Death in North Beach

by Ronald Tierney

  ‘And all I gave you was a glass of water,’ she said, still smiling. ‘You are much too easy, Mr Lang.’

  Twelve

  Unlike cities and towns in the Midwest and most of the West, San Francisco’s neighborhoods have buildings that open directly to the street or very near it. Whatever outdoors is connected to the home, business or apartment house is usually behind the structure and relatively private. Without alleys, a square block of backyards – some with exquisite gardens and others neglected – butt up against each other. Those with flats or apartments on the second or third floors can look out over an entire square block of backyards.

  Lang, sitting in back of the former Chinese laundry in the Western Addition – in the darkness – could see various windows lit. He didn’t have Jimmy Stewart’s voyeuristic view in Rear Window, but he could imagine in this incredibly diverse city all sorts of families and relationships existed behind these windows. He could imagine how each created its own cultural enclave – Spanish, Chinese and English coming from the television sets, curry, ginger, chilies coming from the stoves.

  And there he was, sitting on a rickety chair on a slab of concrete in the night, thinking about his part in all this; thinking about the day and his conversations with Carly. He sipped his Cabernet and smiled at what many of his old friends, miles to the east, would think of him. They would think of the horrible things San Francisco does to a real, beer-drinking, hotdog-eating, football-watching, Ford truck-driving man, turning him into a wine-tasting, Brie-eating, opera-listening, cat-loving, Volvo-driving, sometimes life-experimenting, self-reflecting alien. The horror of it all.

  The thing was, Noah Lang liked the fact he was no longer the Noah Lang of ten or twenty years ago – a lousy husband with an angry, fenced-in mind and a hardened soul. Since then he had yielded to the universe a bit, following the cosmic joke school of philosophy, modified only by loyalty to friends and a willingness to do what is necessary for his and his friends’ survival.

  The night was clear enough to see the stars. The sound of a saxophone came lightly from the stereo inside. For some reason he remembered his sister. Her lovely life was too short. Death plucks you from earth when it will. Sometimes you see it coming; sometimes you don’t. Lang had come to terms with mortality, or perhaps just with the idea of mortality. Buddha traversed a narrow swatch of light that escaped from inside, his dark body blending with the darkness and Lang ended all thoughts that might lead to personal enlightenment.

  The very old and very elegant Agnes DeWitt was off the list of suspects. In addition to the obvious factors for elimination, she had already won in any competition with Whitney Warfield. That left everyone else on his list – artist and poet Richard Sumaoang, the widow Elena Warfield, the prissy artist Marshall Hawkes, the mistress Marlene Berensen, the real estate developer Ralph Chiu and Lang’s own contribution – the charming gigolo himself, William Blake.

  In the morning he would see what he could do with the other list, the one Thanh compiled from the directory of the apartment building the bumbling gumshoe had visited before returning to his office.

  Carly Paladino had ended her work day that afternoon by stopping by City Hall, a building bigger and grander than most statehouses, and topped by a gilt dome that seemed to symbolize former Mayor Willie Brown’s imperial reign. The visit might have been a wasted effort. Supervisor Samuel McFarland was not to be found and his staff was not to be bothered.

  Carly smiled at the bored male receptionist, dropping a card on the desk. ‘Tell him it’s about murder and scandal. Perhaps his.’

  She turned, suddenly in a good mood. What she had said was true, but this was not her usual approach. Her partner Noah Lang seemed to be rubbing off on her? So be it, she told herself.

  She picked up her dry cleaning and stopped at Whole Foods where she created her usual at the salad bar and selected two slices of pizza from the deli. The evening was planned. A load of laundry, a shower, one – and only one – glass of wine with her dinner, maybe a movie or a book and then to bed. Tomorrow morning was a running morning. That meant getting up early after a night of real sleep.

  Her cell rang just as she got inside her flat. She dropped the dry cleaning on the sofa, freeing one hand to get the phone as she continued toward the kitchen with her dinner.

  ‘Hello, Paladino speaking,’ she said, flipping the phone open, jarred a bit by a light on in the kitchen.

