Also by Ronald Tierney
The Carly Paladino and Noah Lang
San Francisco Mysteries
DEATH IN PACIFIC HEIGHTS *
DEATH IN NORTH BEACH *
The Deets Shanahan Mysteries
THE STONE VEIL
THE STEEL WEB
THE IRON GLOVE
THE CONCRETE PILLOW
NICKEL-PLATED SOUL *
PLATINUM CANARY *
GLASS CHAMELEON *
ASPHALT MOON *
BLOODY PALMS *
* available from Severn House
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
This first world edition published 2009
in Great Britain and 2010 in the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
Copyright © 2009 by Ronald Tierney.
All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Tierney, Ronald
Death in North Beach. – (A Paladino and Lang mystery)
1. Novelists – Crimes against – Fiction. 2. Private investigators – California – San Francisco – Fiction. 3. North Beach (San Francisco, Calif.) – Fiction. 4. Detective and mystery stories.
I. Title II. Series
813.5′4-dc22
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-037-1 (ePub)
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6850-3 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-199-7 (trade paper)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
CONTENTS
Acknowledgements
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
For Tao
Acknowledgements
Thanks to brothers Richard and Ryan and to David Anderson, Ray Ng, Jovanne Reilly and Karen Watt for their help.
San Francisco’s North Beach isn’t a beach. It once was. But a portion of the Bay was filled in to make room for more buildings. Now it is a low-rise village tucked in between Chinatown, the Financial District, Jackson Square, and the lofty neighborhoods of Russian Hill and Telegraph Hill.
North Beach is half tourist and half authentic San Francisco. The neighborhood wasn’t made to look like an old Italian neighborhood. It is an old Italian neighborhood. True, modernity crept in as families died off. A hardware is gone. So are a few family-style restaurants. But the chain stores were kept at bay. There are no Olive Gardens or Starbucks. No Borders. No Banana Republics. No skyscraping office buildings or condominiums.
The Beat Generation was born here and so, perhaps, was the idea of Americans hanging around in coffee houses. It was and still is, in a sadly decreasing way, the neighborhood of poets, artists, writers, philosophers and strippers. Most of the Beats are very old or very dead now.
One of them, old and very recently dead, floats in a shallow pond on a small triangular island at the intersection of three streets. A few feet away from the pond, across one of those streets, was the victim’s favorite watering hole, the Washington Square Bar and Grill. Lovingly called the ‘Washbag’ by its colorful and often celebrity clientele, the landmark has died and been reborn a few times. The cosmic jury is still out on Whitney Warfield.
One
Inspector Vincente Gratelli, a man who looked older than his 60-some-odd years, didn’t have to come far. He was awakened at five a.m. in his North Beach flat and told there was a body a few blocks away. By five twenty-five, the San Francisco police detective was there, standing within the confines of a waist-high wrought-iron fence that enclosed the strange little pond, a tree, a bush or two and some purple flowers. The body, suited, shiny and dark, looking like the wrinkled carcass of a walrus, had been pulled out. It rested on a bed of ivy.
Gratelli buttoned up his threadbare London Fog raincoat and tightened the scarf around his neck. The scarf wasn’t there as a fashion statement. The air was damp and often cold even on September mornings and he had become prone to sore throats. He went about his business despite the grogginess of his brain. It was too early even for a cup of coffee. Caffe Trieste, his usual stop on the way to work, didn’t open until six thirty. He’d been rousted from bed and missed his morning routine. He needn’t have hurried. The dead, he reminded himself, were a patient lot.
Though he told no one, he guessed that the man was killed or placed at the scene around four a.m. It would be the time when the usually busy neighborhood would be the most quiet – after the bars closed and before the locals headed for work. The medical examiner and CSI had been called. A few early-risers had gathered and Gratelli had the benefit of a couple of uniforms to keep order. One of them called it in after a Chinese woman coming from the number 30 Stockton bus discovered the body.
Gratelli found the dead man’s wallet. Aside from the credit cards, much of the wallet’s contents were saturated. The driver’s license, however, was laminated. Gratelli used a pocket flashlight to illuminate it. The name on it was Whitney Warfield.
Gratelli winced. Not usually excitable, the inspector realized what he had on his hands – a big, self-promoting curmudgeon of a novelist and an active political provocateur murdered in a sensational fashion. Gratelli looked around. A few more police cars had arrived and the intersection was lit like a carnival. Fortunately, because of the hour, it would be a while before the media arrived. But they would most certainly be there before the morning news.
