The Crooked Street

by Brian Freeman

  “Pressure?” Frost asked. “From who?”

  “The chief. The mayor. The city council. Apparently, a lot of rich people set foot on Clark’s boat at one time or another, and they don’t like the attention. The longer this case sits open, the more questions are going to get asked. Khristeen Smith over at the Chronicle will be camping outside my door to do an exposé. Nobody wants that, so wrap it up fast, Easton.”

  “I’m trying to do that, sir—” Frost began, but Hayden interrupted him impatiently.

  “Cyril tells me you found cocaine hidden on Denny Clark’s boat.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So we’re looking at a drug-related murder? That’s what I said from the beginning. Talk to some of Trent’s friends in vice. They can probably tell you whose pool Clark was pissing in.”

  “I’ll do that, sir.” Frost shot a glance at Gorham, who was studying his own fingernails and not looking up.

  “Ask them to canvass the dealers working the marina,” Hayden went on. “Somebody knows something. Even if we can’t make an arrest, I want to have something I can tell people when they call. Get me more information by tomorrow. If you need extra support in the investigation, run it by Cyril. He’ll get you what you need.”

  Hayden slapped a file folder shut on his desk. He was literally trying to close the book on Denny. Frost knew he’d been dismissed, but he waited out the silence until Hayden looked up again and picked at his multiple chins as if he were plucking a bass guitar.

  “Is there something else, Easton?” the captain mumbled.

  “I think there’s more going on in this case than just a drug hit,” Frost replied. “I’ve got three other people from Denny’s boat who are missing or dead.”

  “Excuse me?” The captain twisted around and growled at Cyril. “Why am I only hearing about this now?”

  Cyril’s face was cool as he stared past Hayden at Frost. “Because I’m only hearing about it myself, sir.”

  Hayden studied Frost with marble-black eyes. “Well, you better fill us in, Easton. What’s going on?”

  “Denny Clark took out his boat on a charter cruise last Tuesday,” Frost told them. “I haven’t been able to get details about the guest list, but it sounds like it was small and very exclusive. Denny walked away with a lot of cash, and so did his ex-wife, Carla. Same with the catering chef, Mr. Jin. The thing is, now Denny’s dead, and Carla is, too. The Berkeley police say she committed suicide, but it was the same day as Denny’s murder, so I’m suspicious about the timing. Mr. Jin disappeared on Wednesday morning, and no one has seen him since.”

  Hayden frowned. “That’s two. You said there were three others. Who else?”

  “Denny was in contact with a high-priced escort who uses the name Fawn. She’s been missing since Tuesday night, too. I’ve left messages, but she hasn’t checked in. If an escort was on the boat that night, then somebody on the guest list probably hired her. Fawn doesn’t come cheap.”

  “What do you know about this cruise?” Hayden asked.

  “Not a lot. I talked to a woman named Belinda Drake who uses the Roughing It as an entertainment venue for her clients. I think she’s the one who set up the Tuesday charter, but she won’t say anything about it. For now, I don’t have any leverage to make her talk.”

  “I’m familiar with Belinda Drake. She’s close to the mayor. Tread carefully with her, Easton.” Hayden’s fingers drummed the desk. “Do you have a theory about all of this?”

  “My theory is that something happened on that cruise last Tuesday that somebody wants to cover up,” Frost said. “All of the witnesses are disappearing.”

  “But you have no idea what actually happened?” Hayden asked.

  “No.”

  “Or who was on the boat?”

  “No.”

  “So how do you propose to find out?”

  “I have one more lead to follow up,” Frost told him. “Denny had a friend named Chester Bagley. I think he used him as a bartender on his charters. I’m going to try to find Chester and see if he knows anything about Tuesday.”

  “Is that all you have?” Hayden asked.

  Frost took a look at Trent Gorham, who almost imperceptibly shook his head.

  “No, that’s not all,” Frost went on, ignoring Gorham. “I’m also following up on a theory that started with the PI. Coyle. He was convinced that several unsolved homicides in the past few years are connected.”

  “Connected how?” Hayden asked.

