‘Stage fright?’ he asked as they walked slowly back to Alighieri’s. It was well after ten. By this time the participants should have arrived and begun to salve their anxieties with drink.
‘A little,’ she said. ‘It reminds me of what I did at Vogel Security. It’s not that much different than presenting a complicated case to our staff or findings to our client. I did that at the old job; I would get people together, question them, push them, challenge them.’
‘You know the answer?’
‘Answers plural, I think. No, not every piece is in place. You have some of them.’
He did. The two agreed on the major points. Was there enough detail for a jury to convict? Not by a long shot.
Lang could tell by her voice that despite all the seeming frivolity of gathering the suspects together in one room, whatever might emerge this evening, she was aware of the fact that there would be a murderer or murderers in the room – that lives had been snuffed out and that soon lives would be changed forever. There was a little drizzle now and the lights from the neon signs softened and blurred. The little Italian village they walked through was portrayed in a watercolor rather than as a photograph.
At the entry to the block where Alighieri’s small blue sign whispered its existence there were TV trucks and police cruisers. The bar was packed and the din loud. The events that would follow were not secret, it seemed.
‘Nadia’s doing,’ Carly tried to say, her lips grazing Lang’s ear.
Stern had the door to the back room and smirked an OK to go in. The room itself wasn’t that crowded. Tables were full. Lang’s eyes took inventory. The suspects on the list who hadn’t expired were there. So were Rose and Gratelli.
‘Let’s get the show on the road,’ Sumaoang shouted.
Lang noticed that the painter had been drinking. Was this also Nadia’s doing?
‘We’re getting there,’ Carly said. ‘C’mon. No cover. The drinks are free. This may be your last day of freedom.’
There was laughter among the grumbling.
‘Who is in charge here?’
The question came from McFarland. He’d stood up. He was used to being in public settings.
‘I’ll talk us through this,’ Carly said. ‘But we have some others here who will provide you with information. Noah Lang, my partner. And Inspector Gratelli, who is just about to put an end to the murders and lock up the guilty.’ She moved in front of the covered photographs. ‘This evening we will talk about jealousy, greed, betrayal and deep, deep embarrassment. Motives for murder. Oh, and art. We’ll talk about art.’ Carly nodded toward the line of photographs.
‘There’s nothing keeping us here,’ Ralph Chiu said.
‘No,’ Gratelli said, ‘unless we arrest you, you are free to go. Of course, you would then miss out on what is being said. Perhaps about you after you’ve gone. You know we have a newspaperman here. We can’t keep him from writing about all this. Right, Mr Brozynski?’
‘You couldn’t be righter,’ Brozynski replied, grinning. Aside from Ms DeWitt, Brozynski may have been the only one in the room enjoying the party.
‘And with your usual passion and viewpoint.’
‘Yes, absolutely.’
McFarland stood and went toward the door, but not to leave, merely to shut it.
‘I don’t know what those of us who have essentially been cleared of the deaths of these individuals are doing here. I don’t. I really don’t.’
‘No one has been cleared of all the crimes in this case,’ Gratelli said. ‘No one.’
‘Why are you letting a sleazy PI agency do all the work, Inspector?’ asked Marlene Berensen, her deep voice fitting nicely with the divey atmosphere.
‘Paladino and Lang Investigations have been consulting with us for the last few weeks,’ Gratelli said. ‘They have some thoughts on the case that bear airing. We are here to learn as well.’
‘Did you find the manuscript?’ Sumaoang asked. ‘That’s all we care about. Can we cut to the chase?’
‘The chase is part of the fun,’ Lang said.
‘It isn’t a foxhunt,’ Hawkes said, his voice dripping in condescension.
‘More than you think,’ Lang said, soft enough to keep the others from hearing. He moved toward Hawkes.
‘May I freshen your drink?’
‘I’m sure it is fresh enough,’ the painter said. ‘I believe the devil is in the cocktails, Mr Lang.’
‘First,’ Carly said, ‘I want to introduce Nadia Gravenstein. ‘She is an artist, agent, curator and friend and supporter of the arts. It is only appropriate on an evening honoring and memorializing Frank Wiley, that we show you what would likely have been the most important exhibition of his life.’
