HALL OF JUSTICE
APRIL 17, 1906. 11:20 A.M.
Six blocks from the bare-knuckle bout outside Shanghai Kelly's saloon, a carriage from the Palace Hotel stopped at the Hall of Justice.
"Much obliged," Lincoln said to the driver.
"You're welcome, Sheriff."
Lincoln paused to marvel at the collection of humanity across the street; garish whores and pigtailed Chinese, scarred sailors and jaunty Negroes, savvy pimps and sweet-faced school kids teeming through Portsmouth Square in jerky syncopation to the honking horns and tinkling saloon music.
He pushed into the Hall of Justice, walking purposefully to the scarred desk where the duty sergeant sat rifling papers.
"I'm looking for Chief Donen."
"He's a bit irked at the moment," the desk sergeant said. "We just buried the Chief of Detectives and the scribblers been on him like flies, but try your luck. Fifth floor."
Lincoln made his way to the elevator, past a squad room where half a dozen patrolmen played poker on a wobbly table.
Arriving on the fifth floor, he spotted the burly chief inside a glass-lined office.
"Chief Donen?"
Donen was busy digging through Byron's desk. He slammed a drawer shut without looking up. "Who the hell are you?"
"Lincoln Staley, Sheriff of Douglas County, Kansas."
Donen found a letter opener and went to work on a drawer lock, barely registering Lincoln's presence.
"I'm looking for my daughter."
"Somebody snatch her?"
"Runaway. Caught the train a couple of days ago."
"Wanted all that stuff she couldn't get in Kansas, right?"
Lincoln remained silent.
"How old is she?"
"Fifteen. Probably passing for older. Big girl. Tall for her age."
Staley handed over the photograph of Kaitlin.
Donen stopped and whistled softly. "She's a beauty. Look, we got four hundred and fifty thousand people in this city, Sheriff. A thousand new vagabonds show up every week. Kids by the boxcar, bloody runaway capital of the world. As if I ain't got enough headaches already." He looked at Lincoln. "You packin' a sidearm?"
Lincoln slid back his duster.
"You any good with that thing?"
"We already buried them that ain't."
"Try to keep the thing holstered while you're here. There's a board downstairs, you can post her photograph. No promises."
Lincoln returned to the first floor and entered the squad room.
Beneath a hand-made sign that read "MISSING PERSONS," he found an entire wall covered with school pictures, wedding photos, candid snapshots, pencil drawings, and watercolors, tacked on top of each other an inch thick. Some of the missing looked no older than eight or nine.
He put Kaitlin's photo in the inside pocket of his duster and walked out, his disgust for big cities and big city cops growing by the second.
Six blocks east, Kaitlin crossed Market Street and made her way to the Palace Hotel. There she entered the Garden Room, filled with the syrupy smell of violets, as a string quartet played "Danza Pastorale" from Vivaldi's I Quatro Stagioni.
"Hello, Kaitlin."
She turned to find a smiling Andrew Tavish.
"My, you look different. Did you find a place to stay?"
"A little boardinghouse on Union Street, right on Washington Square with a nice Italian lady."
"I know the place. You're very lucky."
Kaitlin looked toward the lounge, where Assistant Professor of Geology Jeremy Darling rose from his armchair and started toward her. "Andrew," she said. "If anyone should come around asking, not that they would, I don't want anyone to know where I'm really staying. I sort of let on I was staying here. Please. That's why I'm meeting my friend here."
"Is that your beau?"
"I met him on the train; he's offered to escort me for the day."
"A gal's gotta be careful in San Francisco."
Excusing herself, she walked to Jeremy, extending a gloved hand.
The sight of her sent Jeremy's heart careening. "Kaitlin, my gosh, you look so different! What did you do?"
"I had my hair cut and dyed. Henna, actually. Some man named Emperor Milton gave me this strange money last night, with his picture on it. They accept it everywhere in San Francisco. Do you like my hair?"
"It's quite different."
"So, where are you taking me?"
"On a picnic."
Kaitlin's jaw dropped as she gazed toward the elevators. Jeremy followed her stare.