  ‘McFarland,’ came a harsh voice. ‘What is this crap you’re peddling to my staff?’

  She was about to answer when she reached the kitchen area. William Blake stood by the sink. He lifted a bottle of white wine and two glasses, a happy and expectant look on his face.

  It was hard for her to get her bearings. It was only a minor problem being screamed at by the caller. It was a major problem having her home invaded by a man – handsome, yes, but still a relative stranger – who appeared to have some sort of celebration in mind.

  ‘Mr McFarland. I’ve emailed and I’ve called. Again and again,’ she said, glaring at Blake. ‘You haven’t given me the courtesy of a reply. At the moment, we have word that you and something very embarrassing about you may be revealed through a manuscript written by the late Whitney Warfield. We need to talk. I’m free at ten a.m. tomorrow morning. Your office?’

  ‘Let’s meet somewhere else. There’s a coffee house on Church, near Market. Across from Aardvark Books. You know it?’

  ‘I do. Ten.’

  He disconnected.

  ‘On the job,’ Blake said. ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘I’m not impressed,’ Carly said.

  ‘It’s rude, I know. Calling you I run the risk of being overheard. Waiting outside for you to come home was too risky. I ran out of options.’

  ‘I thought you’d be on some exotic island by now.’

  He removed the cork from the bottle, ‘You’ll have some with me, won’t you?’

  She nodded. She might come across as petulant and petty if she didn’t agree.

  ‘I’ll fill you in on what we have, though it isn’t much. Too early.’

  He poured the wine and handed her a glass. ‘It’s especially good for a white Bordeaux. Surprisingly smooth.’

  ‘No fingerprints. The police have no clues. You are high on their suspect list. Our suspect list isn’t thinning by much. The highly dangerous ninety-year-old Agnes DeWitt has been crossed off, I’m told.

  Blake nodded, obviously humoring her sarcasm.

  ‘And I have trouble imagining the rather large artist Lili D. Young chasing Warfield down, hopping a fence and plunging a Mont Blanc pen in his neck.’

  ‘A Mont Blanc?’

  ‘Maybe like yours.’

  He took a sip of wine, hopped up on the counter. ‘I still have mine and wouldn’t have left something so expensive behind.’ He wore what appeared to be a light, cashmere blue-green V-neck sweater and tan slacks.

  ‘You stay remarkably well dressed for a man on the run,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve never put all my eggs in one closet.’

  ‘Warfield’s computer seems to be missing and there are no discs or CDs to be found. No fingerprints found there either. Someone was very smart.’

  ‘You see. There is a book then?’

  She put her pizza and salad in the refrigerator.

  ‘Dinner?’ he asked. ‘Would you like some dinner?’

  ‘I wouldn’t think you’d want to go out?’

  ‘I know of a spectacular delivery service – duck confit, lobster, a Porterhouse, some exotic ravioli – whatever you want.’ He smiled, slid down to the floor and moved to her. ‘What about it?’ He was close now, eyes looking into hers. ‘I organize dinner here and maybe lay claim to your sofa just for tonight?’

  Her mind went where she did not want it to go. Pheromones? What in the hell was going on? She tried to bring it all back to reality, but one thing was very clear. She had absolutely no interest in doing a load of laundry.

  The silence awoke him. Gratelli c
losed his eyes again because everything seemed as if it were viewed through a fog. He blinked several times. Slowly the room came into focus. The music was gone. He had missed half of the opera, at least consciously, but it had been the score for pleasant visions. He and his wife had walked the beach in Hawaii in fragrant breezes, a gentle sun warming them. Memory, if that’s what it was, hadn’t faded the colors. They were intense and the time seemed more real than this moment.

  He looked at the clock on the fireplace mantel. Eleven twenty-seven. He had slept past his bedtime. He stood, bones aching, and made his way to the kitchen where he ground some coffee and prepared the coffee maker for the morning. All he would have to do was push a button. He filled a glass with water and put it by the bed. In the bathroom he set the pills out for the morning and put them where he would see them. He checked the locks on the doors.

