Death in North Beach

by Ronald Tierney

  ‘Might have been a fun trip,’ Lang said.

  ‘I don’t like old people,’ Brinkman replied bitterly.

  ‘But you are an old people, Brinkman.’

  ‘The irony is your problem. What do you want me to do when he comes out?’

  ‘Continue to follow him until he goes home or back to his office.’

  ‘Got it,’ Brinkman said and disconnected.

  Lang wouldn’t have made that connection – Markham and Chiu. If Chiu was part of a criminal Tong, it was unlikely he would hire non-Asian muscle. But it was clear there were ties between Warfield and Chiu and Markham and Marlene Berensen and the dead woman. This new observation, coupled with the otherwise irrelevant fact that Chiu and the dead woman were both Chinese and connected somehow to Markham, expanded the speculation. But how would a missing photograph, if one were missing, play into this set of circumstances? He was pretty sure Carly was on the wrong track.

  He shook his head. At some point investigations were supposed to narrow. The point was to eliminate suspects on the list – not add them. In the beginning, Lang would have to admit, the case was a kind of amusing adventure. It became more intense because of the attack on Carly and the cloud that hung over his own suspected self. Then, there was the mounting body count. Would there be another?

  ‘You were right,’ Gratelli told her on the phone. ‘There was a missing photograph, but it’s been returned. Probably sent out to be reframed. Sorry I doubted you.’

  Carly hadn’t realized just how much investment she’d made in the idea the murder could be solved by locating the photograph. Gratelli’s comments, while confirming her original observation skills, didn’t do much for her theory. It felt like a punch to the solar plexus.

  ‘We found it at Wiley’s studio, at the top of the steps, leaning against the door.’

  ‘Who sent it?’ she asked.

  ‘No return address.’

  ‘Who delivered it? What delivery service?’

  ‘Apparently none. Probably just the framer. Brown paper wrapper, that was it?’

  ‘And the photograph?’ she asked. ‘Who was the subject?’

  ‘A naked figure. Nobody I know. We’ll try to find out if you think it’s important. Is it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, sorry that she allowed her disappointment to slip into her voice. ‘You mind if I come down and take a look?’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘No. Come on down. I’ll be here for another hour.’

  She had already called Blue Monkey Press, the company that had the contract to print the book, and planned to go to San Mateo to talk with them and look at what they had. The problem was they didn’t have final images . . . just the text, but that was sent out for typesetting in New York. They expected the proofs back soon. They’d call.

  Gratelli seemed a little embarrassed as he brought the photograph, recovered in the brown paper, into one of the interview rooms. He set it on the table, nodded, and stepped out. Carly thought it amusing that a man who had no doubt frequently seen far worse found this moment distasteful.

  Carly unwrapped the frame. The photograph was a black-and-white of Marshall Hawkes, a young Marshall Hawkes, naked. He was photographed from behind, looking back over his shoulder. His face was clearly visible and it was clearly Hawkes. The lighting, background and texture of the photograph were in keeping with the others. But there was something – and she wasn’t sure what that was – troubling about the image. She took out her cellphone and photographed it.

  Gratelli glanced in through the glass partition and when he saw her rewrap the photograph, he came back inside.

  ‘Marshall Hawkes,’ Carly told him.

  ‘You look disappointed,’ Gratelli said.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘So what do all these photographs tell you?’

  ‘They were all young and may have regrets now.’

  ‘Motive?’ Gratelli asked.

  ‘One of his subjects might not want his or her photograph on exhibit or in a book. That’s still a possible motive. But my theory that finding the missing photograph would identify the killer just lost credibility.’

  Carly said it because it seemed obvious and to think otherwise would be foolish. She knew she was foolish. She didn’t fully believe what she said.

  Carly called Nadia to say that her theory of the missing photograph was kaput. But Nadia wasn’t to be deterred. She wanted to do the show. She would talk to Wiley’s kin or whomever. She would put on the show – ‘Murderer’s Row’.

  ‘You said Wiley was unimportant, an archivist. So did the people at Reed Fine Arts. So what’s the big deal?’