  Frost showed the captain a photograph of the red snake he’d found on the column of the 280 freeway the previous night. Behind Hayden, Cyril leaned forward to study it, too. He couldn’t read their faces to decide if they’d seen the graffiti before.

  “This snake symbol has appeared near the scene of at least thirteen unexplained deaths in the last five years,” Frost said. “Actually, fourteen now that Coyle is dead. That includes Denny Clark and Carla Steiff, too.”

  “I’m sorry, did you say fourteen deaths?” Hayden asked.

  “Yes, sir. Including one of ours. A vice cop named Alan Detlowe.”

  “Alan?” Hayden said sharply. “I knew Alan. Trent, that was your case, wasn’t it? I never heard about anything like this in conjunction with Alan’s murder. How is it possible this didn’t hit our radar earlier?”

  Frost intervened as Gorham stammered for a response. “If I was in Trent’s shoes, I wouldn’t have taken Coyle seriously, either, sir. I was pretty dubious about the theory myself, but now it’s hard to ignore.”

  “So what do you think this is about?” Cyril inquired from behind the captain’s shoulder. “Is it a gang-related symbol? Or part of an organized-crime syndicate?”

  “It could be either,” Frost said. “Whoever is behind this, I’ve got their attention. They’ve been following me for two days. Someone planted a bug on me, too. They’ve been listening in on my conversations.”

  Frost deposited a plastic bag with the disabled listening device on the desk in front of Hayden and Cyril. This time, even Gorham came off the wall and looked concerned.

  “Who the hell has the balls to bug a police detective?” Hayden demanded.

  “I identified one of the people who was following me,” Frost replied. “I tracked him down at Candlestick Point a couple of hours ago. He’s a city employee named Luis Moreno. When I got back to my desk, I called the department where he works. Moreno never checked in after lunch. His cover was blown. I think he’s gone.”

  “Do you have anything else?” Hayden asked.

  Frost hesitated.

  Trust no one. Don’t talk to the cops.

  “I have a name,” he said, ignoring his own hesitation.

  Frost saw Gorham shake his head again and mouth a single word at him: No.

  But Frost had come too far to stop.

  “Lombard,” he said. “The name Lombard keeps coming up in my investigation.”

  Hayden cocked his head in surprise. Then he did something Frost would never have expected. He laughed. The captain reclined in his chair at a dangerous angle and exchanged a grin with Cyril. “Lombard,” he chuckled. “Seriously? That’s what you heard?”

  “Yes, sir. The name Lombard is all over the street, but no one will talk about what it means.”

  “I bet.”

  Frost was puzzled. “I’m sorry, have I missed something?”

  “I think you’ve fallen for a myth, Easton.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Hayden’s shoulders shook as he laughed again. “The story of Lombard has been around as long as I can remember. Hell, one of the captains teased me about it when I was a rookie, and that was a very, very long time ago.”

  “The ‘story’ of Lombard?” Frost asked.

  “That’s right. Nobody knows who originally came up with it, but any time we had a case that went cold, the gag line among the cops was ‘Lombard did it.’ Like there was some kind of supercriminal out there we could blame. It was an inside joke for years. Unfortunately
, a reporter got hold of it and actually wrote a story about this mystery killer named Lombard. How come the police were keeping him secret? How come nobody could catch him? The chief was furious. He had to explain that Lombard didn’t really exist, but the conspiracy had already taken hold around the city. I thought the joke died out years ago, but I guess it’s back.”

  Frost didn’t know what to say.

  He felt like a fool.

  “The snake graffiti isn’t a myth,” he protested, but as soon as he said it, he knew he was making the situation worse. Hayden and Cyril studied the image again and recognized for the first time how the twists of the snake’s body resembled the San Francisco street. The captain laughed again. He thrust his enormous bulk out of his chair and came around the desk and slapped Frost cheerfully on the back.

  “Lombard,” Hayden said. “Yeah, I see it. Oh, this is good. Don’t feel bad, Easton. Somebody out there is playing an elaborate joke on us, and you’re just the one who got tagged with it.”

