by D. F. Bailey
※
Once again, Finch met Finkleman in the Starbucks on the corner of Fourth and Mission. The cafe sat on the street level under the Yerba Buena Garage, a four-story concrete box, typical of the parkades that dotted the downtown core.
“Sorry.” Finch apologized for his delay, sat on a stool at the bar seat overlooking the street and took a tentative sip from his Americano. “Been waiting long?”
“No.” Finkleman thumbed his glasses to the top of his nose. “But I can’t stay too long.”
“Okay, in that case, I’ve got another job for you.” He pulled the picture from his pocket. “I need you to dig up anything you can on this guy on the right.” He tapped a fingernail under Guzman’s throat.
Finkleman took the picture in his hand. “Who is he?”
“Raymond Guzman.”
“Pretty common name. The latino equivalent of Jerry Brown.” Finkleman chuckled with a look of amusement. Everyone in the office knew that Finkleman admired the aging state governor. He’d pinned a “Re-elect Brown” lapel button to the cork board beside his computer. “Okay. I’ll do what I can.”
“Thanks, Gabe. All right, what’ve you got for me on the list?”
“Probably more than you can use, but it’s all here.” Finkleman passed a him three-ring binder. “In a nutshell, of the twenty-four people on the list, fifteen are either researchers or academics, five—including you—work in various forms of media, and three are politicians. Nineteen are male, four female, one transgender.”
As Finkleman spoke, Finch thumbed through hundreds of pages in the binder. Most of it information printed from web pages. A back section marked off by a stiff sheet of yellow paper contained detailed profiles of each list member.
“Oh, and one of them,” Finkleman continued, “doesn’t fit the pattern at all. Edmund Austen. He’s a controversial minister from the Anglican Church in Canada.”
“What’s so controversial about him?”
“He’s an atheist.”
“An atheist minister?” Finch shrugged as if the contradiction simply added one more puzzle piece to the overall mystery. “Okay, so where are they from?”
“Thirteen in the US, two in Canada. There’s four Brits, two Germans, and three Frenchies.” He pointed to the three-ring binder. “If you want, I’ll send you a link to all this stuff.”
“Good. But send it to my private email address. You got it?”
He nodded.
Finch shoved the binder into his courier bag and took another drink from his mug. “So Gabe, you ever hear Wally talk about a WTF question?”
“Yup.” He took a final sip of his Mochaccino and nudged the cup aside. “What the fuck.”
“So WTF? What’s so special about the list?” A look of exasperation crossed his face. “What’s the part you said would make me unhappy.”
“The demographics. All the people in the list are caucasian and between twenty-seven and forty-two. In the western world the death rate in that cohort is one hundred ninety-two per one hundred thousand. That’s point zero-zero-one-nine-two percent. But in your list”—he pointed to Finch’s bag—“the death rate is thirteen percent.”
He paused for a moment, as if he expected Finch to compute the deviation in probability.
“And that’s … what?”
“Sixty-five times the normal rate for the demographic.”
“Sixty-five?” Perplexed, Finch held up a hand. “No, no. The death rate is closer to eight percent. Two out of twenty-four. Martin Fast and the guy from England. Right?” His face betrayed a look of doubt, that he couldn’t quite trust Finkleman’s calculations.
“As of last Friday, yes.” Finkleman hiked his shoulders as if he were trying to shrug off the bad news still to come. “But yesterday, Hans Schreiber, a post-doc researcher at MIT, was pulled out the water near the Charles River Yacht Club in Cambridge. He was number twelve on the list.”
Unsure how to respond, Finch stared through the cafe window at the AMC movie theater across the street. The news sank in slowly, then all at once seemed to drown him. He had to draw a deep breath before he could reply.
“So now three of the twenty-four are dead?”
“Yeah. Numbers sixteen, three, and twelve.”
A new thought occurred to Finch. “Do you think there’s something in the order?”
“Not so far.” Finkleman nodded with a solemn look on his face. “But since the first death four weeks ago, on average, the list is losing one member almost every nine days.”
Finch felt his stomach churn.
