Speaking of adages, there's also one about the early bird getting the worm. It looked like getting up early this morning had been worth it.

Of course, technically, I'd gotten the worm a few days before. But it still felt good.

As I walked into my condo, the phone was ringing.

"MacPherson," I answered.

"Ray here," was the response. "I want to thank you."

"Oh?"

"For saying what I'd been wanting to say for days," he explained. "Just between you and me, we've got some real idiots in this outfit. They're only concerned with CYA."

CYA - that was shorthand for "cover your ass" and was entirely too common in the corporate world.

"So," I prompted, "what's it going to be?"

"I'm handling things on this end," Raymond announced with audible satisfaction. "I've already called the police in - someone should be here shortly. Tell me, can you set up something to notify us when they return for their next retrieval? I'd like to catch the guilty parties red handed."

"If I may offer a suggestion," I didn't wait for permission, "it would be better to tail them and see where they take the data. It'll certainly be faster than trying to sweat it out of them."

Ray considered the suggestion, then asked: "Can you arrange that? Sorry," he corrected himself, "would you arrange that for us?"

"Happy to," I agreed - and I meant it. I had a couple of personal scores to settle here as well. "Have the police contact me after you've talked with them. Since it looks like they're on a two day schedule," - they'd come to retrieve data on Friday and then again Sunday morning but hadn't been back last night - "it'll probably be tonight but they might not return until tomorrow. We'll aim at tonight."

"Sounds fine," Raymond agreed, then added, "And thanks again. You know, I wish I had a recording of that conversation. Any way you can tap our system and make me one?"

"Whoa," I protested, "tapping your system would probably be illegal. But," I offered, "no sweat. I'll make you one from mine." Then I broke the connection.

I wasn't kidding - and I would make him a copy. One of the advantages of wearing George was that I had tucked a digital recorder - one of those credit-card-sized units that held two hours of voice in digital format - in next to the battery pack. Since the leg itself would set off any detector anyone chose to use, the recorder's presence was well masked by the larger unit when I entered.

Still, since my leg wasn't the greatest place to record from - the pickup would probably have been muffled - I'd shifted the unit to my shirt pocket before joining the conference. I hadn't checked it yet but I was reasonably sure that the entire squabble was clearly recorded in flash RAM.

Like I said before: it wasn't a question of being paranoid, it was only a question of being paranoid enough.

And, hey, it was even legal. I was simply recording a conversation to which I had been a party. After all, they'd been recording too.

Of course, it was also simply another form of CYA - covering my ass - just in case any corporate idiots tried to argue about whether I'd carried out my part of the bargain.

If Ray used his copy for corporate blackmail, that was his business.

* * *

I left the recorder card dumping it's contents to a conventional cassette while I took some additional equipment down to the van, then drove back over to Magic Carpets to modify my installation.

On the way, I used my cell phone to call TrenData and leave a message for Raymond, telling him where I was headed and suggesting that his police contact might like to meet me there to look things over first hand.

Ray was waiting outside when I arrived - together with another figure I recognized: Detective Herbert Holloway, SFPD.

I pulled over to the curb, clipped the handicapped placard on the rear view mirror, grabbed my satchel and climbed out to offer a greeting. "Well, Horrible. They've let you out again?"

"Couldn't afford to hold me, Mac. Said I ate too much. City budget couldn't take it." Herb - aka Horrible Herb - gave me a grin like the keys on a cordovan-covered piano, sticking out a mitt big enough for two ordinary men.

I let his oversized grip swallow mine and didn't even try to counter his squeeze. It would have been pointless.

Herb Holloway was one of those people you either liked immediately or hated immediately. When he'd been fifteen years younger - and maybe fifty pounds lighter - he'd played pro basketball for a while and semi-pro ball with one of the local bush leagues. At six-five and built like a bull elephant, he should have played football but said he abhorred contact sports. "Always afraid I'll step on someone," he explained one. "Then I'd have to clean all that squishy stuff off my shoes."

