted to restaurants, bars or other non-commercial uses.

Some of the piers - both north and south - were still in use as warehouses.

The location of the call was a café / bar and, as we approached, we observed a man bursting out of the door, holding a shotgun at the ready.

He saw us too and fired once before ducking into the old warehouse on the adjacent pier. While my partner radioed a report, I took a position to cover the entrance and one side of the structure, prepared to wait for backup ... until another shot was fired inside and I heard someone screaming.

We did everything by the book. George tossed me a flack jackets from the trunk before pulling his own on and joining me just in time to hear another scream, punctuated by a third shotgun blast.

So ... we went in.

The rest of it, I really didn't remember - traumatic amnesia, according to the doctors. What I do know comes from reading the reports - weeks later - put together by other investigators.

Somehow - inside - George had taken a fourth shotgun blast full face. A four-ten doesn't leave much.

Then the perp had made a break for it - driving a fork lift - when I'd shot him. One shot. In the heart. Just like on the range. Just before the forklift had crushed my leg against a support pillar ... and brought half the roof down on my head.

* * *

Under the circumstances, the community's bleeding hearts had been quieter than usual. Partly because the head count was three dead - two in the warehouse, one in the bar - never mind the wounded. And partly because my partner - deceased - was several shades blacker than the perp I'd killed.

At any rate, I received a minimum of hate mail and only a couple of death threats.

And things were pretty quiet until six months later when I tried to rejoin the force.

At the time, I honestly thought I'd be able to perform well enough on a prosthesis to serve.

Another six months - about the time it looked like I'd win a case for reinstatement - I decided they were right and accepted a medical disability retirement.

Today, the new George was every bit as big a pain to work with as the original had been.

* * *

Policy, Bristol assured me, was to keep bomb cases as quiet as possible. Mine would be reported simply as a "failed incendiary device" with no details - both to discourage copycat cases and to reserve as much information as possible to identify real repeaters.

Since there hadn't been a explosion - or even much of an uproar - and since there were bigger news stories, the chances were that it would remain unremarked.

Sounded good to me ...

I hoped he was right ...

* * *

After Bristol left, I decided it was time for a lunch break. Dinner would be late - my eight o'clock date with Ms Zappa - and I figured I'd better eat while I had a chance ... before something else happened.

* * *

When I returned, Ted was sitting behind my desk - which had almost vanished under a pizza and drinks - engaged in animated conversation with a young lady who could only be the messenger who'd made the morning's delivery. I mean, how many girls do you find in black and green Spandex, blue plaid shirts and long blonde hair trimmed brush short on both sides. Add the rollerblades and a blue, black and orange backpack and it was no contest.

"Hungry, boss?" Ted looked up as I entered. "Plenty if you want t' join us."

"Thanks anyway," I shuddered. Pizza with pepperoni, peppers and pineapple may be alliterative but I wasn't going to bet on digestible.

I grabbed a free chair and swung it around to one end of the desk where a small patch of the desktop was visible. "Afternoon," I nodded to Ted's guest. "How's the pizza."

"Not too bad," the girl responded. "Lacks something though. Maybe anchovies next time."

"Sounds righteous," Ted agreed. "We can try that for dinner."

"I hope this isn't going to take that long," I hinted to Ted, then turned to his guest. "I asked Ted to find you because I had a few questions about the package you delivered this morning."

"Hey, yeah, he told me it was a bomb. Total bummer. Really ruin a day."

"You're right," I agreed since that was exactly what somebody'd had in mind. "I'm hoping you can tell me something about where it came from."

"Yeah, makes sense. Sorry, man, but I can't help you - this was strictly a side job, you know?"

"Not really. What do you mean 'a side job?'"

"Uh, like this kid walked up to me, handed me the package and a twenty for delivery. Strictly off the record and all. I mean, like it wasn't a regular call or anything. Kid said it was a rush, a notebook you'd left in their store and you needed it in a hurry. Right?"

"Where was this?"

"Up market, over near Sharper Image, you know the place?"

I did. Where the couriers hung out between runs. Where else?

"Tell me about the kid. What'd he look like?"

"White bread, brown hair, mushroom cut, sixteen, seventeen, zits ... what's to describe?"

In other words, he looked like any other kid of that age.

"How'd he dress?"

"Homeboy. Baggy pants, tee-shirt, Raider's cap."

"Nothing remarkable? Scars? Ear rings? Anything?"

"Strictly white bread and zits."

"Anything on the shirt?"

"Like breakfast? Naw, some cartoon or other. Don't remember."

And shirts get changed regularly or irregularly. "Know him?"

"Maybe, if I saw him again. Worth something?" She reached for another slice of indigestion.

"Fifty," I decided on generosity, then added: "If you can tell me where to find him ... and if it checks out."

"Chill man, no scam. If I spot him, I'll buzz you. Okay?"

I figured that was the best I could ask.

I didn't mention the regular police since I didn't figure that a fizzled firecracker was going call for much effort. Resources - particularly manpower - were always in short supply and there were a lot more important things going down ... unless, of course, our Chalk Bomber tried something more.

I made an executive decision. "Report to Ted," I directed. "It's his case. Ted, keep me posted, okay?" I rose from the desk, then nodded acknowledgment to Ted's startled: "Right, boss."