“Look, I’m not sure how reliable any of this really is,” Finkleman murmured in a tone meant to soften everything he’d just said. “I mean the sample size is very small. Too small to draw any conclusions.”
Will studied him a moment. “There’s more, though, isn’t there.”
“Well … yes.” His solemnity shifted to a look of despair, as if he couldn’t bear to reveal the most important possibility he’d unearthed. He narrowed his eyes and continued. “I’m sorry, Will. But at this rate everyone still on the list will be dead within six months.”
※
As Finch climbed down the staircase into the basement of the Vincent Hotel, he understood that the chances of surviving a mid-tier earthquake would be slim to none. Anything bigger than a six-point-oh shake could easily shatter the clay bricks and masonry blocks that formed the foundation of the hotel.
But when Gilly turned a corner and unlocked the twin deadbolts to the studio, Finch felt more assured. Or at least convincingly deluded. The small windowless space had been retrofitted with cross-bracing on three sides, steel X-bars that had telescopic hydraulics intended to absorb the death shocks from The Big One.
Or so Gilly explained after he sat down on the far side of a narrow desk that divided the room in two. On Gilly’s side stood an array of electronic audio recording tools, sound baffles and twin microphones with pop shields. Opposite him sat an overstuffed guest chair with two worn pillows and a foot stool on the floor. Along the adjacent wall stood a neatly made army cot. Finch wondered it Gilly spent the odd night here when he couldn’t stomach the hotel’s stench wafting into his room in the manager’s quarters.
A narrow shelf held five coffee mugs emblazoned with the words Gilly’s Last Gasp.
“Everybody gets a free mug,” Gilly said with mock pride. “You want a coffee?”
Finch glanced at the makeshift coffee bar behind Gilly’s shoulder. A plug-in kettle, a can of Folgers, a jar of Coffee Mate powdered creamer, plastic swizzle sticks.
“No thanks.” He glanced away. “Coffee after dinner and I don’t sleep.” In fact Finch now required five to seven cups of coffee a day and at least two every evening.
“Right. Give me a few minutes and we’ll be set to go.” He plugged a laptop into a set of cables and with his right hand he busied himself adjusting an array of meters and levels. Impressed by his dexterity, Finch simply absorbed the clever adaptations that Gilly had made to his studio. Most able-bodied indie podcasters would be envious.
“I’ve got a theme tune and for the intro and outro, but I edit them in after the interviews. The podcast will air later tonight. I’ll email the link to you. Let me do a level check and I’ll be ready to roll,” he said as he continued his preparations. “So how I like to run this, is to open with a brief introduction. Then I just let ‘er rip.”
“Suits me.”
Gilly settled into his chair and pulled the desk mic towards him so that the pop shield stood about six inches from his chin. As they sat eye-to-eye across the table, Will made a similar adjustment to his mic and nodded to show that he was ready. Gilly held three fingers in the air and counted them down in a whisper: “Three, two, one.” He pointed his index finger at Will and pressed his lips into a narrow smile.
“Welcome to Gilly’s Last Gasp, the Tenderloin’s voice of the people. Ladies and gentlefolk, lend me your ears. Tonight we have a very special guest with us. A journo who’s been cra
wling our streets over the past week with his eyes peeled to what’s up—and as always in the T-loin—what’s down. Welcome with me Mr. Will Finch, the star reporter from the SF eXpress. You may remember his reports from Oregon last year when he uncovered the murder of Raymond Toeplitz. At first the mainstream press reported that Toeplitz had been devoured by a bear on a hilltop road in the northwest of the state. In fact, Toeplitz had been shot and left for dead by the county sheriff. Or you might remember Will Finch as the man falsely accused of murdering California Senator Franklin Whitelaw. Turns out that was a suicide by the terminally-ill legislator. Then again you may have seen Will Finch’s face on CNN and PBS. But tonight you’ll hear his voice on Gilly’s Last Gasp as he tries to breathe new life into these bleak streets.”
