Death in North Beach

by Ronald Tierney

  ‘That’s the sum of it all?’ Blake asked, comfortably embedded in the large sofa next to Carly, sipping wine from a large glass.

  ‘Love? Maybe that’s the sum of it all. I let my life drift,’ she said. She looked at her wine, swirled it a bit, not out of any attempt to enhance the flavor, but to allow the debate in her mind about what to tell and what not to tell. What would reveal too much about herself. And what would no doubt bore him to death.

  ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘We have the night ahead of us.’

  ‘There was Peter. We were together for a long time. I would describe it as an interim relationship, a long, long interim relationship.’ She looked up from her wine and saw him staring. ‘Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t lead him on. He was to me as I was to him. We had a lot in common, including a lack of passion for the other. And . . . he left me. A job in Seattle. Didn’t even invite me to go along. And it was absolutely fine.’ She thought William looked doubtful. ‘True. It was the beginning of . . .’ she gestured broadly enough to almost spill her wine ‘. . . this!’

  He nodded.

  ‘In whatever time I have left on this earth, I want to live a little, not sleepwalk through it.’ Was she being a little loud? Maybe she needed to put a cap on it. ‘And I’m getting a little silly.’

  ‘A little silly is fine,’ William Blake said. She remembered Lang’s comment about letting go a bit. She didn’t say anything. ‘What about dreams? Are they important?’ he asked.

  ‘Short dreams sometimes,’ she said, ‘like this one. They’re nice, aren’t they?’

  He nodded.

  Thirty-Two

  Carly woke up to the sounds of the shower running and the smell of coffee brewing. The light that squeezed between the broad-bladed Venetian blinds was intense. She had slept well, surprisingly well considering how difficult it was to sleep beside another living creature. Unless William had slipped out to sleep on the sofa during the night, this was a first. How could she be so trusting?

  She just was, she thought. She reached for her cell and punched in Lang’s number. Without going into detail, she explained the event that would take place that evening. Would he make sure those on his list, those remaining, were in attendance?

  ‘How am I to coax the unwilling?’

  ‘You’re just the first step. I’m going to ask Gratelli to make the invitation more formal. But you might mention that we have the manuscript.’

  ‘We do?’ Lang asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What are we doing?’

  ‘We’re going to figure out who did what to whom.’

  ‘On the spot?’

  ‘Yes,’ Carly said.

  ‘Cream or sugar?’ William asked, coming into the room unclothed, his fortyish body looking like a thirtyish one.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At a coffee shop.’

  ‘Who’s with you?’

  ‘I’m just talking to the barista.’

  ‘You’re up and out early,’ Lang said.

  ‘The early bird gets the worm.’

  ‘Some people say that,’ Lang said.

  ‘No one said the early bird is witty.’

  ‘Are you dressed?’

  ‘Why would you ask a question like that?’

  ‘Because there is no buzz. No sounds of dishes or conversation. It’s all too soft, padded, no echo. So you’re not in some commercial coffee shop. It’s more like you’re in bed.’

  ‘And if I were?’

  ‘Then we would talk about what else the early bird was getting . . .’

  ‘The list. Just talk to the list, OK?’ She flipped the phone shut. She had to call him back to give him the time and place.

  ‘Does he always get to you that way?’ William asked, still naked and smiling, but bringing her the coffee.

  ‘What way?’

  ‘You are flustered a bit,’ William said.

  ‘He’s difficult sometimes.’

  ‘What are you doing today?’ William asked.

  ‘I need to talk to Gratelli, get the folks to Alighieri’s tonight, check out some bank statements. All sorts of things. You can stay here if you need to. If you go out on the balcony, please put some clothes on. Don’t want to give Mr Nakamura a heart attack.’

  ‘A proper lady,’ William said.

  ‘A proper lady,’ she repeated. For some reason that description made her sad. Yet, no matter how many nights like last night she might have, the description seemed apt. ‘You’ll be there tonight,’ she said matter-of-factly. It was a statement, not a question or even a request.

  ‘Maybe,’ he said, sitting on the bed, sipping his coffee. ‘There’s nothing wrong with being a proper lady. Learn to love yourself a little,’ William said.

