After the service he’d come back and watch an Asian movie. Korean, perhaps. And he’d have a few bottles of Asahi Dry. Extra dry. That should finish his attempt to get the bad taste out of his mouth and banish the prissy Hawkes and what was likely to be a stuffy church service from his thoughts.
Lang was a little buzzed. He couldn’t remember another day when he went on a coffee-drinking binge as he had all this morning and afternoon, stopping several times to refill his sad little paper cup. Usually he was a take-it-easy kind of guy. Not today. He was getting through a marathon day. Thing was, he was rarely this motivated.
Lang wasn’t sure what he’d gain by going to the service for Whitney Warfield. It was an inappropriate time to talk with people about the murder.
Saints Peter and Paul was a San Francisco landmark. Grand and historic, it presided over North Beach as if it were castle to the kingdom. Nearby St Francis of Assisi didn’t hold a candle, Lang thought sadly. Joe DiMaggio and Marilyn Monroe had posed on the church’s front steps and the baseball great’s final services were held inside. They would do no less for Whitney Warfield, who would have loved the drama though he railed against all organized religions – and everything organized, for that matter.
Inside Lang looked around. The interior was tastefully ornate for the most part. The only high drama was Christ on the Cross. But even that, sanguine as it was, was less lurid than he remembered from his own brief and now seemingly ancient experiences with religion.
The interior was at least three stories high. Grand chapels and other sacred nooks and crannies were off to the side. The choir loft was high and perched over the entrance. He went up the steps to the loft and using a little spyglass he gazed down on the hundreds of folks below. People were talking but in low tones and there was a low-grade buzz emanating up. Then it was as if someone had turned the volume down slowly. The chatter diminished. There was the sound of wood creaking as people settled into the pews.
Someone in robes stepped up and began to speak. Because of the cavernous space, each electronically enhanced word echoed slightly, giving it special authority. However profound, spiritual or mundane, the reverberation also made the words impossible to understand. Lang didn’t try.
He remembered his own early Latin, which he spoke in sing-song fashion:
Myfathercanplaydominoesbetterthanyourfathercan.
Lang spotted Marlene, who had regained her attitude. She was three rows behind Elena who was in the front pew. Hawkes stood on the side in the back near the confessionals. Sumaoang, his mourning attire put together as best he could, was there with his girlfriend. Chiu was there with two other men, younger, who were obviously no slaves to fashion. He didn’t know some of the players by sight – McFarland, Malone, Lilli D. Young. Agnes DeWitt even showed up, looking frail and elegant.
Of those on the list he could recognize, all were in attendance – except the newspaper publisher and Warfield the Younger.
Nineteen
At home, he called Carly one last time in the evening. His excuse was to check on the proposed meeting with the writer, Malone. Carly had set it for ten. He’d pick her up at nine forty-five.
‘You seem in control of your faculties,’ he said in a way that Hawkes might have put it.
Damn, he thought, the man continued to haunt him.
‘That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,’ she said, a Southern Belle drawl creeping into her voice.
Gratelli, at his desk nursing a cold cup of coffee, called the Fog City Voice publisher to request he come to the Hall of Justice for a little chat. Bart Brozynski asked politely if Gratelli could come to him.
‘I smashed three vertebrae in a fall,’ Brozynski said. ‘It’s painful for me to move and a car is hell. You mind?’
‘When did that happen?’ Gratelli asked.
‘Three weeks ago.’
‘Tell you what,’ Gratelli said, ‘you give me the name of your doctor, maybe we won’t have to talk after all.’
‘That’s disappointing,’ Brozynski said. ‘I’d like to know a little more about the deaths of Warfield and Wiley.’
‘So would I.’
‘Does that mean the police have no suspects . . . a dead end, maybe?’
‘You’re putting words in my mouth,’ Gratelli said. ‘I know how that works. Right now we’re talking about you.’
‘I didn’t kill them. I try not to create news. There’s so much existing news that isn’t reported. You like the story?’