Finch felt his pulse quicken as he watched Gilly slip into his broadcast persona. Gone was the crippled war vet who lost the bottom half of his left arm on day ten of his tour in Iraq. Gone, the wisp of a wounded soul hiding in a locked cage at the reception desk of the Vincent Hotel. In his place sat a man in his element, with a voice strong and steady. A tenor who lifted the cadence of each sentence with a melody that rose into the air on wings. The hypnotic effect was so powerful, so contrary to everything Finch had assumed about the man, that when Gilly put his first question to Finch, he could barely shake himself from the trance.
“So tell us, Will, what brings you from the flight deck of CNN down here to the landing strip on Turk Street?”
Finch gazed into Gilly’s face and shot his eyes to one side. The trance had broken. Now he felt a flash of panic. A form of stage fright that he hadn’t anticipated.
“Hard to say,” he murmured and silently cursed himself. He needed to recover and find a focus. Fast. “I’m trying to follow up on a story I covered last year.”
Gilly’s features revealed a sympathetic air, a need to bring his guest star up to scratch. “Are you talking about the murders up in Oregon, or about what happened with Senator Whitelaw’s family?”
“All of it, really.”
“You saw the inside story, chapter and verse. Gianna Whitelaw, Raymond Whitelaw, the senator and his son. Four dead in as many weeks. Can you bring us up to date?”
Impressive. Not only did Gilly produce and broadcast his own show, obviously he’d done his homework, too. Finch leveled his shoulders and eased forward. He began to tell the story of corruption and greed that had killed Sochi and almost destroyed him and Eve. Gilly prodded him gently, asked a few clarifying questions, but overall he let Finch tell the tale in his own words. After five or ten minutes—he soon lost track of the time—he felt a need to bring the story home.
“The only unanswered questions, Gilly, can be found right here in the Tenderloin District.”
“You’re talking about Lennie Earl.”
Finch nodded and realized he should let Toby Squire’s alias stand. “Yeah. That’s how he was known on Turk Street.”
“Until he died a week ago. I understand you eye-witnessed that.”
“I did.” Finch drew an inch closer to the mic. “I was there. With him and the police.”
“Some say the cops set Earl up. You see it that way?”
“No.” Will paused for effect. “No, it was suicide. I saw the whole thing. The police tried to stop him. They should be applauded for it.” He wondered if DeRosa and Haussmann would ever hear the podcast. Wondered what they might think if they could hear him singing their praise.
Gilly shrugged doubtfully and continued. “What about the murder of Dr. Martin Fast? Three hours before his own death, the police say Lennie Earl killed him in a convenience store robbery. You buying that piece of candy?”
Finch chuckled at that.
“I wasn’t there, so I can’t say. But I understand the ballistics from the two shootings demonstrate that the same pistol was used in both cases.”
“The SFPD claim the ballistics tests prove it’s an open-and-shut case. Martin Fast and Lennie Earl. Earl, who’d also been tied to the death last year of Gianna Whitelaw, the senator’s daughter.”
A memory of Gianna ghosted through Finch’s mind. The monster had raped and then drowned her. “Makes it look pretty tidy, doesn’t it?” he said.
“Well.” Gilly’s voice climbed a note, as if he felt a nibble on the end of his line. “Sounds like you think it might be too tidy.”
“Might be,” he conceded.
“And that’s why you’ve been prowling the streets for the last week. Trying to uncover the dirt swept under the rug. Am I right?”
For the first time Finch felt a need for caution. Could Gilly be laying a trap? Some sort of on-air take-down? He let the question hang. When Gilly detected the hesitation, he pressed on.
“So maybe there’s someone else involved?”
“Not so much involved, as … informed.”
“Really?” Gilly’s voice dropped to a baritone whisper. “Informed. Who’s that?”
Finch turned his head to one side. This was the one question he’d prepared for. He wanted to lay his answers out over a few beats. Maybe a listener would be caught up in the suspense. Someone who knew Raymond Guzman.
“A friend of Lennie Earl. They used to hang out at the Turk-Hyde Mini Park. They’ve been seen together. And I’ve got something to return to him.”
“What’s that?”
“Something that Lennie had just before he died. He left it in the park, then turned down Turk Street to Dodge Place. His last walk.”
