The Crooked Street

by Brian Freeman

  Herb glanced up from behind the magnifiers on his black glasses and spotted Frost. He rocked back on his knees and swigged coffee from his thermos. Frost squatted beside him. They talked under their breath.

  “I was followed coming over here,” Frost told him. “You might want to keep an eye out yourself. If they’re interested in me, they might decide to take an interest in you, too.”

  “Too late,” Herb replied.

  “Someone followed you?”

  “Yes, a red pickup was waiting outside the gallery. It stayed behind me all the way over here. I don’t know who was driving, but I imagine he’s watching us right now.”

  Frost took a casual glance at the crowd, but there were too many faces to pick out any one of them as a spy.

  “Exactly what have you gotten yourself into, Frost?” Herb went on.

  “I wish I knew. Did you find out anything?”

  “Let’s not talk here,” Herb replied. “I’ll meet you inside the museum in half an hour.”

  Frost nodded. He stood up again and studied the three-dimensional painting taking shape on the concrete. “You know, I don’t remember a cat hanging out with the boatmen in the original.”

  A little smirk played across Herb’s face as he picked up his brush. “You just never know where Shack will turn up, do you?”

  Frost chuckled and headed in the direction of the de Young. He stopped periodically to glance behind him but couldn’t spot a tail among the crowd. He made his way inside the cool, quiet interior of the museum. Herb had helped him become an art lover over the years, and Frost had begun to think of some of the paintings as old friends.

  He was standing in front of Albert Bierstadt’s California Spring when Herb eventually found him. Nearly an hour had passed in between. When Frost glanced at the doorway to the exhibit, he saw that a velvet rope had been placed across the entrance to the hall to give them privacy. Herb’s reputation as an artist won him special treatment at most of the city museums.

  “Did you talk to Belinda Drake?” Herb asked. He wore overalls and sandals, and his long face was drawn with worry.

  “I did,” Frost replied.

  “Did she have any helpful information?”

  “Information? No. But Drake is scared of something, and she doesn’t seem like the kind of woman who’s easily scared.”

  “Interesting. I’ve been having a similar experience with my network.”

  “How so?”

  “I put out the word on the street,” Herb said. “I asked about snakes and Lombard, but people are very reluctant to talk. The name Lombard seems to freeze them into silence. I’ve never encountered anything like it. There’s a palpable fear out there, as if saying the name is enough to put you at risk.”

  “Do you have any idea who or what Lombard represents?” Frost asked.

  “Well, if people know, they won’t say a word about it.”

  “Coyle thinks it’s a serial killer.”

  “Is that what this feels like to you?” Herb asked.

  Frost shook his head. “No. This is something else.”

  “I agree. And something very strange is happening, too.”

  “What is it?”

  “You’ll think I’m crazy, but I have the feeling that my network is somehow being used against me. Like someone else is infiltrating it like a virus. I put out my queries and got nothing back, which is unusual in itself. Then in the aftermath, other stories started rippling through the network. I wasn’t copied on the messages, but a few people told me about them.”

  “What did they say?”

  “They were rumors. About me. It started last night, and by this morning, everyone seemed to be sharing the gossip. I’ve been getting calls and texts from people saying I should be careful, that stories from my past are being dredged up and spread around the city. The word is that I’m not the man people think I am. That my image is a lie.”

  “I can’t imagine anyone believing that,” Frost said. “What are they saying about you?”

  “Someone is going back a long way to dig up dirt. The stories go back to the 1960s and 1970s. I’m hearing about violent outbursts during my heavier drug episodes as a young man. Fights. Even sexual abuse.”

  Frost laughed at the thought of it. “You? That’s ridiculous.”

  Herb frowned. “I’d like to say none of it is true, but the fact is, I was a different man in those days.”

  “Different? Fine. Violent? I don’t believe that for a second.”

  “That’s kind of you to say, but I had a short fuse in my youth. I was angry all the time. Back then, many of us were angry about what was happening in the country, and I wasn’t always able to bottle up that anger when it came to my personal life. It’s also true that my drug use back then was extreme. There are parts of my memory that are gone. I have certain stretches of my life where I can’t even tell you what I did.”

  “Herb, I know you,” Frost insisted.

  “You know me now, Frost. You know me after I had a spiritual awakening. I’ve lived a new life since those days, but that doesn’t change or excuse my past. I’d like to deny all of these rumors, but I don’t think I can. I’m sure some of the things that are being said about me are true, even if I don’t remember them.”

  Frost turned his head to stare at his friend. He had the sense that Herb was holding back. “Is there something specific you’re thinking about?”

  Herb’s eyes were lost in the green fields of the Bierstadt painting. “Possibly. We’ll see. Rumors like this don’t feel random. They feel as if they’re leading up to something. If they are, then I suspect I know what it is.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Later. Not now. Perhaps I’m being paranoid.”

  “But why do you think this is coming out now?” Frost asked.

  “I think we both know why.”

  “Lombard,” Frost said.