Whitney Warfield, Gratelli knew, was a North Beach habitué. He lived just up on Russian Hill. He was a close friend of the North Beach board supervisor, one of eleven elected officials to advise and frustrate the mayor. He had legions of enemies; but they were usually journalists, novelists, the rich and the powerful, whom he held in contempt. None were likely to kill the author over his self-puffery and theatrical tirades – all designed to keep a writer who hadn’t written anything of note in some time from fading from the limelight.
Gratelli verified the face against the photo on the license and allowed the thin, weak beam of light to traverse Warfield’s body, discovering something long and cylindrical protruding from the side of Whitney Warfield’s neck. It was a pen, a fountain pen. A M
ont Blanc. An expensive weapon to leave behind. The killer had gone so far as to put the cap on the end.
Carly Paladino was afraid she’d be early. Her friend Anselmo was an angel of the night; an old angel, but an angel. He was an artist. Paladino, half of Paladino & Lang Investigations, was recently ensconced in a refurbished office and wanted one of Anselmo’s paintings for the large wall behind her desk. She liked having familiar things around her, things that reminded her of people she cared about or times she could remember with fondness. Anselmo was part of that. A friend of her parents, his work was often featured in the restaurant they owned.
Anselmo lived in an alley not far from the heart of North Beach, a block from Washington Square and the imposing Saints Peter and Paul Church. The door to his place was open. The stairway that went up to his second floor space was before her. That door was open too. Perhaps Anselmo was expecting someone. He would be surprised to see her.
At the top of the steps she could see him in through the doorway of a room beyond the entry. He was face down on an oversized sofa, his huge body a range of rounded hills. As she moved closer, she worried that he might be dead.
‘Anselmo,’ she said, at first softly, then increasingly louder. ‘Anselmo, Anselmo.’
His face was smashed against the corner of the pillow as if it had arrived there as a result of some terrible collision.
She leaned down, ear against his nose. He was breathing.
‘Mo!’ she said sharply, still thinking there might be something wrong.
The old man awakened with a start. Disoriented. Eyes darted for something familiar or solid. He looked at Carly. Still startled. For a moment, at least, Carly’s face, like the rest of the universe, was undecipherable.
Wearing a black robe over some sort of black sleeping gown, the old man lurched to his feet, stumbled. Arms stretched out for a wall or a chair or a solid body, perhaps. His face was red, cheek creased, eyes settling now. He put his hand against the wall.
‘Do you always get up this way?’ Carly asked.
Anselmo took a deep breath. He looked around uncertainly.
‘It is becoming more and more difficult to come back. Soon, maybe, I’ll just stay.’
His eyes seemed to focus. He ran his hand down his full, silver beard.
‘Did I tell you what happened last night?’
‘How could you,’ she asked. ‘This is the first time I’ve seen you in months.’
‘Ah, you never know about these things, Carly. Time is funny. You’ll learn that some day.’ His eyes softened. His face wrinkled in a smile. ‘You are so beautiful, Carly. You’ve put this new day in a golden light. I’ve always had a crush on you, you know.’
‘You have more crushes than a schoolgirl,’ she said. He did. He wasn’t fickle. He just loved – or hated – passionately, frequently.
Carly felt fortunate she could still charm him. She loved coming to the studio. She loved everything about the place. The smells especially. Oils and mineral spirits infiltrated by damp must. Anselmo had those scents about him, the smells of a painter’s studio mixed with the smells of wine and tobacco.
‘What brings you here?’ he asked as she followed him to the kitchen, though the word kitchen might be too specific. All the rooms were rooms he worked in. He put a bent tea kettle on the stove and fired up the burner.
‘I want to purchase a painting,’ she said.
‘You do?’ He smiled.
‘Yes. For my office.’
‘Your stuffy old security firm?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I left Vogel Security. I’m out on my own.’
‘Well, that’s entirely wonderful,’ he said, fumbling with a crumpled pack of cigarettes, eventually wrestling one loose. ‘You’re going to finally live a little, is that what you’re saying?’
‘Seems to be what’s happening.’
‘Tell you what, you model for me and you can go in the back room and have your pick of the paintings.’
‘Model for you?’
‘Yes. Nude. A celebration of your freedom.’ He fumbled about and found an oversized matchbox.
‘I’m not sure I’m that free, yet. And, Mo, I’m far from the nubile young women you usually paint.’
‘You are beautiful. Look at you. You are slender where it counts. You have some flesh where it counts. Your dark hair and deep Italian eyes. My God, Carly. You are at that wonderful age when a woman is a woman. You are an inspiration.’
She smiled at his compliments. She didn’t know what was so wonderful about her age.
He lit his cigarette. His eyes, rather than looking at her, looked beyond and behind her.
Carly turned to see a handsome man, dark hair with a little silver. He wore expensive clothes and wore them well.
