I was determined to get an early start on my investigation after my troubled dreams. Monty, the sketch artist, had left a message that he’d have preliminary drawings for Mindy to review by mid-morning. I arranged for both of them to meet me for brunch at Reggie’s Place.

      My call to a source in the Registrar’s office at Cal informed me that Anita Parsons had taken a leave of absence from school. I noted down her home address and phone number. Sherri Downs was currently enrolled in classes and resided in a university dormitory not far from where Mindy lived when she was assaulted and raped. I left a message on her answering machine that I had some new info for her from Officer Sandoval and for her to ring me back when she finished classes for the day.

      Mindy was seated in a booth at the back of Reggie’s Place when I arrived. She’d slung her long straw-colored pony tail over her shoulder so she could play with it. Her pretty face was puffy and she looked anguished. She wore faded blue jeans and a tee-shirt with a Lacoste emblem.

      She gave me a courageous but small smile as I slid into the booth facing her. “How’d it go with Monty?”

      “He’s a trip. I like him. He’s got the right attitude about the fuckers who raped me,” she said with some passion.

      “Yeah, he’s an ex-cop. He despises the guys he draws almost as much as the victims he works with hate them. What did you think of his sketches?”

      “They blew me away, the way he gets it right. He kept asking questions the whole time he was making subtle changes to the drawings. I didn’t realize I could remember so much detail. Why’d he leave the police?”

      “He’s a lot like me. He doesn’t like living by a stuffy rule book.” I lied. Monty got caught selling confidential information to the press on a police corruption deal. The D.A. drubbed him out of the San Francisco Police Department with a threat to prosecute him if he didn’t resign. He became the sacrificial lamb between two warring divisions in the force. Monty still carried a big chip on his shoulder about the way they shafted him and torpedoed his goal for a cushy pension. He likes working for defense lawyers and private detectives, but misses the action, power and inside information only the police are privy to.

      Monty sauntered into Reggie’s Place with a swagger and haughty look on his mug as he breezed over to our booth. Mindy greeted him with a big smile.

      “Good ta see ya’ R.C.” He returned Mindy’s smile with one of his own. “You guys ordered yet? I’m famished.”

      Monty signaled Reggie and ordered Reggie’s biggest breakfast plate of three eggs, sugar cured ham and a stack of three pancakes. Mindy asked for a hamburger and a diet cola. I settled for cornbread muffins, soft boiled eggs and coffee.

      Monty passed around his sketches of the three men who’d raped Mindy while we waited for our food. “What d’ya think, Mindy? If you got them in your gun sights, would you pull the trigger?” Monty asked.

      “You better believe it! I’d blow these guys away in a sec.”

      I studied the three profiles while Monty peppered Mindy with upbeat chitchat.

      The guy called Barry, who’d picked her up, was good looking, suave and self-confident in Monty’s rendering. It was easy to see how a bored college student could fail for his line. He looked like his ancestors could have been Italian or Greek. Monty had captured his strong chin, pronounced cheekbones, penetrating eyes, his strong, finely chiseled nose and his dark wavy hair worn slightly too long. He reminded me of a Travolta wannabe looking for a dirty dancing contest.

      George looked ready to climb on his surfboard to catch the next wave. His broad, expansive face was about as Waspish as one could imagine – square chin, fair skin, piggish nose, long, straight, sun bleached blond hair, dimples and vestiges of an adolescent babyface. I had no problem hearing the Beach Boys singing “California Girls” and watching nubile girls in skimpy bathing costumes skipping along the beach after the surfer hunk, George.

      Earl had that clean-cut, preppie look calculated to catch the eye and interest of college girls of color looking to make a good catch or to interest and intrigue white girls into wondering what it might be like to cross the color line. It’s a look my little brother has mastered – close-cropped hair, neatly trimmed with a stylish part, light brown skin and a face with only subtle hints at the nose and mouth of one’s African heritage. Earl looked like a toned down version of Eddie Murphy on the college circuit. Monty had expertly captured Earl’s twinkle-eyed, bemused grin that was only half a step removed from being up to no good. He was just the kind of “brother” who’d inspire trust and put at ease a naïve romantic like Mindy, who lacked the street smarts to see through the facade.

      I was pleased with Monty’s caricatures. Each guy was distinctive with strong, identifiable features. These were the kind of men that women and observant folks would remember.

      Reggie delivered our plates and we scarfed our food down like three jailbirds anxious to get back to work on the tunnel under the fence and to freedom. I dropped a twenty on the table and left Mindy and Monty to sample Reggie’s blackberry cobbler. I wanted to get Monty’s sketches into circulation. Mindy seemed animated to be in Monty’s company. I didn’t want to remind her how hard it was going to be to find and trap these three Lotharios. She’d had enough downers recently to last a lifetime. It was good to see her laughing at Monty’s antics.

      I scooted over to the office to sign off on the report for Barney Schultz and confer with my neglected secretary, Juanita. She greeted me with a look that said, “You’ve been up to no good and are headed for beeg trouble.” She usually asks me about Rita at moments like this to rub in her view that Rita would be justified in dropping me and moving on because I had not proposed to her. Juanita suspected I was still playing the field on the sly and she went to great lengths to try to catch me and shame me. Juanita claimed to be descended from a Mexican bruja, an Indian witch doctor or medicine woman with magical powers of clairvoyance and healing, and I believed her. She wasn’t about to believe any denial from me about not playing the field. She had me pegged rightly: I did love women and was weak when tempted. I was, however, trying hard to stay faithful to Rita despite our forced separation that allowed us to see each other only on alternate weekends until she graduated from U.C., Davis, near Sacramento.

      I was finishing my billing records for Juanita to type and give to Barney when Juanita informed me that “a woman” wanted to speak with me. Her look reeked of suspicion and no doubt she would listen in to my conversation and probably report it to Rita when she could. Juanita kept warning me that if I didn’t marry Rita soon, I’d lose her. I hoped she wasn’t putting a hex on me.

      Sherri Downs had dropped by her dorm room to pick up some notes and played my message; she called to say she wanted to see me right away, even though it meant cutting her afternoon class. I didn’t want to return to Reggie’s Place, so we agreed to meet at a small café on Shattuck Avenue, away from student haunts, to avoid her dormies.

      Sherri was waiting for me at a back table facing the entrance to the coffee