‘The difference between what you do and what I do is that I have to back up what I say with facts. Innuendo rarely works in the courtroom.’
‘I beg to differ with you, Inspector. If the glove doesn’t fit . . .’
‘I think that proves my point,’ Gratelli said.
‘Then we’re both happy,’ Brozynski said.
‘Let’s not tempt fate,’ Gratelli said, ‘and call it a day.’
Gratelli would check with the physician and the hospital. He could get conditions and dates and that would either put Brozynski in the skillet or out of it. He’d bet that the cantankerous old publisher, for whom he held a begrudging respect, wasn’t lying.
‘Up late last night?’ Carly asked Lang as she scooted into the passenger side of Lang’s car.
He nodded. But her face still had the look of inquiry. He smiled.
‘A Korean film about some young man who occupied people’s homes when they weren’t there and had a fetish for golf,’ Lang said.
‘An art film?’
‘Yes. Korean art film. I was in the mood for Korean movies.’
‘You were in the mood for it?’ she asked.
‘I had kimchee tartar sauce on my fish sandwich.’
‘You are impressionable, then?’
‘I must be. And I like themes. I watch The Godfather, I want a pizza or linguine, that sort of thing.’
‘Did I tell you that Nathan Malone admitted to killing a man?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re not shocked?’
‘No, I suppose not,’ Lang said. ‘Why did he kill?’
‘Passion, maybe.’
‘Well, let’s hope he’s not in a passionate mood this morning.’
‘What are we going to ask the dangerous and deadly Mr Malone?’ Carly asked.
‘About Frank Wiley. About the exhibition. Maybe there was a book in the works. Maybe Warfield’s book was illustrated. Maybe with Wiley’s photographs.’
She nodded. ‘I thought that too. Not just Malone. Somebody else would have to know what Wiley was up to.’
‘A publisher, maybe. If there was a book. A printer and a framer if there was an exhibition,’ Lang said. ‘Malone was OK with me coming along?’
‘I think he’s interested in the story – or at least what we know of it. He’s a writer, his curiosity is involved; he’s part of it, his ego is involved.’
‘And if he didn’t do it, he has to begin to worry if there’s a pattern and if he fits it.’
Malone answered the door himself. He looked relaxed in slacks and a sweatshirt over a blue, button-down shirt. While his face revealed his true age, his movement was that of a younger man.
He looked at Lang and then at Carly.
Smiling, he said, ‘After the last time you felt you needed a bodyguard?’
‘This is Noah Lang, my partner,’ Carly said.
Lang and Malone shook hands.
‘My wife has gone to the market,’ he said, ‘so we have the house to ourselves.’ He led them back to his office. ‘I bared my soul to Ms Paladino when last she was here.’ He stopped, turned, looked at Carly. ‘I’m not sure there’s anything left.’
‘Since we talked,’ Carly said as they continued their walk to his office at the back of the house, ‘Frank Wiley has been murdered.’
‘Yes, I heard. But I know nothing of it.’
They arrived. Malone sat in his desk chair, allowing Lang and Carly to take the two upholstered ‘guest’ chairs.
‘Ma
ybe you know more than you think you do,’ Lang said.
‘That’s very kind of you, but as a writer I’m more inclined to know less than I think I do.’
‘You worked with both of them – Warfield and Wiley – on a book,’ Carly said.
‘I did. The third of a trio,’ Malone said. ‘I’ll let you in on a little secret. We didn’t sit on the floor in the living room, eat popcorn, and put a book together with scissors and glue. Warfield went off to write his part. I did mine. And Wiley did what he had to do with the photographs. The publisher has people who put these things together. Once we understood what our role was, we hardly spoke.’
‘You didn’t pal around with them?’
‘At one time, as I told your partner, Warfield and I closed a few bars. But Wiley was all light and dark and Warfield and I were boisterous boasters who used, or tried to use, words as swords, and argued about subjects Wiley had absolutely no interest in. Then I grew up, got married, and became mature and stuffy. Warfield was left to cause chaos in the china shop all on his own.’
