The Crooked Street

by Brian Freeman

  “Sorry to let myself in,” Herb told him without opening his eyes. “I needed a quiet space, and the gallery was a madhouse today.”

  Frost slid to the floor, stretched out his legs, and leaned back against the sofa. “No problem. I’m getting used to people showing up unannounced around here. At least you’re not dropping dead or looking for snakes.”

  This time, Herb opened one eye. “Snakes?”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  Frost patted the carpet beside him, and Shack opened one bleary eye, too. The cat weighed the comfort of his current spot against the obligation to say hello to Frost, and he got up with a slight meow of annoyance and wandered over to stake out his usual place on Frost’s shoulder. His purring was like the loud rumble of a sports car’s engine.

  Herb untangled himself from his yoga position with a crack of his knees. He stood up, squeezed his hip with a small grimace, and went to the kitchen, where he helped himself to a Sierra Nevada ale. He waved a second bottle in Frost’s direction with a silent question.

  “Definitely,” Frost replied.

  Herb brought two bottles to the living room and sank down onto the floor next to Frost. They drank their beers and sat in silence for several minutes. Neither one of them felt the need to fill empty spaces with small talk.

  “So, Denny Clark,” Herb said finally. “That was a surprise.”

  “It sure was.”

  “He showed up completely out of the blue?”

  “Completely.”

  “I was never much of a fan of Mr. Clark,” Herb admitted.

  “I know.”

  “Still, it’s a tragedy. I’m sorry.”

  “I am, too,” Frost agreed. “I don’t like unfinished business. I always assumed that one day Denny and I would find a way to put the past behind us. We didn’t leave things on good terms.”

  “That was hardly your fault,” Herb pointed out.

  Frost shrugged. Herb was right, but it didn’t change anything.

  He’d known Herb since his college days at SF State, and Herb had been his friend throughout the beginning, middle, and end of his relationship with Denny and Carla. Frost didn’t open up to others easily, but he shared everything with Herb. The only other person in his life with whom he’d been that honest was his sister, Katie. After Katie was killed, he’d been lucky to have Herb as a confidant.

  “Do you know what happened to Denny?” Herb went on.

  “Not yet,” Frost said. “All I know is that this case keeps getting stranger and stranger.”

  “Including snakes?”

  “Including snakes.” Frost took out his phone and showed Herb the picture of the graffiti near Coolbrith Park. “Have you ever seen something like this around town?”

  Herb squinted through his black glasses. “I don’t think so.”

  “Could you put out the word to your network?” Frost asked. “If someone has seen a snake like this, I’d like to know about it.”

  “Of course.”

  Among his many activities in the city, Herb had launched a program to put smartphones in the hands of the homeless to give them a link to jobs and shelters. It had grown into an online network with the nickname Street Twitter, and when Frost needed information, it was the fastest community of spies in San Francisco. The people on the street trusted Herb.

  “Can you tell me what this is all about?” Herb asked.

  “I met a private detective named Dick Coyle. He has this theory that a serial killer has been at work in the city for years, and no one has figured it out. The snakes are this guy’s talisman. When he kills somebody, he leaves a snake behind. Coyle just found another snake in Berkeley this afternoon.”

  Herb’s eyebrows rose. “That sounds like a rather wild idea. Do you believe him?”

  “Normally, I wouldn’t, but Denny gave me a message before he died that makes me think Coyle isn’t crazy. It was the only thing he said to me. Just one word. Lombard.”

  Herb studied the photo of the snake again and spotted the significance immediately. “I see what you mean. The resemblance to the street can’t be an accident.”

  “No.”

  “All right, I’ll see if the name Lombard rings any bells with my network, too,” Herb said with a slight frown on his face, as if something had flitted in and out of his memory. He paused and then added, “It’s hard to believe this could be happening without the police having some knowledge of it.”

  Frost took a swallow of Torpedo ale. “You’re right. That is hard to believe. What bothers me is that I have the sense there are people at headquarters who already know all about this. And they’re not saying anything.”