Carly nodded toward Nadia.
Someone said, ‘Oh, Christ.’
‘The drinks are still on us,’ Nadia said, moving toward the row of easels. ‘Frank Wiley loved North Beach. More than most other writers and artists who lived here and took their inspiration from this village, Frank was completely faithful to it. His early work captured the stores and restaurants and banks and most important, its inhabitants, chronicling lovingly its blessedly slow evolution.’
There was a rustling that reflected more impatience than boredom. It wasn’t what Nadia intended, but what Carly wanted. More to drink. Growing impatience. Nadia was a perfect catalyst.
‘Many North Beach inhabitants – passing through or permanent – have achieved greater glory. There are indeed still living legends. The photographs we are about to see are remarkable in many ways. They are very different from Frank’s usual work. They are indeed revealing in ways that perhaps frightened even him. It took him until now to put together an exhibition and book in collaboration with the late Whitney Warfield. We do not yet know if the proximity of their deaths is significant, yet the coincidence cannot go unnoticed.’
Thanh arrived from nowhere, it seemed, to take orders for drinks. Lang noticed William Blake, shadowed in a dark corner. With him was an immense bearded man whom Lang didn’t know. Rose had joined Stern at the back room entrance. Stern looked disgruntled and Rose amused. Gratelli had taken a seat beside Agnes DeWitt, who was sipping something that looked like a Manhattan.
‘These are portraits of several North Beach artists and poets who allowed themselves to be vulnerable. These are photographs from their younger days, perhaps when the subjects were more hopeful, less judgmental, and certainly more vulnerable.’
Nadia pulled off the first cover. It was a naked bearded man, eyes looking back at the lens with humor and wit and perhaps some flirtation.
‘It wasn’t necessarily out of fearlessness that artists like Allen Ginsberg would allow themselves to be photographed naked. There may have been a form of exhibitionism involved, but I would like to think of it as transparency, which I propose is the true meaning of freedom. We hide nothing.
‘Others,’ Nadia said, pulling the cover off another photograph and hearing a gasp, ‘may have experienced that feeling at the moment, at the height of the Beat and Hippie movements. It was a lack of hypocrisy then and a desire for acceptance of the exposed, beautiful uniqueness of each member of creation.’
Lili D. Young looked away, then looked back with, as those close to her could see, determination.
Nadia went on, pulling covers off subjects, some of them in the room, some merely from the era and now gone.
When she reached the last photograph, Nadia spoke again. ‘Others have been consumed by the times, or the route their lives have taken, regretting, it seems, their openness, their spontaneous honesty.’
However, Nadia did not pull off the last cover.
‘I think that Carly wants to begin the discussion of the missing manuscript and the four murders that appear to be connected to Frank Wiley’s and Whitney Warfield’s work.’
‘You forgot to uncover the last photograph,’ the newspaper publisher, Brozynski, shouted.
‘I didn’t forget,’ Nadia said. ‘It’s a surprise. Drink up.
’
It was Carly’s turn. She could feel the anxiety settling in her stomach. She grabbed a glass of wine. She had held off until now. She replaced Nadia in the front of the room. She saw three uniformed police slip into the room and settle against the back walls, near the door.
There were six cops in the room. It was up to her now.
Thirty-Four
Lang figured that most had imbibed more than they might during the relatively short time they were there. Thanh kept score and reported to Lang that even the frail and lovely Agnes DeWitt had consumed at least two drinks. Sumaoang, who professed a bottled water discipline, had three Anchor Steams and two glasses of vodka. He had either made this a special occasion or he had fallen off the wagon. Hawkes had consumed three Cosmopolitans, and his tablemate, Brozynski, several double Scotches.
Marlene Berensen sat with Elena Warfield. Marlene, like the newspaper publisher, had more than a couple of Scotches. Elena was content with a glass of red wine. Malone was a Scotch drinker as well. Lili D. Young nursed a glass of white wine and McFarland drank two vodka tonics. There was only one abstaining. Ralph Chiu had a Coke.
