Death in North Beach

by Ronald Tierney

  He told her about the article in the Fog City Voice and then about finding out that young Warfield was driving the car belonging to old Warfield’s mistress. Carly came to life. She wanted to read the story. She wanted to talk about the case, and she was willing to offer lunch in exchange for Lang’s visit.

  Carly could see that Lang was impressed with her flat. He looked around, wide-eyed.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘It’s a great flat. I could never have afforded it from my work. My parents bought this place a long time ago. And I inherited it. And the furniture.’

  ‘It’s great,’ Lang said. She not only lived in Pacific Heights – at the outer edge – she had a nice place and looked at home in it.

  ‘Come on out to the deck,’ she said. ‘Some wine? I have an open bottle of Pinot Grigio.’

  He nodded. He figured it was two-bedroom and one bath. At one time this would be considered just a nice, comfortable home. But now, with a fireplace, high ceilings, and a terrific location, Carly could sell the place and live in Mexico for the rest of her life. Never have to work again.

  She was also a good cook. Lunch was an omelet made with Brie and mild sausage – a joke on him, he thought – and some sautéed potatoes and Italian parsley. A lot fancier than Eddie’s Cafe on Divisadero. Below them was another flat, this one with a Japanese garden, not exactly Zen, but with the simple elegance that the Japanese seem to bring to whatever they design. Gravel, stone, grass and shredded bark changed the texture beneath manicured trees and bushes and around little islands of flowering plants.

  ‘No wine for you?’ Lang asked.

  ‘Not for a while. The good doctor doesn’t want me to have any fun.’

  ‘Are you feeling all right?’

  ‘I don’t know how to explain it, but my head feels numb. It doesn’t hurt. There’s just a dullness to everything.’

  ‘Maybe you need to nap a bit.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she said, and then, to change the subject, ‘I think we’re making progress. Agnes DeWitt is off the list, right? Too old.’

  ‘And too lovely,’ Lang said.

  ‘Samuel McFarland has an alibi.’

  ‘He could have hired someone,’ Lang suggested.

  ‘I thought of that. But there’s too much poetic justice, too much symbolism in the way they died for this to be a hired gun. We can take Frank Wiley off the list.’

  ‘Being dead isn’t an alibi,’ Lang said.

  ‘But Warfield and Wiley getting killed – each with the tools of their trade?’

  ‘I can’t imagine Elena Warfield jumping a fence to stab her husband with a pen.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t want to be sexist or ageist, but I can’t imagine a seventyish woman with a heaving bosom . . .’

  ‘Heaving bosom?’

  ‘They would have to heave, I promise you.’

  ‘You just wanted to say “heaving bosom”.’

  ‘Well, true. How often do you get a chance to use that in a sentence?’

  ‘I’m not sure Lili D. Young could do it either.’

  ‘Speaking of heaving bosoms?’

  ‘She’s a big woman,’ Carly said. I’m not sure how quickly she could get around, let alone climb over the fence.’ She remembered how difficult it was for the artist to get to her feet.’

  ‘You said you thought the attacker was a big person, remember?’

  ‘Memories are fading in and out a bit. I’m not sure what I really saw.’ Half through, and only picking at her eggs, she picked up the copy of the Voice.

  Lang thought for a moment. ‘You know, Warfield could have gotten over the fence after he was stabbed with the pen.’

  ‘Last burst of adrenaline?’

  Lang nodded. ‘He didn’t even have to be chased. He knew his attacker, but didn’t know he was being attacked. He turned to leave. Bang.’

  ‘It was a puncture wound. No bang.’

  ‘Squoosh then.’

  ‘But the attacker had Warfield’s pen,’ Carly reminded him.

  ‘Good point. But how did the attacker get his pen and then kill him?’

  ‘Maybe Warfield was physically subdued.’

  ‘Maybe the killer asked to borrow the pen,’ Lang said.

  ‘Then Warfield turned his back?’

  ‘Another good point. We don’t know what we thought we knew, which proves we don’t know what we don’t know. That Rumsfeld, he knew what he was talking about with known knowns and known unknowns.’

  ‘Got the war wrong,’ Carly said.

