No trace of fear from her now as they strolled back to the alley. They were able to continue on to the sidewalk, for the patrol car was gone.

"You look me up again sometime soon, honey," she drawled as he crossed the street. His limp was nearly gone.

"That's Gail-like a tornado..."

"But with an i," he finished amiably. "I won't forget."

Richard went back to the club.

He was in no presentable state to be allowed inside, but did not plan a direct approach. He parked in a handicap space, killed the motor, but left the headlights on, blinking them several times. This was sufficient to catch the attention of one of the door bouncers, who sauntered over. He came close, bending to peer in the open driver's window.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"I hope so," said Richard. "I'm having a problem with my contacts."

"Oh, yeah?"

He vaguely gestured toward his face. "I think one them slipped down but I can't feel anything. The light here is really bad."

"Why don't you put your dome on?"

Richard gave a self-effacing laugh. "It's a rental, I can't find the damn control."

"Might be on the steering wheel." "Really?"

He leaned closer to point. "Try that one."

The dome came on, bright enough to work with. Richard caught the man's attention. "Would you look at my eye?

Maybe you can see the lens. It's rather hard for me."

The man looked. After a long, still minute, Richard had him. He instructed him to find the manager and bring him out.

"Tell him it has to do with the large private party that left earlier. He should understand."

"Okay." The bouncer departed, pushing past his fellows at the door, obviously on an errand with no time to waste.

Richard watched and waited, refusing to allow his hopes to rise.

Presently, a dark-haired man in an open-neck white polo with the club's name stitched on the pocket emerged. The bouncer pointed out Richard's car to him. He came around to the driver's side, too.

"Yes, sir?" He possessed the grim, tired expression of one who expects the worst of people and usually gets it.

"You're the manager who dealt with the host of the private party?" He did not think Alejandro would have used his real name.

"Yes, sir. I'm Mr. Forestieri. I spoke to Mr. Gonzalas earlier. Is there a problem?"

"No. Mr. Gonzalas wanted to arrange another party, perhaps for next week."

"We may be booked. Why don't you come to my office? The schedule's there."

"No need to trouble yourself, if you'll just listen to me very closely..."

Forestieri proved to be a bit less of a challenge than the bouncer. It took only half a minute to hook him. He obligingly got in on the passenger side. Richard had many questions. Unfortunately, the answer to them all was "no."

Forestieri only knew Trujillo as Gonzalas, had no address or number for him; the party had been paid for in cash. Lots of it.

"Who made the arrangements?" Richard asked, exasperated in spite of himself. He'd known this foray would probably not have a payoff. "You had to have talked to someone."

"Nick Anton set it up for him."

"When?"

"Last week."

That far back? Alejandro had been quite confident of success, then. "Anton was the only go-between?"

"He came in with the deposit for the room and entertainment. He's done that before for this guy and others."

Forestieri, once started, had no trouble imparting information; the problem was finding anything useable in it.

"How often has Gonzalas been here?"

"Couple times a year."

"Where do you think he gets his money?"

"Oh, he's in drugs, anybody can see that."

"It doesn't bother you?"

"Money's money. He don't deal on the premises."

No, just shares in the bounty and bribes you to not notice, he thought, the sights and smells of the private room still fresh in his memory. "Where's Nick Anton tonight?"

"I dunno. Maybe with Gonzalas. The guy likes to have plenty of muscle around him. It's a status thing."

"Who would know where to find Gonzalas?"

"I dunno." Forestieri stared at the dashboard, indifferent. His clothing stank of cigarette smoke and sweat.

"Someone here must."

"I dunno." Richard held his temper in check. "Then you will go out and ask. Talk to every girl who was at that party; talk to anyone who had anything to do with it or Anton. I have to know where Gonzalas is. Go."

Forestieri left, beginning his questions with the men at the door. One and all shook their heads or shrugged. He went inside. Richard cut his lights and ran the air to clear out the stink. After that, he had nothing more to do but stare at the club entry for the next hour.

Forestieri returned. What he imparted was a collection of conflicting stories of where Gonzalas might be staying. The guesses ranged from a prim bed-and-breakfast in Weatherford to several swank hotels in Dallas, to a private mansion at an unspecified location. There wasn't even that much speculation about Anton, as he didn't talk to fellow workers about his jobs outside the club. Little wonder.