‘William,’ Anselmo called out. ‘Come in and meet Carly Paladino, the most beautiful woman in the world. Carly, say hello to Sweet William, the most charming man in the world. What a fine coincidence.’
William smiled, shook hands with Carly.
‘Have you known this old poseur long?’ William asked her.
‘Since I was a little girl,’ she said.
‘Then there’s no need to protect you,’ he said. ‘May I interrupt you two for just a moment? I have something urgent to discuss with Anselmo. For just a moment or two.’
‘Certainly.’
‘You know where I keep the masterpieces, Carly,’ Anselmo said. ‘Go pick one and I’ll be with you shortly to discuss payment options.’ He winked.
As Carly rummaged through the large paintings, all leaning against each other, she understood that she wasn’t getting the right perspective. Anselmo painted as passionately as he lived. His work was achieved with broad, thick brushstrokes that created images in the abstract. She’d have to pull out the ones that she was drawn to and step back from them to fully appreciate them.
She slid one out carefully and brought it to the light. Closer to the other room, she heard what seemed to be William’s desperate whispers and Anselmo’s more controlled and audible voice saying, ‘Calm down,’ and ‘I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think.’
Carly was troubled by her impulse to listen more closely. But what could they expect, she thought, having a private investigator in the next room. Invading privacy was somewhere between a natural inclination and an undeniable urge.
‘They heard us arguing,’ said the whispering voice of the person the painter called ‘Sweet William’.
‘I haven’t read the papers,’ Anselmo said. ‘What time was he killed?’
Carly couldn’t make out the answer, but it was something about not being in the papers yet. She used to watch the morning news as she got ready to go to work at the security firm. Now that she was on her own, she was a little more casual about a lot of things. One of them was weaning herself from the morning shows. It was a depressing start to the day. The news was never good and the anchors tried to make up for it by an obscene amount of gushing goodwill.
This morning she had purposely avoided the news, taking her coffee and yogurt on her deck overlooking Mr Nakamura’s garden belonging to the flat below. She had read a few chapters of Amy Tan’s Saving Fish From Drowning before setting out for North Beach and her old friend, Anselmo. She wondered if she had missed something important because something important was going on in the next room. Carly was torn between listening to the sounds and looking at the paintings. She had pulled out two when Anselmo appeared.
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘“Fawn at Dawn” and “Salmon Moon”.’
‘That’s what they are,’ Carly said, not hiding the sarcasm. William had appeared in the doorway, pale but smiling.
‘Why don’t you give William your card, Carly?’ He shrugged. ‘Just in case.’
‘Sure.’ She retrieved a card from her bag, strewn in a corner. ‘In whatever case,’ she said, trying to tone down her sudden urge to flirt. William, she thought, belonged in a French film. She would even let him smoke a cigarette if he insisted.
; William looked at the card. His smile seemed genuine though it didn’t match his eyes. He was troubled.
‘Thank you, Ms Paladino,’ he said. ‘Don’t take offense, but I hope I don’t need you.’
‘Call me Carly. Though it’s against my best interest, I hope you don’t either.’
Noah Lang, the other half of Paladino & Lang Investigations, watched as Carly struggled with the large canvas. He was standing in the little reception area of their newly expanded and revamped office. His dress was casual – worn jeans and a sweatshirt.
‘A little help?’ he asked.
‘I got it,’ she said. And she did, successfully maneuvering it through the office door.
It seemed to Lang that the look of her office had become a priority project. He knew she was trying as best she could to make the space her own, not to mention establish a little island of taste and dignity in an otherwise desolate environment.
Shortly after Carly moved in with Lang, they discovered the quarters were just a little too close. So when ageing PI Barry Brinkman, who had a neighboring office, told them he had to give up his space because he could no longer afford a place to nap and read the paper, the three of them worked out a deal and the landlord agreed. They knocked out a wall and connected the spaces.
Brinkman, who had his own PI agency for more years than he could count and who now came to work because he had nothing else to do, settled for a small, windowless room in the rear of Lang’s office at token rent. Lang had his original office space back, defeating the purpose of subletting his space for additional income. Carly had her own space and Thanh could sit in the reception area or in Lang’s office on those occasions when this mysterious and illusive being of alternating genders appeared. The three of them – Lang, Thanh and Brinkman – formed the little family in which Carly Paladino uneasily found herself, much to the amusement of Noah Lang.
He followed her into her office.
‘You found a way to fit that into your little clown car?’ he said, referring to her sporty little Mini Cooper
‘It’s only a clown car when you’re in it,’ she said, leaning the painting against the wall behind her desk. ‘I tied it to the roof.’
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