  ‘Now, you’re nitpicking.’

  As Carly read the article, Lang constructed the revised list in his head.

  Marshall Hawkes

  Marlene Berensen

  Richard Sumaoang

  Ralph Chiu

  Mickey Warfield

  Bart Brozynski

  Nathan Malone

  Lang considered William Blake a suspect as well, but would keep that to himself.

  ‘Wow.’ Carly looked up from the article. ‘“Sources close to the investigation” – I guess that would be me.’ She shook her head. ‘I fed him the story.’

  ‘Seems like you asked the cat to babysit the canary,’ Lang said. ‘If it makes you feel better, I was used a couple of times as well. With Richard Sumaoang, he asked questions, I answered. I asked questions, he didn’t. Maybe we need to take a couple of refresher courses in the art of the gumshoe.’

  ‘What’s the plan?’ she asked. She seemed tired.

  ‘The plan is for you to go to bed and rest and I’ll see what I can do to eliminate the people on the list . . .’

  ‘Not eliminate them exactly, I hope.’

  Lang laughed. ‘Eliminate them as suspects,’ he said patiently, ‘until we find someone we can’t eliminate . . . as a suspect.’

  She nodded.

  ‘You know,’ Lang said, ‘that story might move things along. Anybody asks, tell them you planted it.’

  ‘Thanks. You going to the service this evening?’ she asked.

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘If you would,’ she said. ‘See who shows up?’

  Noah Lang was good to have around in a crisis, Carly thought. She smiled as she climbed into her bed. He was also quite good at creating one.

  It was still warm. The sun would keep the air warm for a couple more hours. Lang decided he could avoid the office and still get some work done on the case. Round two was about to begin. He decided to drop in on Richard Sumaoang. Maybe he could get the artist to be a little more forthcoming.

  Richard’s place was in the Haight, off Cole Street. It was a short, single-family Victorian in need of – ironically – paint.

  A woman of forty or so answered the door. Even without make-up, and probably not expecting company, she was attractive. She eyed Lang as if he was going to try to sell her some aluminum siding.

  ‘I need to talk to Richard,’ Lang said.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘That’s between Richard and me.’

  ‘OK, so we both have a secret. I’m not telling you where he is unless you talk to me about why.’

  ‘OK. I want to talk to him about murder. How does that make you feel?’

  ‘Whose?’ she asked, unaffected by Lang’s attempted shock, delivered in his best threatening voice.

  ‘His maybe. But if you’d rather play games, I’ll drop by some other time.’

  ‘C’mon,’ she said, motioning with her dirty-blonde head.

  He followed her through the house. It was an artist’s home. Plants in old coffee cans, rugs Sumaoang may have made himself, a sofa that was once a Chinese bed. The place spoke of comfort, color, and non-traditional but very individual taste. The kitchen smelled of ginger and there was fruit and bread scattered about. Cheerful Latin music also permeated the rooms. There was a sense of life, of living. It was a happy place, Lang thought, until he arrived.

  Sumaoang was outside. A huge sheet, maybe fifteen feet by twenty, was on the ground, rocks scattered at the edges to keep the large drawing from taking
flight and taking the artist with it. He was using a chunk of charcoal to sketch out his vision.

  ‘We’ve got company,’ the woman shouted, as Lang descended the couple of steps into the back yard.

  ‘Go away, Mr Lang,’ the artist said, standing and turning toward the interloper. ‘We’ve had our meeting and that was it.’ Sumaoang was shirtless and if there had ever been any question about his fitness, it was instantly dispelled; he had the physique of a man many years younger than he was.

  ‘Between you and your girl, you could hurt a guy’s feelings.’

  ‘Apparently Lana and I haven’t tried hard enough.’

  Sumaoang seemed to want to divert Lang’s eyes from his work. He moved to the other side of the detective, so that wandering eyes would see only the back of the house.

  ‘Frank Wiley’s dead,’ Lang said.

  ‘I read the papers,’ Sumaoang said. He came to the edge of the wooden steps, where Lang stood, to retrieve his iPhone. Lang took note of the seeming dependency. Perhaps it was new.

