Death in North Beach

by Ronald Tierney

  ‘We stayed together. Why?’ she asked, shaking her head. ‘Why I don’t know. We fit in our odd way, I suppose.’

  ‘You know who might want to kill him?’

  ‘Me sometimes,’ she said, and laughed. ‘Well, that felt good. Thank you, Noah. I’m sorry, the answer is anybody and everybody, I think. I’m not aware of anyone in particular.’

  ‘Do you know a William Blake?’ he asked.

  ‘No. Should I?’

  ‘I don’t see why.’

  ‘What about Marlene Berensen. I’m just throwing names around.’

  ‘No need to lie to me, even if it is for a noble reason. How is she? Have you talked to her?’

  ‘Yes. She seems to be holding up.’

  ‘She would seem to be holding up. That’s how she is. She gives you nothing . . . I mean nothing about how she feels. I would have killed Whitney if it wasn’t for her.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  She lifted the lid off the small pot. She dropped in a handful of pasta, then another.

  ‘I couldn’t have handled Whitney’s . . .’ She either couldn’t find the word or didn’t want to say it. ‘I couldn’t have handled Whitney all by myself.’

  ‘And Mickey?’

  ‘No,’ she said, again a little sharply. ‘Not from Miss Berensen. Before. I don’t know. I don’t want to know.’ And that subject was gone, not to be revisited. ‘It will be just a few minutes.’ She had moved on to her cooking. ‘I have an open bottle of wine. Would you like a glass?’

  Lang left an hour later. It was completely dark. There was no ticket on his windshield. He had a full stomach and a feeling of well-being. He wondered though, why this woman, just days after her husband’s death, was all alone.

  Whitney had come to San Francisco and fallen in love with a young Italian girl. Somewhere along the line, he had a son, apparently from a third woman. And he spent most of his later years alienating his friends – at least one of them to the point where he or she murdered him.

  Lang learned a little more as he dined at the counter in her steamy kitchen. He learned that pasta puttanesca, which is what he was eating, came from Naples not all that long ago and was called that because it was the kind of sauce ‘a whore would make’, all tarted up with anchovies, capers and black olives. He liked it and he liked the Sangiovese she poured for him.

  Lang also learned that Mickey Warfield was seeing some woman whose name was Angel LeGard. Elena Warfield remembered it because she thought it pretentious and because the woman was Asian, not French. She was a suspect in Elena’s mind, but somehow fitting for Mickey. She wanted nothing to do with either of them.

  ‘Puttanesca,’ Elena said smiling, referring to Angel. The name LeGard meant something to Lang as well. He wasn’t certain why.

  Carly stopped by Whole Foods, created a small box of various greens with some crumbles of blue cheese from the salad bar and two Vietnamese shrimp rolls from the deli. She went back to her flat, where she dined in the living room with a glass – just one – of a light white wine. She would relax a few minutes, change into something a little warmer for the evening and trudge down to Frank Wiley’s gallery. She’d just drop by. A call might act as warning, forcing him into hiding.

  She found a parking space on Grant. It was good fortune born of the time of the evening. The daytime businesses had closed and the daytime people were gone. The evening revelry had yet to begin. It wasn’t far to Frank Wiley’s little alley. As it was on her first visit, the address was a little forbidding at night, though North Beach, the part that was away from bars and strip clubs on Broadway, was generally safe.

  The bulb over the landing at the top of the outside stairway was on, setting more of a mood of desolation than light on the stairs. She climbed, taking deliberate steps. As she approached the top, she heard music – classical. She didn’t recognize it. The door was ajar by maybe two feet. Inside was dark. Further in, she could see a light angling into the darkness.

  ‘Frank!’ she called out. She waited, looked down on the alley. It was empty. She called out again. Bach, she thought. She wasn’t an expert, but it sounded more controlled and less sweeping than she remembered of Beethoven, not sentimental in the way Tchaikovsky is, or Mozart . . . what was she thinking? What did she know? What did it matter? She called out one last time as she opened the door and edged in, moving in the near darkness to the sharp-edged shaft of light that came through the door from the next room and on to the floor.

