The Liar’s Lullaby. Meg Gardiner

SUN WAS HIGH IN THE SKY. SHE PARKED the Tacoma beyond the park and hiked toward her house, feeling spooked.

      Chennault had been evacuated by the paramedics to UCSF Medical Center. He couldn’t give the police much information about the attacker. Neither could she.

      When her phone rang she grabbed it and peered at the display. A pang went through her, disappointment covering worry.

      “So, have the police discovered how the guy got into Tasia’s house?” she said.

      “The property manager opened the back door before you came,” said Amy Tang. “He snuck in while nobody was looking. Bigger question—who was he?”

      “And what did he want?”

      “Thief?”

      “Ghoul? Somebody seeking relics to sell on eBay?”

      The cool wind shook the Monterey pines in the park. A cable car clattered past, bulging with tourists. The gripman rang his bell.

      “I have another question,” Jo said. “Will he be back?”

      “Watch yourself.”

      “You bet.”

      She hung up but clutched the phone in her palm as she walked. Come on. Ring.

      How could it be that modern life was saturated with communications devices, that the information age spewed gossip and barking commentary night and day, that the entire electromagnetic spectrum was alight with phone calls and texts and breaking news about celebrity boob jobs—but when she wanted news that the PJs of the 129th had safely touched down at Moffett Field, she was utterly in the dark?

      She tucked the phone in her back pocket. A second later she pulled it out again and called Vienna Hicks. When she told her about being attacked by the intruder at Tasia’s home, Vienna said, “Holy crap, are you okay?”

      “Aside from a rug burn on my face, I’m perfect. But Ace Chennault was taken away in an ambulance.”

      “Poor bastard. The guy never did look like he could duck.”

      Jo smiled. “Do you know anybody who might want to break into your sister’s house?”

      She tossed it out like chum on choppy water, not really expecting an answer. She checked for traffic and jogged across the street toward her house.

      “Maybe,” Vienna said.

      Jo slowed. “Really?”

      “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Dr. Beckett. Can you meet me at Waymire and Fong this evening?”

      “Certainly.”

      “Bring your secret psychiatric decoder ring.”

      “Want to clarify that?”

      “Six o’clock. I’ll tell you when I see you.”

      Jo saw the green VW Bug drive past at the same moment the driver saw her. The woman’s head swiveled sharply. She whipped a U-turn and double-parked in front of Jo’s house. The VW’s air-cooled engine squealed. Exhaust stank from its tailpipe. The driver climbed out.