  Lang, while shaving, briefly discussed plans for the day with Buddha. It was doubtful the cat cared even the slightest about the words. Instead, attention was paid to the strokes of the razor and the peeling of the shaving cream. Buddha was interested in how things worked. He, for example, watched intently a few months ago when Lang set up the video and sound system. He always watched Lang cook or make coffee. He usually watched him dress and was all too curious about the human urination process for Lang.

  ‘I don’t watch you,’ Lang told him once before shutting the door.

  This morning, like most mornings, Lang dressed and went down the street to Central Brewing – a coffee shop on the corner of Fell and Central – for a morning cup of coffee and a muffin, usually blueberry.

  It was a cool, sunny morning. It had every indication of warming up and becoming the kind of day that lucky tourists seem to think is the norm. It was not at all a time Lang expected surprises.

  Sitting at a table in front of the coffee shop was Inspector Stern, overflowing his suit much like a muffin top. After a sip from the large paper cup, he gave Lang the smile: I know you are not happy to see me and that makes me very happy.

  Lang went in, asked for his non-latte, non-foamy, not steamy, normal, everyday coffee and got it in seconds. He decided to skip the now unappetizing muffin. He stepped out and pulled a chair up to the table where Stern presided.

  ‘You are so predictable,’ Stern said. ‘Every day the same routine.’

  ‘Home away from home. I didn’t know you cared. But I’m honored to have my very own stalker. I had hoped for a pretty woman, but . . .’

  ‘I don’t like you.’

  ‘I’m shocked,’ Lang said, smiling. ‘I am deeply shocked.’

  Stern gave him the smile again.

  ‘Where’s your keeper?’

  ‘Errands,’ Stern said, unrattled. ‘Nice day, don’t you think?’

  ‘Was. Yes.’

  ‘Do you know why I don’t like you?’ Stern asked.

  ‘Because you think I’m shady, sleazy, and way too lucky.’

  ‘Oh,’ Stern said. ‘You do know.’

  ‘Was that what you wanted?’ Lang asked. ‘I’m going to be late for homeroom.’

  ‘The Chinese woman,’ Stern said.

  ‘I didn’t do it, Stern.’

  ‘Women die when you’re around. Remember the woman at the pier?’

  ‘That was almost fifteen years ago.’

  ‘The Russian guy’s wife?’

  ‘Yeah, I remember.’

  ‘Now the Chinese woman.’

  ‘I didn’t kill anyone. I’ve never killed a woman.’

  Stern smiled.

  ‘I don’t see the point of this conversation,’ Lang said.

  ‘It’s a small matter, really. I just don’t want you to think that you’re going to skate through all of this. Time isn’t on your side.’

  ‘Time isn’t on anybody’s side.’

  ‘I’m watching you,’ Stern said.

  ‘You’re not my favorite person either, Stern, but I’d wish you a better life than that. This makes me sad.’

  ‘Oh, I’m enjoying every moment of it.’

  ‘That makes me sadder. I think I’ll get a muffin after all.
See you tonight.’

  Stern raised his coffee cup in a mock toast.

  Lang would have walked down to the park and had his muffin amidst the morning dog walkers, baby strollers, homeless sleepers, and purposeful bicyclists, but Stern turned him against further public appearance. No rest for the stalked. Instead he took his coffee and plump muffin back to his place, where Buddha turned down, as he always did, a bite of Lang’s breakfast.

  Lang put on some ‘cool jazz’, took his coffee, muffin and cellphone out to the back. He began making calls to the people on his list, inviting them to Alighieri’s for free drinks and a special reading from the late Mr Whitney Warfield’s last book.

  No one expressed surprise. Ms DeWitt graciously accepted the invitation. Marlene Berensen, who had her wits about her, indicated in a gravelly, bored voice that she’d ‘think about it’. Sumaoang said he’d be there anyway and might check things out. When it was suggested that he was not only in the book but in the X-rated exhibition, he laughed and said he couldn’t possibly miss it. Elena Warfield was noncommittal, and Ralph Chiu thanked Lang for the invitation but gave no indication he would be there. Hawkes feigned disinterest.