Carly looked confident in front of the group. She spoke without notes.
‘Here’s what happened on the night of the murder of Whitney Warfield. At two thirty a.m., Richard Sumaoang received a call from Mickey Warfield. It lasted for three minutes. Richard Sumaoang immediately called Nathan Malone. What was their conversation about? We’ll get to that. Sumaoang, after a short conversation, again called Mickey Warfield.
‘Hold on to that thought. Flashback. Three days earlier, Mickey Warfield called Richard Sumaoang, Nathan Malone, Ralph Chiu, Supervisor Samuel McFarland, Lili D. Young, Agnes DeWitt, Frank Wiley, Bart Brozynski and Marshall Hawkes. There were calls to Marlene Berensen too, but they were many and often.
‘What was the nature of these calls? Mickey was a busy guy. So, let’s move from phone calls to bank withdrawals.
‘During the three days between those calls and the early-morning death of Whitney Warfield, each person I mentioned, with the exception of Lili D. Young and Whitney’s wife, Elena, withdrew significant money from their accounts, usually $10,000. Deposits totaling nearly $70,000 were deposited in various accounts of Mickey Warfield.
‘So what do we make of that?’
Carly waited. She looked at each one of them. She stopped in front of Sumaoang.
‘Noah said you always had that phone right there in front of you, where it is now. He said that you were here every night, a real regular. You . . .’
‘Who doesn’t have a cellphone, lady?’
‘The money,’ she continued. ‘How is it that each of you withdrew a significant amount of money at about the same time? You all agree to pay him to kill his father?’
‘I don’t have to stay here,’ Sumaoang said, standing up. He headed for the door. Stern stood in front of it. ‘Finish your drink. It’s only polite.’
‘How can you keep me here?’
‘We can keep you downtown,’ Rose said. ‘Murder, tsk, tsk.’ Rose shook his head.
‘I didn’t kill anybody. Lana picked me up at the bar right after closing. You know how it is around here. Two o’clock and it’s everybody out on the street whether you’ve finished drinking or not. When was Warfield killed? Later, right?’
‘Go back to your seat,’ Stern said. ‘Not closing time here.’
‘I wouldn’t have done it, couldn’t have done it,’ Sumaoang said as he went back to his table.
Carly shrugged. ‘What was the money for if it wasn’t to hire a hit man . . . or woman?’
‘No one wanted to kill him, we . . .’ Marlene Berensen tried to say before she was told to shut up by Supervisor McFarland.
‘This is ridiculous,’ the supervisor said. ‘This has gone on long enough. We want a lawyer. I don’t know who you think you are . . .’
‘You can leave,’ Lang said, moving toward McFarland. ‘Just give me a second to chat with the reporters at the bar. You can give an interview. You like talking to the press?’
McFarland sat down.
‘So,’ Carly said, undaunted, ‘Sumaoang’s first call went to Mickey Warfield. Mickey knew his father’s office best. The computer, the manuscript, all the CDs, notes, etc. – where they were and how to get them. The idea was that Mickey was to get all of this while his father was here at Alighieri’s. And for that Mickey would get paid the big bucks. And, why shouldn’t he? He had been cut out of the will, hadn’t he?’
Carly moved closer to Sumaoang.
‘You were busy with the phone. Around two thirty, you received a call from young Mickey and you immediately called Nathan Malone. What was that all about?’
‘None of your business. You’re nobody. I don’t have to answer you.’
‘Police may ask the same questions later, but for now,’ Carly continued, ‘let me guess, there was a problem locating all the material. Maybe the manuscript was somewhere else in the house. Whatever it was, I’m guessing Mickey needed more time and he was afraid his father would get home before he could complete his task. How does that sound?’
No answer.
Carly moved toward Nathan Malone.
‘You were called in to talk with Whitney,’ she said to Malone. ‘You had time to get from Hill Street. Thirty minutes until closing and then Whitney argued with William Blake outside the bar for maybe fifteen more minutes. Who else could keep Whitney busy talking for two hours than his old writer-competitor friend? What did you talk about? Did you argue about who history would judge the better writer? The most profound?’
