Death in North Beach

by Ronald Tierney

  Lang was in the doorway.

  ‘Perfect,’ Lang said to Thanh.

  ‘Of course it’s perfect,’ Thanh said. ‘But what did you mean by it?’

  ‘You’re dressed for the break-in tonight.’

  ‘Finally, some fun.’

  Carly looked at them, shook her head, but she wasn’t really perturbed or confused or disgusted or anything of the sort. She just had an image to keep up.

  Lang was feeling antsy. He decided to revisit Marlene Berensen. This time he would drop by her place unannounced. The car registration listed an address on Mallorca in the Marina. Though it would be difficult to find a parking space – that was true all over town, except for the tops of some steep hills – it was even more difficult to get to the ritzy neighborhood from South of Market by bus.

  The Marina was named for the obvious reason that it was home to a couple of marinas where small yachts and sailboats were tied up. It also had a couple of yacht clubs. In Lang’s mind the neighborhood was defined by Chestnut on the south and the Bay in the north. The eastern border was Fort Mason and the western line of demarcation was the Presidio. The homes were, for the lack of anything more descriptive, Mediterranean; two- and three-story houses of stucco, painted in brave pastels or restrained sun colors. Most of the homes edged up to the sidewalks. Whatever outdoor living was to be done was in the back or, in some cases, in a courtyard.

  The people who lived there were likely over sixty-five or under forty. The younger ones had a golden retriever, a kid or two, and possibly a nanny. The older ones were sitting on real estate that had appreciated at least a thousand per cent since they bought it and they just might sell it to move to San Diego or Fort Lauderdale.

  Marlene Berensen was an exception. She was between forty and sixty-five, had no kids and no dogs. She did have Mickey Warfield and that was what Lang wanted to talk to her about. She was also unhappy to see Lang.

  ‘Hi there,’ Lang said.

  ‘Go away,’ she said. Her hair was up. She was without make-up. She wore sweats. Even at less than her best, there was something about her. Something smart and sexy.

  ‘Nice to see you again,’ he said. ‘I wanted to talk to you about some developments in the case.’

  ‘I’m not interested. Go away.’

  ‘You know Frank Wiley was killed,’ Lang said, looking over her shoulder into her home.

  ‘I don’t know Frank Wiley. I’m sure he will be missed. But not by me.’

  Her sexy, gravelly voice probably came from years of smoking and drinking and whatever it took to be a fun mistress, he thought.

  ‘A photographer in North Beach. Worked with Whitney Warfield.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘One more thing. Mickey Warfield. You know him, right?’

  She shrugged. ‘Whitney’s kid. So?’

  ‘So, you two are close?’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  He looked beyond her. From what he could see of the room behind her, there was a sort of frayed elegance to the decor. Kind of like her, he thought.

  ‘You let him drive your Jag,’ Lang said.

  A slight tremor appeared on her face. She tried to overcome it with more attitude, a narrowing of the eyes and a sneer.

  ‘I lent him my car. So? Don’t you have something to do besides wandering around asking petty, annoying questions?’

  ‘It’s what I do best,’ Lang said.

  ‘There are adult learning classes available throughout the city.’

  ‘Are you and Mickey having an affair?’

  ‘If you bother me again, I’ll call the police, get a restraining order and sue you for everything you have.’

  Marlene Berensen shut the door.

  Carly spent the afternoon working with Thanh. Together they used various Internet sites to determine the finances of those folks remaining on the list.

  Ralph Chiu had holdings that were in the several millions. As one might guess, they were primarily real estate. Chinatown, the Richmond, and North Beach. He was also involved in various new condo developments South of Market and in rapidly developing Mission Bay. He was a partner in five hotels. He could be connected to a Chinatown Tong; but then what successful Chinese businessman couldn’t? Many were as legitimate as any chamber of commerce.

  Marshall Hawkes was worth nearly $2 million. He owned his own condo and was doing well in the art market. Top credit rating.