  ‘And I understand,’ Lang told the painter, ‘you’ll be there in the nude whether you show up or not.’

  ‘There’s an exhibition?’

  ‘Of the photographs. You are naked but not dead, I’m told. Unlike Warfield who is both.’

  ‘How literary of you,’ Hawkes said. ‘I don’t approve. Perhaps I’ll have it shut down.’

  They would all be there, Lang was sure.

  If the great ‘legend in his own mind’ Whitney Warfield had his eternal soul’s send-off at the magnificent cathedral of Saints Peter and Paul in North Beach, it was fitting that Frank Wiley, a lesser personage, would have his farewell at the smaller, no less beautiful but less grandiose, St Francis of Assisi.

  Those were Noah Lang’s thoughts as he entered the understated little jewel of a church. North Beach was a Roman Catholic neighborhood to be sure – two of their top brand name houses of the Lord separated by a couple of blocks of roasted garlic, fresh oregano and basil, Tuscan wine and strong espresso. Inside organ music filled the spare, open space, but the services had not yet begun. Some people were seated, but others lingered, chatting. Some toured the space, taking in the beautiful murals and stained-glass windows.

  Lang, who came after the affair was to begin, saw the players who would make the evening a genuine event. He hoped so, at least. It was up to Carly and her strategy. Elena Warfield was in the front pew. Across the aisle in the first pew was Marlene Berensen. Malone was there with his wife, as were Sumaoang and his girlfriend. Bart Brozynski sat in a pew near the rear, also near the exit. Samuel McFarland stood, talking with Ralph Chiu at the end of one of the pews. Whatever would a board supervisor and a developer have to talk about? The lovely and delicate Agnes DeWitt was also paired. Marshall Hawkes, wearing some sort of black mourning cape, sat beside her. The two of them chatted, hands over mouths, conspiratorially, it seemed.

  Gratelli stood with Carly off to the side. The two were engaged in conversation. Gratelli handed her some papers. Lang moved toward them, then looked back. Over the entrance to the church was the choir loft. It was from there that the haunting organ music emanated. There were a number of gold pipes in a small balcony. In front of the pipes, looking over the gathering, was a duo – Rose and Stern, scanning the nave.

  Wiley was there too. In an ornate box in the front. Of all the deaths, for Lang, this one made the least sense. Lang looked around at the gathering. Wiley may not have been a shining star in the same way that Warfield was, but he had many friends. Even so, with what would follow after the service, this seemed to be some sort of perverse, darkly humorous pre-party.

  Who was missing besides the dead? Only one. Lang looked around for William Blake. No sign of him.

  ‘You have these only because I asked you to consult with the police department,’ Gratelli said. ‘These are not for public consumption.’

  Behind him was Saint Rita of Cascia, Carly noticed. Schooled in these sorts of things she thought this might be more than a coincidence. She blushed as she considered the chaste saint while lusty images of last night wafted through her brain in some sort of divine, smartass justice. Catholic guilt. No matter how old you get, how removed from religion you think you are, there it is.

  Carly shuffled through the papers in the manila folder. Bank statements for each of the folks on the list. She hoped her hunch was right. She also found phone bills for each.

  ‘Phone bills too?’ she asked.

  Gratelli grinned. ‘Your partner requested those. You didn’t know?’

  ‘You see how complementary our actions are. I call that backup,’ she said, knowing full well she wasn’t fooling him at all.

  ‘Calls around the time of Whitney’s death,’ Gratelli continued. ‘I added some other dates as well. I also added Scotty Markham and Angel LeGard, or Angel Chang as she is sometimes called. I have the originals. Some interesting relationships, I think.’ He shrugged. ‘We’ll see what you can make of it.’

  ‘I appreciate this.’

  ‘Tonight’s the night.’

  ‘It has to be.’

  Lang left the services early and walked over to Grant Avenue, up a few blocks and then over toward Alighieri’s. It was that awkward time on Grant. The businesses counting on day business were closed and the businesses that came alive at night were just now starting to perk up. A few folks were on the sidewalk on this narrow one-way street. He stopped in at Golden Boy and got a thick slice of pizza and a glass of red wine.

