The Crooked Street

by Brian Freeman

  While he waited over a Greek meze platter, he booted up his MacBook and searched the newspaper’s online archives. He had to go back twenty-eight years to find what he wanted. It was an article by a Chronicle reporter named Stephen Post, and it was the story that had launched the Lombard myth.

  Rumors of a Supercriminal Trouble Police

  By Stephen Post

  Exclusive to the Chronicle

  They call him Lombard.

  No one knows if that’s his real name. In fact, no one knows if Lombard is a man or woman, one person or many people. But among police investigators, Lombard has become a legend. They will tell you that Lombard is the prime suspect in a string of unsolved murders related to bribery and corruption cases inside and outside government.

  That includes the case of Tim Holley. Last year, Holley stepped off the curb on California Street across from Tadich Grill and was struck and killed by a hit-and-run driver. Holley was a stockbroker and whistleblower who had been planning to testify about insider trading schemes at three of the city’s largest banks. Now the SEC investigation has stalled.

  An ordinary traffic accident? The police don’t think so. In fact, sources inside the police are sure they know who was behind the hit-and-run. “Lombard did it,” says one of the department’s homicide inspectors with knowledge of the case.

  No one in the police or city hall would speak on the record about Lombard, but the picture they paint is of a ruthless criminal who operates at the behest of the powerful . . .

  Frost read the entire article, and the description of Lombard from nearly three decades earlier tracked precisely with everything that he’d discovered in the past several days. The only thing missing was a reference to red snakes marking each murder site. Stephen Post’s article clearly had stirred up a firestorm in the city, because the follow-up articles in the succeeding days reflected panicked attempts by the police chief to put the genie back in the bottle.

  He read the headlines in the archives:

  Police Chief Calls Lombard “Fiction,” “Myth”

  City Council Launches Review of Lombard Claims

  Chief Steps Down Following Lombard Controversy

  Mayor Says “No Evidence” That Lombard Exists

  Months After Lombard Story, Doubts Linger

  After that last article, Frost didn’t find another reference to the Lombard myth anywhere in the newspaper archives. It simply went away. Even so, the tone of Stephen Post’s final story suggested that he wasn’t convinced by the official denials. To the reporter, Lombard was real, and the myth was a cover-up.

  Frost looked up from the computer as he heard a tapping on the window next to him. Khristeen Smith was on the street outside. He waved her in, and she hustled through the restaurant, dumped her backpack on one of the empty chairs at his table, and slid into a chair across from him. She downed a full glass of water and flagged a waiter for more.

  “Hey, Frost, how are you?” Khristeen said, her words tumbling together. “I was surprised to get your message. You don’t usually knock on my door. Normally it’s the other way around.”

  “This time I’m the one looking for information,” Frost told her.

  “Well, color me intrigued. Where’s Shack? He’s not with you?”

  “No, he’s at home today. I’m sure he’ll complain about it when I get back.”

  “I love that cat,” she said. “One of these days I’m going to write a story about him, you know.”

  Khristeen grabbed a menu and called out an order to a waiter passing the table. Her silver glasses slipped to the end of her nose, and she pushed them back. Her face had a sheen of sweat, as if she’d been running. She had limp dark hair parted in the middle without any particular style, and her face had no makeup. She wore a black nylon jacket zipped to her neck, blue jeans, and old sneakers.

  She wasn’t even thirty years old, but in seven years with the Chronicle, she’d earned a reputation as the paper’s hardest-working reporter. Khristeen seemed to be everywhere in the city on every story. Frost didn’t know her well, but she’d written the front-page profile of him after the incident with Tabby the previous fall. He knew that she always did her research and had a good eye for details. Sometimes too good. As she asked him about Tabby, she’d seen something in his face that made her start digging into his relationship with her to a point that made him uncomfortable. He’d explained it away as a close friendship with his brother’s fiancée, but there was something in her smirk that made him think she didn’t entirely believe him.