Looking at him, you could believe it.

As for me, I liked the guy. For one thing, he was one color-blind black man - as long as you didn't care about his skin color, he didn't give a damn about yours. For another, he was also one of the gentlest people you'd ever hope to meet.

Back in the early days, when we were both rookies, we'd answered a bar fight together and we'd found a man holding a knife, threatening another man who was backed into a corner. Herb had waltzed in, taken a look at the situation and the senior officer who was trying unsuccessfully to convince the knife-wielder to back off, and then wrapped his mitt around a nearly full pitcher of beer from the bar.

Carrying the pitcher like it was a small mug, Herb had addressed the knife fighter in a preemptory voice, asking: "Like a beer, buddy?"

When the man with the knife glanced around to see who was talking, Herb had barked a loud "HERE, CATCH!" and hurled the pitcher underhanded straight at the perp.

Well, think about it. What would you do with a full pitcher of beer coming at you low and fast? About chest level or a little above?

Yeah, that's what the knife-wielder tried to do ... except that he lost the knife in the attempt and still took the pitcher full in the face. Of course, the contents of the pitcher didn't stop there and the senior officer - who was proving his own presence of mind by grabbing the man from behind - also got a large dose of the beverage in the process.

Once the perpetrator was down and cuffed, the drenched officer looked up at Herb and complained: "That's a horrible waste. Next time, use an empty."

Naturally, before the shift was over, everyone was calling Herb "Horrible".

As for letting him out? These days, Herb was attached to the computer crimes squad - which mostly meant a terminal at the station. But it was probably why he'd gotten this squeal.

In any case, it was a pleasure to see him. With Herb, a minimum of explanation would go the distance - if anything, his technical expertise was well beyond mine. I've always hated making explanations to dummies.

"Mr. Lu's been telling me about you spotting the tap," Herb offered as I led the way inside Magic Carpets. "Nice piece of work. What'cha got in mind for a wrap?"

Explanations had to wait while I performed introductions, then invited Mr. Parajan to join us while I modified the equipment upstairs. It was only courteous. After all, this was his establishment.

"What I have in mind," I explained, handing Herb the stepladder to carry, "is to add a remote to the alarms. Since the burglars' past performance has been pretty regular, I think we can expect them to show up either tonight shortly after the cleaners leave or, if not, then tomorrow night.

"Adding a wireless remote will tell me when they enter. Then, while they're retrieving their data disk from the unit on the roof, I'll plant a tracer on their vehicle. I've got a nice little Orion transmitter and receiver out in the van," I addressed Herb. "I'll give you the frequency and mode information." The department had similar units and two follow cars were always better than one.

"The inside part sounds okay," Horrible agreed in part, then continued, "But, once they're moving, you'd better let us take it. We don't want to jump them too fast. Like to get the card man as well. Incidentally, we're keeping this one quiet until we've busted it. I don't want Uncle's boys getting in the way."

Meaning he - and the department - hadn't told the federal agencies yet what was going on. I could understand that easily enough. Regional and national rivalries were always a pain in the butt and if the SFPD got the credit for wrapping up a major information heist and a phony credit card operation all in one swoop, well, that would leave the department owing me a big one.

Hey, I didn't mind. It wasn't going to affect my payoff from TrenData and there are more currencies than one in this world. Maybe this was one I couldn't take to the bank but it was still valuable.

"So," Herb continued, "just put your toys away. I'll meet you this evening with my own. Okay?"

"Fine with me," I agreed. "Just be sure you dress down."

Herb looked at me for a moment, then smiled. "You supplying the t-bird?"

"I'll try to do a little better than that," I offered. "But don't expect Tattinger's."

Raymond Lu and Mr. Parajan were looking at us as if we were speaking a foreign language. Which, in a sense, of course, we were. But I didn't explain.

* * *

Back at the condo, I found Ted - with his arm still in a sling - and Jane - looking like a bank executive - holding the tape recorder where I'd dumped the card recording. The simplest description would be to say that they both looked highly amused.

