The gold Porsche turned onto Crestview Drive and crept slowly down the tree-lined residential street, its driver obviously looking for a number. It slowed in front of a small, modest but well-kept bungalow with a short driveway and a freshly cut front lawn. There was an older model Chrysler sedan parked under the carport.

Steve swung the sports car close to the curb and turned the engine off. He stared at the house for several long beats before opening the door and getting out. He was dressed as he would be for any typical day on the job but had eschewed the tie for the day. He glanced up and down the quiet street as he walked up the driveway and along the small stone path to the dark wood front door. He pressed the doorbell.

"Just a minute!" a deep gravelly voice bellowed from inside and there were a couple of loud thuds before the door eventually opened. A heavyset older man, wearing a white t-shirt over his ample paunch, dark blue flannel pajama bottoms and slippers, and leaning heavily on a cane, glared at him from under bushy grey eyebrows. "Who are you?" he growled.

Far less intimidated than he would have been even a couple of years ago, Steve smiled warmly as he dug into his right pants pocket and pulled out his badge and I.D. "Inspector Steve Keller, San Francisco Homicide." He stared straight into the rheumy brown eyes that continued to stare at him almost belligerently.

The standoff continued for a couple of silent seconds before the brown eyes softened slightly and a smirk began to curl the thin lips. "Humh," he harrumphed, "I bet you're Mike Stone's partner, aren't you?"

Steve's smile got a little wider. "Yes, sir, I am," he nodded, slipping the star back into his pocket.

"And I bet you know who I am, right?"

"Yes, sir, I do, Mr. Renneker."

Continuing to stare almost unblinkingly, the older man took an unsteady step backwards. "Well then I guess you better come in. I'm sure you've got questions." Renneker turned away from the door and moved slowly back into the house.

Steve stepped over the threshold, closing the heavy front door behind him before crossing the small, neat living room to the sofa. Renneker was already carefully lowering himself onto a large, well-worn recliner with a groan, bending slightly to lay his cane on the floor at his feet.

Steve glanced up at the noisy game show on the TV as he started to sit on the sofa.

"Do me a favour, will ya?" Renneker said quickly before the younger man could settle onto the couch. He gestured toward the TV. "Turn that thing off, will ya? It'll make it easier to talk."

"Sure," Steve agreed, crossing to the small colour set and turning the knob. The noise disappeared as the screen went blank.

"So, ah, what exactly brings you here, Inspector?" Renneker asked as he watched the cop return to the sofa and sit.

Steve swallowed a smile. He knew what the former cop was doing, something that Mike was so adept at. Chances are Renneker knew exactly why he was there but wanted to know what the younger man was aware of before he would answer any questions.

Clearing his throat softly, Steve leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "Ah, three nights ago, Mike got a late night call from your daughter and, ah… well, he hasn't been seen since. And I'd like to know what that call was all about and if you know where he is." His green eyes were boring into the intense brown ones staring back at him. He had decided to lay all his cards on the table at once; he had nothing to lose, he figured.

Renneker continued to stare without moving for several very long seconds, as if sizing the young man up; then, surprisingly, he smiled. "You come straight to the point, don't ya?" There was more than a little admiration in his tone. "That something Mike taught you?"

Relaxing, Steve sat back and laughed. "Probably… He's taught me a lot of things."

Renneker snorted congenially. "I don't doubt that. Well, you've got some of your facts wrong there, young fella –" He stopped himself, his right index finger coming up quickly to point at the sofa. "Steve, right?"

The other man nodded with a smile.

"Well, Steve, Mike did get a call that night, but it wasn't from my daughter, it was from me. I was down there visiting her." He lowered his head and stared at his guest from under a heavy brow. "But you figured that out already, didn't you?"

Steve cocked his head and shrugged slightly. "Well, I sort of assumed that but I wasn't sure."

With a grimace, as if in pain, Renneker leaned forward in the recliner. "And you say you haven't seen Mike since that night?"

Steve shook his head.

"He didn't talk to you or leave you a note or anything?" Renneker almost sounded concerned. The younger man felt his heart begin to pound. With a sigh, the older man dropped his head and sagged back in the chair. "Goddamn it, I was hoping he wouldn't go off and do something stupid. I told him he should talk to his partner about it first." He seemed to be mumbling to himself.

"About what?"

Renneker's head came up. "Have you ever heard the name Brigitte Larson?"

Frowning, Steve shook his head.

"Well, there's no reason you should have. It was a long, long time ago. You were probably just starting to go to school when it happened. 1949 to be exact."

Steve leaned forward again, every sense on full alert.

"Mike and I were still kinda new to the force then, we'd both joined up after the war. I was two Academy classes ahead of him and I really didn't know him. I'd just seen him in passing, you know. By '49 I was a patrol officer in a cruiser and he was walking a beat in the Tenderloin with Gus Charnovski - Did you know Gus?"

Steve shook his head. "I never got the pleasure."