  Khristeen leaned across the table and lowered her voice. She had a fast, breathless way of talking that made her sound in a perpetual hurry. “So what’s going on, Frost? When the police come to me, it makes me think I must be missing something. Spill the beans, I want to know what you’re up to.”

  “This whole conversation has to be off the record,” Frost said.

  Khristeen stuck out her tongue at him. “Killjoy. Fine. But if you want something from me, I’m going to want something from you, too.”

  “We can negotiate.”

  “Yeah, yeah, go ahead. Off the record. What’s up?”

  “What do you know about Zelyx Corporation?” Frost asked.

  Khristeen’s eyebrows danced, and she rubbed her hands together. “Ooooh, I like this already. Well, I know pretty much everything there is to know about Zelyx. And about their CEO and founder, Martin Filko. I’ve been following this one for years. That’s my kind of story, baby.”

  “Tell me about Filko,” he said.

  The waiter brought a plate of falafel, and Khristeen dove in as if she hadn’t eaten for days. “Like what? He’s another wunderkind like Zuckerberg. Came up with some groundbreaking security protocol during a kegger at Northwestern. He’s like a year older than me, which is annoying. I haul my clothes to the laundromat, and this guy is the sultan of Brunei.”

  “What about his personal life?”

  “Oh, that’s a big yuck. Filko’s a frat boy. So are the execs around him. Zelyx gets a terrible rap for its culture. Their lawyers are constantly swatting down sexual harassment claims. You never see Filko out and about without some Victoria’s-Secret-model wannabe on his arm. It’s like the fantasy of every fourteen-year-old boy come true.”

  “Have you heard any stories about the women he hangs out with?” Frost asked.

  Khristeen studied him with squinted eyes across the table and clucked her tongue loudly against the roof of her mouth. “You realize this is the kind of conversation that gets a reporter horny, right? What the heck are you trying to find out?”

  “I can’t tell you that. Not yet. Have you seen Filko with women at any of his public events?”

  “Some.”

  Frost found a photo of LaHonda Duke. “What about her?”

  “She looks like Filko’s type, but I don’t remember her specifically.”

  He showed her Fawn’s picture next. “And this woman?”

  “I’m pretty sure she’s been on his arm at least once. Who is she?”

  Frost smiled and didn’t answer, but Khristeen got the message.

  “She’s a pro? Come on, Frost, just a hint. Do you think Filko hangs out with escorts?”

  “No comment. What do you know about his reputation in Illinois? Has he had any run-ins with the police?”

  “Run-ins over what?” Khristeen asked. “Narrow it down for me.”

  “Assault. Abuse.”

  “Sexual assault?”

  “Possibly,” Frost said.

  “Well, I haven’t heard anything, but that doesn’t necessarily mean there’s nothing there. Filko has the money to fix things. I’m sure he knows how to make problems go away.”

  “What was Filko’s relationship with Greg Howell?” Frost asked.

  Khristeen looked disappointed that they weren’t talking about sex anymore. “Bad. Those two hated each other. Howell controlled the Mission Bay land that Filko and the mayor wanted for the Zelyx headquarters. Howell was trying to drag it
out with litigation and jack up the price. Frankly, I think Howell just wanted to screw Filko, too. Howell was a classy guy, and he thought Filko was a turd.”

  “What happened after Howell had his heart attack?”

  “Howell’s sons settled. It was all quick and quiet. Filko got his building site.”

  Frost tried to make his next question sound casual. “So when was Filko last in San Francisco? Do you know?”

  Khristeen’s lips puckered into a self-satisfied smirk. “Yes, I do know.”

  “And?”

  “And this one is going to cost you, Frost. I think you have something very specific in mind about what Filko was doing, and you need me to confirm it for you.”

  “Why do you say that?” Frost asked.

