Death in North Beach

by Ronald Tierney

‘So are you,’ he said, holding the smile before turning and leaving.

  Thirteen

  ‘You look relaxed,’ Lang told Carly.

  He heard her come in and went to her office. It was time to commiserate on the list.

  ‘So?’ she said. It was sharper than intended.

  ‘I like that in a woman.’

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘Swatting away compliments with acerbic wit.’

  ‘Acerbic? Your new word for the day?’ She smiled.

  ‘Inspired by you.’

  ‘“Relaxed” is a compliment?’

  ‘I meant it that way. Lunch?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Carly said. She began to realize she was overreacting. She was feeling guilty – or maybe just strange – about last night. Why, she didn’t know. Nothing happened, other than sleeping with a client who was an outlier of sorts. Then again, in the eyes of Noah Lang, William Blake was a murder suspect. And he was, of course, if she remained objective. She took a deep breath. ‘Thanks for the offer. Let’s do have lunch. We need to talk, don’t we?’

  ‘We do. And we need to eat.’

  At the bottom of Potrero Hill is an area called ‘Dogpatch’. It’s a small neighborhood characterized by quaint little houses that survived the 1906 earthquake and by its proximity to the Bay. It is part of an old dry dock area with abandoned cranes, empty warehouses, vacant administrative buildings and a huge, brick former steel foundry. The area was prime for redevelopment – but all was rusting and quiet.

  Further in the residential area, not far from the San Francisco Chapter of the Hell’s Angels, was Lang’s destination – Piccino. Lang was not a gourmand, but he had two areas of expertise – Margherita pizza and crab cakes. And Piccino was definitely one of the top five pizza places in the city.

  The two private investigators sat outside at the small corner restaurant, Lang with the pizza of his obsession and a glass of Italian red and Carly with a bowl of potato, leek and Parmesan soup and a glass of French white. The September sun was expected and performed well. And the people walking by made people-watching worthwhile. It took a few moments for the two detectives to focus on the list – the seemingly ponderous list.

  Agnes DeWitt, they agreed, was off the list. Low on the list now was Samuel McFarland, who had an alibi that could be substantiated. In his case he would have had to conspire. Carly suggested that watercolorist Lili D. Young and publisher Bart Brozynski would not likely outrun Warfield, climb a fence and stab him, though it was not an impossibility. And neither of them would hire it done.

  They hadn’t peeled many off the list. And they had widow Elena, wandering son Mickey Warfield and realtor Ralph Chiu to go.

  ‘Nathan Malone admitted to killing a man,’ Carly said. ‘Whitney Warfield knew who, when, how, where, and why.’

  That seemed to perk up Lang.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘He wouldn’t tell me.’

  ‘Wow.’ Lang thought that was some confession. ‘What about Wiley?’ he asked.

  Carly shrugged. ‘I don’t see the anger or the fear. He’s putting on an exhibition of his early work, though. And he was very secretive about it. And you?’

  ‘Hawkes could have, the mistress could have. Don’t know why either would. But they’re both difficult to read, particularly Hawkes. He’s not fond of people, it seems. And your friend, Mr Blake?’

  She was ready this time.

  ‘And what about him? Why would he pay to have someone, in addition to the police, meddling in his affairs if he had something to hide?’

  ‘Gamesmanship. Arrogance.’

  ‘He’s not arrogant,’ she said too quickly. ‘I mean, he doesn’t really come across that way. Yes, he has an unusual occupation.’

  Lang smiled. He had nothing against professional companions. In some ways it was a more honest relationship than many of those sanctified by society. But he enjoyed seeing her ears grow red. He pulled a sheet of paper from his jacket and handed it across the table as the server picked up the empty plate and bowl.

  ‘Thanh followed the private detective who rousted us the other day. Before going to his office, he stopped at an apartment building very briefly – to drop off something or pick up something, but more likely to report on his activities. This is the list of people who live there. Anyone ring a bell?’

  She looked it over carefully. ‘No. Can I have this?’

  ‘Sure. I kept a copy. It might mean something, it might be something totally unrelated.’

