As we pulled away Kerry said, “I like her,” as if she were still a little surprised by the fact. “Don’t you?”

“Quite a bit.”

“I think she’ll be good for him.”

“Me too. If he doesn’t screw it up.”

“By going too fast, you mean?”

“Well, you know how he is sometimes.”

“I wish I didn’t.”

“He says he thinks he’s in love with her.”

“Oh God.”

“Thinking with his crotch again, maybe. His number one priority right now seems to be getting laid.”

“I can relate to that,” she said.

“You can, huh?”

“Take me home and I’ll show you my etchings.”

“Good old etchings. I know ’em well.”

“Could be I’ve got some you’ve never seen.”

“I doubt that. But I’ll take a look, just to make sure.”

I swung over onto Diamond Heights Boulevard and drove up into the Heights. Kerry’s apartment house clung to one of the steeper hillsides, and like the others strung out on both sides, it had a minimum of parking facilities. Street parking could be a problem, especially on weekends-typical San Francisco neighborhood in that respect-but tonight I got lucky: There was a space less than a hundred yards downhill from her building.

Kerry’s place was pretty nice, if a little too feminine in the decor she’d chosen. Large rooms, large fireplace, and a twelve-foot-wide balcony that commanded a skyview of the city, the bay, and the East Bay. The view was worth about $300 a month extra, or so we estimated considering what an apartment of comparable size and amenities would go for in a neighborhood that didn’t offer a view. But she could afford it. My lady works as a senior copywriter for an advertising agency called Bates and Carpenter, and she pulls down more money in six months than I do in an average year of skip-tracing, insurance investigation, and general poking and probing into other people’s lives.