  She moved slowly, alertly, ready to retreat quickly if need be. She pushed against the door to the lit room, but it didn’t budge. She poked her head through the gap and saw Frank Wiley sprawled on the floor, his head in a pool of blood. She backed away. She would leave and call 911. She turned, went toward the door, lifting her cellphone from her jacket pocket. She may be in trouble, she thought. More light. Sudden light. She was in trouble. She turned, saw a human advancing quickly, too quickly. She saw even more light, illuminating the inside of her cranium for a split second before everything went suddenly and profoundly dark.

  Fifteen

  Angel LeGard was on his mind. He went back to the office. He didn’t bother turning on the lights in the reception area, moving in the familiar darkness to his own area. He clicked on his desk light and rummaged for the sheet of paper.

  There it was – the apartment directory Thanh put together. And there she was – A. LeGard, apt. 307. Scotty Markham was visiting apartment 307, probably not to chat with Angel but to report to Mickey Warfield the results of the man’s comic attempt at intimidation. Though, Lang thought, he probably wouldn’t tell the story. ‘Message delivered,’ was what Markham probably said, then, ‘Where’s my money?’

  He called Carly’s cell immediately. He would gloat just a little about how he tracked down Mickey Warfield for her. It rang five times before slipping into automatic answering. ‘Call me,’ Lang said after the tone. ‘I’ve got a line on Mickey.’

  He leaned back, wondering why Carly hadn’t picked up. It was still fairly early in the evening. He knew her well enough to know she would check to see who called and he was pretty sure that she’d pick up for him. He rarely called her. And it was never for casual conversation. He punched in the numbers again, thinking that maybe that would suggest a level of urgency if she were at dinner and wanted to be polite.

  The same patient automatic response came on.

  He nudged his mind back over earlier communication. She was going to talk with Frank Wiley – the photographer. Somewhere in North Beach. Maybe she was in a bar and couldn’t hear the ring tone. Maybe the phone was in a jacket she checked. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

  He punched in the number again. While it rang Lang asked himself if he was being unreasonable. This wasn’t an emergency. The information he had for her could wait until morning. Maybe she was in the bath and would let the phone ring until she could get out and dry off. Maybe she was at the movies. Maybe she was tired and wanted the day to be over. He was being unreasonable. Still no answer. And despite what logic told him, he had a sense something was wrong.

  Nothing prevented him from going down to North Beach and if all was well, he’d have a drink somewhere, enjoy the nightlife for a little while and go home. Lang checked the phone book for Frank Wiley. Nothing. He checked Google. He wasn’t getting close. There was a people search program, but he didn’t know how to use it. Some detective, he thought. But that was why he had Thanh hanging around. He went back into the reception area, flipped on the light and then went into Carly’s office. He checked her Monthly Minder and noted that she noted she was going to see Wiley. But there was no address.

  Lang called Thanh’s cell number. ‘Pick up, pick up,’ he said as he waited.

  ‘Helloooo,’ Thanh answered.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, but I need to find out where Frank Wiley lives or works.’

  ‘Who’s Frank Wiley?’

  ‘One of the guys on Carly’s list. She went over to see him tonight and I can’t get hold of her.’<
br />
  ‘Let me call you back.’

  Lang went back to his desk. He wondered if he’d let Thanh know how important it was. Maybe three minutes passed. Thanh’s call gave him an answer to that question as well as Frank Wiley’s only address.

  ‘How’d you do that?’

  ‘You know that iPhone you bought me?’

  ‘I bought you an iPhone?’

  ‘You must learn to pay attention to what you sign.’

  ‘What else have I bought you?’

  ‘Let’s just say you are a generous man. You need me to meet you there?’

  ‘I think it’s a wild goose chase, probably.’

  ‘You are chasing geese?’

  As good as Thanh was at the English language, these kinds of phrases often befuddled him. ‘I can handle it, thanks.’

  ‘You know that geese can be pretty mean,’ Thanh said. ‘They might just chase you.’

  ‘A definite possibility.’

  ‘You have experience with geese?’ Thanh was playing him now.

  ‘Wild geese. And chases. Plenty.’