  ‘Yeah, good. An informed citizenry is a good citizenry.’ Lang didn’t know where he came up with that. ‘But I wanted to get as much information from you while you were still alive.’

  Sumaoang smiled. ‘Are you for real?’

  ‘Unless you’re the killer,’ Lang said, meaning what he was saying and looking directly into Sumaoang’s eyes, ‘you are in danger. You know something, I bet, whether you know you know it or not.’

  Back to Rumsfeld, Lang thought. Unknown knowns.

  ‘I can’t help you,’ Sumaoang said, after giving it some thought. His tone wasn’t belligerent anymore.

  ‘What was Frank Wiley working on? We know he was putting together an exhibition.’

  ‘We hadn’t talked in a long time. I don’t know. And I don’t know what Warfield would have to say about me that would warrant my wanting to kill him. I was a wild kid. I did what rebels did then. Got lost in drugs and sex. Marched against the government. Vietnam. Threw rocks. Probably hung out with criminals of various sorts, certainly political enemies of the state. But I’m not ashamed of any of it. I was on the right side. If I knew how to put words together, I’d include all of it in my memoirs.’

  ‘Who were Wiley’s closest friends?’

  Sumaoang thought a moment. ‘He worked with Malone on his first book. Maybe Wiley had a book deal going with his exhibition. He would have gone to Warfield or Malone for an introduction or narrative.’

  ‘Anybody else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Anybody he didn’t like?’ Lang recited the list that Blake had provided.

  ‘Hawkes, probably. Wiley didn’t like Hawkes and the feeling was mutual.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. Hawkes could be a little prissy. He never fit in with the gang. Hawkes and Warfield were close. I don’t know if they liked each other, but there was some sort of understanding. That it? I’ve got work to do.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You can go out the side.’

  Eighteen

  Lang stopped for another cup of coffee and called Carly. He wanted to let her know he was anxious to talk with Malone about Frank Wiley’s death. He also wanted an excuse to check in on her.

  ‘Sure,’ she said, ‘but this is boring. I’m up. I’m walking around. Why can’t I be working?’

  Lang didn’t have an answer, but apparently Carly did.

  ‘I think I’ve just answered my own question. Let me go along with you to see Malone. But am I missing something? Why Malone?’

  ‘Malone, Warfield and Hawkes all knew each other from New York. And he worked closely with Wiley on the first book. Maybe he knows something about what Wiley was up to before his death.’

  ‘Good, yes,’ Carly said, but she sounded a little unfocused.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Lang said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Lang repeated. ‘Tomorrow morning we’ll visit with Malone. Could you set that up? I’ll revisit Hawkes this afternoon. I’ll give you a call later to find out what’s going on with Malone.’

  ‘You’re checking up on me. You’re trying to make sure I’m all right.’

  ‘Business is business, Carly.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I don’t know. If you wanted a partner who made sense . . . well . . .’

  ‘OK, OK.’

  Lang constantly surprised her. He seemed so irresponsible. It was part of his demeanor. Yet he wasn’t. It was just that he went at reliability from an odd angle. It was somehow connected to his failure to apologize for being himself. Ever, she thought. But she rethought, as she – still in her oversized cotton pajamas – lazily climbed out from beneath the thick comforter, and out of bed. ‘Ever’ was too long a time. She had only known him for a few months. She wanted to say he wasn’t normal, but that wasn’t right either. He wasn’t average. He wasn’t predictable.

  Why was she going on so much about him? She went to the kitchen to see if the coffee she made earlier was still drinkable. Inside the thermal pot, the coffee was not hot, but warm. She would make a sandwich. She would try to get her thoughts together. After all, she had a client and she owed it to Mr Blake to devote significant time to his case.

  A peanut butter and jelly sandwich and bean soup. She smiled. She was nine again.

  Maybe she was the one who wasn’t being responsible. Was she pulling her own weight? Lang had taken on more of the case. He was taking the lead, it seemed. She sat in the living room, on the sofa, sipping her coffee and relishing her sandwich in between waves of insecurity. If she were to diagnose herself, she would conclude that she was getting a little too emotional. Maybe from the concussion. She’d have to admit she was feeling a little sorry for herself at the moment. Frightened, possibly.