  “That’s my fear. Whatever or whoever Lombard is, I’m on their radar now.”

  Frost shook his head. “Then drop it. Stop asking questions. This is my problem, not yours. I don’t want to put you at risk.”

  “It’s too late for that,” Herb replied. “As far as these people are concerned, we’re joined at the hip. Besides, if we have an invisible enemy, I’d like to know who it is that we’re fighting. I’ve tried my street network and had no luck, so it’s time to see what happens on the other end of the scale. There are a lot of people around the city council who still owe me favors. I’ll see what they can tell me about Lombard.”

  “Well, watch your back. Belinda Drake said I shouldn’t trust anyone.”

  Herb made sure they had the museum hall to themselves. “That sounds like good advice. You said some of your colleagues in the police department may already know what’s going on. Do you still believe that?”

  “I do,” Frost said.

  “Then listen to your gut,” Herb replied. “I talked to a homeless man who haunts the Mission Bay neighborhood. He sees most of what comes and goes around there, including the cops.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “He wouldn’t share anything on the network. He would only talk in person, and even then, he refused to give me any details about Lombard. He simply wanted to alert me to the rumors that were going around about my past. But he told me something else, too, and he was most emphatic about it.”

  Frost frowned. “What did he say?”

  “He said whatever I do, I shouldn’t say a word about any of this to the police. Apparently, Lombard has spies at Mission Bay.”

  14

  When Frost returned to police headquarters, he found that Denny Clark’s bank, credit card, and cell phone records had all been delivered to his computer. He began diving into his old friend’s secrets.

  Denny had never been good with money, and he still wasn’t. He was leveraged up to his eyeballs, including a high six-figure loan on the Roughing It with a spotty repayment record. Comparing his friend’s debts to his modest
bank accounts, Denny had a negative net worth. If someone had pushed him to do something illegal for a lucrative payoff, Denny was in no position to say no.

  When Frost checked the phone records, the first thing he noticed was that Denny hadn’t made any outgoing calls on his cell phone since Tuesday evening. That was unusual because Denny was otherwise on his phone multiple times a day. He also saw that none of the incoming calls had reached Denny, because he didn’t see a call length longer than one minute.

  After the cruise on Tuesday, Denny had stopped using his phone. Why?

  Frost began using his own phone to dial the numbers in Denny’s call log one by one. It was slow going and began to eat up most of the afternoon. The majority of calls involved upcoming charters; some of the customers hadn’t heard about Denny’s death and began peppering Frost with questions he couldn’t answer. Other calls were inconsequential, involving everything from pizza deliveries to Giants season tickets.

  He found several calls to Carla. When he dialed her number, he recognized her voice on the prerecorded message. There was nothing unusual about what she said—“This is Carla, tell me what you want, and maybe I’ll call you back”—but he hadn’t heard her deep, trauma-soaked voice in more than a decade. She sounded the same. Listening to her, he could picture everything about her again, how she looked, how she walked, how she held a cigarette, how she made you feel guilty if you didn’t treat her like the center of the universe. He could picture her wild eyes that practically screamed that she had never been happy for a day of her life. Carla had always wanted what she couldn’t have, and she despised what she could.

  Frost was no genius about women, but he’d been smart enough to know that a relationship with Carla would have destroyed him. He would have spent his life trying to fix someone who could never be fixed.

  Instead, that hopeless job went to Denny.

  He shrugged off the past and kept dialing phone numbers. Among the routine calls, he found a few numbers that left him with questions. The first was a call that Denny had made to someone named Fawn. There was just one call the previous Sunday, two days before the mystery cruise. Frost dialed the number and listened to the message, and when he was done, he called back and listened to it again.

  “Hi. If you want Fawn, you’ve got her. You can enter your code now. If you don’t have a code, well, honey, hang up and don’t call me back until you do.”

  The voice had the sultry, inviting feel of someone who made a living dealing with men. It had a hint of a foreign accent. The condescending little intonation as she said “honey” told him that she was smart and self-confident. Based on the message, he guessed that Fawn was an escort, and if so, she was one of the elite girls who charged sky-high prices. Nobody left cash on the nightstand with someone like her or quibbled about the hourly rate. The customer called a prearranged number and handled payment in advance by credit card and then got an approval code to use in scheduling an appointment.

  One thing was certain. Denny couldn’t afford a girl like Fawn. So why was he calling her?

  Frost dialed Fawn’s number a third time, and this time he left a message. “Fawn, this is Homicide Inspector Frost Easton of the San Francisco police. You’re not in any trouble, but I’d like to talk to you about Denny Clark.”

  He didn’t expect a call back.

  The next phone number that he flagged for follow-up belonged to someone else from his own past. Frost had gone to high school with Chester Bagley, and Chester had always been one of Denny’s close friends. A couple of times during the year that Frost and Denny had spent living on the boat, they’d used Chester as a freelance bartender, and he’d poured some of the best, strongest drinks Frost had ever tasted. He was good-looking and gay, and he probably made more money on customer tips than Frost did on his police salary.

