Down These Strange Streets (George R.R. Martin) (Kitty Norville 6.50)

I had to wonder if he had a carry permit for it. Permits aren’t easy to get, here in California.

My tablespoon of espresso had gone cold, so I pressed the buttons again and let the powerful syrup dribble into the cup, then returned to the desk.

Four cups later, my nerves were singing and I knew a few more things about Harry Savoy. His sister had told me he was a kind of graphic artist specializing in architectural drawings, who worked from home. The room he used as an office was drier than the rest, probably because of the equipment—I’d gone there when I’d squeezed what I could from his desk, and found a desktop computer with a state-of-the-art drawing pad, a giant wall-mounted screen, and a printer fitted with paper three feet wide. Most of the stuff I didn’t touch, although I did turn on the desktop long enough to see that pretty much all the files were password protected. Which put it beyond my personal skill set, although I had a friend who could help me, if need be.

His paper files told me he made good money, and invested some. His machinery suggested that most of his friends existed online, through WeWeb, although he also had a Facebook page. I shut the computer down without logging on to either, and sat for a minute looking at the half-dozen framed pictures on the wall over the desk.

Harry was good-looking. My client hadn’t mentioned that, not a thing a sister would notice maybe, but the group photos had one person in common, a guy with a dark and intense look about him I figured would win him a lot of attention, even without the litheness he was sure to have when he moved. Gun, looks, money: maybe I didn’t have to look any further than old Harry’s personal life for a motivation.

But I would. If nothing else, I had to earn the check in my pocket. I made notes of his phone numbers from the bills on file, and made copies of the last few months’ statements on the credit cards he used. He had an address book, a tattered old thing that functioned as a backup to whatever phone he carried, but I wrote down a few of the addresses that looked more recent.

I didn’t find a laptop, or a pad, or the phone.

I did make one very interesting discovery, hidden in a place so clever I nearly missed it myself—inside the heater vent, under a false side that looked exactly like the other three. I pulled it out, and sat on the floor to look at it: a nine-by-twelve envelope of printouts and clippings, nineteen of them, that made my brain whir around for a while until a little voice told me it might be a good time to leave. Taking the envelope with me.

Maybe I needed to take a look at the other names on that list, after all.

WHEN I FINALLY SLIPPED BACK THROUGH MY OWN FRONT DOOR, LATE THAT night, I stood in the dark for the longest time, straining to hear over the pounding in my heart. Stupid, to leave my gun in the safe. Stupid, stupid, to let the habits of paranoia go rusty.

After the longest time, my eyes showed no motion. No intruder shot, stabbed, or bludgeoned me, and I heard nothing outside my own skin. When I forced my hand to flip on the light, the only thing that looked back at me was my wild-eyed reflection in the mirror—good thing I didn’t have a gun in my hand, I told myself, or I’d have blown a hole in the wall.

But just because there was no one waiting for me (and no one in the bathroom or in the closet) didn’t mean I was safe. In ninety seconds I had my gun, my hat, my go-bag of cash, and a clean shirt, and I was out the door.

I left my car where I’d parked it, and went away on foot.

Which took care of my own safety; now for that of my client. It always looks bad when a PI loses a client. And anyway, she was probably going to owe me plenty by the time I’d finished.

She was asleep, of course, since it was just shy of two in the morning. Anyway, I hoped she was only asleep. Her small house up in Sausalito (another place with damp air and tolerant attitudes) was dark, like all of its neighbors, so I fiddled with the lock on her front door and let myself in—if I knocked loud enough to wake her, I’d wake the neighbors as well, to say nothing of giving warning to any unfriendlies who might be listening. Her cat nearly gave me a heart attack, a flash of near-ultraviolet motion followed by a slapping noise from the next room, and I came maybe half a micron from squeezing the trigger into action before my brain translated the motion and screamed at me to lay off. I eased back the pressure, feeling a little shaky: lucky she didn’t have a Rottweiler.

I breathed in the air for a while, sniffing for any trace of death and blood and terror, but the house smelled good, like cooking and flowers. Like her, in fact. And only like her, which suggested that she lived alone.

So I cleared my throat and started talking in a low voice. “Ms. Savoy? Elizabeth? This is Mike Heller, the investigator you hired. Elizabeth, please, if you’re here I need you to wake up. This is Mike Heller, and I found out some things that make me think you’re not safe here. Sorry about breaking in like this, I sort of needed to. Um, Ms. Savoy? You there? This is Mike—”

The lights went on abruptly, dazzling my dark-adapted eyes. My right hand jerked again, and I blinked hard.

“Mr. Heller? What are you doing here?”

I blew out a breath. I was going to have to go someplace nice and quiet at the end of this damn case. Assuming I was still alive, of course. I let my gun drop to my side, although I didn’t put it away.

“Ms. Savoy, I’m afraid you may be in danger. I need you to throw a few things in a bag and come with me.”

“What, now? What time is it, anyway?”

“Time to go, if you wa

nt to live.”

Motion in the dark doorway resolved into a figure, dressed in slinky pajamas. Her hair was every which way, her face was bare of makeup, and she had a red pillow line across one cheek. She was absolutely gorgeous.

“It’s Harry, isn’t it? What did you find?”

“I’m leaving here in two minutes, with or without you. I can tell you about Harry later, once I’m sure we’re safe. You coming or not?”

“I can’t . . . How do you . . . You broke into my house!”

“I couldn’t be sure you weren’t being watched. Still can’t be sure.”

“Get out!”