Blood Hunt

Red-Haired Woman
1

Harry was dubious. “He had a few words with a red-haired singer Monday night. What makes you think he went back for more than that on Tuesday?”

“A feeling.”

Certainly he had no other reason. No real evidence connected Mossman to this woman any more than evidence connected Adair to that other redhead. Only the similarity in height and coloring suggested that the two women might even be the same. Still…two mysterious deaths and two memorable redheads…

Harry quirked a brow at him. “A feeling…like the ones your grandmother has?” He sang the Twilight Zone theme: “Doo-doo doo-doo.”

If only. Harry might consider his Grandma Doyle full of blarney and superstition but everyone in the family took her Feelings seriously. They rarely missed. Harry himself had witnessed one instance, when she came for a visit after they learned Marti was pregnant. At Harry’s with them, watching his brother play for LA, she went outside suddenly, saying she could not bear to watch Shane get hurt. Sure enough, just before the half, he went under a pile-up. Scratch one knee and one pro football career. Let Harry call it coincidence; Garreth wished he had some of that gift.

“No, it’s just a hunch. But I want to check out this redhead. Crazies come in all shapes and sizes.”

Harry considered. “That I can go along with. First we need to see if Mossman went back to North Beach Tuesday.” He checked his watch. “Too bad the evening doorman isn’t on duty yet. He might remember Mossman catching a cab. Let’s get on those cab companies, then.”

At the Hall they let their fingers do the walking…still a slow process. Each call met the same initial response: did they have any idea how many pickups the company made at the Westin in an evening!

Garreth tried to simplify their task. “This would be for a single passenger…” Easier to find on their trip logs since he estimated most of the fares would be couples or groups. “…picked up between eight and eight-thirty.” Figuring Mossman used an hour or so to return to the hotel, shower, call home, and dress in his red coat.

By the end of the afternoon he and Harry learned that only six cabs from four companies picked up single fares in that time period. Four went to North Beach, one to the Opera House in the Civic Center, one to the Haight-Ashbury district. Yes, those drivers routinely picked up fares at the Westin.

Now they needed to determine if any of those fares were Mossman.

Harry checked his watch again and stood, stretching. “The evening doorman might be on duty now. Let’s go show him Mossman’s picture.”

And the cabbies, too.

The doorman did remember Mossman…at least the coat…but not the cab company nor the destination he gave the driver. They missed the driver whose fare had gone to the opera but eventually caught the others. The one remembered his Haight-Asbury fare, and it was not Mossman, nor was one of those going to North Beach. The remaining three drivers could not identify Mossman’s photo.

“That doesn’t mean I couldn’t have taken him,” one female driver said. “I just don’t remember him. They get in, ride quietly, don’t stiff me on the tip or give me a big memorable one and they’re just another fare, you know?”

Finally Harry called it quits. While they typed up reports back at the office, he said, “What do you say to taking Lien out for a change? I’ll call her, and you make reservations for three somewhere.”

Garreth shook his head. “Tonight you have her to yourself. I’m going to grab a quick bite somewhere and fall into bed early.”

“You sure?” Harry whipped his report out of the typewriter and signed it after a fast proofread.

“Go home to your wife.”

Harry waved on his way out.

Garreth kept typing. Some time later Evelyn Kolb came in and picked up her tea thermos. “Did you get your teletype from Denver? I think Leyva put it under something on your desk.”

“Under?” Under, for God’s sake. It could have vanished forever.

But he found it under the bodega murder book…a description of Mossman’s jewelry. A man’s gold Rolex with functions doing everything but answering the telephone; a plain gold man’s wedding band, size 8 inscribed: B.A. to G.M. 9-4-73.

Next week was their wedding anniversary. What a hell of a present.

The last item caught his interest even more than the Rolex…a sterling silver pendant two inches long, shaped in the outline of a fish with the Greek word for fish inside the outline. Was that enough silver to bother stealing?

Maybe the killer just disliked Christian symbols. Faye and Centrello looked at cults in the Adair murder.

The teletype went on to report that Mossman’s wife knew of no enemies, just business rivals. Of course, that would have to be checked out. For now he typed up the jewelry descriptions for a flier to distribute to the pawnshops, then finished his reports.