  ‘What are you up to?’ she asked.

  ‘Mr Chiu at three and then I have to track down the widow. You?’

  ‘Just the kid.’

  ‘Mickey Warfield is probably not a kid,’ Lang said.

  ‘No. And I have a question I want to pose to Wiley.’

  ‘The photographer?’

  ‘Yeah. I don’t think he’d murder anyone, but he was nervous – maybe just about his show. Maybe he knows something he wasn’t telling. I don’t know. I’d like to pin it down.’

  A lot of what Lang did was boring. Stakeouts, searching through records, or trash, tailing people as they went through their mundane errands, and questioning people. Interviewing people in this case had become particularly boring because he was asking the same questions and getting a whole lot of nothing in return. But this was part of his job description.

  Chiu’s real estate office was on Geary, the main east–west traffic artery, running from downtown’s bustling shopping district out to the usually lonely Ocean Beach. Along the way there is a stretch devoted to small businesses – printers, mattress shops, tire retailers, laundromats, computer repair shops, small travel agencies and real estate offices – and tiny restaurants of all ethnicities.

  Once mostly Russian, Chinese families had moved into the neighborhood often called the Richmond or the Avenues. On the window of Chiu’s office were pictures of homes, with their prices and details printed out below in English and Chinese. Inside there were three desks. Two were occupied by women. That pretty much identified Mr Chiu as the slightly plump, slightly balding man sitting at the remaining desk. And if it didn’t, then the nameplate – in English and Chinese – did.

  There was nothing pretentious about the place, nothing decorative except for the calendar showing an unidentified tropical paradise. Chiu looked up, noticed Lang, then looked down at what appeared to be his appointment book. He stood, didn’t smile, and motioned for Lang to come to him. He looked puzzled, but not troubled. A Caucasian as potential home purchaser? Not a problem.

  Chiu, dressed in a tan cotton suit, blue shirt and red, white and blue tie, handed Lang his business card. Lang reciprocated. Chiu studied it, face frozen in seeming indifference. He sat. Lang sat.

  ‘You have a Chinese-sounding name, Mr Lang.’

  There was a hint of a smile.

  ‘People say that,’ Lang said. ‘You have property in North Beach, Mr Chiu.’

  He nodded slowly, weighing. ‘You interested in buying or leasing?’

  ‘Interested in your interests,’ Lang said.

  Chiu nodded slowly, but remained quiet. It seemed to Lang that he could remain quiet for days if need be.

  ‘Hotel project?’ Lang continued.

  Chiu shrugged. He stood, reached out his hand. ‘Thank you for stopping by. Please let me know,’ he said with only the slightest accent, ‘if I can help you with your real estate needs.’

  ‘You know Whitney Warfield?’

  Chiu pulled back his hand, sat down, stared across his desk. ‘Who does not know Mr Warfield?’

  ‘He was writing a book when he met his end. Revealing information about folks the folks don’t want revealed.’

  Chiu gave no verbal or visual response.

  ‘A wise man and his words are not soon parted,’ Lang said.

  ‘Is this some sort of attempt at Confucius humor, Mr Lang?’

  ‘Feeble.’

  Chiu nodded. ‘Not bad. Why don’t you tell me what you want and we can both
move on with our business?’

  ‘You were on the list,’ Lang said. ‘A list of people Warfield wanted to embarrass. Why you?’

  ‘That is a very good question, Mr Lang. Why me?’

  ‘He was very liberal in his politics. You, I understand, are very conservative. You are a real estate agent, who, I’m guessing, is involved in a hotel project in North Beach, a project Warfield was vehemently against. I suspect the two of you crossed swords many times.’

  ‘Many times,’ Chiu said. ‘If I may ask, why are you pursuing this information?’

  ‘I’m trying to find a manuscript that was stolen from his home and may hold the key to the identity of his murderer.’

  ‘All of that makes perfect sense, but I cannot help you. I don’t have any manuscript and I didn’t kill Mr Warfield. Please send my sympathy to his family.’

