“Identification,” the woman answered.
“Geary,” he said.
“Password.”
“21851.”
“Status.”
“Golden Gate.”
He’d never had to declare a different status. Golden Gate meant all was well. If something was wrong, if he was under surveillance or being coerced, then the status was Bay Bridge. Those two words sounded the alarm.
“Report,” the woman said.
Her voice had a nasal, dominating tone that broached no small talk. He had no idea who she was, or where she was, or how old she was. Even so, he found her voice oddly arousing, and he would have enjoyed being able to see her in the flesh. In his fantasies, she was young and erotically charged behind her severe ways, like a teacher who knew how to deal with naughty schoolboys. But he would never know the truth about her.
“Report,” she barked again when he didn’t reply immediately.
“Easton visited the Berkeley location.”
“Were you able to listen?”
“Yes. He’s not buying the story about the suicide. He’s zeroing in on Tuesday, too. I’m not sure the situation can be controlled much longer. We may need to take action.”
“That’s not up to you,” the woman replied.
“Fine, but next time it would be helpful to know about personal connections between my targets before you order the snakes. If I’d been informed, maybe this could have been avoided.”
He didn’t like to be nasty with the voice—it wasn’t safe—but he was the one in the field. And no one needed to lecture him about loyalty when he was taking all the risks. Geary did the dirty work.
“Have you located Mr. Jin?” she asked him, as if he hadn’t said a thing.
“Not yet.”
“That’s priority one.”
“I know that,” he replied icily. “Mr. Jin disappeared before I was brought in. It’s not my fault.”
“Regardless, it’s essential that we find him before Easton does. He’s the only one left who can talk.”
“I have a plan,” the man said. “I’ll get it done.”
“See that you do.”
“Anything else?”
“That’s all,” the woman replied.
Geary was about to hang up, but he decided to push his luck. “Make sure you tell Lombard what I said. Easton is a wild card we weren’t anticipating. As long as he’s alive, we have a problem.”
12
Frost awoke to the ringing of his phone. The clock on the wall told him it was already eight o’clock on Sunday morning. He’d slept late and badly. On the way back from Berkeley, he’d dropped Tabby at her car in SoMa, and then rather than going home, he’d driven out to Ocean Beach to sit by the waves crashing in from the Pacific. Tabby was still on his mind. By the time he got back to Russian Hill and fell into a restless sleep, it was almost two.
He climbed off the sofa, dislodging Shack from the small of his back. He was still wearing yesterday’s clothes. He grabbed his phone from the coffee table and saw no number on the caller ID. He tried to shake the dreams out of his head and sound conscious as he said hello.
“Inspector Easton?” a woman greeted him with a cool, professional voice.
“Yes.”
“I understand you’d like to talk to me,” she said.
Frost blinked. “I’m sorry, who is this?”
“My name is Belinda Drake.”
He remembered now. She was the mystery woman in the photograph with Denny Clark and Greg Howell. “Ms. Drake, yes, you’re right. I do want to talk to you.”
“I don’t typically take meetings with people I don’t know, but I understand you’re a friend of Herb’s.”
“I am.”
“Well, you can have ten minutes.”
“Where should we meet?”
“I’ll send a car for you,” Drake told him. “Be ready in half an hour.”
“All right. My address is—”
“I already know the address,” Drake replied, cutting him off. She hung up without another word.
Frost jogged upstairs and woke himself up with a lukewarm shower. He went into his closet to pick his wardrobe for the meeting. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d worn a suit, but something told him that Belinda Drake was accustomed to dealing with lawyers and hedge-fund managers who still wore ties. He pulled the one nice suit he owned off a hanger. It was wool, navy, and very expensive. He’d bought it for a gala retirement party five years earlier for the former police chief. He put it on and matched it with an Italian silk tie that looked as lonely in his closet as his suit did.