  “One, I know how to read people, and I can read you. Two, do you think I somehow missed the story about a guy dying on your front doorstep last Friday? I smell a connection. If Martin Filko, CEO of Zelyx Corporation, has anything to do with a poisoned guy on Russian Hill, then I sure as hell want to know about it. I’m not saying another word until you give me something more.”

  “You’re not the only reporter in town, Khristeen,” Frost said. “I can go elsewhere with my questions.”

  “But you won’t, because you know I have the information you need.”

  Frost frowned. “We’re still off the record.”

  “For now.”

  “The man who died at my house was named Denny Clark. He ran VIP charter tours on a yacht out of the marina. I want to know if Martin Filko was on his boat on Tuesday night.”

  “Because?” Khristeen asked.

  “No. That’s all you get for now.”

  Khristeen took a large bite of falafel. “Okay. I don’t know anything about the boat, but yes, Martin Filko was in San Francisco on Tuesday.”

  “What was he doing?” Frost asked.

  “He toured the HQ building site, and then he spent the rest of the day with the mayor and his staff. Economic development, affordable housing, that kind of stuff. The relocation is a big deal, you know.”

  “And in the evening?”

  Khristeen winked. “Well, that is an excellent question, and I wish I knew the answer to it. But I don’t.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because Filko and the mayor pulled a bait and switch on the press. The schedule said that the two of them were going to have dinner at the Fairmont. However, that turned out not to be true. They never showed. And they did a fake-out with the limo at city hall so no one was able to follow them. I have no idea where they went or who they were with or what they did.”

  Frost felt the unmistakable electricity of getting closer to the truth. It shot up his spine with a combination of fear and excitement. “But Martin Filko was definitely with the mayor on Tuesday evening?” he asked.

  “Definitely.”

  He stood up, dug cash out of his wallet, and slapped it on the table. “This should cover everything. In fact, order something else if you want. Thank you, Khristeen. This was very helpful.”

  “You’re welcome. And remember, Frost, I expect you to be very helpful to me in the near future.”

  “Count on it,” he said. He picked up his laptop, and as he did, he thought about the archived articles he’d found about Lombard. “Oh, one other thing. Have you ever heard of a reporter named Stephen Post who used to work at the Chronicle? This would have been about three decades ago, so he was long before your time. I was just wondering if you’d heard the name.”

  A strange, suspicious expression came over Khristeen’s face. “Stephen Post? Why are you interested in him?”

  Frost shrugged. “He wrote some articles a long time ago that I just came across. If he was still in the Bay Area, I thought I might talk to him. You know me. I’m interested in history.”

  Khristeen didn’t look convinced by his explanation. “Well, I do know about Stephen Post. All of us at the paper do. He’s a hero to journalists. Actually, there’s a portrait of him in the lobby with a special plaque underneath it.”

  Frost stared at her, confused. “Why is that?”

  “It’s a memorial,” she told him. “Stephen Post was shot and killed while on assignment. The police never found out who did it, but everyone believes it was because of one of his stories.”

  30

  Frost arrived home after dark. The only thing he could see inside the Russian Hill house were the lights of the city through the rear windows. A low, intermittent rumbling rose out of the silence, and that was Shack, snoring on the living room sofa. Frost didn’t turn on any lights. Instead, he went to the refrigerator and got himself a bottle of Torpedo ale, and he went out to the cool patio, leaving the glass door open behind him.

  He leaned on the railing. This place felt like an oasis on top of the world, with the glowing neighborhoods below him and the black mass of the bay in the distance. Trees clung to the hillside, making a jungle on the steep slope. He drank his beer, listened to the wind, and wasn’t even aware of time passing. Throughout the day, he’d barely thought about the fight two nights earlier, but now that he was alone and his adrenaline had seeped away, the pain caught up with him again. The wound on his leg where the knife had slashed him throbbed. His neck stabbed him when he turned his head. He was tired, and all he wanted to do was tumble onto the sofa and sleep.