  He stood again, this time his invitation to leave was serious. Lang had nothing left to entertain the man, who had no doubt negotiated with wily businessmen far savvier in the art of negotiation than he. Lang had no doubt underestimated the man. He may have been richer and more powerful than his modest office suggested. After all, it is mostly a Western notion, a Trump-like vanity, to build an edifice with one’s name on it. Perhaps Chiu was putting all this ego in the bank.

  There was something else. Given the history of the Chinese community in San Francisco it was maybe stereotypical but certainly conceivable that someone as prominent as Chiu could find a way to have an impediment like Warfield removed by folks without taking his business outside of Chinatown.

  ‘I’m hoping, Mr Chiu, that I can be helpful to the investigation in order to prevent police and media inquiry.’

  Chiu’s eyebrows raised a centimeter.

  ‘You’ve got my card,’ Lang said, extending his hand, aware that if his analysis was even remotely correct, then an irritant, say a private detective, could be dealt with as well.

  Chiu remained quiet.

  As far as Lang knew, Chiu was a legitimate businessman who simply didn’t want the news of a hotel to come out at an inauspicious time. If he was involved in one of the underground gangs, the only thing Lang could think of was that Warfield knew something about it – threatened to reveal it. He’d do some research.

  If Lang were ever inclined to write off Chiu as a criminal type, an old, white, beat-up Toyota Cressida following him back to his office would prevent it. Though the tail was back a few cars, Lang was pretty sure the driver was Asian.

  ‘I feel like I’m just stirring up the snake pit,’ Lang said into his cell. He had parked a block from the office and was heading toward it. ‘I don’t feel like I’ve made any progress. Do you feel any closer or do you sense a direction here?’

  ‘It’s early yet,’ she said. ‘One thing to keep in mind is that we’ve been hired to find out what we can. What we can,’ she repeated. ‘If we decide at some point that we’re not making progress, then we’ll file a report and bill him for any time beyond his advances.’

  ‘Only a sane person could say that.’

  ‘Thank you. Or was that a compliment?’

  ‘Your guess. I gave you a compliment the other day and you spit in my face.’

  ‘I did not,’ Carly said.

  ‘Wait, you said advances. Plural.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Have you come in contact with our Roaming Romeo?’

  ‘We’re covered for expenses,’ Carly said.

  ‘Did he give you the money in person?’

  She thought a moment. William had placed an envelope on a table. She could reply in the negative without being dishonest.

  ‘No.’

  ‘That was awfully tentative,’ Lang said. ‘You’ve met him again.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘That’s my question. And?’

  ‘There is no and.’

  ‘Ooooh.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Lang said. He’d reached the door and went up the steps. ‘Be careful. The man’s career is based on his ability to use people.’

  ‘And you? Your career is built on . . . what?’

  ‘Finding out things people don’t want me to know. I did pretty well, didn’t I?’

  The office was open, but empty. He heard something stirring in the back.

  ‘I’ll talk to you later,’ he said softly and closed his phone.

  Lang went to his desk and retrieved a roll of quarters and moved toward the back room. There were strange flashes of light and the sound of someone moaning. Lang moved quickly around the corner.

  Brinkman was sitting in his chair, smoking a cigar, sipping whiskey from a coffee cup. A small television was on his desk.

  ‘You don’t have a home?’

  ‘My wife’s sister is visiting,’ Brinkman said.

  ‘I thought your wife was dead,’ Lang said, regretting he hadn’t put just a little sympathy in his voice.

  ‘You see my dilemma.’

  ‘Are you going to live here now, smelling up the place with cigar smoke and liquor?’

  ‘I haven’t decided yet.’

  ‘How long is she going to be living with you?’

  ‘The world’s a cruel place.’

  He looked at his watch. It was getting dark earlier now. In a month or so, it would be dark at five. He still needed to talk with the widow, Elena. Maybe he’d drop by this evening. That would complete his list.