  The bar area at Alighieri’s was busy – the stools at the bar were full and the booths on the other side of the walkway were inhabited – no doubt because the back room was off limits. There was a sign on an easel in front of the entrance to the area: ‘Private Party’.

  ‘Party?’ Lang said to himself. He glanced over, saw the bartender looking at him, poker-faced, but definitely looking. The devil posters seemed in keeping with the theme of the evening.

  Inside the back room, he saw a dozen easels with each photograph covered by gray drapery. The tables were being moved about by a dark-haired, slender woman who, in her crisp pantsuit, managed to blend a sense of art with serious business. She looked up, smiled, introduced herself.

  ‘I’m Nadia, Carly’s friend.’

  ‘I’m Noah Lang.’

  ‘I would have guessed.’ She smiled. Her eyes flirted.

  ‘Looks like you have things under control,’ Lang said.

  ‘I do this sort of thing – well, nearly this sort of thing – professionally. I’m not usually part of a murder investigation.’

  ‘It’s an unusual approach for all of us.’

  ‘You know who did it?’ she asked, as Noah helped slide a table in position. The plan was to make sure those sitting at the tables would have a good view of the photographs as they were exposed, the operative word being ‘exposed’.

  ‘This is Carly’s show,’ Lang said. ‘I’m here to help.’

  ‘Does she know?’ Nadia asked, grinning. It wasn’t really a question. She knew the answer. She wanted to know if Lang did. He knew the Nadias of the world very well. Life was a game. If you liked games, you’d like Nadia. And at one time, he would have enjoyed a good game. And Nadia.

  Lang shrugged. ‘It should be a fun evening,’ he said, letting her determine whether the remark was sarcastic or not. ‘So, are we drinking?’

  ‘I don’t know about you, but I am. And the plan is to make sure everybody drinks this evening. And drinks, and drinks.’

  ‘Reduce the inhibitions.’

  ‘Precisely,’ she said.

  Thirty-Three

  By the time Carly arrived at Alighieri’s, Nadia had the back room ready. Carly was confident that Nadia would set it up right – she had years of experience doing such things – but Nadia had exceeded all expectations. Sixteen individual spotlights targeted the dra
pery-veiled photographs. Tables had been arranged so that most chairs faced the line of easels. While the spots cast a silver-white light on the dark gray fabric, the light in the room was red, emanating softly from sconces with red bulbs, suggesting the influence of a 1920s Hades. The leather in the booths which lined the outer walls of the room was red. The floor was a checkerboard of red and black tile.

  This was theater. And Nadia knew how to put on a show. She also knew how to promote herself. Among the crowd at the front bar, Carly noted, were a few key members of the media. This would not only ensure that all of this would be in the papers, on television and Twittered about, the buzz would make her formal exhibition of the photographs more popular than King Tut’s arrival decades earlier.

  Unfortunately for Carly, her performance was what counted. And she was not in the least sure the denouement would match the stagecraft. She pulled Lang from the bar and convinced him to go over to Café Puccini for a cup of coffee. She wanted to work with him on the bank balances and the phone logs. She had much of it together, and one surprise that she was absolutely sure of, but she’d be lying if she didn’t admit there were a few missing pieces to the puzzle.

  They sat outside at a table on the Columbus Avenue sidewalk. Neon signs blazed. Warm, gold light escaped restaurant windows. Taxis, autos and buses added flashes of headlights and celebratory trails of red tail lights to give Columbus a constant sense of buzzing, flickering electricity.

  Carly was in no hurry. The program, such as it was, would be late. Participants, she hoped, would lubricate their boredom with spirits. With the help of a tiny flashlight on her key ring, Carly began to read the papers Gratelli had given her. Lang, always prepared to read in the dark, had a small penlight to do the same.

  ‘You see the pattern?’ Carly said, pointing out numbers on the bank statements. ‘Time. Amount. Not a coincidence.’ Looking at one statement meant nothing. Perhaps two. But putting them side by side told a story.

  ‘And here,’ Lang said. ‘Look who made some late-night calling the night of Whitney’s death.’

  Lang caught the smile on Carly’s face. She had already developed the concept. Before tonight, she had the outlines of the crimes. It was coming together, coming together enough for her to launch into the evening show.