Maybe this would be what was needed to get Ted moving. I figured it certainly couldn't do any harm even though I didn't think it would do much good either. Still, sometimes you just have to take a chance on a long shot and, if it piqued Ted's interest - which the girl seemed to have done, maybe there'd be some benefit.

I took a walk down the hall to talk to a friend in another office, giving Ted a chance to bask in the glory of his promotion ... and, I hoped, to finish the indigestible pizza.

As for the girl, I figured I'd hear about her in due time ... one way or the other.

* * *

"I'm telling you it didn't work. Not even a cracked window. And, no, I didn't hang around to ask questions."

"So? Maybe he opened it somewhere else. Like in his car or something."

"And it didn't make the news. Sure ... happens everyday. Nobody bothers reporting 'em any more."

"Okay, maybe it didn't work. I don't know why. Maybe a wire broke or something. Maybe the ignitor was no good. Look, we don't have time for this. We've only got three nights left before the old ladies get back. And cleaning the damned places takes a lot of work. Doesn't leave much time for the important stuff. Maybe you'd like to come over and do some of the cleaning?"

"Somebody's got to be here to cover. I told you we should have brought in some help."

"And cut them in on everything? No way, butthead. This is ours and it stays that way. We'll get things set. We'll worry about Mr. Snoopy later. But ... I want you to cruise over to the 'Loin and see if you can score some rocks."

"You out of your mind? We don't have time for ..."

"Shut up and listen. I want you to score good - then we'll get some crackheads out of the barrio, stoke them up good and send them to work on Snoopy. We'll have to use one of the good cards and hit a bank up for ... make it five hundred."

"What if the card's been reported?"

"Then you split and we'll try another card at another ATM, okay, butthead?"

* * *

On a weekend, Taratino's would have been crowded. This being Monday, my request for a isolated table was easily satisfied by a corner table overlooking the docks and discreet 'RESERVED' signs on the adjacent tables. It was also a table not easily seen from the main room and, since we were on the second floor, quite invisible from the street.

Ms Zappa appeared promptly at eight.

Tonio, whom I'd briefed in advance, accepted our orders for cocktails and appetizers, then vanished. I knew the service would be prompt without being intrusive and that we'd be able to discuss matters in complete privacy. Discreet privacy.

After Tonio returned with drinks and bruschetta and then vanished again, I laid my impromptu photo essay on the table, together with an envelope holding the negatives.

Ms Zappa looked though the photos, nodding at each but reserving comment until she'd finished.

"Excellent, Mr. MacPherson, quite excellent. I believe you've earned your bonus. And very promptly, too," she sipped her martini thoughtfully.

"But there's something else?" I'd rather expected there was.

"Yes, I'm afraid so," she admitted, then stopped.

I sipped my brandy and said nothing, giving her time to decide what to tell me.

"I've been doing some checking," she resumed. "Very discreetly."

"And ...?"

"And North Wood may only be one of several."

"Go on ..."

The upshot was that Ms Zappa's inquiries had brought complaints - from several clients - that 'shrinkage' was on the upswing. "Nothing definite," she explained. "But, all taken together, I'm worried. Diversified Security Systems employees are supposed to be preventing theft, not causing it. I'm afraid, however, that something is going on ... something serious."

Serious? That depends. From what I'd seen two nights ago, several thousand dollars worth of merchandise had walked out ... from a mall which moved that much every minute or two ... even when things were slow.

On the other hand, it wasn't petty cash.

And, multiply that by a few other locations and we were looking at pretty good money.

Except that we were also looking at a lot of hands in the pie ...

Split it out - and discount everything to a fence - and the pretty good money shrunk back to a nice sum but hardly grand riches.

As for my side, I could arrange the same kind of surveillance for multiple sites - spending one or two nights at each - and probably have evidence on a large percentage of the guilty parties. All that needed was leg work and patience.

But it wasn't very elegant.

And I wasn't sure it was very appropriate.

Which was one reason I already had plans for the fence ... tentatively. Since I knew the receiver, I had one weak link I could break anytime.

Ms Zappa gave me time to consider. Actually, she seemed a bit more relaxed, perhaps simply for having shared her problem.

While I thought it through, I gestured for Tonio and gave him our orders. Then I thought some more.

"This is a recent development, isn't it?" I was guessing ... but it was an educated guess.

"That's right." Ms. Zappa confirmed.

"How do the people at DSS feel about your promotion to CEO? Any enemies?"

"I didn't think so ... until recently."

I agreed. She was probably right.

"Any ideas who?" That was the obvious question.

"Possibles but nothing certain."

And that was the obvious answer even if it wasn't what I wanted to hear.

"All right, what do you want?"

"To know who's behind this ... Can you do it."

"You know," I swished a sip of brandy around my mouth, enjoying the complex flavors. "I think I just might."

The grilled sea bass was excellent and the pasta superb ... and I kept forgetting to notice. I was too busy sketching out plans ... and enjoying it thoroughly.

I had the impression that Ms Zappa was enjoying it also.

In the end, it would take a couple of days to set things up - and to draw up another agreement - but the basics were settled. I had the objective and I had the plans. The rest was going to be details.

* * *

I had trouble sleeping that night. Too many puzzles were running though my mind. And too many plans.

There were only two things I was sure of:

First, that someone had made a serious mistake.

The second was that I had only the vaguest idea who ...

And none at all why ...

But I did have a plan ...

And I had carte blanche ...

What more can a guy ask ...?