Ms. Drake’s car was prompt to the minute. Half an hour after her call, a black Lincoln arrived to pick him up at the dead end of Green Street. A cup of black Starbucks Blonde Roast was waiting for him in the back seat. So was an array of Danish and croissant muffins from his favorite bakery in the Tenderloin. The television mounted in the rear seat was tuned to the History channel, which Frost watched almost exclusively if he ever turned on the TV. The preparations all sent a message: Belinda Drake had done her homework on him.
Meanwhile, he knew almost nothing about her.
The town car cruised through the weekend morning streets, and he didn’t object to the luxury ride. He drank coffee. He ate a grapefruit-ginger cruffin. The car headed south through Chinatown into the financial district, which was like a ghost town. The praying in this part of the city took place at the market’s opening bell, not on church Sundays. Near the Hilton, they turned off Kearny Street into a narrow alley and then again into the underground parking lot of a high-rise apartment building. The car whisked him to a remote section of the lot where there was a lobby for a private elevator. The driver used a key card to swipe him inside.
“Someone will meet you at the top,” the driver told him. He hadn’t said another word since they’d left Russian Hill.
Frost took the elevator. As promised, an Asian butler met him where the elevator opened into the living room of a penthouse suite. The butler handed him more coffee and offered him another pastry, which he declined, and then the man led him through the condominium to an outside balcony thirty stories in the air, with a view immediately across the street to the pyramid of the Transamerica building. Up here, the tower appeared to float in the sky. The wind was strong, and a seagull glided on the breeze.
Belinda Drake waited for him.
“I hope you don’t mind heights,” she said.
Frost wandered to the balcony railing, looked straight down, and then took a seat across from her at the glass table. “I don’t.”
Drake wore a beret over her blond hair and a casual outfit that consisted of tight stonewashed jeans, heels, a white T-shirt decorated with a tiger, and a red leather jacket studded with zippers. She looked him up and down with an approving eye, in a way that made Frost think he’d chosen well in selecting the navy suit for the meeting. She had a ceramic teapot in front of her, a plate of multicolored macarons, and an iPad propped on an acrylic stand. She took pointed note of the time on her watch, as if making sure he knew that the clock was ticking. A ten-minute meeting with this woman lasted exactly ten minutes.
“So,” she said. “Homicide Inspector Frost Easton. What can I do for you?”
“Herb says you’re a matchmaker,” Frost said. “You bring powerful people together.”
“You could say that. Do you want to be introduced to someone?”
“Actually, I’d like to know how this man fit into your matchmaking program,” Frost replied. He showed her the photograph taken aboard the Roughing It, and he watched her carefully as she studied the picture. With an experienced professional like Drake, he suspected that her only reaction would be in ways she couldn’t hide. The widening of her pupils. The flicker of her eyelids. The tremble of her fingers. In this case, she glanced at the picture, looked away, and took a sip of tea without any change of expression.
“I assume you’re talking about Denny Clark,” she said.
“I am.”
“I was very sorry to hear about Denny. I liked him. His death was a shock.”
“Can you tell me about the cruise where this photo was taken?” Frost asked. “Who else was there? What was it about?”
“Why would that matter to you?” she asked.
“Denny Clark and Greg Howell were both on the boat. The cruise seems to be the only connection between them. Now they’re both dead.”
“Greg had a heart attack. That’s hardly suspicious, is it?”
“I don’t know. Is it?”
A puzzled little furrow came and went on Drake’s forehead. “What a strange thing to say.”
“Can you think of anything that happened on that cruise that could be connected to Denny’s murder?”
“Of course not. It was months ago.”
“I’d like to talk to the other guests who were on board. Maybe they remember something.”
Drake shook her head dismissively. “I’m sorry, I don’t tell anyone about the work I do or the people I work with. I’m extremely sensitive to the confidentiality of my clients. That’s how I stay in business. Let’s move on, shall we?”
“Okay,” Frost said. “Tell me more about your relationship with Denny Clark.”
