Continuing to stare into the almost defiant brown eyes boring into his own, Steve inhaled deeply, held it, then asked quietly, "Are you sure it was him?"

Renneker blinked slowly then nodded almost imperceptibly. "I'm, ah… well, I can't prove it, of course… but in my gut I know it was him…"

"And that's what you told Mike?'

The older man nodded. "He and I talked about the case a lot when it was going on. We never worked together, were hardly ever on the same shift, and he moved up the ranks a lot faster than I did. But that first year, especially those first few months after Lonsdale left the country, we'd get together every once in awhile and see if we could come up with a way to find him and get him back." He snorted melancholically. "We were, ah, kind a cock-eyed optimists, I guess you could call us. We thought we could maybe, I don't know, right a wrong…" He paused and sighed. "But then the years went by… and nothing happened… and life went on… and Brigitte Larson was forgotten…"

"What happened to Lonsdale's parents? Were they charged with aiding and abetting?"

Renneker's snort with filled with derision and anger. "You're kidding, right?" Steve shrugged. "You know the answer to that one. Have you ever heard of rich parents getting in trouble for helping out their little felons…? Of course not. And, to be perfectly honest, I lost track of them several years ago. I know they moved out of Pacific Heights. I'd heard the neighbors didn't particularly like the negative attention the Lonsdale family was bringing to the area; you can't blame 'em. So the Lonsdales sold their place and got out. But I wasn't a cop anymore and I didn't keep track of them so I don't know where they are. Maybe I shoulda, hunh?"

Steve, who was hanging on every word, nodded softly. "If, ah, if you don't mind my asking, why did you leave the force so early?"

Renneker looked at him gently and a wave of sadness washed over his strong features. He glanced down at the cane lying on the floor beside his chair. "Well, that really wasn't my call. April of '60 my wife and I were coming home from one of our rare dates," he smiled warmly to himself. "We'd managed to find a night where we could get a babysitter and go out to dinner and a movie. We were going through the lights at Market and Hyde when a drunk speeding down Market t-boned us in the intersection…" He paused and took a deep unsteady breath. "My wife was killed instantly. I had a broken back, broken pelvis, fractured ribs… I was in the hospital for almost six months…" He looked up at the younger man and smiled mirthlessly. "I haven't been able to walk properly since so, ah, so the decision to leave the force was not mine to make, I'm afraid…"

Steve nodded softly. "I'm, ah, I'm sorry –"

"Hey," Renneker cut him off gently, "you got nothing to be sorry about. It happened a long time ago." An uneasy silence lengthened between them, then Renneker cleared his throat and struggled to get to his feet. Steve half rose to help but the older man waved him back. "Stay down," he chuckled amiably as he leaned forward to pick up the cane and push himself up, "I've been doing this for a long time, I think I got the hang of it."

Shuffling as quickly as he could, Renneker disappeared into the kitchen, emerging seconds later with a manila file folder in one hand. He held it out for Steve to take as he dropped heavily into the recliner again.

Frowning, Steve opened the folder then looked back at the retired SFPD officer, his face a question.

"I've had that for years, as you can probably tell. Mike's got one too. I figure I won't need it anymore and I think you could use it right now. It's got everything you need to know – the bar I saw him in, what time it was, all that crap. I just updated it."

Steve's eyes had slid back to the contents of the folder; at the photocopies of reports, foolscap papers filled with notes, and a coloured 5x7 mug shot of a striking looking young man with an irritating smirk. He glanced up at Renneker. "Lonsdale?"

"The one and only. That's, ah, that's why I'm pretty sure it was him I saw in Venice a few days ago. You can change a lot of things about your appearance in fifteen years, I know that. But you can't change the colour of your eyes… at least I don't think so."

Steve stared at the mug shot, at the thin handsome face with the insouciant smile, the short, obviously styled dark hair, and the startlingly grey eyes. "And this guy you saw in Venice… he had grey eyes?"

Renneker nodded. "Yeah. My daughter and I were in this bar on Washington Blvd. having a beer and a burger when this guy comes in. I didn't pay much attention to him at first, he seemed like a local. The bartender knew him, offered him 'the usual', you know how they do?" Steve nodded. "The waitress came over to our table to see if we needed another beer and he glanced over our way and that's when I saw 'em… the grey eyes."

Renneker fell silent, his gaze turning inward. "In an instant, everything came flashing back. I just froze, I couldn't breathe. Even my daughter asked me what was wrong. I think she thought I might be having a heart attack or something. I, ah, I think I pulled myself together quick enough so nobody else noticed, but then I spent the rest of our time there trying to check him out without my daughter noticing." He looked at Steve and shrugged almost self-consciously.

"So, what made you think it was Lonsdale?"

"Other than the eyes?"

Steve nodded, closing the folder and putting it on the couch beside him.