  Gratelli undressed, put on his pajamas, climbed into bed and picked up the book on the bedside table. He made every effort to pick up where he left off. But he couldn’t make it through the first sentence. He knew what it was. The decision to work with the two private investigators was nagging at him. He didn’t usually second-guess himself, but this one might turn around and bite him in the butt.

  He reminded himself that he needed the help. Even with Rose and Stern helping out part time – they had a load of cases they had yet to clear unrelated to the Warfield murder – Gratelli did not have enough time to do all that he needed to do. And where was this new partner he was supposed to get? How long was that going to take?

  Nothing he could do. He made his bed, he thought, now he would lie in it. If only he could go to sleep in it.

  She couldn’t sleep. It was torment. She wanted to forget that William Blake was in the other room, so close. It was frighteningly intimate even if she could suppress the thoughts that made her uncomfortable. She wished she didn’t have the conflicting feeling of wanting and not wanting.

  ‘I’ll do nothing to encourage it,’ she told herself, turning again in bed, sheet and blanket askew. ‘But if . . .’ her mind continued, ‘. . . why would I stop it?’

  Carly could feel a change. Air pressure perhaps. The room was quiet, but she knew. She did not hear him, but felt his presence.

  ‘You need to get some rest,’ he whispered as his body slid next to hers. Her back was to him. She didn’t know whether to turn toward him or not. His lips touched her ear. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you anxious.’

  She could hear herself swallow. He put his arm around her shoulders.

  ‘We’re going to sleep,’ he said softly. ‘That’s all we’re going to do.’

  Even with the disappointment she could relax. She remembered little else until she awoke in the morning. There was a note on the kitchen counter.

  ‘Thank you. Talk to you later.’

  No signature. Beside the note was an envelope filled with large bills.

  All he could remember of his dreams was running. He ran and ran last night, up hills, across sandy beaches, urban streets and long stretches of soft grass. He ran effortlessly, not knowing or apparently caring what it was he was running toward or from. Whatever the meaning, he had apparently worked up an appetite.

  He dressed quickly, foregoing coffee at home, scratched Buddha behind the ears and walked down to Eddie’s Cafe on Divisadero. He settled for the counter and scrambled eggs and hash browns. This was fuel. Only fuel. Home for a quick shower and the morning news. It sounded like yesterday’s news and the day before.

  Thanh was in jeans and a sweatshirt, looking young mannish. It took Lang a moment to see that Thanh had dressed like him.

  ‘You have a rough night?’ Lang asked him.

  ‘It could have been rougher.’ Thanh smiled.

  ‘I don’t want to know.’

  ‘I don’t want to tell.’

  ‘Why are you dressed like me?’

  ‘I’m not. You don’t see any wine stains on my shirt do you?’

  ‘Oh.’ Lang looked down, lifted the bottom of his sweatshirt, shook his head. ‘I dressed in the dark.’

  ‘I don’t want to know.’

  ‘Is there any reason at all why I came in today?’ Lang asked.

  ‘No one called. No one came in. Carly will be in after her ten a.m. meeting. I’ll be in and out. You have a confirmed meeting with Ralph Chiu at three.’

  ‘I thought no one called.’

  ‘No one did. I called Mr Chiu and told him that you wanted to discuss something he might find embarrassing. And that he should see you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Thanh handed Lang a piece of notepaper bearing the name ‘Chiu Realty’. The address was on Geary. The thug accompanying the PI was dropped at a bar on Geary, Lang remembered. But then again, there were a lot of small bars, offices and shops on Geary. It was the business district for many unremarkable enterprises.

  On Lang’s desk was another piece of paper from Thanh. This one was the list of about twenty names from the directory of the apartment house Scotty Markham visited before returning to his office. None matched any suspects on his or Carly’s list. He’d keep it handy.

  ‘Could you look up a PI named Scotty Markham?’ he asked Thanh. ‘Maybe Scott Markham. Scotty may be a nickname, so do your best.’