  Marlene Berensen was on poverty’s doorstep. She had a poor credit rating and heavy payments on her home in the Marina. She had no clear source of income.

  Richard Sumaoang was dodging creditors as well. He rented his home in Cole Valley near the Haight.

  Whitney and Elena Warfield were pretty much breaking even. They owned the home outright and even though the royalties were diminishing each year, they were solvent. A couple of certificates of deposit. And Whitney owned a half interest in a bookstore, which was also barely holding its own.

  Nathan Malone was comfortable. His royalties were more than ample to keep him in the style to which he had become accustomed.

  Mickey Warfield had no visible means of support and was, for the most part, off the radar in financial terms.

  Carly wasn’t sure what any of it meant, but the increased focus on the remaining suspects might be coupled with other information which, if they were lucky, could help them narrow the list even further. Copies of this new information were put in the folder Thanh had created for each one on the list.

  Twenty-One

  Thanh went first. Carly and Lang followed a couple of minutes later. Lang had a large gym bag. Inside were flashlights, a stapler, some spare crime tape, a small crowbar and small digital camera that worked well in low light.

  When the two of them turned the corner into the small dead-end street they saw Thanh scaling the second floor, feet on the sill of one of the windows. The glass opened out and it took Thanh only a few seconds to slide something in and slip the lock. In a couple more seconds he was inside and had shut the window.

  By the time Carly and Lang reached the top, Thanh had the door open. Lang undid just enough of the crime tape to allow Carly and himself to crawl in. Lang handed the others a flashlight each and kept one for himself.

  ‘What are we looking for?’ Thanh asked.

  ‘We don’t know,’ Lang said. ‘Maybe we’ll know when we find it.’

  ‘Or maybe we won’t,’ Carly said. ‘OK, I found something.’

  ‘God, you’re good,’ Thanh said.

  ‘Shut up,’ Carly said. ‘The day I visited Wiley, there were four stacks of four.’ Her flashlight shined on some wrapped packages that appeared to be large pieces of art. ‘One of the stacks only has three.’

  ‘You counted them?’ Lang asked in disbelief. ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was taken by the symmetry . . . the neatness. I don’t know why. I just do those things sometimes.’

  ‘And you notice that one is gone?’ Lang asked, still not quite believing.

  ‘Yes. It’s obvious. One stack is different from the rest.’

  ‘Very observant, grasshopper,’ Thanh said, then to Lang, ‘I think she’s smarter than you are.’

  ‘Who isn’t?’

  The three of them wandered through the front room, into the second room, which was a small office – desk, files, storage closet and a small darkroom. Beyond that was a hall. A bathroom was on the right, a kitchen on the left. The hall eventually led to a larger space, where a bed, stereo system, a comfortable chair and a table for two completed the inventory of his estate.

  ‘It’s all quite modest,’ Carly said.

  ‘A man of small appetites, apparently,’ Lang called out from the kitchen. ‘There’s no alcohol anywhere. Canned food, chili, soup. Pizza in the freezer.’

  It seemed odd to Lang that in one of the greatest food towns of the world and in the center of the Italian quarter, there was a freezer with several Tombstone pizzas.

  Thanh sat himsel
f at Wiley’s desk and went through it and the filing cabinet that butted up against it.

  There wasn’t much to look at. The three of them ended up in the office, going through his records, searching for something significant. Thanh came across a folder that contained correspondence with Blue Monkey Press.

  Wiley had written them inquiring about the possibility of publishing a book of photographs of Beat poets and artists – naked.

  A return letter was a politely phrased rejection.

  Wiley sent a second letter with a further enticement. There would be a narrative by author Whitney Warfield. Again, a polite rejection.

  Frank Wiley wasn’t easily deterred. This time, he said that best-selling author Nathan Malone would do a major introduction and that Warfield would do the narrative. Did Malone lie or had he never been contacted? The subjects included some legends of the movement, including Allen Ginsberg and Malone himself.

  This seemed to have done the trick. Blue Monkey Press offered an advance – a small one, but an advance just the same. The book was to be published after the exhibition, pending final approval of the contents.