Richard gave Forestieri his cell phone number. "When you next see Anton, Gonzalas, or anyone in that group or find out where they are, you will call me, no matter what the time. You will not speak of me to them or anyone else. Is that clear?"

The reply to that, of course, was "yes." It made a change, at least.

Nick Anton's Euless apartment was dark at this late hour. Richard moved quietly, eschewing the squawking gate, climbing over the porch wall instead. His instinct told him the place would be empty, but he had to be thorough.

His leg all mended, he landed lightly, crept to the door, and pressed his ear to its glass panel. His shadow would show against the closed blinds on the other side, but at this point he didn't care. He'd welcome the chance to engage Anton in a short, violent conversation. That would be extremely satisfying.

The door had a deadbolt as well as a regular lock in the knob. Richard's burgling tools were at home, and he didn't fancy the noise of breaking glass as an announcement of his presence to the other tenants.

Perhaps the would-be dancer in the flat upstairs might have a key to Anton's place. She seemed to know more about his doings than his coworkers.

She was also, alas, popular. Not at home to Richard's knock. Either working or on a date. Or both.

He gave up this trail for the time being. Anton probably wouldn't be back for hours, if at all. He could even still be out cold from the fight.

Cheering thought.

Richard headed east, swooping into his slot in New Karnak's parking garage just after two-thirty. Weariness enveloped him the closer he got to his refuge. When the elevator doors slid open, he was mentally prepared to go straight to bed.

Two messages were on his machine.

Bourland had phoned some six hours earlier to give his flight number and when he'd be arriving on Monday. He'd sorted out the details for Michael's travel as well. The boy would go back with him when the time came.

"There's one other thing," he added. "I'll be telling the police I'm Stephanie's uncle. If they think I'm next of kin, it will make the process easier-and yes, I'll have papers to prove that if necessary. My coming in will draw police attention to me and thus to you. I'll stop at your place, but it'll be better if I take a hotel room before I contact them.

Call me if you've any news."

Considerate of him to be so cautious. Richard wondered what explanation Bourland would give to account for his knowledge of the murder victims ahead of anyone else. The media had not released any names yet, pending notification of family. Not to worry, the man was wily and charming as a cat; he'd smooth things over.

Dr. Sam left the second message. He announced that he and Helen had arrived safe at her home, gave the address and number and said that Michael's condition was unchanged.

"If he doesn't start to snap out of it tomorrow, I'm going to hunt down a specialist. That's not a threat, it's a necessity, so get used to the idea."

Sam was an easy subject for suggestion, but surprisingly forceful about getting his own way when it was important to him. It always had to do with the care of his patients.

Very well, so be it. Richard stripped on his way to the shower, once more carefully trashing his ruined clothes. Damn it. He'd liked those jeans.

When he emerged, the night scrubbed from his once-bruised body if not from his spirit, he stopped cold, halted by an eerie, insistent sound. It was like a baby's cry, meant to get attention.

The awful deja vu stole the blood from his face and strength from his limbs.

His computer was flashing the letter S. It had the same program as the one in his Toronto home.

Stephanie?

No. Utterly impossible, though an instant of hope had split through him like lightning. More likely this was an emergency call from another friend in desperate need.

He groaned inwardly, approaching the computer as though it were a bomb, and tapped in the access code.

The message that came through floored him.

This is Luis. Phone me. Please.

Chapter Eleven

He called the number, a local one. It rang only once before being picked up. Silence on the other end.

"Luis?"

"Richard?"

"Yes, it's me. Where are you?"

"Thank God. Oh, thank God."

He got the impression of Luis crumpling with profound relief. "Where are you?"

"He got them. He got them all."

"I know. Where are you?"

But Luis was unable to answer, choking into tears. He was not that weak of a man, but this was probably the first time he'd been able to speak to anyone. A severe reaction was only to be expected. Richard waited him out, quelling his impatience before it turned into anger.

"I-I'm sorry," Luis finally whispered. "I just-just..."

"It's all right. Tell me where you are. I'll come fetch you."

"What?"

"I'm in Dallas. I know what's happened. Where are you?"

Luis stumbled out an address and general directions to a roadside motel near Plano.

"I'll be there in thirty. Get ready to leave."

He got a meek, tired reply in the affirmative.