  She took a deep breath. ‘Buck up, you old broad,’ she said out loud. She could shake it off. She’d have to shake it off.

  Her cellphone called out. It was Gratelli. He asked the question she knew he would ask.

  ‘I’m guilty,’ Carly told him. ‘I didn’t mean to be a source close to the investigation. I guess I’m a little naïve when it comes to journalists.’

  ‘Maybe we can fix that. What was your take on Bart Brozynski?’

  ‘Seems too shameless to worry about any exposure. I think he’d relish being in someone’s tell-all book.’

  ‘OK,’ Gratelli said. ‘I’ll handle the pugnacious publisher. Anything else.’

  ‘McFarland was out of the country. Lang doesn’t believe the wife could have killed her husband, based on her physicality. It’s the heaving bosom defense.’ She waited for Gratelli to laugh. He didn’t. She wanted to move on quickly. She thought about telling him that both Warfields, father and son, had links to the mistress, but decided to hold that back for now. ‘I don’t think Lilli D. Young could have done it,’ she said, trying to give him something. ‘She doesn’t move that quickly. If both murders were committed by the same person – and that’s an “if”, I know – I don’t think she could have done them.’

  ‘We’ve tracked down Mickey Warfield. He has an alibi for the night his father died. A girlfriend. Girlfriends are girlfriends, but it is an alibi.’

  ‘I’ll pass that along to Noah. What about a will? Insurance?’

  There was a pause. ‘You won’t be calling up the Fog City Voice when I tell you what I know?’ Gratelli asked. If there was humor intended here, Carly didn’t hear it.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You promise?’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘We’re still wrangling with the lawyer on the will, but there were two insurance policies. Both substantial. Elena Warfield was the beneficiary on one. Marlene Berensen was the beneficiary on the other.’

  ‘The son, Mickey?’

  ‘Not so good for Mickey.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Don’t forget me,’ Gratelli said and hung up.

  Carly felt better. She felt involved. Didn’t take much, did it? S
he answered the phone and a little progress fell in her lap.

  Hawkes was not happy. But Lang thought that was probably the artist’s natural state.

  ‘Do you just drop in on the CEO of GE?’

  ‘I don’t have reason to,’ Lang said, seeing Hawkes’s narrow face through the twelve-inch gap between door and door jamb. ‘I thought you might have some insight into the death of Frank Wiley.’

  ‘I don’t,’ Hawkes said.

  ‘He was going to have an exhibition of his photography. Do you have any idea what it was going to be?’

  ‘Why would I?’

  ‘He was a kind of historian, as I understand it. He chronicled the characters who hung out in North Beach . . . their lives. And you were part of that.’

  ‘Not really. It was a scruffy bunch and in the scheme of things I was never really part of the hangers-on.’

  ‘He didn’t photograph you?’ Lang asked, not sure why, except that would be a connection.

  ‘No, not me.’ Was his answer even more abrupt than usual? Hawkes recanted a little. ‘Maybe, but it would have to be when I was young and foolish.’

  ‘You knew all the players, right?’ Lang asked. ‘Your past, Mr Hawkes . . . we can’t seem to find out much before you moved out here.’

  ‘I didn’t ask you to look.’

  ‘Of course. Just curious. I’m told you’re from New York.’

  ‘Mr Detective, I’m sorry someone found it necessary to kill two people of my acquaintance and your concern. But it is not my problem. I have no reason to talk to you at all, much less open up my life so you can peck at it.’

  ‘Just trying to find the truth,’ Lang said. It was a weak, silly-sounding statement and he wished he could pull the words back before they reached Hawkes’s ear.

  ‘We’re through here,’ Hawkes said. No anger, just a sneering statement of the obvious.

  The door shut.

  Lang stopped by his place, supplemented Buddha’s bowl of dry food, engaged in a monologue with the patiently attentive feline and would have liked to go for a swim. Too long between any kind of workout. Instead, he stopped by Namu, several blocks west on Balboa, where he talked them into fixing him the fish sandwich with kimchee tartar sauce. He had a beer and watched the young men doing happy hour with sake at the bar.