  Herb smoothed his colorful robe. “Well, you know I love your mysteries, Frost. Anyway, thank you for the meditation space and the feline assistance. I’m having dinner at Cha Cha Cha with some of the students at the gallery. Do you want to join me?”

  “I would if I could,” Frost said, “but Duane asked me to come to the food truck tonight.”

  Herb gave him a pointed stare. “And?”

  “And yes, Tabby will be there, too.”

  Herb shook his head. He was the only one who knew the truth about Frost’s feelings for Tabby. “I’m trying to think of a way this ends well, Frost, but I can’t see it.”

  “Neither can I.”

  “You know I love you, my friend, but you’re going to have to find a way to get past your feelings for this girl. Or else the situation is going to explode for all of you.”

  “I know that.”

  Frost had been telling himself the same thing for months, but he’d found no answers.

  Herb pushed himself to his feet, and Frost did the same. Outside, through the bay window, it was almost dark. The city lights were coming on down the hillside. Shack spotted a white moth that had crept in through the open door, and he galloped to the glass to bat at it.

  “I’ll keep you posted on my herpetological research,” Herb said. “If there are snakes to be found in the city, I’ll locate them.”

  “Thanks. Oh, I have one other question, too.” Frost took his phone and called up the photo of Denny Clark and Greg Howell on the Roughing It, with the mystery blond woman between them. “Have you ever seen this woman before? Do you know who she is?”

  Herb shoved his glasses to the end of his nose and bent closer to the phone screen. “Ah, you’re playing in the big leagues with this one, Frost.”

  “You know her?” he asked.

  “Oh yes. She runs her own public relations company. It’s really more like an executive matchmaker service. When one powerful person needs to connect with another, she’s the intermediary who makes it happen.”

  Frost tapped the photo. “Powerful people like Greg Howell?”

  “Definitely.”

  “What’s her name?” Frost asked.

  “Belinda Drake.”

  “How do I find her?”

  Herb shook his head. “That’s a problem. Typically, you don’t find her. If you have something she needs, she finds you.”

  “Has she ever found you for anything?” Frost asked.

  “Once, yes. It was when my three-dimensional paintings were starting to make the news. She arranged to fly me on a private jet to an estate somewhere in the South Pacific. I have no idea exactly where or whose estate it was. My job was to paint a mural, and I did. I spent two weeks there, alone, with no one else around except a butler and a cook. When I was done, I was flown home. And the commission is what enabled me to buy my gallery in the Haight. It was very lucrative.”

  “I can’t believe you never told me about this,” Frost said.

  “I was under a nondisclosure agreement, which is actually still in force. We should keep this discussion between us.”

  “I still need to talk to her,” Frost said.

  Herb nodded. “I’ll make a couple of calls. I’ll put the word out that you want to talk to Ms. Drake. After that, it’s up to her. But be careful, Frost. If you’re looking for poisono
us snakes, there’s no better place to start than the world of public relations.”

  9

  The gathering of food trucks in the SoMa street park on Saturday night always turned into a party. Bluegrass music twanged from the stage. The aromas in the air mixed into a multiethnic blend of Tex-Mex, sweet Asian, Caribbean jerk spices, and wood-fired pizza. Hundreds of city dwellers crowded together for date nights, most of them young enough to make Frost feel strangely old. He’d brought Shack with him in a carrier, which meant that he had to stop for girls to crouch down and giggle as Shack licked their fingers.

  As he crossed the park, he heard a shout rise above the raucous crowd. “Bro! Over here!”

  His older brother, Duane, waved from a picnic table near his food truck. Seating was always at a premium in SoMa, but Duane’s table had a sign that read: Reserved for Chef Duane on Penalty of Death and/or Garlic Breath. Everyone respected the rule. It helped that Duane often handed out free samples of whatever he was cooking.