“I often booked private charters on Denny’s boat. In fact, I was the one who suggested the charter business to Denny and helped him arrange financing to acquire the Roughing It. I wanted a luxury resource at my disposal for clients. Denny understood what I needed, including my demand for absolute discretion. He knew the importance of delivering whatever I wanted for my clients without asking questions.”
“Would that include anything illegal? Like drugs?”
Drake’s face gave nothing away. “As I already told you, I don’t answer questions about my services.”
“Fair enough,” Frost replied. “How did you meet Denny?”
“Finding people who can deliver what I need is my job,” Drake told him. “I was looking for a yacht and a captain. I did my research, and Denny fit the bill. It was an arrangement that worked out well for both of us.”
“He must have been on the boat during meetings with some very private people,” Frost said.
“Yes, that’s true.”
“Could that be why someone wanted to kill him?”
“Unlikely. I told you, Denny was discreet. As were the people he hired. We used nondisclosure agreements, and we paid well. I don’t know what happened to Denny, but I assume it was some kind of random street violence. It happens all too often in the city these days.”
Frost realized he was getting nowhere with Belinda Drake. She’d built a wall around herself and sat calmly behind it, flicking away his questions without giving him any real information. He was running out of time on her ten-minute clock. His only option was to bluff.
“What about the cruise on Tuesday?” Frost asked.
Drake was good, but this time he saw just the barest tightening of her lips. If he hadn’t been looking for it, he wouldn’t have seen it. “Tuesday?”
“You booked a charter on Denny’s boat on Tuesday,” Frost said. He didn’t ask it like a question. He stated it as if he already knew. “That was the last time the boat went out. Denny walked away with a lot of cash. So did Carla, the woman he used as his hostess. She’s dead, too, like Denny. Did you know that?”
This time he spotted an overly long pause as Drake assessed how much he knew and figured out what to say. “I’ve already told you several times that I don’t talk about my work,” she reminded him. “That would include anything that happened on Tuesday.”
“In other words, you did set up the cruise,” he concluded.
Drake checked her watch and stood up impatiently. “Look at that, our time is up. I’m afraid I have to say good-bye, Inspector.”
Frost got up, too. He stepped closer, deliberately invading her personal space until he was only inches from her face. He finally had her off balance, and he wanted to keep her that way.
“I can leave if you want, Ms. Drake, but you have a problem.”
“Oh? And what would that be?”
He held up his phone with the screen enlarged to show a close-up of the red snake he’d found near Coolbrith Park. The empty eyes of the snake stared at Drake, and its forked tongue flicked at her. The image drew a physical reaction that she couldn’t hide. She inhaled sharply, and her body tensed.
Frost leaned in and whispered right at her ear. “Lombard.”
Drake eyed the railing of the balcony that rose thirty stories above the street. She backed away toward the door leading into the condominium. Her face was tense, as if Frost had suddenly become a threat. “You need to leave right now, Inspector.”
“Tell me about Lombard. I can see that the name means something to you.”
“As far as I know, Lombard is the crookedest street in the world,” Drake replied with an unconvincing laugh. “That’s all.”
“I think it means more than that. Denny Clark warned me about Lombard while he was dying. I’d like to know why.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“No? Denny and Carla are both dead, Ms. Drake, and two of these red snakes showed up where their bodies were found. If their deaths have anything to do with that charter cruise on Tuesday, you should probably be asking yourself if you’re next. The best thing you can do is tell me everything you know and let me protect you.”
Drake tugged her leather jacket around her body in the wind. Her beret slipped off her head and tumbled toward the edge of the balcony. “Protect me,” she murmured so softly that he could barely hear her. “You’re funny.”
He showed her another photo. This one was a close-up of Denny’s dead face. “You said you liked Denny. This is what they did to him. He was poisoned. As for Carla, they cut her wrists and made it look like a suicide. Whatever is going on, whatever Lombard is, I can see that you’re scared and you don’t like it. The only way to make it stop is to help me. Give me something. Point me in the right direction.”
