I was still thinking about the strange, terrible bites, and all that blood, as I walked off the plane and into crowded San Francisco International Airport. I looked around for Inspector Jamilla Hughes.  Rumor had it that she was an attractive black woman.  I noted that a businessman near the gate was reading The Examiner. I could see the bold headline on the front page HORROR IN GOLDEN GATE PARK, TWO MURDERED.
I didn’t see anyone waiting, so I began to look for signs directing me to public transportation. I only had a carry-on bag; I had promised to be home by Saturday for Damon’s concert. I had my marching orders and I planned to keep my promises from now on.  Cross my heart.
A woman walked up to me as I started away from the gate.’Excuse me, are you Detective Cross?’
I had noticed her just before she spoke to me. She was wearing jeans, a black leather car coat over a powder blue T-shirt. Then I spotted the tell-tale holster under her jacket. She was probably in her mid-thirties, nice looking, down-to-earth, pleasant for a homicide detective, who often come on a little gruff.
‘Inspector Hughes?’ I asked.
‘Jamilla.’she extended her hand and smiled as I took it. Nice smile, too.’It’s good to meet you. Detective. Ordinarily, I’d resist the sell out of any idea that originated with the FBI, but your r............