  Frost wondered if Denny was still using Chester as a bartender for his charters on the Roughing It. He left a message.

  “Chester? Frost Easton. I’m sure you heard the bad news about Denny. I’ve got some questions for you. Give me a call, okay?”

  He kept dialing more numbers.

  Denny got and made a lot of calls, and the individual numbers in the phone records began to blur. With most of the calls, Frost got a message rather than a live person, and he rattled off his name and contact information the same way every time as he asked for a call back. He worked his way backward in the records day by day, until he was at a point three weeks prior to Denny’s murder. Several hours had already gone by as he sat at his desk.

  He dialed. Left a message.

  Dialed. Left a message.

  Dialed. Left a message.

  And then a live voice answered, startling him. What made it so strange was that the voice was in stereo. He heard it over the phone, and he heard it across the busy floor of detectives around him.

  “Trent Gorham.”

  Frost said nothing at first. He looked up from his desk and stared across the room and saw Gorham with his phone in his hand. When the dead air stretched out, the other detective said again, “Trent Gorham. Hello?”

  Finally, Frost spoke softly into the phone. “Hello, Trent.”

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s Frost Easton.”

  Gorham’s head swiveled slowly. Their eyes met from one desk to the other. Dozens of police officers passed in and out of their line of sight, but for now, they were like the only two people in the room. Frost felt tension seeping through the phone and across the floor.

  “Easton,” the other cop murmured in reply. “I figured you’d be calling me sooner or later.”

  “You want to explain?” Frost asked.

  Gorham didn’t even blink as he stared back. His bland, blond face was devoid of expression. He leaned back in his chair and casually propped one arm behind his head. “You mean, why I called Denny Clark?”

  “That’s right. And why you didn’t tell me that you knew him.”

  “I was curious how long it would take you to find out,” Gorham replied. “Everyone says you’re so smart.”

  “Well, I’m the one who’s curious now, Trent. You called my murder victim three weeks before he was killed. You came to my desk and offered to help me with the case. And you never bothered to mention that you’d been in contact with him.”

  “It was just one call. I’m sure you can see that in the phone records.”

  “What was it about?”

  “You remember I used to work vice, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I bumped into Denny now and then back in those days.”

  “Why?” Frost asked.

  “Why do you think? Drugs.”

  “Was Denny selling?”

  “He was either selling or supplying his guests for free. I knew he was buying more than he’d use for himself. The product had to go somewhere.”

  “I don’t see an arrest record,” Frost said.

  “That’s because I used him as a snitch. He knew I could drop the hammer on him whenever I wanted, so he was more useful feeding me information than sitting behind bars. You know how it works, Easton. You keep the little fish on the hook and see who comes to eat them.”

  “Did you land any high-profile dealers that way? Anyone who might want revenge against Denny for ratting them out?”

  “No, I didn’t. I stopped leaning on him because the word came down from my lieutenant to lay off Denny Clark.”

  “Why?” Frost asked.

  “Obviously, Denny had some powerful political friends.”

  “Any idea who?”

  “No. My lieutenant told me to drop it, so I did. End of story.”

  “So why the phone call three weeks ago?”

  Gorham shrugged. “I found a dead dealer in the Mission District. I wanted to know if Denny had heard anything about who took him down. He hadn’t. That’s all it was.”

  Frost tried to read Gorham’s poker face across the station. “What about your friend in vice? The one who was killed. Alan Detlowe. Did h
e know Denny?”

  “Alan? I don’t think so. Why?”

  “Snakes,” Frost said.

  “Aw, come on. That again? You said you were dropping that.”

  “Alan was a vice cop, and there was a red snake painted near his body. I found the same kind of snake where Denny was killed, and now you’re telling me that Denny was on your radar screen at vice. That sounds like a connection.”

  Across the room, Gorham shrugged. “Alan didn’t know Denny. Denny was my source, not his. Are we done, Easton?”

  “You’re still holding out on me, Trent. You were over in Berkeley yesterday asking about Carla Steiff’s suicide. You want to explain that?”

  Gorham took his time replying. He dug in the drawer of his desk for a stick of gum, and he unwrapped it and began chewing as he stared at Frost. Always delay when you’re formulating a lie.

  “Carla committed suicide on the same day as Denny’s murder,” Gorham said. “We both know that’s suspicious. I decided to check it out for myself, but I didn’t find anything.”

  “How did you know Carla?”

  “I already told you, I was targeting Denny at vice, at least until the word came down to lay off him. If you’re looking to leverage somebody, you find out everything you can about them. Carla was his ex-wife. I knew they still worked together. I interviewed her to see what she could tell me. That’s all.”

  “How did you hear about her suicide?”

  “When I found out about Denny’s murder, I made a call to see if Carla knew anything about it. I talked to her roommate, and he told me what happened.”

  “And you didn’t think it was worth mentioning this to the lead inspector on the case?” Frost asked. “I’ve been sitting here all afternoon, Trent. You couldn’t get up and connect the dots for me?”