  A tiny noise like the chiming of a bell rose from the darkness at his feet. He looked down. Shack was awake and had joined him on the patio through the open door. The cat bumped his head against Frost’s leg, but with every step he took, a metallic music followed him.

  “You’re jingling, buddy,” Frost said. “What’s up with that?”

  Frost bent down and scooped up the small cat with a hand under his stomach. He lifted Shack up until they were nose to nose. The cat licked his face. Shack normally wore a black collar, and although he was microchipped, Frost had also attached a badge to the collar with his cell phone number on it, just in case Shack decided to go exploring.

  Except there was something else on his collar now.

  A small charm, the kind that would hang from a teenager’s bracelet, jangled against the ID badge. Frost had no idea how it had gotten there. He couldn’t make it out, and he had to open up his phone to shine a light on the collar to see what it was.

  When he did, his heart stopped.

  His whole body shook with a wave of rage and fear.

  The charm hanging on Shack’s collar was a snake. Its coils glinted in red. Its jaws were open, its teeth bared, as if it were hissing and laughing at him all at the same time.

  Lombard.

  Lombard had been here. In his house.

  The naked cruelty of the threat overwhelmed him. He put Shack calmly down on the patio floor and stroked his black-and-white fur from head to tail as the cat purred. Then Frost grabbed the railing tightly with both hands and tried to drag breath out of his chest. He closed his eyes and opened them, and he felt a sting where he’d bitten down hard on his tongue.

  He had no idea if he was alone or if anyone was on the wooded hillside to hear him. He shouted anyway.

  “Don’t . . . you . . . dare! Don’t you try it, you sons of bitches! I will rain down hell on all of you! Do you hear me? Are you listening to me?”

  The exhaustion, the ache, the loss, the confusion, the sleeplessness of the days since Friday night cascaded over him. He pounded both fists on the iron railing until he thought his bones had broken. Everything in his life felt brittle, like glass riddled with cracks, about to split open.

  “Frost?”

  He heard a voice behind him, and his reaction was instantaneous. His gun was in his hand. In a single fluid motion, it was cocked. He spun, ready to fire. His arm stretched out; his finger went to the trigger. Halfway through the turn, his mind caught up with him, and he realized that the shadow in the doorway was Tabby. He froze, but he couldn’t seem to let go of the gun. She saw it, too, and the starlight showed the panic in her face.

  “Frost
, it’s me!”

  He breathed hard and came to his senses. He secured the gun and returned it to his holster and squatted next to Shack on the patio. When he did, he found he couldn’t even stand up again. He ran one hand back through his hair and left it awry. Tabby came and bent down beside him and put an arm around his shoulder.

  “Are you okay?”

  Frost shook his head. “No.”

  He said it again in a whisper. “No.”

  She helped him inside. Shack followed, and Tabby locked the patio door behind them. She eased him onto the sofa, and when she started to get up, he pulled her down beside him. She didn’t protest. She sat next to him in silence and stroked his hair, until he winced when her fingers neared the bruise at the back of his head. They sat like that for a long time. Neither of them said a word.

  Eventually, she got up and went to the kitchen to get him another Torpedo. She brought back one for herself, too. They sat and drank, but they didn’t talk. When those bottles were empty, she got them two more. And two more after that. And again. By the time he was able to say anything, they were both drunk. Being drunk only made her more beautiful to him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  It was probably an hour later.

  Tabby gave him one of her incandescent smiles. “Well, it’s not like it’s the first time you’ve pointed a gun at me.”

  He couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” she asked.

  He didn’t want to, but he did. It was wrong, but he did. He told her everything. He told her about Denny and Lombard and Coyle and Gorham and Mr. Jin and Filko and the snakes and Herb. He told her about the invisible fight in the darkness, Coyle with his throat cut, his fear of dying. He told her about Shack and the charm. When he did, Tabby simply undid the cat’s collar, removed the snake, and went out onto the patio. She threw the charm into the thick of the trees below the house, where it would be buried forever under mud and leaves.