"Well, he seemed to be the right age… early 40's, and even though he was sitting on a barstool, he seemed about the right height and build. He's got a beard, salt and pepper, and there's some grey in his hair but it's still mostly dark brown, like Lonsdale's was." He snorted. "But something in my gut, Steve, kept telling me this was the same guy… this was Jeffrey Lonsdale."

"And that's why you called Mike…"

Renneker nodded. "Yeah. Hell, I'm in no condition to go after him, but I knew Mike was still on the force, and I kinda figured he'd want to know…" He smiled slightly. "I was right."

With a brief nod and his own tight smile, Steve asked, "So, ah, seeing as he didn't confide anything in me…" he paused to emphasize his words, "did he give you any idea of what he was going to do?"

The older man shook his head. "No… No, he was pretty tight-lipped about it, but I did get the feeling that he was going to head down to Venice as soon as he could. I was just hoping he would take someone with him… like his partner." He looked at Steve and shrugged.

"Do you think Lonsdale could be dangerous?"

Renneker's eyes narrowed. "Well, he didn't look dangerous to me but I only saw him in that bar that one time and you and I both know you can't really judge how unhinged someone can be just by looking at 'em."

"Yeah, that's for sure."

"But he's been on the run for about fifteen years now… and if that's him, if he really is back, then he must be feeling pretty confident that no one's gonna recognize him. But I don't think that means he's gonna be letting his guard down anytime soon. I said that to Mike, and he agreed. But, ah, if I knew how he was going to proceed with the information I gave him, if he'd given me any indication, Steve, I'd tell you. You gotta believe me on that."

"Oh, I do… I do…" Steve was nodding slowly to himself, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor, trying to sort through this sudden flood of new information. He sat back suddenly and dropped his hands to his thighs with a clap. "Well, I guess I know what I've gotta do now, right? I guess I'm heading down to Venice, see if I can find Mike before he does something… he'll regret." Images of his partner, gun in hand, standing over Cal Fisher in an empty BART station and going after Leonard Cord in his own office, flashed through his mind.

Picking up the file folder, Steve got to his feet. "Well, I better head back to The City if I want to get started for LA. I guess time is of the essence right now." He hefted the folder in his hand. "Thanks for this and, ah, for all the other information."

"You're very welcome, young fella," Renneker smiled, starting to get up.

"No, no, it's okay," Steve said quickly, waving him back down, "I can find my way out."

Picking up his cane and getting out of the chair, Renneker growled good-naturedly, "You drove all the way up here to see me, the least I can do is walk you to your car. Besides, I gotta get some exercise today or my daughter'll kill me. Even though she lives all the way down there in Venice, she'll know, believe me, she'll know."

Steve chuckled as he started slowly towards the front door. "Thank you for being so honest with me, Mr. Renneker –"

"Jerry," Renneker almost snapped with a dry chuckle, "okay? Jerry. For god's sake, you're one of the brethren, right? So it's Jerry, okay?"

Steve grinned as he opened the front door and stepped over the threshold. "Okay."

"Listen, ah, I want you to promise that you'll give me a call when you find Mike… you know, let me know what's going on? Let me know if I was right? Okay?"

"You bet," Steve agreed as they started to cross the small lawn to the curb.

Renneker's eyes had finally fallen on the sports car parked in front of his house. His brow furrowed and he turned to the younger man with an open mouth. "Is that your Porsche?" He sounded flabbergasted.

Chuckling self-consciously, Steve nodded. "Yes, it is."

"What are they paying you guys down in The City nowadays? What's Mike driving? A Rolls?"

Laughing, Steve fished the keys out of his pocket as he crossed around the low-slung car to the driver's door. "It's old, it's secondhand and I'll be paying for it for the rest of my life." He opened the door, leaning in to toss the file folder on the passenger seat. "Thanks again, Jerry," he said over the roof of the car, "I really appreciate it."

"You're welcome, son," Renneker said with a melancholic smile. "And, ah, don't forget to call me when you find Mike… okay?"

Steve nodded. "Yeah… yeah, I will." He got in behind the wheel and the engine roared to life.

Renneker watched until the burnished gold Porsche turned the corner and disappeared from sight.

# # # # #

Steve dropped heavily onto the sofa, a cold beer in one hand and the phone book in the other. He dropped the heavy yellow tome onto the coffee table and opened it, quickly finding the page he needed. He picked up the receiver and stuck it under his ear against his shoulder, managing to take another sip of beer while dialing.

Several minutes later, his errand complete, he sat back and picked up the file folder that Renneker had given him. As he waited for the pizza he had ordered almost an hour ago to be delivered, he started to work his way painstakingly through the pages of reports, forms, handwritten notes and photographs.

He wanted to be absolutely sure he knew as much about the Larson/Lonsdale case as possible before he boarded the early morning flight to Los Angeles.