Death in the Haight

by Ronald Tierney

  He handed the phone to Lang.

  “My name is Noah Lang. I am not police. You can check up on us. Paladino and Lang Investigations. My only purpose is to help the Vanderveers, to make sure you receive the ransom and Michael is united with his parents. When this occurs, we will all go our separate ways.”

  There was silence.

  “Is there any way we can verify that you have Michael and that he is all right?”

  “I can send a body part,” the voice said.

  “No. Don’t do that. Is it possible for him to speak to his father?”

  “I don’t like the idea that you are involved. But maybe it’s for the best in the end. However, you would do well to understand that you have absolutely no leverage. I will not negotiate. You simply do what I say. No heroics. I am not a sentimental man. Do you understand me?”

  “I understand.”

  “Tell the Vanderveers to get some rest tonight. The next time I contact them there will be instructions. Between now and tomorrow morning, have them pick up a box of black, extra-strength plastic garbage bags. Good night.”

  Lang started to tell the Vanderveers what the man said, but an elderly lady was walking by with her fluffy white dog. He waited until the two of them were past hearing.

  “They saw us,” Miriam Vanderveer said, her voice running toward the edge of hysteria. “They’re here, somewhere. They can see us.”

  Lang wasn’t sure what to think. The words the caller chose suggested not that he was educated but that he wanted to come across as educated. “You would do well to understand . . .” A pretty good-sized ego, but not the way a tough guy would speak. The caller kept saying “I,” not “we.” Maybe there was only one kidnapper. On the other hand, someone was keeping close watch on the Vanderveers. And someone would need to watch over the victim—if they had the victim at all.

  “Is there anyone that you came across in your business or maybe an employee who might want to get even with you?” Lang asked Mr. Vanderveer. “Someone you may have slighted?”

  “I might have and not even known it, I suppose. Over the years, I’m sure there were people unhappy with my decisions. But nothing that stands out.”

  “Did you have a personal staff, Mrs. Vanderveer? Maids, gardeners? Maybe someone who knew Michael and would have known where he would run to?”

  “We have a woman who comes to clean twice a week. And we have a gardener. They are husband and wife. Mexican, both of them. They know Michael, but I doubt he would discuss his plans with them.” She seemed relieved to be done talking. She looked down into the folded hands in her lap.

  Lang wanted to say something encouraging, but he didn’t feel encouraged enough to do so. Knowing that the police not only suspected young Michael of the kidnapping but also of the murder meant that even if the exchange went well, the parents wouldn’t get out of the hell they were in.

  He asked a few more questions before they separated. Lang reminded them that they wouldn’t hear from the kidnappers any more that day and recommended a small café a block and a half down on Taylor.

  “I couldn’t possibly eat,” Mrs. Vanderveer said.

  “You mind?” Lang asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. He used his phone to photograph the Vanderveers. “About the hotel, why did you choose the Huntington?”

  “We always stay here when we’re in San Francisco.”

  “Did Michael stay here with you?”

  “Yes. At least twice. The whole family.” Vanderveer shrugged. “It was a whole family then.”

  * * *

  Lang took a moment to grab a bite to eat at the Nob Hill Café. Even though the address spelled “money,” and the clientele looked to be local and therefore moneyed, the atmosphere wasn’t the least snooty and the menu was surprisingly affordable. Unsure about where his next paycheck would come from, Lang ordered with cautious economy—a plate of spaghetti alla carbonara, which turned out to suit his appetite perfectly, and a glass of the house red, which cut through the rich, creamy pasta.

  Back outside, as night eventually started to fall, he sat in the park again and called Thanh. He told his friend to wrap up the insurance case and be ready to move on in the morning. There were other things that needed doing, Lang explained. He did the same with Brinkman. Brinkman was happy that he might have something more to do. Lang told him his assignment began immediately and provided instructions.

  Park benches weren’t made for long-term comfort, Lang soon discovered. He walked down to Powell and looked farther down the steep hill as it descended into a glittering Chinatown and a deserted but impressive high-rise financial district. For many tourists this was a magical, fanciful city. And it was that, but there was no shortage of dashed hopes, deep tragedies, and genuine monsters lurking just this side of the dreams.

  He walked to his car, retrieved a coat and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses with plain lenses. He had the night shift, and Thanh, completely briefed, would relieve him early in the morning. He wished he had a pillow.

  Lang understood that the stakeout was nearly useless. It wasn’t likely the kidnappers would make any move this evening. Surely they didn’t expect the Vanderveers to keep the money in their hotel room, and the banks were closed when they’d made their call. He wasn’t likely to recognize them if they walked in through the front door. Yet it was possible that this was a setup for a robbery. That would be clever. Plan an exchange, but steal the money beforehand. Lang would maintain his surveillance.

  * * *

  Lang was bundled up against the chill. The fog meant visibility ended about a hundred feet away. He could barely see the entrance to the Huntington. Lacy fog hung about the hotel’s doorway. The other buildings, usually dominating Nob Hill, had vanished or merely hinted at their existence.

