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kid.”
    “What’s the kid’s name?”
    “Russell. I don’t know whether Jerry is the old man’s real name or short for Gerald or Jerome or whatever.”
    “It’s all right,” Rachel Wallace said. “I’ll find it. It’s a little after noon in New York. I’ll go down to the public library, I should have something for you by suppertime. Can I call you?”
    “Yes,” I said, “call me here.” I gave her the number. “Helping me is against the law,” I said. “Probably makes you an accessory after.”
    “I know,” she said. “I’ll call you about nine tonight, your time.”
    “I’ll be here,” I said and hung up.
    “She the lesbian,” Hawk said. “I saw her on the tube once.”
    “Lesbian, feminist, gay-rights activist, probably opposes racism too,” I said.
    “Don’t sound to me like a good American,” Hawk said.
    I got up and walked to the window and looked out at the Post Office Building across Mission. “We got a couple of things to do after we roust Leo,” I said. “We go see Dr. Hilliard and we visit Jerry Costigan.”
    “Who Dr. Hilliard?” Hawk said.
    “A name on Susan’s calendar. Probably a shrink.”
    “And where we find Jerry Costigan?”
    “He must be in Mill River. I think Rachel Wallace will find his address. If she doesn’t we’ll just go down and ask.”
    “Be good to get back to old Mill River,” Hawk said.

CHAPTER 8

    THE PHONE BOOK TOLD ME THAT DR. DOROTHY Hilliard had offices on Russian Hill, and the noon news told me that an “exhaustive manhunt” for me and Hawk had now spread throughout the Bay area.
    “Exhaustive,” Hawk said.
    “No stone unturned,” I said.
    “Did you really kill that guy?” Meg said.
    “Yes,” Hawk said. “It was the best thing for him.”
    Fay was not talking.
    For lunch we had peanut butter sandwiches and instant coffee. The peanut butter was Skippy. The bread was pale white.
    “This is revolting,” I said.
    “We don’t usually eat here,” Meg said.
    “I can see why,” I said. I ate three sandwiches. After lunch Hawk took a shower and then had a nap. I watched the women. At suppertime Meg said, “We got no more peanut butter.”
    For supper we had white toast and Kraft strawberry jam and some white jug wine. The evening news rehashed most of what the noon and morning news had said. They still had me fifteen pounds too heavy. After the news we watched an animal program and then something called Trauma Center.
    “Another day of this,” Hawk said, “and I turn myself in to the Mill River cops.”
    At nine Rachel Wallace called.
    “Jerry Costigan, his baptismal name, lives at something called The Keep in Mill River. The Keep is located off Costigan Drive, which in turn connects to Mill River Boulevard.”
    “I know where Mill River Boulevard is,” I said.
    “Good. Costigan inherited a small trucking firm from his father in 1948. It is the basis of what is now Transpan. They still do trucking, but have diversified into air freight, agriculture, hotels, television stations, and the sale of arms and munitions. Costigan occasionally dabbles in show business, investing in motion pictures, for instance. At one time he owned part of a record company and is currently involved through Russell in producing rock music videos. The company appears to be privately owned and controlled entirely by the Costigan family. Jerry is president and chairman. Russell is executive vice-president. Grace Costigan, Jerry’s wife and Russell’s mother, is listed as treasurer. They have offices in most cities.”
    “What do you know about them personally?”
    “About Jerry, almost nothing. He’s reclusive. He has contributed money to conservative and anticommunist organizations. He was investigated once by a House committee looking into labor, racketeering. No conclusions were reached. He was linked to illegal arms dealing in the Middle East and Africa. No charges were ever brought. He is probably one of the three or four wealthiest men in