"Beautiful, Boss," Ted whooped as I entered.

"Do you always alienate your clients?" Jane queried. "If so, maybe I should be checking the want ads again." But she smiled when she said it.

"Only occasionally," I confided. "And only the ones who act like spoiled brats. Incidentally, Ted, I'd like you to do a voice stress analysis on the speakers."

"On that? You're kidding right?" Ted looked at me like I'd just turned blue with polka-dots. Pink ones. "You'll have spikes all over the place. You've got a bunch of mad puppies there."

"It'll be good practice for you," I smiled. "Just give it a try." I turned to Jane. "How'd your morning go?"

"Everybody checked in," Jane advised. "You want the long or short?"

"Let's have the summary first," I decided. "We can go over the details later."

"Word is that things are definitely shook up. A couple of the guys - well, guys and girls, I suppose I should say - have been approached casual like about whether they were interested in some extra income. Mostly, they haven't tried heisting anything yet. They want to get the layout and feel for the situation before tipping their hands."

I nodded. That was reasonable. I hadn't expected them to start lifting goods the first or second day on the job - it might have been a little too obvious.

"Anyway," Jane continued, "Gary and Bill both figure they're being sounded out. Vera said she'd been propositioned but she wasn't sure if it was larceny or sex. She's playing it cool for now. Daniel thinks he's being sized up - says there are a couple of people on his shift who aren't quite what you'd expect but he's not sure yet.

"At any rate, by ten, everyone had been in to report so I closed shop and came on over." She produced a notepad and offered, "I can give you the details if you'd like."

"Sounds about like I expected," I decided. "First, let's figure out how to get things moving this afternoon. We can go over the details later. Unless there's anything important?" I didn't figure there was or Jane would have already mentioned it.

Since there wasn't, we turned to mundane details of making the move to our new offices.

* * *

Moving in to the offices was a mad-house.

Jane had arranged for a crew of a half-dozen people for stoop labor but it wasn't really that there was that much to move. Most of the furnishings from the old office just weren't worth recovery and the new furniture - supplied by Office Seconds - came with it's own delivery crew.

So did the new computers Ted had ordered.

Add deliveries from Office Depot and Office Max and the place was beginning to look like Fisherman's Wharf on the 4th of July ... as in standing room only.

The good news was that, by four o'clock, the place was empty again ... except for the three of us ... and it even looked like an office. There was no name on the door and the phones - except for the cellulars - wouldn't be working until morning but it actually looked like a real, honest to god office.

The central area between the offices now boasted a long conference table surrounded by a dozen comfortable chairs. Not only did the chairs and table match but, aside from a few wear marks, they looked new.

Against the inside wall behind the reception area, two credenzas provided ample room for a buffet spread, snacks or drinks while the file drawers - for the moment - held all the jumbled equipment, books and miscellany which had been worth recovery after the fire. They weren't that full.

In one of the back offices, several boxes held ready to assemble shelving where, once they were put together, the contents of the drawers could be sorted out ... and kept or discarded at leisure.

The reception / entry area had two comfortable couches, end tables with lamps, ash trays - in this business, asking clients not to smoke wasn't something calculated to improve an already upset state of mind. A circulation filter would be installed in the ceiling above the couches in a few days.

The reception area was completed by a single L-shaped desk holding a computer terminal, a multi-line telephone and a large vase of flowers. A card on the flowers announced the appreciation of Office Seconds. It was a nice touch ... one we should try keeping.

My office - on the left with the balcony overlooking the bay - held a huge, U-shaped desk with it's own computer terminal on one arm of the U. A floating, multi-colored logo drifted sinuously across the screen bearing the words Homeless Detective Agency.

Behind the desk, a high-backed office chair - finished in a soft, gray fabric - was both a swivel chair and a recliner. I sank gratefully into its comfortable support.