‘Because you say it doesn’t make it true, Carly,’ Malone said in a voice drenched with amusement.’
‘What’s true? That’s a fine question,’ Carly said. ‘There was a flurry of phone calls to each of you and a number of calls among you that were exceptional – that is to say, calls you would not normally make. We have a witness connecting a private investigator to Mickey Warfield and to you, Mr Chiu. So far, no conjecture. All facts. We have other homicides. Poor Mickey was killed. The private eye died trying to kill an investigation. A lovely Chinese woman was killed. These are all facts and all related one way or another to a list provided by an outside party who learned that Whitney was planning to expose some deep secret.’
‘You forgot Frank Wiley, Ms Paladino,’ Nathan Malone said.
‘I haven’t forgotten. We’ll get to that in time. Unless, of course, you have something you want to say.’
‘No, not at all. Just wondering why you didn’t include him in your list of facts. Many of us just attended his services. You were there too, I believe.’
‘In time. Meanwhile, thank you for getting us back to the facts. The facts suggest a conspiracy to commit murder involving everyone who received a phone call and withdrew money. Simple.’
‘If you really had anything,’ McFarland said, ‘the police would be asking the questions. This is a farce. A complete farce.’
Inspector Gratelli walked up, stopping a few feet from Carly.
‘Let me remind you that there is a vast difference in the sentencing of a person convicted of a conspiracy to commit theft and a conspiracy to commit murder. Just thought you all might want to think about that.’
‘Are you supporting all this?’ McFarland asked. ‘It’s outrageous and I intend to investigate the behavior of the police in this matter, particularly you, Inspector.’
‘You withdrew money and almost immediately went on a vacation, getting as far away from the city as fast as you could.’ Gratelli stopped, thought a moment. ‘As far away as you could.’ Gratelli spoke softly as he often did, without drama, dryly. But he made his point. ‘I would think you, of all people, might be more appreciative of this relatively private approach. We can certainly do this in a more public way.’
That seemed to settle McFarland’s threats. There was silence. Carly allowed it to go on for a while. People were no doubt evaluating their own personal situation and the risk involv
ed. It was what Carly wanted, needed. She had no proof, only a series of suspicious behaviors and speculation.
‘No?’ Carly finally asked the group. ‘Everyone want to stay on the list of murder suspects? OK, let’s talk about the hotel business. Mr Chiu, in addition to your other investments – massage parlors, for example – you have a thriving real estate business. You own more of North Beach than you do of Chinatown and you own the land for the hotel that Mr McFarland pretends he doesn’t want built here. Is that right?’
‘That’s right,’ Bart Brozynski said, his booming voice echoing in the room. ‘But that secret was already out of the bag. We did a story.’
‘But Whitney Warfield presented a problem. Not only did he not want the hotel to be built, he was prepared to make a big deal about the highly respected Mr Chiu’s financial interest in sex trafficking, which would have presented one more nail in the hotel’s coffin. Though scandal rarely keeps a politician from being re-elected in San Francisco, McFarland, already in trouble, didn’t need the added baggage.
Brozynski laughed. ‘Breaking news. Damn, I wish we weren’t a weekly.’
‘None of this is true,’ McFarland said. Chiu remained quiet.
‘This is why Angel LeGard had to die. Because she could testify about Mr Chiu’s involvement and his other businesses.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ Ralph Chiu said, standing. ‘We all know that Miss LeGard was a reluctant false alibi for Mr Mickey Warfield for the night of his father’s death, and that she was changing her mind. It had nothing to do with this so-called sex traffic. Isn’t that true, Mr Lang?’
Carly moved forward to keep the focus. ‘We’ll have more to say about that, Mr Chiu. Perhaps you know what’s coming.’
She moved toward Lili D. Young.
‘You made no withdrawals,’ Carly said. ‘Are you the only one left out of this cozy little group?’
The artist seemed to implode. She was silent, unreachable.
‘You did get a call from Mr Sumaoang, didn’t you?’
Death in North Beach Page 25