  The place was called Thorough Bread and Pastry. It was a little before ten and she saw no one in the front who looked old enough to be a seasoned city supervisor. She had Googled him, knew what he looked like – a San Francisco businessman. That is, in the photo he had a suit and tie, but the look wouldn’t play in the Financial District. His hair was just a little too long for most executives. He was playing down the middle. Maybe forty-five. White guy. Not a given in San Francisco. Of the eleven supervisors, roots could be traced to Africa, Asia, Mexico and Persia. Gay was OK too.

  The little cafe was pleasant, offering what they promised, pastries, some prepared sandwiches, and coffee. The walls were shelves filled with fine wines. Straight ahead, past a few tables, was a three-step rise to the outside.

  Carly guiltily ordered a latte – she’d flaked out on her planned morning run – and headed toward the outdoors, her feet crunching on the gravel once she got there. It was a shady, cool place, under surprisingly tall trees.

  She sat so she could see back through the opening to the front door. In the next few moments she reviewed her strange night. She had not only allowed a strange man with questionable occupation to stay over but climb in her bed. If that wasn’t some indication she was slipping out of control, then the fact that this man could himself be the killer was. Yet . . . yet, she thought, he was, after all, a powerfully calming force. She didn’t understand it, or herself at this moment.

  Promptly at ten, Mr McFarland appeared to rescue her from the unending loops of worry. He wore a tan raincoat, though rain was not in the forecast, showing a cautious personality and an awareness of the weather prognosticators’ justifiable inability to get forecasts right. He also seemed nervous, all hunched into himself and looking around warily.

  Carly stood and motioned. He saw her, paid for his coffee, and carried it carefully toward her, up the steps and to the table.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ she said.

  ‘I wasn’t aware I had a choice.’ He started to take off his coat, looked up and decided against it. There was an odd fussiness about him as he settled into a seat.

  ‘You didn’t return my calls.’

  ‘I was out of the country.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Your staff said you were unavailable.’

  ‘Vacation. My staff is protective. I got in last night and then I got this message today. What’s this all about?’

  He was seated now, seemed to settle in.

  ‘How long were you gone?’ Carly asked.

  ‘Why are you asking me all this?’

  ‘Whitney Warfield was murdered. The story is that he has written a book in which he names names and couples them with embarrassing anecdotes. You were on that list. You are, some say, ru
nning for mayor. You don’t want scandal.’

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked. ‘Or should I put it this way: how much do you want?’

  ‘No, no, Mr McFarland. I’ve been retained to find the manuscript. We think it has been stolen. It’s out there somewhere. We want to find it.’

  ‘And the person who stole the manuscript is the same person who killed him?’

  ‘Did you know he was dead?’

  ‘Yes. We got a call. We were told.’

  ‘Where were you vacationing?’

  ‘Costa Rica.’

  ‘How long were you gone?’ Carly asked.

  ‘We were gone a week.’ He took a deep breath, smiled. ‘Well, I couldn’t have done it. And I’m relieved, very relieved. I thought someone was out to blackmail me. You have no idea.’

  ‘Blackmail. Some skeletons, Mr McFarland?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ He laughed. ‘Can I get you a pastry?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ she said. ‘Can you tell me a little bit about the hotel project in North Beach?’ McFarland’s face drained, his eyes lifeless, a rabbit in the clutches of an eagle, knowing its fate and knowing there was nothing to do about it. ‘My partner has learned that that there is an effort to build a hotel in North Beach. I imagine that either makes you very happy or very sad.’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to discuss these things. You seem to move from one embarrassing topic to another.’

  ‘They could be linked, couldn’t they? Maybe that was what Mr Warfield was writing about. Could that be? I mean, he wanted to preserve North Beach the way it was. He wanted it historic without the tee shirt shops.’

  ‘I think our discussion is over, Miss . . .?’ He stood.

  ‘Paladino. You guys are usually pretty good with names.’

  ‘Potential voters. You? Doesn’t matter.’ He smiled, but his smile was a knowing fake.

  ‘You’re walking a tightrope, Mr McFarland.’