‘You had no dealings with Wiley after the book?’ Carly asked.
‘I’d see him around. He’d begun to photograph buildings, so it wasn’t unusual to see him. Before that he was obsessed with portraits.’
‘He take a photo of you?’ Lang asked.
‘Yes. Many.’ Malone smiled, stifled a laugh.
‘Some humorous ones, I take it.’ Lang said.
‘Probably most of them. But somewhere floating in the universe may be a naked photograph of me, thankfully of my much younger self. Even so, it’s as if the world hasn’t suffered enough. It was during all that summer of love stuff. We were supposed to be comfortable with our bodies. You’re too young to remember.’
‘You know anything about Wiley’s latest project?’ Carly asked. ‘What it was about? Maybe he came to you for a little collaboration?’
‘No. He wouldn’t have. And if he did, I wouldn’t have. In the end my life was only tenuously attached to the North Beach he loved. The neighborhood began to loom less large in my life. It was just a few years. Some nice years. But it would be misleading to put me with the writers and artists who were an integral part of North Beach history.’
‘All right,’ Carly said. ‘Thank you for seeing us.’
‘You find out anything?’ he asked.
‘No. We’re stymied,’ she said.
‘And the police? What are they thinking?’
‘They’re trudging through the evidence. We’re not in the know.’ It was a small lie, she thought. But after the article in the Fog City Voice, she was more cautious.
He nodded, stood. It was the signal to leave.
‘Thank you again,’ Carly said, standing up.
Malone followed them to the door.
‘Good luck,’ he called after them.
‘The wife was there,’ Carly said once they were outside. ‘She was in a robe carrying a glass of something and having a hard time moving down the hall. She looked sloshed.’
‘Not at the market?’ Lang said, smiling.
Twenty
‘Lunch?’ Noah said as they went to the car.
‘One track mind,’ she said.
‘No, not really. I have other tracks. Food, movies and . . . OK, let’s just say two tracks.’
L’Osteria El Forno was a tiny storefront restaurant tucked away amid the tourist spots on Columbus in North Beach.
It was her choice, but Lang had eaten there before and thought it was a perfect place to lunch – if they could get in. What was it, he thought, that Yogi Berra said about such places: ‘Nobody goes there anymore. It’s too crowded.’
Maybe because it was still early, there was a surprisingly short wait to sit at one of the nine or so tables inside. None of them, it seemed, were more than a few feet from the kitchen. The place had high ceilings and the patina that comes from age was real not cosmetic. The walls were an appropriately faded Tuscan sun color and the waiter was young and handsome and smiling and Italian.
‘So this means you’ll have to watch The Godfather or Goodfellas tonight?’ Carly asked. ‘Maybe a Fellini film?’
‘Depends on what I have for dinner. If I go to a German restaurant, I might watch Das Boot.’
‘Are there German restaurants still around?’
‘Yes. Shroeder’s downtown. Schnitzel House, South of Market. Suppenküche in Hayes Valley. There’s an East German place . . . Walzwerk . . . on South Van Ness.’
‘You are a walking city guide.’
‘I’m a male living alone . . . nearly alone . . . Buddha doesn’t cook.’
She ordered some sort of fresh, cold salmon dish and he ordered the pumpkin ravioli and a glass of Sangiovese. They shared a small cheese, tomato and basil pizza.
‘Do you ever eat anything green?’ she asked.
‘Basil is green,’ Lang said.
‘C’mon,’ she said.
‘On St Patrick’s day.’
‘What do you think of Malone?’
‘Seems too sane, too self-satisfied. That’s just a gut feeling. That doesn’t take him off the list. But he said something interesting that may seem obvious now. The publisher puts a book together. If – and it’s a big “if” – Wiley had a publisher to follow up on his planned exhibition, they might have something interesting.’
She nodded. ‘And if we could get into Wiley’s, we could look at the photographs that are part of the exhibition and get a sense of . . . something.’
