Nick nodded. “Yes, there was another woman he was trying to help. Her name is Valerie Striker. I think she’s a prostitute. She was in the church when I got there. She’d just stopped by to speak to Father Michael Joseph for a moment. I remember she left maybe five minutes before that man came in.”

Delion said, “Oh, shit. Whatcha bet he saw her?”

“It’s possible,” Dane said.

“Did you see her when you ran out of Saint Bartholomew’s, Ms. Jones?”

She shook her head.

“Valerie Striker,” Delion said and wrote the name down in his book. “We’ll check on her. Just maybe she saw something.”

“Or maybe he saw her,” Nick said. “Dear God, I hope not.”

Nick said, “I’m really sorry you lost your brother, Mr. Carver.”

Dane’s hands were clasped in his lap. “Thank you,” he said, but didn’t look up. He said after a moment, “You said that you and my brother were friends. How close were you?”

“Like I told you, we only met two weeks ago. Father Michael Joseph was visiting the shelter a couple of days after I arrived. We got to talking. We got off onto medieval history. I don’t remember how it came up, to be honest. Father Michael Joseph was very kind, and very knowledgeable. We got to talking, and it turned out that he is-he was-fascinated by King Edward the First of England, particularly that last Crusade Edward led to the Holy Land that led to the Treaty of Caesarea.” She shrugged, tried to look self-deprecating, but Dane wasn’t fooled for a moment. Who was she?

“He took me for a cup of coffee at The Wicked Toe, a little cafe just off Mason. He didn’t care how I looked, didn’t care what anyone else would think-not, of course, that the area is any great shakes.”

She looked over at Dane, stared at him, and then she started crying again.

Dane didn’t say anything this time, couldn’t say anything because his throat was all choked up. He wanted to cry himself, but he wouldn’t let himself, not here. All he could do was wait, and listen to her sobs.

When she’d stilled, he said, “Did my brother give you anything to keep safe for him?”

“Give me something? No, he didn’t. Why?”

“Too bad.”

Delion came into the lieutenant’s office and said, “Valerie Striker lives on Dickers Avenue. I’m outta here. You want to come, Dane?”

Nick was on her feet. “Please, please, let me come with you. I met Valerie, she’s so beautiful, and really nice. She was unhappy, didn’t know what to do. There was this man who was threatening her. Please, let me come with you. Maybe if she sees me, she’ll agree to talk to you.”

“This is police business, ma’am. You’re a civilian, for God’s sake, you can’t just-”

“Please,” Nick said, and grabbed Delion’s sleeve. “This is so important to me, please, Inspector. I won’t get in the way, I won’t say a thing, but-”

“I’m an outsider, too, Delion,” Dane said. “Maybe she can be helpful if Ms. Striker doesn’t want to talk to us.” His unspoken message that Delion got real fast was that Ms. Jones might just disappear on them again.

Delion said low to Dane, “If this was FBI business, would you let her tag along with you?”

“Sure, no problem.”

“Yeah, right.” He said on a sigh to Nick, “All right, Ms. Jones, just this one time. Dane, she’s your responsibility.”

“Sure, no problem.”

“Hey, wait. Before we head on over to Valerie’s place, let’s just wait for the forensic artist here before Ms. Jones starts to forget.”

An hour later, Jenny Butler, one of two forensic artists on staff, held up her sketch for everyone to see.

“Is that him, Ms. Jones?” Delion asked.

Nick nodded slowly. “It’s as close as I can get. Will it help?”

“Remains to be seen. Thank you, Jenny. How’s Tommy?”

“He’s just ducky, Vince. The older he gets the more of a handful he becomes.” She added to Dane and Nick, “He’s my husband. See you, Vince.”

“Thanks. Ms. Jones, this sketch will be printed up and distributed, and there will be no mention of you.”

Delion grabbed his jacket and headed out the door, Nick and Dane close on his heels.

Fifteen minutes later, he pulled the Ford next to the curb only a block from the address they wanted on Dickers Avenue.

The three of them stood a moment staring up at the old Victorian where Valerie Striker lived.

Delion looked at Ms. Jones-homeless woman, fake name-and said, “This is great, just great. I’ve got a Fed and a civilian with me to interview a witness. Great.”

“He’s all bark,” Dane said.

They watched Delion stomp up the six stairs to the front door of the Victorian, which was painted four shades of green. He turned. “Hey, come on, you guys, enough chitchat. Let’s see what Valerie’s got to say.”

“The place looks terrific,” Dane said, touching a pale lime-green gargoyle, one of three hovering over the lintel of the front door, looking down at them. “Business must be good.”

“I talked to one of the inspectors in Vice; he said eight hookers live here. Everything very discreet, very respectable, doubtful even the neighbors know anything. There’s a back way in, and it’s all sorts of private.”

Delion rang the bell to 4B. “There’s four apartments on each floor.”

There was no answer.

He rang again.

There was still no answer.

“It’s pretty early,” Dane said. “She’s probably still asleep.”

“Yeah, well, we’re her wake-up call.” Delion pressed his thumb on the bell and kept it there.

Three minutes later, he rang the bell to 4C.

“Yes? May I help you?”

“Very polite, very discreet,” Delion said under his breath, then continued into the intercom, “This is Inspector Vincent Delion of the SFPD. I know I got you up, but I’m a cop and we need to talk to you. This isn’t a bust, nothing like that. We’re not here to cause you any trouble. We just need to talk.”

A pause, then the buzzer sounded.

The entrance was old-fashioned, dripping with Victoriana, the dark red carpeting rich and deep. Everything was indeed very upscale.

Dane glanced over at Nick Jones. She looked fascinated. Must be her first time in a hooker’s nest. Come to think about it, it was his first time, too. Business, he thought, stroking his hand over the beautifully carved newel post on the stairs, was good.

They walked up one flight of stairs, turned right. The lush red carpeting continued. There was wainscoting along the walls of the wide corridor, and well-executed watercolors of the Bay were hung along the walls.

A woman in a lovely black kimono stood in the open doorway to 4C. She was young, with artfully mussed long black hair tossed over one shoulder. She wore almost no makeup. Delion looked at her, appreciated her, and guessed that five hundred bucks wasn’t out of the question.

“Ms…?”

“Elaine Books. What do you want? Hey, she isn’t a cop, she’s homeless. I know… Valerie told me about you, told me you sort of hid in the shadows whenever somebody came around, that you’d only talk to this priest. And you, you’re no local, just look at those wing tips; they’re a cut above what local guys wear. What are you, a lawyer? What’s going on here?”

Delion said, “They’re with me, no problem. You really think his shoes look more expensive than mine? Nah, forget it. We need to speak to Valerie Striker, your neighbor in 4B, but she’s not answering her doorbell. You seen her this morning?”

“No.” Ms. Books frowned, tapped her lovely French manicure against the door frame. “You know, I haven’t seen Valerie in a couple of days. What’s going on with her?”

Dane said very slowly, “I really don’t like the sound of this, Delion.”

Delion said, “Right. Ms. Books, we’d like you to come next door with us, watch us open the door, okay?”

“Oh God, you think something’s happened to Valerie, don’t you?”