Drake squinted into the sky, as if she weren’t even safe from prying eyes outside. He glanced over his shoulder at the Transamerica building, which aimed toward the clouds like a giant laser. Behind the dark windows, anyone could have been watching them.
“Are you under surveillance?” he asked. “Is that what you’re concerned about?”
She didn’t answer.
He stared at her and said, “Am I?”
Drake slid a hand into one of the pockets of her leather jacket and extracted a fresh tube of lipstick. She touched up her lips, kissed them together, and then gave him an odd, inappropriate smile. “You’re right, Inspector, I liked Denny. And I wish you luck in your investigation. But I really can’t give you any information that would be helpful to you. I’m sorry.”
She closed the distance between them and shook his hand. Then she placed her left hand over the top of his, and he realized that the tube of lipstick was still clutched in her fingers. She scribbled something quickly on his hand and let go.
“Good-bye, Inspector. The butler will see you out.”
She disappeared inside the condominium. Frost slipped his hands into his pockets, took another long look over the edge of the balcony, and then followed her inside. Drake was already gone, but the butler was there to guide him back to the elevator. He waited until he was descending in the elevator car before he took out his right hand and saw what Belinda Drake had scrawled across his skin.
It was three words, barely legible.
Not a clue, but a warning.
Trust No One
13
Two hours after his meeting with Belinda Drake, Frost was back in his Suburban on his way to meet Herb in Golden Gate Park. That was when he noticed a charcoal-gray BMW on his tail. The car’s windows were smoked, so he couldn’t see the driver inside. He spotted it pulling away from the curb when he turned off Green Street onto Leavenworth, as if it had been waitin
g for him.
At first, he felt as paranoid as Coyle. The BMW stayed with him for several blocks, but that didn’t mean anything in the San Francisco traffic. Then he turned on Clay, and the BMW turned, too. When he turned again on Franklin, the car followed. They drove in tandem, but at the next stoplight, Frost timed his progress through the intersection to make sure the BMW had to stop behind him. He made several zigzag turns beyond the light to lose the other car in the maze of streets. By the time he headed south past Lafayette Park, he was sure he was alone.
That lasted two blocks.
Then the BMW appeared on his tail again. The driver behind the smoked windows wasn’t following him by sight; he already knew where Frost was.
Frost didn’t bother trying to lose the other car again. Instead, he headed south to Geary and turned right. He drove until he spotted a gas station on the street, where he pulled in and topped off his tank. The BMW disappeared, but Frost knew it wouldn’t be gone for long. At the pump, he purchased a drive-through car wash with an undercarriage spray, and he took the SUV through the wash, letting the jets of water hammer every inch of the chassis. If there was a GPS tracker hidden underneath the vehicle, he hoped it had been thoroughly drowned. Leaving the car wash, he made another series of quick turns with an eye on his rearview mirror.
This time, the BMW didn’t reappear.
With a tight smile, Frost returned to his original route and headed for Golden Gate Park.
He grabbed the first parking spot he found, even though it was a long walk to the de Young Museum. A few clouds dotted the blue sky, but the temperature was mild. He wandered through the Shakespeare Garden, where an early spring wedding was in progress, and then made his way into the large open garden between the de Young and the science academy. It was thick with people. He didn’t see Herb, but he spotted a crowd gathered near the central fountain and pushed his way to the center. Herb was there, painting on his knees as the tourists watched.
Frost stood over him, staying out of his light. Herb worked with quick, nimble brushstrokes. He was doing a reproduction of a famous painting called Boatmen on the Missouri that was housed in the de Young’s permanent collection. One of the boatmen steered, and two others took a break, as if watching a steamboat roll by on the lazy river. They were fashionably dressed, one in a black top hat, one in a red kerchief, and they had a small tuxedo cat sprawled across a stack of firewood between them. In Herb’s three-dimensional rendering, the nineteenth-century travelers on the raft seemed to rise out of the flat pavement and stare curiously at the people around them. It reminded him of what Herb said about perspective: you can trick your eyes into believing almost anything.
The Crooked Street Page 8