  He thought he saw a rat, or perhaps it was a cat, scurrying across the walkway and into the first translucent, then opaque gray cover of fog.

  * * *

  It was the “why” of things that was disturbing him. Why he was sitting in the park at this hour? That was a good question. He knew the plain answer. He was avoiding a run-in with Stern as much as watching out for a potential robbery. But that presented, in turn, a more difficult question. Was it cowardice? He had told himself when Stern punched him, and again later in that dark night, that he understood he would lose no matter what in a battle with a cop. If he killed the cop in self-defense, it wouldn’t matter to the police or to the courts. Was he a coward to refuse to fight when it was clear he could not win? It would be as stupid as walking into a propeller. Yet that wasn’t how the code worked. He felt rotten and small.

  There was a police siren—a whooping sound—somewhere down the hill. He couldn’t tell which direction it was going. The sound trailed off. After a few moments of silence he heard the tires of a car on the streets damp from the fog. He looked. It passed slowly and steadily across California Street.

  Lang wasn’t done with the questions. Why had he provoked Stern so thoroughly? Surely the veteran cop, who had seen so much in his career, had seen worse characters than Noah Lang.

  Not usually given to introspection, Lang revisited the major events in his life. His treatment of his wife had not been criminal. He had not abused her unless being selfish and emotionally remote was abuse. He had been immature and wrong. He had been a jerk. He had been a chauvinist in the worst possible ways. He wasn’t sure how he’d do in conventional relationship today. But it didn’t matter. He didn’t have them. He really couldn’t hurt people because he simply didn’t get involved.

  Still, there was a history with Stern. There was the situation with Thanh, which neither he nor Thanh talked about. There was a death, one that Stern believed Lang had played a part in. There was the woman on the pier. But both Stern and Rose had been there. It was clear Lang hadn’t killed the woman, but Stern believed Lang was involved. There was the suicide in Sea Cliff
while Lang was staking out the victim’s home. Stern didn’t believe it was suicide, but that Lang killed her. Then there was the professional hit and little hide-and-seek game in North Beach. Lang was there. All this accumulated for Stern: Somebody was getting away with, well, murder. Worse, it seemed that Lang was continually showing Stern up, making him the fool.

  Lang’s introspection was interrupted around four a.m. by a beat cop, who, after checking out Lang’s PI license, was satisfied with Lang’s stakeout explanation.

  Around 6:30 Thanh showed up sporting tousled hair and wearing a one-piece mechanic’s uniform—not the usual choice of someone style-conscious but, as always, bringing style to the mundane. Maybe Lang’s friend had been working on his bike.

  Light penetrated the layer of fog, giving the park an odd light, a soft luminescence, continuing Lang’s mood of suspended reality. When Thanh sat beside Lang, it wouldn’t be a big leap in the imagination to think that they were the only two people left in the world. It was a familiar and comfortable feeling.

  “You are a silly man,” Thanh said. “Did you think this older couple was going to go wandering out in the middle of the night?”

  “No.”

  “Then why?”

  “I didn’t want to go home,” Lang said. “I wanted to think.”

  “About why Stern hates you.”

  “That too. Not just that, though.”

  “He hates me too,” Thanh said. “He’s having trouble living in the modern world. He wants things to be simple, like good and evil, black and white. You walked that line a couple of times.”

  “You mean between good and evil?”

  Thanh nodded.

  “I thought about that earlier,” Lang said. In some odd and unexplainable way, the two of them were often on the same frequency.

  “Good and evil or, in my case, man or woman,” Thanh said. “I am a wrong he feels compelled to make right. So are you. You have breakfast?”

  “No. I’m hungry and thirsty and tired. How’s Buddha?”

  “He loves me. But then who doesn’t?” Thanh smiled. “We’re back to Stern, aren’t we?” Lang didn’t want Buddha back at his loft if Stern might show up, so he’d had Thanh pick him up. The cop was a petty, vindictive man. “Don’t kill him,” Thanh added.

  Thanh knew Lang. Knew that if Stern backed Lang against the wall, with no other way out, Lang would kill him. There were secrets that Lang and Thanh shared. And for those they had forgiven each other. But others might not forgive them. Some of what Stern suspected was true, but his interpretations of the facts were inventions, his own dark fantasies.

  “You reviewed the photos of the Vanderveers—Mom, Dad, the kid?” Lang asked.

  “I did.”

  “Just follow them.”

  “If Mom and Dad go in different directions?”

  “Follow Dad. I want to know if he talks to anybody. Take pictures. Call me if it looks like something is going down. I’ll be in the office. I need a couple of hours.”

  “Got it.”

  As Lang headed toward his car, he could see a few folks on the sidewalk. A man inside a rumpled robe walked by, bundled and hugging himself against the chill, holding on to a tiny, skinny dog pulling against its leash. People would pop out of buildings now. The old and early risers, the ambitious suits heading down to the financial district to get a jump on the Bay commuters, the restaurant workers.

  It struck him how many different worlds there were, crisscrossing one another in time and place, in thought and emotion. Too much to think about.