Three less elaborate but still comfortable chairs faced me. Behind me, as I swiveled, the other wing of the desk held a deskpad calendar and a goose-necked reading lamp. Under the lamp was the original bronze placard now duplicated by the floating screen display.

Curiously, I checked the desk drawers.

Center drawer - my favorite fine-tipped ball point pens, a couple of freshly sharpened #2 pencils, assorted erasers, a stapler, scissors, a ruler, paper clips, push pins, post-it note pads, letter-opener and a stamp dispenser. The dispenser was empty.

It was nice to know that Jane wasn't completely perfect.

The top side drawer held a half-dozen note pads, a magnifying glass ... and a plaid deer-stalker hat.

The bottom side drawer was empty ... except for a square bottle with a black label. Sour mash, of course.

I was glad to know that - after everything else that had been happening - my loyal crew still had the energy for jokes.

Now, the only question was how I could repay the jokes ... This was one I'd have to think about.

The computer screen had to be Ted's.

Which meant Jane had provided the traditional accessories.

Except how'd she known I had an occasional fondness for JD Black?

It was obvious, of course! She'd been in my condo - ample opportunity to check my cabinets.

Her nom du guerre, 'Madame Lu' ... that was from the song "Love Potion #9" wasn't it? Maybe she had a weakness for 60s pop music. Well, I'd think of something ... like rigging her computer to play the song when she turned it on.

For Ted, I wanted something more subtle ... but, just maybe ... with Allison's assistance ... Yeah, that would do it. Besides, we couldn't have Ted thinking he was the only computer hacker around ... even if, technically, he was better than I.

Hey, experience - and deviousness - still counts for something.

But time enough for that later. It was four-thirty and I had a date with Horrible about eleven.

In the mean time ... dinner sounded appropriate.

* * *

I invited Ted and Jane to supper but both begged off.

Ted was meeting Allison - said they were going to grab a pizza while they made the rounds out by the 'Loin looking for run-aways ... after, he reminded me, dropping by DSS and getting a dump of the surveillance tapes.

Jane, on the other hand, was headed over to the Mission for dinner ... and recruiting. We still, she also reminded me, needed someone to check the tapes after Ted collected.

Both of them having put me firmly in my place - whatever that was - I went home to dine in solitary.

Maybe I wasn't Escoffier but grilled chicken and pesto pasta didn't take a sous chef to prepare.

For desert, I carved a thick slice of pound cake and drizzled a mixture of honey and lemon juice - warmed in the microwave - over it. Maybe it wasn't cordon bleu but it was still good.

Add a cup of coffee - fresh-ground Cyclops blend from Gold Coast - and I didn't figure any apologies were required.

I found "Paint Your Wagon" running on the tube, set a pot of tea to steep, dumped my dishes in the dishwasher, put George on the quick-charger and settled back to listen to Lee Marvin's raspy-voiced paean to the joys of "dirty, filthy gold".

* * *

A couple of hours later, when the cast finished with "never looking back", I roused my rested bones to prepare for the evening's finale. The first step was to take George off the charger and put him back on my stump before changing to a less reputable selection from my wardrobe.

I hadn't shaved that morning but my beard wasn't that heavy anyway. Instead, I used an eyebrow pencil around the jaws, smearing the marks into a fair representation of several day's growth before adding shadows under the eyes and a smudge on the forehead.

To finish the job, I used my fingers to comb my hair ragged over the forehead before pulling a patched watch cap down over the ears.

I left the sweater and coat on the table - too warm inside ... probably too warm outside as well - while I checked the cabinet for an empty liquor bottle. There weren't any empties, of course. The last time I'd emptied one had been weeks before ... maybe longer. Naturally, I'd thrown it out.

So much for foresight.

Finally, I settled on a near-empty fifth of J&B - I didn't like scotch anyway - and started to empty the remainder down the sink.

Ahw, hell ... why not.

I poured the tea in on top of the scotch, gave the bottle a swirl, then took a sip.

