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while whistling. The lieutenant recognized the tune. It was “I Left My Heart in San Francisco.”
    “Hockey puck,” the lieutenant said.

C H A P T E R

T h r e e
    “G ot any ideas, Harry?” asked DiGeorgio.
    “About what?” Harry asked back, taking a turn at Green and Kearney streets.
    “You’ve got your choice,” DiGeorgio replied, looking out the window at the night life around North Beach. “The Tucker thing, the Fullmer thing, or dinner.”
    “Dinner,” Harry said without hesitation.
    “That’s what I like about you, Harry,” his partner commented. “You’re the only one who thinks about his stomach as much as I do.”
    “I’m tall,” Harry explained, taking Grant Avenue around Telegraph Hill. “Besides we’ve got some time. The whole day’s been a bust.”
    “What’ve you got in mind?”
    “I know a little place on Columbus Avenue. Off the Embarcadero. The atmosphere’s a little loud, but the roast beef sandwiches are good. And the onion rings are fried in beer.”
    “Little place,” said DiGeorgio. “Little loud. Roast beef. Onion rings. Beer. Right. I’m with you, Harry.”
    “You better believe it,” said Harry.
    Tanya’s was exactly like Harry described it. The two cops walked right into the midst of an undulating crowd. People were everywhere. To their left was a rectangular dance floor bracketed by a bar along the side wall and a tiny disc jockey’s room along the back wall. To their right were six tables set for four and a smaller bar so that the eaters wouldn’t have to dig through the dancers to get drinks. This section had a couple of opaque windows lining the side wall and three doors in the rear section.
    Harry shouldered his way into the dining area, walking right into the arms of an incredible brunette dressed in a strapless elastic top and designer jeans.
    “Harry!” the girl shouted in surprise over the throbbing music. “I thought you said you’d never come back here!”
    “I couldn’t stay away from the meat,” Harry shouted back.
    The girl threw her head back and laughed, giving DiGeorgio an enviable view of her torso. Harry wrapped one arm around her back so she wouldn’t pop out of her tube top entirely. “Tanya,” he called to the girl, “I want you to meet my partner, Frank DiGeorgio. Frank, this is the owner.”
    “Hey,” the girl said, dark eyes sparkling under her lustrous bangs, “good to meet you, Frank. Just sit down boys and enjoy the show. The meat is on me.”
    She winked at Harry who patted her on the butt as she drifted back toward the kitchen. The two men settled in at the table on the side wall closest to the rest room. DiGeorgio immediately did as Tanya instructed and feasted his eyes on the female dancers. Harry stuck his chin in one hand and looked over the bobbing heads.
    The day had indeed been a bust, he recalled. Neither the Garris or McCarthy mothers could tell them anything substantial to go on. The central files weren’t much help either. Ever since the Son of Sam massacre, the .44 Magnum had become the favorite weapon of psychos everywhere. Whenever some nut wanted to blow off a little steam by blowing away a few innocents, they cried for their daddy to buy them a Magnum. But there was nothing consistent in the research. Harry couldn’t establish a solid link to any particular person.
    Harry began to think he was wasting his time in San Fran. It was doubtful the McCarthy girl had been kidnapped back to her place of origin and the key to Tucker’s offing certainly wasn’t in the City by the Bay. But he couldn’t leave the Fullmer thing in Bressler and DiGeorgio’s lap. Especially since he was the one who had found the girl in the first place.
    Megan Fullmer was a nice, sandy-blonde girl of seventeen. She was found in what was left of a fashion leotard under the Oakland Bay Bridge—just a few blocks away from Tanya’s. The department had gotten a few investigatory nibbles, but no solid bites. A couple of other