  ‘The hook. The media won’t be able to resist. You know,’ she said, catching the greed that crept into her voice, ‘this will give Wiley the stature he no doubt wanted and help the people he left behind.’

  ‘You’re a saint, Nadia. Anybody tell you that?’

  ‘Only people who think sarcasm is cute . . . or want something.’

  ‘How about coming with me tomorrow? You can break away for a short trip to San Mateo, can’t you?’

  ‘You bet. I need to talk with the publishers . . . set this whole thing in motion.’

  When Lang learned from Carly that she planned a morning trip to San Mateo he asked her to stop by the local police station. He wanted to verify that Mickey Warfield spent the whole night in their custody the night of Wiley’s death. Just as the appearance of the photograph was the kink in the chain of Carly’s theory, so too was Warfield’s DUI the obstacle in Lang’s argument.

  On the other hand, there was this seeming coincidence that the publisher of the ‘lost’ manuscript was located in San Mateo and that Warfield the Younger had made a recent trip there. There are lots of reasons to go to San Mateo, but there were a lot of other places to go to. Mickey’s San Mateo trip was worth looking into.

  ‘There’s a great Chinese restaurant in San Mateo – Little Sichuan. Check it out for lunch. And there is the king of all gourmet supermarkets across the street. Draeger’s. Nothing like it in San Francisco.’

  ‘Food, food, food. I gain five pounds just talking to you.’

  ‘It’s all I think about that I can speak of in polite company,’ Lang said.

  ‘I’m polite?’ Carly seemed genuinely surprised at the adjective.

  ‘If we stretch the definition a little.’

  ‘Are you in the office?’ she asked.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Could you spray my orchid?’

  ‘I’d be honored,’ Lang said.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I have no idea. It was what popped into my head. I’ve never been asked to spray someone’s orchid. I wasn’t sure what you meant.’

  ‘What do you mean, you didn’t know what I meant?’

  ‘Came out of left field. Suddenly. I thought maybe it was a euphemism.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘I couldn’t begin to guess.’ He meant ‘wouldn’t’, but it was better to say ‘couldn’t’.

  ‘Goodbye,’ she said.

  Brinkman came in, muttering something before he hit Lang’s office. All Lang heard was a sudden outburst.

  ‘Oh, God, I hope that’s jelly,’ he said. He had taken off his jacket and was examining his forearm, touched it, and brought it to his lips. ‘Thank God.’ He noticed Lang looking at him. ‘You get old, you don’t know what in the hell is growing on you.’

  ‘I understand,’ Lang said.

  ‘Splotches and moles and liver spots . . .’

  ‘Yes. About Markham . . .’

  ‘. . . rashes, strange hairs, little bits of . . .’

  ‘Again, thanks for the preview,’ Lang said loudly, interrupting. ‘You have me looking forward to my golden years.’

  ‘Markham left the real estate office and went to a bar on Geary,’ Brinkman said. ‘McKinney’s. He was in there a couple of hours.’

  ‘You go in?’

  ‘Yeah, had a beer, watched
him talk to the bartender. Markham wasn’t just another customer. He had four glasses of Guinness and walked out like all he had was a bowl of noodle soup. Obviously old friends. Then he stopped at Burger King and went to Daly City. His house, I’m guessing, ’cause he had a key to the front door. You want any of this in writing?’

  ‘Nope, thanks. Have you seen Thanh?’

  ‘The little sprite blew through here shortly before you called. He was in a hurry.’

  ‘I think I was followed,’ Lang said, moving to the window and looking out. ‘I decided to walk from Polk Street. I needed to think. And there was one Asian guy on foot and another in a car – a silver Honda – seemed to be circling the blocks.’

  ‘How could you tell? Every other car on the road is a silver Honda.’ Brinkman said.

  True enough, Lang thought. Hell, he might have been tailed every moment of the day and night and only spotted them twice. If these were the same guys who were in the Toyota Cressida, they changed cars. Smart. Having tailed so many in the past, he was more sensitive than most to being tailed himself. He was impressed. The question was: did he pick up the tail after talking with Chiu or was that merely the first time he saw them?

