Neither one of the other two shelters had heard of Reverend Joe or his entourage of interesting followers. Both were located on the northside of town, closer to the wharf, enforcing stern restrictions upon the homeless men seeking refuge there, including the total absence of alcohol, drugs and female friends.

Every person staying there was fed, given a new set of clothes, a bed to sleep in, as well as several references for local businesses seeking to hire day laborers. They were small places housing less than a dozen people at any given time, and as far as Mike could judge, weren't quite into the nitty gritty of the majority of the homeless population and their underground lifestyle.

Perhaps Reverend Joe had given police their information to intentionally mislead them, or maybe he had stayed here under a completely different name and persona. At this point, it would be near impossible to track down his exact reasoning.

After spending three hours asking questions and coming up empty-handed, he'd decided to release the APB's, hoping that patrols nearby would be able to reel in Albert or Rick, both of them hopefully able to shed more light onto the situation.

It certainly beat them poking around in the dark for days on end.

His final task for the day had been to drop Steve off at the bachelor pad, ensuring that the young Inspector made it safely up the stairs, grateful to see the limp slowly disappearing.

Then he'd headed home, taking the Galaxie with him just in case something came up during the night that demanded his utmost attention. With two open cases, there was plenty potential for it.

With a heavy sigh, Mike dropped the house keys into the plate by his side table and stripped out of his black overcoat and fedora, then wiggling his feet out of his dress shoes before carelessly kicking them off to the side.

The open-hearted conversation with Steve earlier in the park still weighed on his heart, making the lump in his throat grow bigger each time he began to fret about Osorro, knowing that he could no longer disguise his brooding from his partner.

Then again, all his senses, carefully attuned through years of extensive experience told him to keep up his guard, to expect the worst and not rest until definite proof could be supplied. Did that take a toll on his physical and mental health? Perhaps. But for good reason.

The manic arsonist had eluded their efforts to capture him enough times, proven that he was capable of great evil without blinking an eye, and knew his way around San Francisco well enough to play an unnerving cat and mouse game with them over and over again.

Osorro was no ordinary foe.

As such, utmost caution would be advised, at any and all expense.

Throughout his brooding, Mike had made it to the bedroom, too tired to eat dinner tonight and too unmotivated to even grab a snack. Several long days had exhausted his reserves, making his muscles ache and lowering his defenses, allowing emotions to bubble to the surface that otherwise would be carefully guarded.

With his body screaming for some much-needed rest, he'd kept his shower short, brushed his teeth, made a mental note to check the answering machine in the morning and slipped into his cool sheets, relishing the scent of laundry detergent that put his busy mind at ease.

At least for the first part of the night, Mike would be free of his terrifying nightmares.