  Frost put Shack’s carrier on top of the picnic table and slid onto the bench across from his brother. Duane had his arm around Tabby Blaine. His brother wore a contented smile that Frost had never thought he would see on Duane’s face. For years, Duane’s life had been his work, and his only relationships had been an endless series of flings with each new sous chef. Tabby had changed that. Duane was in love, and Frost was happy to see it.

  “Hey, guys,” he said over the din of the people and the music.

  “Glad you could make it, bro!” Duane greeted him with his usual zest.

  “Hello, Frost,” Tabby murmured, looking at him with a slow blink of her green eyes and then looking away. His stare lingered on her longer than was healthy, and he had to force himself to stop.

  Duane poked his finger into the carrier. “Shackster! Shack Attack! You want some poutine there, buddy?”

  His brother dipped a French fry into gravy that had a sweet-spicy aroma and then stuck the end into the carrier for Shack to have a little taste. The cat didn’t always approve of everything Duane made, but pad thai poutine was apparently a hit. Shack licked it up and put out a paw for more.

  It was Canada Day in March. Duane wore a red hockey jersey from the Montreal Canadiens. The picnic table and the truck were decorated with Canadian flags, and somehow Duane had managed to procure a life-sized cardboard cutout of Justin Trudeau.

  “Is it going well?” Frost asked.

  “Terrific. Raymonde made Montreal smoked meat sandwiches. They’re incredible. You have to try them.”

  “I don’t see a Mountie,” Frost pointed out.

  “Yeah, the street-park people gave me a hard time about the horse,” Duane replied, “and without the horse, what’s the point?”

  Duane eyed the long line at his food truck, but it wasn’t long enough for his taste. He climbed onto the bench of the picnic table and waved one of the miniature Canadian flags. “Pouuuuuuuutine!” he bellowed into the night. “We’ve got the best poutine south of Hudson Bay! Smooooooked meat that melts in your mouth! Right over here, get it over here!”

  Then he began singing “O Canada” in a surprisingly impressive baritone. The drunk crowd around him applauded, and a few of them joined the chorus.

  Frost smiled at the performance. This was peak Duane. If there was one thing Frost admired about his brother, it was his relentless, caffeinated energy. He rarely slept. He never seemed to sit down or stop talking. Like their father, Duane was an extrovert who thrived on people, which made him very different from Frost.

  Someone called out Duane’s name from the rear door of the food truck. Frost caught a glimpse of a pale, carrot-topped sous chef who didn’t look any older than nineteen. His voice had barely changed, and his accent sounded French. “Duane, we need you over here!”

  Duane waved back in reply. He hopped down from the bench and kissed Tabby on the cheek. “Be right back!”

  Frost’s brother shoved through the crowd, shaking hands and passing around samples of poutine as he went. Duane was several inches shorter than Frost, and he had long black hair tied behind his head in a ponytail. The hockey jersey he wore was a couple of sizes too big, and his pants were a couple of sizes too small. He jogged up the rear steps of the food truck and disappeared inside. The tenor of his voice changed immediately, and Frost could hear him bellowing complaints at the sous chefs. When it came to preparing the food, Duane lived up to his nickname, which was the Beast. He even had a name tag that read “Duane Beaston.”

  With his brother gone, Frost was alone with Tabby on the bench. Her profile was lit up in the multicolored glow of neon. She had no smile on her lips, and her green eyes stared blankly into the crowd. She sat straight up, like someone trying to hold strong against a stiff wind. There was something both fearless and fragile about her.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She looked back, startled, as if she’d forgotten that he was there.

  “Oh, sorry, Frost. I’m not myself tonight.” Tabby pushed her red hair away from her face. She reached over to tickle Shack’s chin inside the carrier, and Shack nudged forward for more attention. The cat was in love with her and didn’t try to hide it.

  “What’s going on?” Frost asked.

  “It’s just been a crappy day. I don’t want to bother you with it.”

  “Bother me,” he told her.

  Tabby shrugged. “Up is down, down is up. That’s my life these days.”