  “Coyle’s dead,” Frost replied. “So is Denny Clark. That’s not a joke.”

  “You’re right, but I think you better reexamine what’s real and what’s not in this case. It’s easy to get sucked into a conspiracy, particularly with somebody like Coyle. These nuts can be pretty persuasive. Go back over the evidence in the Denny Clark case and stop worrying about snakes, okay? Odds are, you’re going to find that this was a drug murder, just like I said. This Luis Moreno who was following you is probably on the payroll for a local dealer.”

  Frost stood up. He felt heat on his face.

  “I’ll do that,” he said. “I’m sorry to bother you with this, sir.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Easton. Believe me, you’re not the first cop to get played.”

  The laughter of the three men followed him as he left the captain’s office and made his way back to his own desk. He sat down, his head spinning. Hayden was right about one thing. Frost no longer had any idea what was real and what was not.

  This had all started with Denny’s last word as he was dying. Lombard.

  That was no myth. Denny believed in Lombard. And yet maybe Denny had been fooled, too. Maybe none of it was real.

  A story that had been around for years.

  An answer for every cold case.

  A joke. Lombard did it.

  Frost shook his head and thought about Herb’s street network being turned against him. He thought about the fear on Belinda Drake’s face. He thought about Fox: Don’t mess with Lombard’s business, or you’re next.

  What if Captain Hayden was wrong?

  What if someone had turned the Lombard myth into reality?

  Frost felt a shadow cross his desk. Trent Gorham stood over him. The other detective bent down with one big hand on Frost’s desk and the other on Frost’s shoulder. Gorham’s face was split by a huge smile, and his blond eyebrows danced with amusement. In the doorway of Hayden’s office, Cyril Timko watched the two of them. Cyril grinned, too.

  “Don’t worry, Easton,” Gorham told him in a loud voice so that everyone in the department could hear. “For what it’s worth, you almost had me convinced about those damn snakes.”

  He straightened up with a laugh and headed for the elevators.

  That was when Frost noticed that Gorham had left a scrap of paper on his desk. With a casual glance around the office, Frost turned the paper over and saw that Gorham had scribbled a message for him on the back.

  We need to talk.

  10 p.m. Pier 45.

  23

  Frost went through the door of Zingari into a room filled with live jazz and the aromas of mushroom and basil floating by on white plates. He’d been here once before, almost a year earlier, to confront a psychiatrist who specialized in manipulating the traumatic memories of her patients. Back then, Francesca Stein had been a regular here. He looked around curiously but didn’t see her at any of the tables. He wasn’t even sure if she’d stayed in San Francisco after the investigation ended.

  He made his way to the bar. There was one stool open at the end, near where the band was playing. The bartender was busy, and while Frost waited for her, he exchanged smiles with a young African American woman who was singing and playing guitar. Being here among the Monday crowd reminded him that life as a loner wasn’t always a good thing. On those rare occasions when he had an evening free, he usually spent it at home with Shack, eating dinner from one of Duane’s care packages and digging into a history book set years before he was born.

  “What’ll you have?” the bartender asked him.

  She leaned both elbows on the bar in front of him. She was tall enough that she had to have played basketball at some time in her youth, but now she was at least forty, with shaggy brown hair shot through with blue highlights. She wore a sleeveless black blouse with a high neck, and her skinny bare arms were canvases for multicolored tattoos.

  “Anchor Steam,” Frost replied. “And some information. I’m looking for an old friend. His name’s Chester Bagley. Does he still work here?”

  “Chester? No, sorry, he quit.”

  “When was that?”

  The woman shrugged. “Last week, I guess. His loss is my gain. I’m the new Chester.”

  “So you never met him?” Frost asked.

  The woman popped the top on his amber beer and poured it out. The glass was ice cold. “No, but I think one of the waiters, Virgil, was a buddy of his. You could try talking to him.”

  “Is he around?”

  “Yeah, I’ll send him your way. You want anything to eat?”

  Frost eyed an empty bar table that overlooked the windows near Post Street. He realized he was hungry. “How about some crab cakes?”

  “You got it.”