Enrico Caruso, dressed in a pencil-striped gray suit and a coal black Borsalino hat, walked directly toward them. As he passed, the great tenor gazed up at Kaitlin and smiled, the corners of his mustache rising with the olive cheeks.
Kaitlin appeared ready to faint. She was so engrossed in the sight of Caruso that she did not recognize me walking just behind him.
"So," I said, slowing to address her. "You managed to survive your first day in San Francisco."
"My gosh. Annalisa. The reporter. Are you accompanying Mr. Caruso?"
"I'm his translator, not that he really needs one. We're on our way to rehearsals. Enjoy your stay."
I hurried to catch Caruso, who smiled back at Kaitlin, bowing slightly. She held a gloved hand to her mouth. "My God, I don't believe it. No one back home would believe this! This is heaven."
"My aunt lent us a carriage," Jeremy resumed. "She packed us a lunch." He tried gamely not to stare at her, but it was useless.
She took his arm and walked to the carriage entrance. Kaitlin was a half-head taller, and Jeremy self-consciously tried to avoid the stares of all they passed. He helped Kaitlin into the carriage, handed a nickel to the livery man, and climbed in next to her. They headed out through the archway and onto the cobblestone street, turning south.
"What are those boxes and tripod for? Are you a photographer as well?"
"I have to take some photographs and measurements near the lake where we're going. I thought you might find it interesting. I've been monitoring a fault line."
"A what?"
"I told you on the train, remember? Where one big tectonic plate pushes against another, that's called a fault line. The biggest one we know of runs down the middle of the San Francisco Peninsula. When they move abruptly, that's when you have an earthquake."
"As I said before, I'm not planning on having any earthquakes while I'm here. And I plan on being here for a very long time."
Kaitlin watched the scenery swim by as they swung along El Camino Real, skirting the shimmering blue bay. She loosened the buttons of her burgundy waistcoat and breathed the salt air, leaning her head back to feel the warm April sun on her face.
"My God. Is there anything about San Francisco that isn't wonderful?" she asked, her memory of the previous night's travails quickly fading.
An hour later, Jeremy turned off the main highway and spurred the horse up a narrow dirt road, where wild coastal sage and purple bush lupine perfumed the crisp breeze. Atop a ridge overlooking a crystal blue lake, he stopped the carriage.
He ran quickly to Kaitlin's side and helped her down. "Welcome to San Andreas Lake. Are you hungry? Or shall I take my measurements first?"
"I had a biscuit and coffee in this darling little cafè in North Beach. In Kansas, most places won't even serve a woman by herself. Let's walk and build up an appetite."
She smiled her gleaming smile. He stared back like a lovesick adolescent.
At the south end of the lake, Jeremy adjusted the legs of the tripod and screwed a brass instrument atop it as a fascinated Kaitlin looked on. "What is that thing?"
"A transom. It's for surveying. Road construction and building layouts, mostly. I use it to determine soil and rock movement."
He focused the transom and stared through it, swinging it in a small arc several times. He pulled away from the eyepiece with a look of concern, checked his settings, and sighted again.
"My God. It's moving."
"What's moving?"
"The fault line. You see those stakes over there, along each side of San Andreas Creek, where it feeds into the lake?"
Kaitlin squinted and pulled the enormous brim of her hat lower to shade her eyes.
"Here," he said. "You can see better through this."
She tipped her hat back and put her eye up to the transom.
"Do you see how those stakes are not in line with each other?"
"Yes."
"When I left for New York they were perfectly in line. It looks like the fault line has moved several inches in just the last few months."
"I don't understand."
"If the plates move without causing a tremor, I believe the pressure is building somewhere. North of here would be my guess."
"You're frightening me, Jeremy. What's going on?"
"People at the university think I'm daft, that's why I'm still an assistant professor." He rubbed his hands together nervously. "Yesterday," he continued, "I stopped at a dairy farm in Berkeley. Three heifers dropped their calves prematurely in the past two weeks. The county dogcatcher has dozens of reports of cats and dogs running away and every horse within miles has been on edge."
"You've lost me. What do heifers and lost cats have to do with earthquakes?"
"Everything." He looked at Kaitlin glumly. "If you don't mind, I'd like to take a few more measurements before we eat."
"Fine with me. I'm starting to lose my appetite."