  On telepathic cue, it seemed, Thanh arrived. Lang went out to the reception area to greet him. He was very ordinarily dressed – gray cotton slacks, a pressed striped shirt and a tan corduroy jacket. Other than noticing his natural good looks, no one would give him a second glance. It was perfect. It seemed the shape shifter anticipated what was expected of him.

  ‘You have time to tail the tail?’ Lang asked.

  ‘Sounds sexy.’

  ‘Maybe not so sexy. Maybe interesting, requiring guile, craftiness and skill.’

  ‘I guess that leaves only me,’ Thanh said, smiling.

  ‘You have your bike?’

  ‘I do, all tuned up and humming.’

  Lang called Brinkman in and explained.

  Lang went out first, walked a few blocks and picked up a cup of coffee and came back to his beat-up Mercedes.

  ‘You comfortable back there?’ Lang asked.

  ‘Is the bear Catholic?’ Brinkman replied from his post scrunched down in the back seat.

  ‘Glad you’re happy.’

  It was starting to get dark when Lang drove to Howard Street where, after paying the fee, he pulled in line for a car wash. As he moved up in line he noticed Thanh arriving and parking just across the street. When his Mercedes was just inside the drive-thru and out of view of those following him, Lang got out, took off his stocking cap and gave it to Brinkman who climbed behind the wheel. It was Brinkman who drove the car through and out on to the street when he was finished. If the plan worked, Brinkman would drive a few miles and get out, letting the tail see that it wasn’t Lang. When the guys gave up, Thanh would tail them to see where they would go. It was a gamble, but not a bad one.

  The result didn’t give Lang exactly what he wanted, but was still more than helpful. As Lang sat on the sofa in his converted laundry space with Buddha in his lap, he got the call from Thanh.

  ‘You were thinking these guys were Chinese, right?’ Thanh said.

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Chances are they’re not Chinese. I followed them to the suburbs in Daly City. The mailbox says ‘Bantay’.

  ‘And?’

  ‘That’s a Filipino name.’

  Lang realized he’d fallen victim to his own narrow view. Not only was it likely he had a tail long before he realized, it was possible the tail began after he questioned Sumaoang the first time, which meant he’d been watched for a while. No way to be sure. Now, he had to be careful again not to stereotype. If they were Filipino, it didn’t necessarily lead back to the tough-minded artist just because he was Filipino too. Nothing else led there particularly. And who was to say that Chiu, who might just be a legitimate but savvy businessman, or anyone else, couldn’t have hired a couple of out-of-work Filipinos to do some work? Still, in his heart or mind – whatever it was that generated hunches – it seriously brought Sumaoang back into the picture.

  ‘That’s interesting,’ Lang said after a pause.

  ‘It is,’ Thanh said. ‘You were hoping this would lead right back to the suspect. It might have, but there are phones, you know?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Go have fun somewhere. I’ll have to figure this out.’

  He didn’t want to bang on Sumaoang’s door again, but he’d take a chance that Alighieri’s might be a regular evening destination for the passionate artist.

  Later, he apologized to Buddha, encouraging the little brown cat off his lap, and prepared to go out.

  Twenty-Eight

  Carly wanted the evening to be over. She was eager to visit Blue Monkey Press and see what they had, but that had to wait until business hours. Though her theory about the missing photograph wasn’t even much of a theory anymore, she couldn’t let it go. Maybe what the printer had would shed some light.

  A glass of Pinot Grigio, a chicken breast sliced in two thin pieces, lightly coated in seasoned breadcrumbs and sautéed, a tomato, and a dozen slender spears of asparagus roasted for 12 minutes in the oven with a sprinkling of salt, pepper and flakes of pecorino, constituted dinner.

  She was too antsy to read so she broke a personal rule. She sat in front of the TV to watch Gosford Park for the third time. As wonderful and as rich as the movie was, her mind went adrift several times. She slipped back to the night of her attack at Wiley’s studio. The vision of it – the details – were getting clearer, but no more revealing. The person who attacked her moved quickly. The form, against the back light, was not as large as she first thought, but slender, and the cape she thought she saw might very well have been one of the wrapped photographs. Might well have been, she thought. Might well not.