Renneker looked down, his strong features softening. "Gus was a legend, you know… one of the best. It was a damn shame what happened to him…"

"It sure was…" Steve agreed softly.

The older man looked up. "I bet Mike took that pretty bad…"

The young detective nodded. "Yeah, it, ah… it was a rough time…"

Renneker nodded sadly then he smiled and chuckled. "My training officer was a guy named Boomer Sullivan. You know, I'm pretty sure Boomer wasn't his real first name, but none of us rookies ever had the balls to ask him what it really was, so we all just called him Boomer." They shared a laugh then Renneker sobered.

"Anyway, that morning Mike and Gus got called to a flophouse on Turk. My partner and I arrived soon after…" He paused and looked down. "I'll never forget it." His voice sounded far away. "It, ah, it was the body of a young girl… sixteen. She'd been raped and murdered… strangled…" He paused and took a deep breath. Steve didn't move.

"It was the first time I'd seen something like that… Mike too. Gus and Boomer, they, ah, they were able to hold it together but I know Mike and we were both pretty shook."

"And that was Brigitte Larson?"

Closing his eyes, the retired cop nodded. "She was a pretty little thing… blond, blue eyes. An only child…" He sighed heavily and fell silent. Steve waited patiently.

Eventually Renneker shook his head and looked up; the Homicide detective was looking at him understandingly. He smiled dryly. "Well, you know the routine, the detectives showed up and took over and, you know, Mike and Gus went back out on the streets and Boomer and I got back into our car and that was it. But it stuck with us, Mike and me. We both followed the investigation, even though we had nothing to do with it anymore."

"Was anyone ever arrested for it?" Steve asked softly.

Renneker nodded. "Yeah… yeah, and that's when the problems started."

"What problems?"

"Well, the detectives, they were good at their job those guys. It didn't take them long to figure out that it wasn't some violent drug addict in the 'Loin that pulled some poor girl off the street and violated her. It turned out to be a high school kid from over in Pacific Heights. His name was Jeffrey Lonsdale. He was 17. And that's when it all began to fall apart…" Renneker snorted derisively.

"What do you mean?"

Looking up, the older man hesitated. "Hey, ah, before we get into that, can I get you a cup a coffee or a beer or something?"

Smiling, Steve shook his head. "No, thanks, I'm okay. Unless you want something?"

"No, no, I'm good, I'm good." Renneker smiled almost warmly. "So, ah, Jeffrey Lonsdale…" He snorted again, this time with barely controlled fury. "The Homicide guys, they had this kid dead to rights: fingerprints, bloody clothing, bloody shoes, the whole works…" He looked up at Steve, his eyes flashing anger. "They were all set to go to trial when some… some do-gooders I guess you could call 'em, they said he was too young to be tried as an adult, that he was just a kid, you know…"

He shook his head angrily and clenched his jaw, his nostrils flaring. "Just a kid, yeah, right…" He met Steve's stare, his brown eyes blazing. "A kid who could rape and strangle a young girl and dump her body in a sleazy drug den as if she was just a piece a garbage…" He took a couple of deep breaths and struggled for control.

"What happened?" Steve asked quietly.

Renneker chuckled mirthlessly. "Well, while the powers that be held meetings to decide in what court they were gonna try the little scrumbag, he was let out on bail, in his parents custody. And Mr. and Mrs. Lonsdale decided they didn't want their little darling to face a judge and jury to pay for his crime. They were pretty well off, you see… I mean, come on, they were living in Pacific Heights, right? So without anybody knowing they got their little darling a passport and before anyone knew it, Jeffrey Lonsdale was on a plane to the Philippines. We don't have an extradition treaty with the Philippines."

Steve stared at the older man, his brows knit. "So he never went to trial?"

The older man shook his head sadly. "That little bastard hasn't spent any time behind bars for murdering Brigitte Larson… not one second…" He smiled sardonically. "He'd be 43 now… and he's spent every moment of those 43 years a free man." He dropped his head and closed his eyes. "And she'da been 42."

Steve waited, knowing there was more to come. When Renneker raised his head again, his eyes were moist. "Her parents didn't take it too well, when Lonsdale went on the lam. And who could blame them. They didn't blame the department, thank god, but my god they were mad at the D.A.'s office… Well, at least the husband was. Mrs. Larson, she, ah, I guess she had other demons. She killed herself about five years after the murder… overdosed on sleeping pills." He took a deep breath. "Her husband, he hung on for a few more years. He stayed in the house Brigitte had grown up in, the house his wife killed herself in… but I guess it took its toll. I heard he died of a heart attack a couple of years back." He fell silent, his unfocused gaze on the floor in front of the recliner.

"So, ah," Steve finally ventured softly and he watched Renneker blink quickly a couple of times, "so what happened to make you call Mike the other night?" He thought he knew the answer already but he had to ask.

Renneker looked up slowly and met the compassionate gaze evenly. "I saw him, Steve. Jeffrey Lonsdale. I saw him in Venice."