Actually ... it wasn't too bad ... almost made the scotch palatable. I screwed the lid back, then fished through the stack under the sink for a proper sized paper bag.

Finally, the image of a complete rummy, I took the elevator down to my van and drove across town, parking the VW in TrenData's lot.

Horrible - Herb - was already waiting.

If I looked disreputable, Horrible looked like he'd been on the tiles for years. What the stain down the front of his coat was, I really didn't want to know but just the sight of it made me want to hold my breath.

My reaction wasn't entirely concealed. "Raw egg and grape-nuts," Horrible followed my gaze. "Looks pretty good, doesn't it? You bring the bottle?"

I held up the bag. "Tea and a little scotch, not too bad."

Herb produced his own - a half-full jug with a T-bird label. "Actually," he offered soto-voice, "it's a decent merlot." He patted his pocket before adding, "Got the bug right here. Magnetic mount, loose antenna. Just slap it on the chassis and it's ready to go.

"Terry's got the monitor," he gestured toward a older Plymouth parked at the back of the lot. "He'll pick us up when we're ready to move. We've got one backup - plain wrapper - in an alley a block and a half from here and a second watching your Viscount Services."

"The cleaning crew inside?" I asked.

"Went in a couple of hours ago," Herb confirmed. "Nothing from the silent on the roof hatch. Lights upstairs for a while but it's been dark for the last hour."

I nodded. "Shall we go find a soft patch of cement?" I invited. "We can sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of the death of kings," I quoted irrelevantly.

"Kings?" Horrible echoed. "Around LA? Queens maybe. May as well, let's get on it."

* * *

The next hour and twenty-three minutes reminded of everything I hated about stakeouts.

It wasn't a matter of boredom - Herb and I spent the time swapping stories, jokes and "remember when's" - that part was okay.

What wasn't all right was the pavement. It was hard and didn't get any softer.

And then there were my clothes - the sweater and coat were clean, no matter what they looked like ... but they felt like they were inhabited. I wasn't sure if it was nameless itches or subconscious method acting but, whatever, it had me alternating between scratching and squirming.

"A long hot bath," Horrible agreed with my unspoken thoughts. "Makes a man appreciate a desk job." He passed the t-bird jug.

The merlot wasn't bad. Warming.

Finally, we watched Mary and Helen leaving Magic Carpets.

"Half-hour or so," I suggested.

"Maybe," Horrible disagreed. "If they show on schedule. Pity we can't make perps punch a time clock."

"Be nice," I agreed. "Might even discourage them if they saw what their hourly came to."

"Including time in the slam?"

"Hell, even without it. Remember Picasso Charlie?" For years, Picasso Charlie had counterfeited one dollar bills ... by drawing them by hand. Nobody'd ever had the heart to charge him, much less convict. His hand-drawn replicas were good but they just weren't that good. People took them as curiosities, not as cash.

Still, even if PC was an extreme case, an awful lot of crooks could have made a lot more money at regular jobs for the hours they put in trying to be crooks.

Horrible and I were happily scheming plans for placing time-clocks for crooks in high crime areas - and passing the t-bird jug - when the Viscount van came around the corner.

"We're on," Herb made a production of staggering to his feet as the van halted.

Since the J&B bottle was in my pocket, I snagged the t-bird in the same hand as my cane and followed, using my free hand to pull a rag from my back pocket as I approached the driver's side.

With silent apologies to the vintners, I slopped some merlot on the rag, then started smearing the windshield with an irregular motion. "Fix ya' up here," I muttered. "Can' drive lak this. Fog'll getcha. Spare some change, buddy? Fer a cuppa?"

On the other side, Horrible was panhandling the passenger, leaning heavily against the front of the van while waving a vague hand toward the side window and whining about needing "somethin' ta' eat" and "col' out t'night, man needs somethin' ta' keep warm".