  “Is it your niece?” he asked. Tabby’s only sister had a four-year-old who was battling a rare form of cancer. “You’ve been pretty quiet about her lately. How is she?”

  “Hanging on. She’s a brave little kid.”

  “And is the insurance company finally playing ball?”

  Tabby gave him a smile that came and went like a flickering candle. “It’s under control.”

  He could feel her distance tonight. She obviously didn’t want to talk, but having her pull away made him want to chase her.

  “Can I help?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Oh no. Thanks.”

  “Is there anything else going on?”

  “Like I said, it’s just a bad day. I’ve got problems of my own. I have an important catering job scheduled, and the chef I wanted bailed on me. Now I’m scrambling to get a replacement. I’m not used to relying on other people, you know? I miss being the one in the kitchen myself.”

  Frost didn’t say anything, but he felt a stab of guilt that he tried to keep off his face. It didn’t work. Tabby took a moment to catch up to what she’d said, and then her eyes widened with regret as she saw his expression. “Oh my God, Frost, why did I say that? Please don’t think I blame you. It’s not your fault.”

  He waved off her comment as nothing, but he still blamed himself for her situation. When he’d met Tabby, she had not only been Duane’s girlfriend but also an up-and-coming chef at one of the city’s top restaurants. Then Frost had faced down a killer who’d been holding a knife to Tabby’s throat, and the only way to rescue her had been to fire a shot that hit both of them. Tabby survived, but the price was permanent nerve damage to two of the fingers on her right hand. She was never going to cook in a professional kitchen again.

  “Really, I’m sorry,” she went on. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “I know that.”

  “I owe you my life.”

  “You don’t owe me anything at all,” he replied.

  She looked away again, obviously upset with herself. He felt as if he’d made her bad day worse. It drove him crazy that when she was sad, all he wanted to do was comfort her. He knew Herb was right. He needed to find a way to shut down his feelings for this girl, or it wouldn’t end well for any of them.

  Duane returned from the food truck with a mountainous plate of smoked meat sliders. He put the plate in the middle of the picnic table and pulled off a small piece of meat from one of the sandwiches to slip inside the cage for Shack. He took a seat again next to Tabby and put his hand over
hers. Frost was surprised to see a small flinch from Tabby as he did so.

  “Crisis averted,” Duane announced. “I told Raymonde to add cilantro like it’s a disco song. More, more, more.”

  Frost bit into one of the sliders. “Well, you can tell Raymonde this is delicious.”

  “I will.”

  “By the way, are pigs flying?” Frost added with a wink. “Is this a first? Did Duane Easton really hire a male sous chef?”

  “Hey, I only hire the best,” his brother protested. “Raymonde is the best. Man or woman, it doesn’t matter to me.”

  Duane followed up that outrageous lie with a look that said, Why are you torturing me?

  Frost grinned. No matter how good a chef Raymonde was, Frost was pretty sure that Duane was trying to keep temptation far away from the Easton kitchen. Everyone knew his brother’s sexual history, including Tabby. He expected her to deliver a smart comeback at Duane’s expense, but instead, she let it go and said nothing, which was unusual for her. She separated her hand from Duane’s and took one of the sliders, but she put it down without eating.

  Then her phone rang. She glanced at the screen and said softly, “I better get this.”

  “Work?” Duane asked.

  “Yes, I’m trying to nail down another chef for the catering job next weekend, so I could be a while. I’ll see you later, okay?”

  “Sure,” Duane replied. “You staying at my place tonight?”

  “If you like.”

  “I could be late getting home.”

  “Then I’ll see you when I see you,” Tabby replied. She waved at Frost and Shack and headed for the gates of the food truck park with her phone pressed to her ear. Duane’s eyes followed her as she disappeared.

  “I am a lucky guy,” he said.

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Did you ever think you’d see Duane Easton settling down?”

  “I didn’t,” Frost admitted.

  “Me neither. Miracles really do happen.”

  Frost finished the smoked meat slider. “Everything okay with you two? Tabby seemed a little off tonight.”