Gilly hesitated. He knew exactly where Lennie had shot himself. But he seemed unsure which question to ask next: about the suicide or the abandoned item. He made a choice and continued his interrogation. “So what is it you’ve found?”
“I can’t disclose that.” Finch shrugged to suggest the answer was off limits. “It falls within the domain of evidence.”
A startled look crossed Gilly’s face. “Why not? There’s no police investigation. The SFPD closed the file last week. What kind of evidence are you talking about?”
Gilly had outed him. Finch had planted the notion of evidence and non-disclosure to catch the attention of anyone who knew Guzman.
“Again, I can’t disclose that publicly. Let’s just say it’s something that Lennie’s pal will want.”
Gilly exhaled a sigh of exasperation. “All right. Then what’s the name of Lennie Earl’s friend? The man you want to meet.”
Finally. Finch pointed two fingers at Gilly in a mock salute. “Raymond Guzman. He’s a local resident. People have seen him and I know he’d want this item from Lennie Earl. Now can I ask you something, Gilly?”
“Of course.”
“If any listeners know Raymond Guzman, can they call me?”
“Sure.” Gilly’s voice adopted a more pedestrian tone, as if the show was about to wrap up. “Why don’t you give Last Gaspers your contact info. That might help, too.”
In a slow, clearly articulated voice, Finch provided his email address and phone number at the eXpress. Then Gilly closed off the podcast with a standard signature piece and a brief pump for Will’s book, Who Shot the Sheriff? After another moment, he clicked some icons on his computer, drew his hand under his throat and nodded with an affirmative dip of his head.
“That’s it. Over and out, Will.” He pointed at his laptop. “That was good.”
“You think anyone will call in about Raymond Guzman?”
“Maybe. I get calls after every show.” He shrugged. “Depends on who his friends are.”
And whether they want to see him dead or alive, Finch thought. But he didn’t let on about the roll of twenty-four names connected to Toby Squire’s jacket, and the connection Guzman might have to three people on the list who were already dead.
※ — NINE — ※
THEY’D LIVED TOGETHER for just over a year. In that time, Eve had found their renovated cottage in Telegraph Hill, Will had written his book, and together they’d established a domestic life that offered enough “personal space,” as Eve called it, to s
uit their individual needs.
They’d also developed compatible routines. Unless one of them had an early meeting, they always took breakfast together. The ritual required Will to brew two espressos while Eve prepared bagels or toast or croissants. Most nights they cooked a light dinner and the first person home organized the meal.
Most important, in Eve’s mind at least, was the small victory she’d won in coaxing Will to embrace her jogging regime. Three times a week he joined her as they jogged the tracks and trails through Lincoln Park or the Presidio. After three months, he’d found his wind and could handle five miles without breaking his stride. Inspired by his new-found fitness, he took out a membership in a gym two blocks from his office and began to lift weights two or three times a week. For the first time since his ten weeks’ basic training in the Army his abs had developed a rippled definition. As Eve said, he was “nicely ripped.”
Other habits evolved from their personal temperaments and eccentricities. Eve noticed that whenever they had time to share the events of their day, she usually began the conversation. Was it because of Will? The way he needed to brood over some inner problem before he could articulate it? Or was it because of me, she wondered. She knew that sometimes she could be a dumper. Leanne had told her that once. Over coffee, she’d dump out all her anger, frustrations, anxieties before anyone had a chance to ask for cream or sugar. The effect was most pronounced during her conflict with the SFPD that led to her dismissal from the force.
Above all, Eve required a confidante. She could always count at least a dozen friends, but she’d only allow one person at a time to enter her inner life. First Gianna Whitelaw. Then Leanne Spratz. And now, of course, Will Finch. She’d never met anyone like him. She could tell him anything and everything. He had an ear for her voice, could hear it when she expressed a note of worry, fear, affection. He provided tenderness when she needed it, and support when—despite her brash exterior and apparent confidence—she felt like an outright fraud.
After he returned from his interview with Gilly, she could detect a sense of reserve in Finch. The brisk way he kissed her cheek, his immediate need to eat. She knew she’d have to give him some time to completely arrive. Body first, then mind. Sometimes as much thirty minutes apart.
