Chapter One
IT WAS JUST BEFORE 4:00 a.m. on a weekday. My mind was racing even
before Jacobi nosed our car up in front of the Lorenzo, a grungy
rent by the hour "tourist hotel" on a block in San Francisco's
Tenderloin District that's so forbidding even the sun won't cross
the street.
Three black and whites were at the curb, and Conklin, the first
officer at the scene, was taping off the area. So was another
officer, Les Arou.
"What have we got?" I asked Conklin and Arou.
"White male, Lieutenant. Late teens, bug eyed and done to a turn,"
Conklin told me. "Room twenty one. No signs of forced entry. Vic's
in the bathtub, just like the last one."
The stink of piss and vomit washed over us as Jacobi and I entered
the hotel. No bellhops in this place. No elevators or room service,
either. Night people faded back into the shadows, except for one
gray skinned young prostitute who pulled Jacobi aside. ...
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