  Thanh took notes: the time frame for the book, the amount of the advance, and the name and address of the publisher. As he was doing this, Lang investigated the darkroom and Carly thumbed through the proof sheets – many of them marked up with symbols she didn’t understand.

  For the most part she ignored all the photographs of structures and focused on any photographs of people. There were thousands, most of them clothed. She recognized a few of the subjects. Some were nationally known. Some were local legends. And some were just street folks and some of them probably friends. William Blake was among those photographed. Clothed and unclothed. He was handsome.

  ‘We have to look at the photographs in the other room.’

  They carefully undid the brown paper wrapping and the tape. Thanh used his cellphone to snap a photograph of each photograph. There were fifteen of them, not quite life-size. All in black and white. All with dark backgrounds, light only on the flesh of the subject. Even in the light from a flashlight, it was clear this was taken with a large-format camera. The detail was rich and perhaps a little gruesome. Modesty might not be the only objection.

  ‘Not exactly glamour shots,’ Thanh said.

  ‘Looks like those photographs of fleas blown up a thousand times,’ Carly said.

  There was something powerful about them, Lang thought. Whether Wiley had revealed his subjects’ true characters or just a frightening vision of an aspect of their characters, he didn’t know. But, as Thanh said, these weren’t glamour shots. Some of the subjects might object.

  ‘Did you come across a folder of release forms?’ Carly asked Thanh.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Could you look? They would need permission from the subjects to exhibit or publish the photographs. Without it, Wiley couldn’t legally have a show, let alone publish a book.’

  Thanh went back to the office area to check the files.

  ‘Maybe we can match permission forms with the photographs here to find out which photograph is missing,’ she said.

  ‘You think that’s the link? The photograph?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Carly said. ‘One is missing. Maybe Wiley sent it back to be reframed or something.’

  ‘Or someone really doesn’t want to be seen naked and is willing to kill over it,’ Lang said. ‘Quite an ego.’ His cellphone squirmed in his jeans.

  ‘Lang.’

  ‘I need to see you,’ said the feminine voice.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Angel.’

  ‘Angel?’

  Carly looked up. It was too dark to see if she was smiling.

  ‘I’m busy at the moment,’ Lang continued.

  ‘I need to see you. Tonight. Come when you can. But come, please.’

  ‘Got a date with an angel?’ Carly asked.

  The two of them finished rewrapping and restacking the photographs as Thanh made a list of names on the permission slips he had found and the dates they were signed. There were more than a hundred of them.

  It had taken them several hours to do what they had to do and it was nearly one a.m. when the crime tape on the front door was reaffixed as carefully as possible.

  The three of them walked back to Lang’s Mercedes together.

  ‘Who’s Angel?’ Carly asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Thanh said, ‘who’s Angel and why am I asking?’

  ‘Angel is Mickey Warfield’s girlfriend and alibi for his father’s murder.’

  ‘She wants to see you?’ Carly asked. ‘Why?’

  ‘She likes me.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It happens. By the way, how’s your friend William?’

  Carly was thankful that it was too dark for him to see her blush.

  ‘Don’t be mad,’ William said, flicking on the light by the sofa. ‘I didn’t look in your closet or open any drawers.’

  ‘William . . .’ she said.

  ‘I’m a firm believer in mixing business with pleasure.’ He stood to help her with her coat. He wore jeans and a white shirt, top two buttons open at the neck, sleeves rolled up. A black cashmere blazer was draped over the sofa. ‘And you’re late.’

  ‘I must have forgotten to put our meeting down in my appointment book,’ she said.

  He smiled again. ‘I wanted to check in. With Wiley dead, maybe there is some news?’

  ‘No,’ she said soberly. ‘No news. We’ve interviewed everyone on your list, some of them twice. We’ve eliminated a few.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘So far we are still looking at Mickey Warfield, Marlene Berensen, Ralph Chiu, Richard Sumaoang, Nathan Malone and Marshall Hawkes.’ She’d been over the list so many times, she had the remaining suspects down cold.

