300 Brannan Street Novels & Stories

Hartford was forty minutes ahead of us, and Garrett Finch’s office was on the third floor of a building on Asylum Avenue, which I had found on the bar association listing with an address that had not been difficult to locate. The name of the street almost made me laugh. Almost.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

I gasped, cutting him off, “things have gone much worse now. I need your help. Where are you?” The officer leaned forward slightly, his eyes boring into me. “I need the address of this station,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. The officer hesitated for a moment, then blurted out the address in a clipped, businesslike tone, "850 Bryant Street, San Francisco, precinct six." I repeated it to Austin, my voice trembling with urgency. “Come right away, and bring an attorney with you. A trusted one, please. Not like that fraud, Maxwell... that guy set me up. You won’t believe it.”

“I know you live in Edgewater, but a few directions would be useful.” The deep voice cut into her tortured thoughts, and when she glanced out of the window, she realized she was nearly home, the Mercedes having eaten up the miles with flawless ease. “Of course. Sorry, I was daydreaming,” Alanis said hastily. “That does my ego a huge world of good, Alanis, thank you so much,” Brody said with cool sarcasm. “Now, the address is North Winthrop Avenue, isn't it? West Hollywood Avenue it’s cutting it off, right?”

Date = 26 March A whole long week has passed. Place = San Francisco (Mission Street) And I’m still here. POV - Aria “I can’t believe you let me buy all this shit!” Three heads swivel to face the blonde, who’s been talking nonstop. Her exaggerated hand gestures, despite the fact that one is still in a cast, draw attention from the other pedestrians walking up and down the vibrant world of Mission Street.

For that matter, it wasn't safe anywhere, so I could go and chat with the demoness. It was almost ten kilometers to the city center on foot. If I make a detour through Pacific Heights and the Fillmore neighborhoods, I can drive a few more miles and visit the Painted Ladies, a row of ornate Victorian houses near Alamo Square. Having made a detour, I will arrive just in time.

CALESTINO “1201 S. Bellmont Avenue. Penthouse 12B.” I read it out loud for the third time, like the words might rearrange themselves if I stared hard enough. My grip tightened around my phone until the screen creaked. My heart was trying to tear its way out of my ribs. I killed the engine and stepped into the cool night air, pulling my cap low. The building rose in front of me—glass, steel, money. Cold and untouchable. Penthouse level.

Amber's POV The address on the back of Wolfe's card led me to a building in the Financial District that had no signage. Not unusual in Manhattan. Plenty of serious money operated behind unmarked doors. But this building had a particular quality of invisibility that felt intentional rather than incidental. Twelve stories of dark glass and clean lines, wedged between two older limestone buildings on a narrow street that most GPS systems routed around rather than through. I sat in the back of a cab for thirty seconds after it stopped, looking at the entrance.

"Clancy's grandson bought that mansion over on Bakersridge." "What nonsense are you saying? The man's a biker; for heaven's sake, where would he get that kind of money?" Natalie took a sip of the water the waitress had placed in front of her as she savored the look on Jen's face. Oh, this was going to be good.

Get the witness. “33 River Street is a narrow, two-story brick building. The ground floor is a boarded-up deli. The upper floor is likely his office or apartment. Single front entrance, fire escape on the west side.” She recited the details from the city planning file she’d memorized weeks ago. “If it’s a hit, they’ll have the entrance covered. Maybe a spotter across the street. We need a back door.” Dante nodded, a flicker of approval in his stormy eyes. “The deli shares an alley with a plumbing supply warehouse. There’s a rear delivery entrance, padlocked from the outside.”

"Not now, little bunny. No time for groping." "I'm not doing anything!" she shot back, red with embarrassment and fear. "I can't find it." "The back one," he indicated. Lucy pulled out the phone, her hands shaking. "Dial number six. Tell them to come get us. The address: Le Vieux Roi, 12 Lombard Street. 8th district." Lucy dialed, and the line picked up immediately. "Yes, this is—we're at—I mean, we're at Le Vieux Roi, 12 Lombard Street… we need help… please."