The driver was a young brunette, wedge-cut hair, studs pinned to her nose and lip, clad in a leather jacket with enough chrome to outfit a street chopper. "Bugger off, shithead," she snarled. "You're mucking up the windshield. Here," she produced a couple of bills and thrust them at me. "Get out of here, you stink."

I didn't ... but I didn't argue the point. I took the bills and ignored the discourtesy. "Com' on, Bud," I slurred. "Les fin a refill." I slooped across the sidewalk, exaggerating my limp, until reaching the wall, using it as support while I faked a healthy swig from the jug, my back to the van and the alley behind Magic Carpets.

Herb fetched up against the wall, facing me and reaching for the jug. "It's rigged," he muttered, faking his own draught of the red. He lowered the jug, then produced a second bag from a pocket. "Bug's keyed," he muttered softly. "You got it?"

"Signal's fine," the bag answered quietly.

"We'll watch them out," Herb answered. "Stay put till we squack."

Herb returned the brown-bag radio to his coat as we staggered along the sidewalk to the entry to the adjoining office building.

"So," Horrible grinned, "how'd you do?"

"Two bucks," I reported, examining the bills. "How 'bout you?"

"Looks like seventy cents," he reported. "Definitely racist inequality."

"Hey," I protested. "Honest wage for an honest job - I smeared their windshield. You just panhandled."

"Hey, I had to get the transmitter in their wheel well. You had your hands free."

"Okay, okay. I'll split it with you," I handed him one of the bills.

"What? Trying to get me to accept a bribe? Keep it, I'm on salary."

"Right, oh highly paid city employee. Well, they bit."

We slumped in the doorway to wait, silent for the moment.

Funny, I suppose, but - now that things were moving - the concrete wasn't as hard and the itchies weren't so bad.

It was only a few minutes before the pair reappeared. The second in the pair was taller, a tight crop of blond curls, dark leather jacket, tight pants and calf-hugging boots. I could make out the shape of the face but not the details. Not much for an ID but it was dark.

"Fox is out," Herb muttered into his paper bag radio. "Give 'em a minute to get started."

We watched while they started the engine, turned on the wipers and used the washer to remove the traces from my rag.

When their headlights came on, Herb was hoisting the jug while I was reaching for my turn.

If they gave us a second glance before they drove away, we didn't know - neither of us was looking in their direction.

"Okay, Terry," Herb addressed the radio. "They're moving. Pick us up."

We were waiting on opposite sides of the alley when Terry appeared, Herb taking the front passenger seat while I piled in the rear. "Mac," Herb performed introductions, "Terry Milton. Terry, Jerry MacPherson. Any word?"

"Second unit has them in sight, they're crossing on Market, headed toward Chinatown." Terry was tacturn, concentrating on driving.

We were moving at a reasonable pace - not too fast and not too slow. What little traffic there was wasn't a hinderance but we were relying mostly on the second unit for directions. No point in our crowding the quarry.

Since I was a passenger at this point, I took the opportunity shed the itchy sweater but kept the coat - it wasn't that cold but neither was it particularly warm. I also dumped the watch cap and tried to comb my hair back into some semblance of order.

On second thought, I used the rag - and dose of the scotch tea - to scrub out the worst of the eyebrow pencil, then passed the rag forward to Herb.

"My favorite aftershave," Herb commented. "Eau de smoked peat." But he gave himself a quick wash anyway, then shrugged out of the disreputable jacket.

"I'm moving up on a parallel," Terry announced over the radio. "We can switch anytime."

"Can you take a forward tail?" the radio questioned. "Looks like they're headed straight to target."

"Got it," Terry agreed, adding our position as he sped up, ignoring a yellow signal as we crossed an intersection. A high-speed chase it wasn't but, under other circumstances, our progress would have rated a traffic citation or two.

Moments later, we were turning ahead of a Viscount van, still proceeding at a reasonable pace but, in obedience to the street conditions in Chinatown, slower than before. Aside from a brief glance behind, I ignored the trailing vehicle. No point in scaring our quarry by starring at them.

