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The manager's eyes went wide. "The Graham Fowler? Who wrote Midnight
Brigade and Winter Gambit?"
Fowler rubbed his nose. "Well . . . at the risk of learning you consider
them trash, those are two of my efforts, yes."
"Are you kidding?" The manager grinned. "That Dane Winter is great. Have
you read the books?" he asked Garreth.
"Not those two." The evasion avoided an admission that he had not read any
of Fowler's books.
The manager shook his head. "You ought to. He's this guy who's past fifty
and the hotshot kids in British Intelligence keep trying to claim he's over
the hill but he can still spy rings around them all. He doesn't go getting
himself beat up all the time, either. When you're our age you'll appreciate
seeing a hero like that for a change. Hey, why are we standing out here in the
hall? Come in, Mr. Fowler." He led the way into his livingroom. It smelled of
a sweetly fragrant pipe tobacco.
"It's gratifying to hear my heroes are appreciated:" Fowler strolled over
to the bay window. "What a magnificent view of the bay. Are you sure you can't
help us with Bodenhausen?"
The manager's forehead furrowed. "Damn, I wish I could. But I just never
knew him."
"You said he took good care of his apartment," Garreth said. "That sounds
like you were in it."
"Yeah, from time to time, when something needed fixing."
"Was anyone else ever there? Or do you know if he was particular friends
with any of the other tenants?"
The furrows deepened. "Keith Manziaro, I think. Once when I was up in his
apartment he was telling his wife about fighting the Battle of Bull Run
against Bodenhausen."
"Bodenhausen was a war games buff?" Fowler asked.
"More than that." Catao grinned. "His spare bedroom where he spread those
battlefield maps on the floor looked like a museum. I mean, he had muskets and
swords and Civil War rifles all over the walls. He even had some military
uniforms from the Revolutionary and Civil Wars, handed down from ancestors
who'd worn them, he told me."
Possibly Bodenhausen himself had worn them, Garreth mused.
"And he also had this letter he claimed was signed by George Washington,
freeing another ancestor who'd been a slave at Mount Vernon. I don't know if I
can believe that, but it makes a good story."
A letter signed by George Washington! Garreth caught his breath. That
letter and the other relics would be priceless heirlooms to most families. Who
had Bodenhausen's belongings gone to? A friend who could appreciate them,
perhaps a fellow vampire? "Mr. Catao, what happened to Bodenhausen's
belongings after he died?"
Catao blinked at Garreth. "His executors took it all away, of course."
"Executors? Who were they?"
"Hell, I don't remember." He rolled his eyes as Garreth frowned. "Christ,
what do you think, I have a photographic memory? I saw the name once six years
ago when this guy shows up with a key to the apartment and papers signed by
Bodenhausen making some museum or something his executor."
"Museum?" Garreth frowned. "A local one?"
"I don't know. Probably not. I didn't recognize the name. Hey, I didn't pay
much attention, okay? The papers looked legal so I let them have Bodenhausen's
things and forgot about it."
A throb started behind Garreth's forehead. "Naturally," he said wearily.
Did not know. Did not remember. Had paid no attention. Had forgotten. The same
damned roadblocks over and over again. "Isn't there anything you remember?
What the man looked like maybe? The markings on the moving van?"
"I remember the guy's car."
That was a start. "What about his car?"
Catao grinned. "The name of the museum was on the plates. I remember
thinking museum work must pay pretty well for him to be driving a BMW."
The hair rose all over Garreth's body. Lady Luck, you bitch, I love you!
"This guy, was he in his fifties, average height and weight, graying hair,
mustache, glasses?"
"I'm not sure about a mustache and glasses:" The manager's forehead creased
with the effort of remembering. "But the rest sounds right. How-"
"Thank you very much, Mr. Catao: " Garreth hurried for the building door.
"Sorry to have bothered you. Have a nice day."
At the car he waited impatiently for Fowler to catch up. The man who came
for Bodenhausen's belongings had to be Holle. How many men in San Francisco
drove BMW's with personalized plates carrying the name of an organization
which might be mistaken for a museum name? The Philos Foundation. This made
four people with links to that organization: Irina, Holle, Bodenhausen, and
Corinne Barlow . . . two of them part of the murder case, three of them
vampires. Too many people for pure coincidence. Philos bore looking into.
Fowler unlocked the car. "Hello, hello. Something he said put a piece in
the puzzle, did it?"
Sooner or later the writer would have to be given some answers, but . . .
not yet. "Maybe." Garreth climbed into the car and lay back in the seat,
giving up the fight against daylight's drag for a few minutes.
"Maybe?" Fowler said. "You know it bloody did. That was Holle you
described. Now what's the connection?"
Maybe he needed to confide in Fowler a little at least. "It was Holle. The
connection is the Philos Foundation. But since Harry and company will end up
there sooner or later, too, on their way through Holle's address book, we
can't afford a straightforward visit:" Garreth closed his eyes. "Head for
Union Street. We'll think up something devious on the way."
7
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