  ‘Down to six.’

  ‘If the murderer is on the list.’ She headed toward the kitchen. ‘Would you like some wine?’

  ‘I put a bottle of Primus on the counter, if you’re interested.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I see. By the way, how well did you know Frank Wiley?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Not at all?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Strange,’ she said, plucking the cork from the bottle, ‘there was a proof sheet of photographs of you in his studio.’

  ‘There was?’

  ‘Nudes.’

  ‘Oh . . . yes . . . My God, I had to be seventeen,’ he said, coming into the kitchen.

  ‘That would have been illegal,’ Carly said.

  ‘No, not really. And besides I’ve always been slightly illegal.’

  ‘You knew him though,’ she said.

  ‘You are having a crisis in confidence, here?’

  ‘No. Just want to make sure all the cards are on the table.’

  ‘It was a long time ago. It was Anselmo’s idea. I used to model for Anselmo. Wiley came over during one of our sessions, where I was, as always, without some or all of my clothing. Wiley, straight as an arrow, I’m sure, was just beginning to photograph human beings. Like most artists, he found something especially challenging about nudes. That’s it. Didn’t see him much. Different crowds. I’ve passed him on the streets. But that’s it. We didn’t have a lot in common.’ He smiled. ‘Frank was poor and straight.’

  She poured the wine and handed him a glass.

  ‘Did you know any of the others?’

  ‘Never met Mr Chiu or Mr Sumaoang. I’ve met Nathan Malone at cocktail parties, but we weren’t each other’s type in any sense of the word. I was aware of Mr Hawkes, mostly through Anselmo. The two disliked each other intensely.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Anselmo said that he had been Hawkes’s mentor and that once Hawkes got going he not only never acknowledged the help, but acted as if Anselmo was beneath him. Never met Mickey Warfield. Marlene . . . Marlene has appetites. It’s been a few years though. As you know, I’m a professional companion. She used to have a large disposable income. Ther
e came a time when Marlene didn’t.’

  ‘Didn’t have any money.’

  William nodded. ‘And you saw me naked?’ He smiled and turned to walk back into the living room. ‘May I put on some music?’

  ‘You were seventeen and, yes, I saw you naked.’

  ‘Did you approve?’

  ‘Of what? Your body or your posing naked?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter which,’ he said. ‘He looked through the stack of CDs and put on some slow, quiet jazz.’

  ‘You know, about the music . . . I’m thinking maybe it’s late.’

  ‘It is late. I put on music appropriate to the hour.’ He smiled. ‘Don’t try to get rid of me.’

  Angel looked as if she had been in bed.

  ‘You gave up on me,’ Lang said.

  She nodded, giving him a faint, innocent smile. She looked softer tonight. Maybe it was the light, or near lack of it.

  ‘You were asleep?’ There was only the one lamp lit in the room. The light was behind her and her nakedness beneath a sheer nightgown was apparent.

  ‘In bed, but couldn’t sleep,’ she said. ‘Come in.’

  She stepped aside and once he was in, she shut the door behind him. He thought about turning on more lights to change the ambience, but indecision brought about by the conflict between lust and logic came to a passive end.

  There were fresh flowers – white, long-stemmed tulips – in a vase beside the lamp. On the table near it was a small folded card, the kind that comes with delivered flowers. The smell of tobacco and whiskey hung in the thick, quiet air.

  ‘Beautiful flowers,’ he said to move things along.

  ‘A drink?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Scotch all right?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘I have pretty much anything you want tonight,’ she said.

  He resisted saying, ‘I bet you do.’ He could have said it. She loaded the sentence with innuendo.

  ‘Scotch is fine.’

  When she disappeared, he looked at the card.

  ‘A small gesture for your generous help.’ It was signed with what appeared to be an ‘M’.

  He took the glass from her.

  ‘You wanted to see me?’ he asked, sitting in the chair he sat in last time, giving her the sofa, the only spot in the room where light fell.