At two AM, it seemed like every truck in the Bay area had converged on three block wide, mile and half long section preferred by San Francisco's more traditional oriental citizens.

At that point, in the congestion, maintaining a leading tail wasn't even practical ... or possible.

Still we were scarcely two blocks from the Viscount warehouse when we found ourselves blocked ahead by a truck trying to maneuver backwards into a space too small for a VW beetle and, behind, watched the Viscount van turn down a side street.

"We'll take it," the second unit announced over the radio, continuing with an intermittent commentary as they neared the Viscount Services site, finally concluding: "They're turning in. Proceeding past. We'll stop around the corner."

"Come on," Horrible decided. "Faster on foot. Join us when you can get free," he instructed our driver.

I agreed without comment, slipping out the back. The watch cap and sweater stayed where I'd left them. The cane I took.

* * *

When we reached Viscount Services, everything was quiet. A couple of cars were parked in the lot. A couple of empty slots suggested crew were still out working. Lights were on inside.

There wasn't much to look at.

"Come on," Herb ordered, leading me around the corner, down the next block and around another corner to where a plain van was parked next to a phone junction box. The junction box had a yellow fabric enclosure mounted around it and, even without looking, I knew there would be cables running from the junction box to the van.

"Holloway here," Herb announced, tapping on the van's rear door.

"Hey, Horrible," a voice answered. "Just a sec." The rear door opened a crack, offering a red-lit glimpse of two figures wearing headsets.

"Hold on, Horrible," one of the figures announced. "I think we've got your smoking gun. Calls to a cell phone but we're tracking it. Somewhere over west of 19th, south of Lincoln - we'll have to go mobile but we've got a lock on the phone."

"How firm?" Herb asked. "Can we roll on it?"

"Rock solid," the figure announced. "Folks inside called a few minutes ago to announce they'd be delivering another data disk. They're arguing about how many credit card numbers the disk should have and the pay off. Not exactly a love fest. Your call, lieutenant."

"On tape?"

"Of course," the voice sounded hurt. "Iron clad."

"Okay," Herb decided. "Wait 'til they hang up, then signal me and kill their connections. We'll put a team in here, first, then go after the card man. How long will it take for you to locate the site?"

"Sergeant Cleaver's headed that way already. Says he should have the location pinpointed within a half hour. Black and white's are standing by. You going to run it from here?"

"Too far to manage both in person," Herb agreed. "Can you get me Cleaver on a patch?"

"No problem," the speaker agreed, turning back to his equipment for a moment, then adding: "Okay, they've broken the connection. I'm killing their line with a trouble signal. Just a sec, I'll get you Cleaver."

"Never mind," Herb ordered. "Just tell him when he finds the location, to sit on it until he hears from me. No one in, no one out. Okay?" Horrible didn't wait for a response but pulled the radio from his pocket, stripping the bag off with an annoyed gesture.

"This is Lieutenant Holloway," he addressed the radio. "All units assume position, no lights, no sirens. Wait for my mark. Holloway out." He released the transmit button. "We'd better get around front. Can you shag it?"

I didn't waste breath answering, I was already moving - well, not running but the fastest stiff-legged trot I could manage - around the corner, back toward Viscount Service.

Naturally, Herb passed me easily.

When I reached the front entrance to Viscount, two black and whites were already in position and I'd spotted two more headed down the alley behind the businesses.

From the gate, I could see Herb pounding on the front door, a uniformed officer to each side, guns out, ready to rush through. Two more officers were crouched just out of sight, ready to follow.

"Fire," Herb was shouting. "There's a fire out here. Your truck's on fire. Can you hear me?" He alternated shouts with heavy pounding.

Finally, a crack of light appeared around the door, changing instantly to a yellow square as Herb slammed the door open, hollering "POLICE! FREEZE! THIS IS THE POLICE!"

If Herb had moved any slower, he'd have been trampled by the four uniforms following him.

I followed at a more leisurely pace.