  * * *

  Lang looked at his watch. He must have dozed for a couple of hours. He raised himself up from the green Naugahyde sofa. He smelled coffee and heard muffled conversation beyond the closed door, in the lobby. He also caught the scent of a cigar coming from the opposite direction.

  “You’re not supposed to smoke in here,” Lang said to Brinkman, more out of habit than anything.

  “According to the insurance tables, I’m not supposed to be alive.”

  How could you argue with that? Lang thought. Instead of agreeing or disagreeing, he called Thanh.

  “Anything?”

  “Something now. Dad came out of the hotel with a young man, and the two of them are on the cable car.”

  “A young man. You following?”

  “I am. At one point, Dad put his arm around the young man.”

  “That’s interesting. If he’s with a blackmailer, he wouldn’t likely do that. Which way are they headed?”

  “Downtown. Heading toward the Embarcadero.”

  “My guess is they get off in the financial district. Keep up the tail. Call me if things get weird.”

  Lang called Vanderveer.

  “Yes?”

  “Lang. What’s up?”

  “We’ve been instructed to have the money at hand. That’s it. Nothing else.”

  “You’re not at the hotel?” Lang asked, pretending he didn’t already know.

  “No,” Vanderveer said, irritation in his voice.

  “You should let me know about these things,” Lang said.

  “I’ll let you know what you need to know.”

  “When you hire someone to do a job you don’t know how to do, do you tell him how to do it?”

  There was no response,

  “Are you alone?” Lang pressed.

  “No. My son James came in from Grand Rapids.”

  “Why?”

  “He wanted to be with us when we found Michael.”

  “You need to tell me these things,” Lang said.

  “I am. You’re hearing them now.” His tone was one of a boss making sure his employee didn’t get too uppity.

  “That might not be quick enough in the future,” Lang said.

  Vanderveer disconnected.

  Lang couldn’t help but think that Dad wanted no part of this adventure. If it was up to him, the kidnapping would solve the problem with his wayward son. The search-and-rescue was driven by Mrs. Vanderveer. Would he pay a million just to shut her up? For the briefest of moments, he entertained the idea that Mr. Vanderveer wasn’t really giving up the million. He’d have to think about that.

  * * *

  Lang’s phone rang.

  “Your Mr. Vanderveer and his young friend—” Thanh said.

  “His son James. Michael’s older brother.”

  “They came back to the hotel with two very full and heavy Macy’s shopping bags.”

  “The money.”

  “The money. That means someone will have to stay with the money at all times. Hence the kid coming in from Grand Rapids.”

  “Yes, seems so. It also means Dad’s not telling us everything,” Lang said. “Can you stick around until later this afternoon?”

  “I can. The pickup could be any time now.”

  “I’ll send Brinkman over there as well.”

  * * *

  Finished with his testimony in court proceedings on the second floor, Gratelli went down the back steps and out to the sidewalk that went by the medical examiner’s office. He walked through the McDonald’s parking lot to a popular little Vietnamese restaurant around the corner. He ordered his sandwich to go and got in and out before the crowds arrived.

  On his way back to the Hall of Justice, he again saw Stern sitting outside. Gratelli, like many other cops, judges, and lawyers, usually skipped the McDonald’s. The likelihood of running into a felon, witness, or defendant was too great. But that didn’t seem to bother Stern, who’d had his order supersized.

  Gratelli moved toward him. The heavy-set cop had a copy of the Examiner open to the sports section.

  “You mind?” Gratelli asked.

  Stern shook his head, but it was difficult to tell whether he was indicating “No, I
don’t mind” or “Can’t I get a minute’s rest?”

  “You remember McClellan?” Gratelli asked.

  “We all remember McClellan,” Stern said.

  “He was a lot like you.”

  Stern said nothing. He took a bite of his sandwich.

  “People thought he was just a big crude guy, too tough and hard for his own good. That’s what some people think of you,” Gratelli continued

  “You think I give a shit what people think?”

  “Just what he would have said.”

  “I’m not your partner, and I sure as hell don’t need a friend. Go away.”

  “Every crime ate at him, especially the kids and especially the ones he couldn’t do anything about. Too many of those, right?”

  Stern slammed his sandwich back in its cardboard container, shut it. Picked up his large fries and put them in the paper bag.

  “There was a string of murders,” Gratelli said. “Young girls. It was years ago now. You know what happened to him. Not officially. I mean what really happened.”

  “Yeah, you’re a caring cop, Gratelli. Disgusting. I hope when I get old, I don’t get all sloppy and sentimental. You’re like some . . .” Stern stopped, changed his mind, put his bag down for a moment, put his hands up as if to stop traffic. “Find someone else to bleed on. I don’t want any part of it.” He grabbed his lunch and headed back to the office.

  Gratelli gave him a long head start.

  All this hate was going to kill him, or someone else.

  * * *

  Before he left work, Gratelli again went down the back stairs, this time to visit the medical examiner. He found her cleaning up the last of the day’s autopsies.