  Not quite nine, Columbus was lit up. The wide avenue was busy with tourists. As he drove by he could see waiters outside trying to talk the folks into coming inside for dinner, just as the barkers would try to lure them into the lurid sex shows on Broadway later. No parking spaces. He went back around and then up Grant Street, which was still quiet. Lang wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw Carly’s Mini Cooper parked near Union. After another block and a couple of turns Lang found the address on an alley-like street that dead-ended. Not much light in the street. He parked his Mercedes so that half of it was on the sidewalk, allowing another car to get by if need be.

  As he walked up the stairway, he reached behind him to feel his weapon, a SIG P220. If he was found with it, he could be arrested. He had no permit. He had no permit because the city didn’t give out permits. At the top of the stairs he noticed the room was dark though the door was open. He nudged it further, felt the wall for a light switch. He found the switch and flipped on a dirty gold light; a light that nonetheless revealed Carly Paladino crumpled on the floor near him.

  Lang knelt down, felt her neck for a pulse, relieved to find one. He moved to the other side. There was a little blood on her forehead just above the eye.

  Lang reached back for his weapon and moved softly to the door where light was escaping. He pushed the door. There was an obstacle, but he had room to get by. He moved in. A man was on the floor, his head in a pool of blood. He took the man’s pulse. There wasn’t any. He looked around. It was a darkroom, with sinks and red lights. Beyond it was Wiley’s living quarters – a small living room, a bedroom, a small kitchen and bath. Live-and-work bachelor quarters. No women lived here.

  He punched in 911 as he came back to his unconscious partner. He knelt down again, touched her cheek.

  ‘Talk to me, Carly,’ he said before the operator answered. Lang informed the voice about the situation and provided the address. Need medics. He hung up and called Homicide. He was switched around twice before he talked to anyone who could help.

  ‘I need to talk with Inspector Gratelli.’

  ‘He’s not on tonight,’ this new voice said.

  ‘He’ll want to be. This is part of his murder investigation.’

  He gave the new voice his name and cell number and was told to wait for a call from someone. ‘Maybe Gratelli, maybe not.’

  Lang hoped it would be Gratelli.

  ‘Come on Carly, wake up. No sleeping on the job.’

  Gratelli was asleep in his chair, a newspaper open on his lap, Donizetti’s Lucrezia Borgia was coming to an end on the stereo when the discordant sound of the telephone mangled the sound of the opera. He woke, confused and angry.

  ‘Hello,’ Gratelli said, eyes beginning to focus. He checked his watch: nine twenty p.m. This was getting to be a habit. Too much sleep. He didn’t sleep this much when his wife was alive.

  He was told that a Noah Lang had called about a dead body and an injured woman. And that he asked specifically for Gratelli. Gratelli put the phone down to find a pen. He wrote the number on the top of the newspaper.

  ‘Why can’t people get killed during the day?’ Gratelli said when Lang answered the phone.

  ‘A photographer, Frank Wiley, is dead in his gallery and Carly Paladino was attacked.’

  ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘Medics are coming. She’s out but alive.’

  ‘Give me the address.’

  When Lang did, Gratelli was pleased that it was at least in the neighborhood. The homicide inspector looked in the mirror in the bathroom as he put on his tie. He swept back his thinning gray hair with a palm. He didn’t know Frank Wiley, didn’t even know of him, even though he lived in the area. But he did know that Wiley was on the list. So, this was likely connected somehow with Whitney Warfield’s death.

  He was glad he didn’t have to drive. He walked down his hill, to Vallejo, turned right and then right again on to Grant. He walked the narrow sidewalk on the narrow street for several blocks, then right again until he was walking up a dead-end street on the north side of the hill. It would have a been a shorter trip as the crow flies, he thought. And if he had been a crow, a straight line would be possible.

  There was a fire truck in the alley, lights blinking, a black and white on the corner. He went up the steps. His muscles and bones didn’t like evening work either and he felt the tightness and the pain.

  Inside, Carly Paladino was awake but groggy. Noah Lang was talking with one of the uniformed police. Gratelli flashed his badge.

  ‘Homicide.’

  The other uniformed cop nodded toward the door. Gratelli went in. He reached into the dead man’s rear pocket and extracted a wallet.

  ‘Frank Wiley,’ Lang said out loud.