  The seemingly symbolic weapon in the case of Wiley’s death was a camera – fitting enough for a photographer – just as the pen was fitting for Warfield. Just as, she thought, an ice pick, for the woman in bed? Some sort of sexist male statement, perhaps. This suggests a single killer. Someone who is in decent physical shape, savvy, and deadly playful.

  She shut off the television mid movie, did her dishes, had a second glass of wine on the back deck, and then climbed in bed. Before switching off the light, she called Nadia to say she’d pick her up at eight. Despite Nadia’s objections, they would get an early start on her short trip to San Mateo.

  ‘I can go without you,’ Carly told her, when Nadia’s whining continued.

  ‘OK, OK, OK.’

  Carly put her head on the pillow. In the still darkness, she could hear her own breathing. She could hear the building settle. She could hear the light wind against the trees outside. And she picked up a familiar though no less exotic scent on the pillowslip. William Blake lingered. She slept.

  Sumaoang was not happy to see Lang, but he did not seem surprised. The artist, in a booth with non-bourgeois-type guys flanking him, looked up as Lang entered Alighieri’s back room unchallenged – the guardian of the inner sanctum being in the john or smoking out back. But Sumaoang challenged him, putting his palms up to indicate halt. He crossed and uncrossed them quickly – a sign that Lang was to proceed no further, that he was to go away. Sumaoang closed his eyes as if it was the only way to contain the anger bubbling up inside him. Perhaps he thought Lang would be gone when he opened them. Sumaoang was wrong.

  ‘You knew I was coming,’ Lang said, nodding toward the cellphone by Sumaoang’s water bottle. Lang pulled a chair up to the table. ‘Why the drama?’

  Sumaoang, who had put his hands in his lap, or at least under the table, tried to stare Lang down. Lang didn’t know why people, the male of the species in particular, thought that a mean stare would melt an opponent. On the other hand, if there was a gun under the table, that would be truly intimidating.

  ‘I used to be a cop,’ Lang said. ‘The “look” doesn’t work. If you didn’t want to see me, you shouldn’t
have put a tail on me.’

  Poker face. Expressionless. It finally broke into a smile and Sumaoang shrugged. He looked at each pal and they excused themselves. The look apparently worked on them, Lang thought.

  ‘They were supposed to be pretty good,’ the artist said.

  ‘Who said?’

  Sumaoang just smiled.

  ‘You don’t want me to find out who is killing all these people? Unless you’re the killer, you ought to be worried.’

  ‘I know. I also want the book. You blame me?’

  ‘I don’t know. How dark is your secret?’

  Sumaoang didn’t answer.

  ‘The thing is, I know you are not rolling in money. Hiring twenty-four-hour security – two of them – can’t be cheap,’ Lang continued.

  Nothing.

  ‘Are you desperate?’

  Sumaoang smiled.

  ‘Or are you not paying for it?’

  The artist looked down at the table for a moment, lightly twirled his iPhone, before looking up and pasting on a smile.

  ‘Gotcha,’ Lang said. He stood. ‘Thanks.’ Looking down the way Sumaoang did was a tell. His physical responses to questions, or lack of them, had been consistent until then. Sumaoang, if he was a player at all, wasn’t acting alone.

  ‘You’re really attached to that phone. I didn’t peg you as a high-tech guy.’

  ‘You obviously have a special talent for being wrong.’

  ‘We all have our gifts. By the way,’ Lang said, looking around, ‘what’s so special about the back room?’

  Sumaoang smiled. Didn’t answer.

  ‘What’s so special about these folks?’

  ‘It’s not who we let in,’ Sumaoang said, ‘it’s who we don’t. Tourists. Bankers. Insurance salesmen. And sleazy private eyes.’

  ‘Murderers?’

  ‘Oh, very different,’ the artist said. ‘Depends on who they murder.’

  Lang found the situation humorous. Warfield might never have his last hurrah, but he had certainly stirred up his old friends and enemies, leaving them in the terrible wake of his death. He wasn’t going to be forgotten; he wasn’t, as Dylan Thomas – one of the few poets Lang could recall – had advised, going ‘gentle into that good night’.