‘Can we get in?’ Lang asked.
‘One way or another,’ she said.
‘I like your attitude.’
‘That’s because it’s your attitude.’
‘I won’t hold that against you.’
There were no police visible on the short, usually empty street where Frank Wiley lived and died. The afternoon sun provided no cover for their climb. At the top they were greeted with what they expected. Criss-crossed yellow crime tape provided a spiderweb of forbiddance.
‘Do we?’ Carly asked.
‘No.’
‘What do we do?’
‘We get a stapler, a couple of flashlights and come back tonight.’
‘This was a trial run?’
‘We needed to find out what we needed. Let’s get some gelato.’
‘We need gelato?’
‘Need?’
‘You have no idea what you’re doing to me. I’ll get big as a house. What did you get from Hawkes?’
‘Attitude. He doesn’t know anything and he doesn’t really care to know anything if you can believe him.’
‘Do you believe him?’ Carly asked as they turned on to Columbus.
‘I don’t know what I believe.’
‘Some good news,’ Carly said as they dodged the mix of neighborhood inhabitants and tourists in shorts and baseball caps. ‘Brozynski, according to Inspector Gratelli, isn’t very mobile. I noticed that when I visited with him. I just thought he was too lazy. Apparently, he took a tumble and smashed some vertebrae. The timing was such that it’s doubtful the guy has the agility to be the murderer. Not for sure, but reasonable doubt. And I had that anyway.’
‘The murders sell newspapers, Carly. Sort of like a mortician killing off a few folks because business is slow. Lime,’ Lang said when they entered the shop and noticed the vast array of flavors.’ He looked at Carly. ‘Green. Are you happy?’
‘Thrilled. My life could end now.’
‘I take it Gratelli called you. What else did he say?’
‘Nothing.’
Carly had the pistachio gelato with dark chocolate as the second dip. She spooned a bite.
‘A nosy question,’ she said.
‘That’s what we’re paid for.’
‘But this is personal. You don’t have to answer.’
‘I’m so grateful.’
‘You ever thought of being a dad?’
‘Too late.’
She thought about saying ‘Not really’, but decided that might imp
ly something she wasn’t ready to imply.
‘You ever regret not having kids?’ she asked.
‘I try to minimize regrets. The great philosopher Sinatra.’
‘You mean “shoobee doobee do”?’
‘I was thinking of something else, but yeah, that will do.’
‘You’d have made a great dad,’ Carly said. She watched his face to see if she was going too far. But he continued to be a bit of a mystery.
‘Why’s that?’
‘You are so even-keeled.’
‘You said I was “lackadaisical” earlier.’
‘Sensitive too.’
‘You want to be a mother?’
‘A great defense is a good offense. No, I’m too selfish. And I don’t have a green thumb or whatever color of thumb I’m supposed to have to raise children.’
‘Let’s meet back here tonight, at eight,’ Lang said. ‘We’ll go in under the cover of darkness. Wear dark clothing.’
‘And a mask?’ she asked, smiling.
Carly was feeling better. The kind of damp cloud that seemed to have occupied her brain was gone. Having Lang fully on board and whittling down the names on the suspect list gave her a sense of optimism.
Mickey Warfield
Marshall Hawkes
Marlene Berensen
Richard Sumaoang
Ralph Chiu
Nathan Malone
That was the list now. And it was progress she could relate to William Blake. Sweet William, she thought as she climbed the steps to the office. She admonished herself for her momentary lapse into sentimentality. In her many years at Vogel Security, she would have never imagined her life to have taken such an odd turn. Living was no longer abstract. It was real. And she believed she was beginning to like the idea. But it was not without risk. That was obvious now.
Inside the office, Thanh looked like a punk mechanic. He was wearing black coveralls. His hair was slicked back in early rock style.
He smiled. ‘You lose Noah?’
‘He’s parking the car,’ Carly said. ‘You look like you’re ready for anything.’
Death in North Beach Page 15
