When drinking buddy Tom Crandall is found in an abandoned Tenderloin terminal dead of an injection of epinephrine, S.F. shamus John Marshall Tanner (Book Case, etc.) rejects the police theory of suicide, suspecting instead an importunate romantic rival: Richard Sands, the ultrarich businessman pursuing Tom's wife Clarissa. Wrong motive, right suspect--because Sands is clearly up to his neck in a plot to recoup his recent losses by meddling with the city's blood supply: a plot whose tremors reach so far--from Tom's schizophrenic brother Nicky to a blood-donor harvester called Dracula to a gaggle of seamy medicos who've developed a new approach to AIDS research--that the question of who actually pushed the plunger hardly matters. Slow-starting and disjointed in its storytelling (Tanner--now in his eighth outing--keeps inadvertently digging up exactly the right people), but fueled by a truly horrifying vision of corporate/medical research.