  Fourteen

  When in doubt, do the obvious, Lang thought. He drove his dilapidated Mercedes up Russian Hill. The car struggled, but was otherwise equal to the task. He found Warfield’s home. The sun was floating on the horizon and in deepening twilight he could see lights were on inside the home. After twenty minutes trying to find a parking place on the hill, he braved parking near a fire hydrant.

  He would be only a few minutes, he told himself to relieve both the guilt and the fear of receiving an expensive fine.

  He knocked on the door to a handsome two-story home. It was far enough from the edge of the hill to forego a view from inside. But a short walk would yield all of San Francisco at your feet.

  He thought it might be the maid who answered. The woman was older, somewhat dowdy in an earth mother sort of way. She wore an apron.

  ‘I’m looking for Elena Warfield,’ he said.

  ‘I’m very busy,’ she said. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name is Noah Lang. I’m a private investigator looking into Mr Warfield’s death.’

  ‘The police aren’t enough?’ she asked, anger rising. ‘Who hired you?’

  He wasn’t sure what to tell her. ‘Someone who wants to be cleared of any suspicion.’

  She looked at him warily. ‘It’s true? What you say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Come in.’

  It was a small entryway with a small table, a chair and wastebasket holding umbrellas. Through the arch was what appeared to be a living room. Pleasant enough, but not staged, as many do, as if it were about to be photographed for Architectural Digest. He followed her through a formal dining room into a large, well-lit kitchen. Pots and pans – far from shiny and new – hung on hooks over a center workstation. The stove, which she was now tending to, had six burners and steam rose up a vent. It was not a pretty kitchen, but it was a serious one.

  ‘You expecting guests?’ Lang asked.

  ‘Not today,’ she said, then realizing what all of this looked like, she continued. ‘Tomorrow night people will be over. Relatives, friends . . . after the service.’

  ‘You’re cooking for them?’ he asked.

  She smiled at him, broad and friendly, revealing an unexpected beauty. ‘I’m not a martyr, Mr . . . I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.’

  ‘Noah.’

  ‘This is therapy, Noah. What else would I do? My brother is making all the funeral arrangements, a sister is working with the Church and that leaves me with nothing but questions.’

  ‘Maybe I can help you answer them.’

  There was a cu
tting board with chopped vegetables – red, orange and yellow peppers – on one side of the board and garlic and onion on the other. There was fennel and oregano and on the counter blocks of some sort of hard cheese.

  ‘Maybe,’ she said, continuing to work. ‘Have you had dinner?’

  ‘I will,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll put on a little pasta. Take me only a moment.’

  ‘Is your son helping you?’ Lang asked.

  She looked back sharply. ‘Mickey is Whitney’s son.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You couldn’t know. He’s no good, like his father.’ She seemed embarrassed at having said it, then changed her mind. A look of determination on her face, she added. ‘Without the talent to redeem him.’

  ‘Does he stay here?’

  ‘He crashes here,’ she said. ‘That’s what they say, don’t they? Crashes? He says that. Almost fifty years old and he talks like he’s a child. Crashes? Can you imagine that? When he is drunk or broke or has nowhere to go he stays here.’

  ‘Is that often?’

  ‘Too often.’

  ‘Did Whitney get along with his son?’

  She shook her head as if she’d just been told her village had been destroyed.

  ‘The two of them are the same. Drink. Women. Arguments. Mad at the world.’

  ‘Tell me about your husband.’

  She filled a pot with water and put it on to boil. ‘You like penne?’

  ‘Penne’s good.’

  ‘His family was in New York. One brother is all that’s left. And he’s coming out tomorrow morning. Whitney was some sort of big shot when he was young and he decided to move out here for a while. He and some friends of his thought this was the place to be for people like him.’

  ‘People like him?’

  ‘Writers, artists.’

  ‘Who came out with him?’

  ‘A bunch of them. Some painter named Hawkes, a writer friend . . . what was his name? Malone. Nathan Malone. Another artist, a very big man of absolutely no morals. Anselmo something or something Anselmo. Some others. They palled around together for a while.’

  ‘Was Whitney close to anyone?’

  ‘Less and less. He’d get so angry at his friends.’

  ‘You two stayed close.’