  Gratelli looked around, checked out the other rooms. There was a huge camera, the kind the press used to use in the fifties, in the corner of the room as if it had been tossed there or perhaps fallen there. It looked as if the dead man was struck in the back of the head and then in the front, perhaps more than once.

  He came back out into the room.

  ‘What’s your story?’ Gratelli asked Lang.

  ‘I got worried about Carly. She wasn’t answering her phone. I knew where she went so I came over. Carly was on the floor there,’ Lang pointed. ‘And the body was in there. I called 911 and then you.’

  ‘You didn’t . . .’

  ‘. . . touch anything? No. Except for Carly.’

  ‘That’s touching,’ Carly said.

  ‘You’re feeling better, I see.’

  ‘Talk to me, Ms Paladino,’ Gratelli said.

  ‘I had a few questions for Mr Wiley. I knew he didn’t want to talk to me so I didn’t call. I just stopped by. I found him in the other room and after I turned to leave I was hit. That’s it.’

  ‘What did you want to talk to him about?’

  ‘About Warfield and the book. Warfield provided the narrative to one of Wiley’s previous books and I thought maybe Warfield was involved in Wiley’s new project.’

  ‘And what was that?’ Gratelli asked.

  ‘Some sort of special exhibition.’ She looked at the boxes against the wall. ‘Maybe . . .’

  ‘Maybe what?’ Gratelli asked.

  ‘I lost my train of thought, I’m sorry. I’m still a little fuzzy.’ She looked at Lang.

  ‘They want her to get to the hospital. Have her head examined,’ Lang said.

  ‘Nice,’ Carly said.

  ‘Go on,’ Gratelli said. ‘So nobody saw anything other than what I’m seeing now?’

  ‘Right,’ Lang said. Carly nodded.

  ‘You didn’t see your attacker?’

  ‘No. I saw a figure, but he was backlit. I saw no details.’

  ‘Him?’ Gratelli asked.

  ‘I don’t know that, I guess. It was either a large person or someone wearing a big coat or cape or something. The figure seemed large.’


  ‘You heard nothing?’ Gratelli asked.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Oh, wait – there was music on when I came in. Classical.’

  ‘I didn’t hear any music when I arrived,’ Lang said, obviously picking up on the contradiction.

  ‘Smell anything?’ Gratelli asked.

  ‘No, sorry.’

  Carly took her light raincoat off and handed it to Gratelli. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so casual with them. There was nothing to say that one or the other or both were guiltless here. They had a client to protect. He’d have to be careful.

  The crime scene folks arrived, as did another set of uniformed cops.

  ‘Leave your jacket,’ Gratelli said to Carly. He looked at Lang. ‘You too.’

  ‘Something in there I need to get,’ Lang said.

  ‘So get it,’ Gratelli said. Gratelli thought Lang didn’t look too eager. ‘Go ahead.’

  Lang pulled out the olive green Sig from the pocket of his jacket. He gave Gratelli a sheepish smile, tucked it in the back of his jeans and pulled out the tails of his shirt to hide it.

  Gratelli closed his eyes, shook his head.

  ‘Good thing this guy wasn’t shot,’ he said. ‘Get out of here. Both of you.’ Gratelli looked around, caught one of the uniforms by the sleeve. ‘Get out in the neighborhood and start asking questions.’

  He wasn’t at all hopeful. It was a short alley. Not many lights on. Perfect place to commit a crime, just as Warfield’s death happened at a perfect time. Warfield was killed with a pen. Looked to Gratelli as if Wiley was beaten to death with a camera. Who says two isn’t a pattern? Maybe someone was trying to deliver a message with a poetic twist.

  Carly didn’t want to go to General. In the midst of the craziness there, the doctors are the best at stitching up knife wounds and digging out bullets. She wasn’t convinced. Instead they went to a hospital near Pacific Heights where the ambience was more like a nice residential hotel. Quiet, organized.

  As they waited for the film to come back and the doctors to analyze it, they talked about the case. Lang said he was done with his list and thought he could find Mickey Warfield if that was OK with her. She was fine with it. A little groggy yet, she was nonetheless able to construct simple, logical sentences.