  Frost took his beer and snapped up the table before anyone else could get to it. The guitarist in the band had a raspy, cigarette-soaked voice that was perfect for sad songs, and he sipped his beer as he listened to her. She made love to the microphone and flirted with him with her dark eyes. He realized that he hadn’t had sex in months, and this was the kind of evening where a one-night stand matched his mood. But Frost had never done casual well. That was Duane’s specialty.

  He was halfway through his beer when a twenty-something waiter with wavy shock-white hair dropped into the chair across from him. The man had a cocky smirk and the build of someone who worked out a lot. He stretched out his long legs and slumped sideways at the table with his chin balanced on one hand.

  “Are you Virgil?” Frost asked.

  “In the flesh,” the waiter replied. His voice was extravagantly gay. “I remember you.”

  “Oh?”

  “You’re Frankie’s cop, right?”

  “You have a good memory,” Frost told him.

  “I do for some people, and you’ve got that Justin T vibe going on. Very nice.” Virgil primped the gel in his hair and grinned. His dark eyes were accented by lavender eye shadow.

  “Speaking of Dr. Stein, does she still come in here?” Frost asked.

  “Frankie? Oh, sure, she’s in here a lot. Always alone, like you. Sad, sad, sad, you people. She’s not doing the memory thing anymore, did you know that?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Would you believe she’s doing psychic research now? She’s on the hunt for what she calls sensitives. The people who can bend forks and do remote visualization and wild things like that. It’s very creepy.”

  Frost smiled. “Well, her memory practice was pretty creepy, too.”

  “Ain’t that the truth. Of course, there are some nights in my teens that I wouldn’t mind forgetting if you gave me a choice.” Virgil waved at a waiter who was carrying a plate of crab cakes and pointed at Frost. The plate arrived at the table. “So Lydia the Tattooed Lady says you were asking about Chester.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Are you a friend, or is this police business?”

  “A little of both. I knew Chester back in high school, but mostly, I have some questions for
him. I want to make sure he knows that a mutual friend of ours was killed. Chester and Denny were pretty close.”

  Virgil’s eyebrows cocked. “Denny? Denny Clark? He’s dead?”

  Frost leaned across the table. “He is. You knew Denny?”

  “Oh yeah. He was a regular at the bar whenever Chester was here. Nice enough guy. One hell of a boat, too. I could get used to living like that.”

  “You spent time on the Roughing It?”

  “A million-dollar yacht on the bay? Are you kidding? I was all over that. Chester brought me along sometimes when Denny needed an extra hand for one of his gigs.”

  Frost realized that he hadn’t met anyone yet who’d actually worked on one of Denny’s charters. “What were the gigs like? Who was there? How did it work?”

  “Well, technically I’m not supposed to say anything,” Virgil replied with a roll of his eyes. “Can you believe they made us sign confidentiality agreements? Please, what kind of nonsense is that? But hey, I get it. Some of the guys looked like billionaires, and these were tripped-out parties. Plenty of eye candy. Plenty of nose candy, too. Denny was a generous host.”

  “When was the last time you were on the boat?”

  “Last summer. There was an overnighter in August. Super crowded, really glam. When Chester and I took a break, we had to squeeze into a bunk down with the engines. Not that I ever got much sleep with Chester around. Just a little recreation for an hour and then we were back at it. Most of the guests were up all night, too.”

  “August,” Frost murmured. He dug out his phone and found the photograph taken on the Roughing It of Denny Clark, Belinda Drake, and Greg Howell. “Do you remember seeing these people on the boat? The ones with Denny?”

  Virgil nodded. “Yeah, I’ve seen the lady a few times, but I don’t know who she is. Stick-up-her-ass type. She never remembered me from cruise to cruise, and I’m pretty memorable, if I do say so myself.”

  “What about the guy?”

  “The silver fox? Greg Howell? Yeah, he was on the August cruise. Tipped me a hundred bucks with each drink and told me to split it with Chester. I got the feeling he wouldn’t have minded a little party with the two of us, but it never happened. His mind was elsewhere. He wasn’t exactly having a good time.”