Copyright © 2019 by Jeffrey Alan Lockwood
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner, including electronic storage and retrieval systems, except by explicit written permission from the publisher. Brief passages excerpted for review purposes are excepted.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-68313-191-5
First Electronic Edition
Pen-L Publishing
Fayetteville, Arkansas
Pen-L.com
Cover design by Conor Mullen
Books by Jeffrey Alan Lockwood
~ The Riley the Exterminator Mysteries ~
Poisoned Justice: Origins
Murder on the Fly
Lethal Fetish
Non-fiction
Behind The Carbon Curtain
The Infested Mind
Six-Legged Soldiers
Locust
A Guest Of The World
Prairie Soul
Grasshopper Dreaming
Chapter One
I wasn’t in a good mood. January was shaping up to be as bone-chilling as San Francisco gets and that’s saying a lot. My romantic plans for Nina to join forces with me in a warm, sweaty battle against the city’s cold dampness had vaporized. Instead, I had a celibate weekend looking after Tommy so my mother could drive down to LA, where there was presumably sunshine and definitely an opera. Mom and Gladys had treated themselves to a performance of Puccini’s Gianna Schicchi. For the two church ladies, the opera’s tale of moral judgment offset the decadent journey into California’s city of fallen angels, where movie stars snorted their coke and Bo Derek wannabes jiggled their boobs.
Meanwhile, Tommy and I had gone on a “Saturday safari”—my kid brother’s term for insect collecting. We’d spent a few hours in the hills above Berkeley, breaking open fallen logs in search of six-legged treasure. We nabbed a couple of nice ground beetles, and when Tommy found a spectacular millipede along with some skittering centipedes he decided to expand his collection beyond insects. We’d gotten drenched, muddy, and worn out.
On my way to work this morning, I hoped that the day’s biggest decision would be which pastry to pick for breakfast. Most hopes are destined to be crushed, but at least Gustaw was sympathetic to my current indecision.
“There is only one blueberry pierogi left, Riley,” he said, gesturing with a beefy arm at the display case.”
“But the farmer’s cheese flavored with vanilla is a delicious filling,” said Ludwika, coming from the back room and wiping her flour-dusted hands on an apron that was unable to conceal the ample bosom that lured Gustaw forty years ago in Gdansk.
“People think it is sweetened cream cheese. One of America’s few, great mistakes,” said Gustaw.
“You should explain these things to our customers,” Ludwika said, giving her husband a smack on the side of his massive head.
As I pondered my options and Ludwika wiped down one of the four tables in the shop, Gustaw leaned over the counter and whispered. “Riley, you have—how you say?—sweet tooth. But there is other possibility.”
I generally favored something sugary to counter his ‘strong like dockworker’ coffee. “And that would be?” I asked, unsure of why we were using a conspiratorial tone unless his alternative pierogi involved a shot of vodka which Ludwika strictly prohibited before noon.
“I make for you a special treat. Ludwika does not approve. She says it makes me fat, but you are not so, so gruby,” he said giving up on the English word and patting his generous belly.
I grabbed a table by the window and Gustaw disappeared into the kitchen. After a few minutes he returned with a heaping plate and a steaming mug. The pierogi was topped with caramelized onion and browned kielbasa.
“This is real meat. Is not what Hillshire Farms calls Polish sausage,” he said with a disgust suggesting he’d someday find and pillage Hillshire Farms, as if the place actually existed. It’s good for a man to want justice, even if it involves sausage.
All I wanted was a quiet half hour to savor a Monday trifecta: a custom-made pierogi, a cup of coffee thick enough to pass for San Francisco’s answer to the La Brea tar pits, and the sports section of the Chronicle. But in my experience, the universe cares precious little about what I want.
I had settled into a story featuring Joe Montana’s reaction to the 49ers winning their first Super Bowl. Tommy and I had watched the game with Father Griesmaier in the rectory of St. Teresa’s. It was the high point of the weekend, what with my kid brother shouting himself hoarse and the priest serving up a running biography of Montana—the cleft-chinned, All-American who played for Notre Dame and provided living proof that the Almighty favored Catholics. The Trumer Pils from the priest’s Austrian homeland didn’t hurt. Tommy could let loose and be himself around the gentle cleric. Having reached his forties, Tommy was increasingly aware that having a child’s mind locked in a damaged adult’s body made him an object of stares and derision. I knew people could be cruel, but I was about to discover how twisted they can be.
~||~
Larry came through the door, the brass bells tinkling his arrival. He knew that Gustaw’s was my sanctuary on Monday mornings, and I was not to be disturbed before eight unless there was an emergency at the shop.
There was.
Carol had taken a call from a homicide detective who told her that Goat Hill Extermination was connected to a couple of dead bodies. My old pal from the force strongly suggested that I should drop whatever I was doing and pay him a visit at the scene. Neither the cosmos nor the SFPD gave a shit about my plans.
I got up and slid a fiver across the glass counter to Ludwika who gave me a worried look and a grandmotherly pat on the hand.
As Larry and I hustled down the hill, he filled in some of the sordid details that Carol had charmed out of the detective. For a lesbian, she sure knew how to beguile men. Larry had his calloused side which was pretty much his only side, other than a penchant for dark humor. But even this seen-it-all Vietnam vet figured the old Polish couple didn’t need to hear that the victims were elderly, dog-collared and nude.
When we got to the shop, Carol was at her desk, looking worried and adorable with her new bobbed haircut—a style I found far more appealing than the popular bouffant style that makes a woman look like an electrocuted lion. Her radio was playing some moron who kept the beat by snapping his fingers while singing that he loves a rainy night. The guy had never spent a winter in San Francisco.
“Riley, what’s going on?” she asked as if whatever was going on was my fault.
“Slow down, babe,” I said, knowing that she hated this ‘sexist label’ which is why I stuck with it. “All I know is what you told Larry. A cop I knew while I was on the force is investigating a scene with two old stiffs in an embarrassing situation.”
“Not that dead folks can blush,” Larry noted.
“Good point,” I said. “But I don’t suppose their friends and family would approve of gramps and gramma playing doggy sex games when they went to the great kennel in the sky,” I said.
“You two are sick,” Carol said.
“Sick puppies,” Larry said.
“Stop it,” she said suppressing a grin. “What does this have to do with Goat Hill Extermination?” I was technically the owner, but Carol was the bookkeeper, receptionist, scheduler, and payroll clerk. In short, she ran the place and took great pride in our reputation.
“Beats me,” I said. “I guess something at the scene links us to the deaths.”
“Maybe Dennis knows.” Larry poured a cup of coffee from Carol’s bottomless Mr. Coffee carafe.
“I doubt it,
” I said.
“Besides, he’s not here yet.” Carol glanced at the salvaged kitchen clock hanging above the filing cabinets, its sunny, smiling cartoon face mocking the citizens of San Francisco. She knew the guys were dependable, but it was eight-o-five after all.
“Probably still in la-la land after that Smokey Robinson concert this weekend,” Larry said. “Nice to know that a geezer can still be boss.” He glanced at me with a sly grin. I didn’t take the bait.
“If nobody has a clue what the hell is going on, let’s get to work,” I said. “I’ll head into the weirdness and you two make some money so you can post bail if this whole thing goes sideways. Assuming I’m not detained by the city’s finest, let’s meet back here for lunch so I can share what I’ve learned with everyone at the same time.”
Larry headed down the hall to the warehouse and called over his shoulder, “Carol, when Dennis gets in, I’ll tell him that you said he’d better work his black ass double-time to make up for being late.”
Carol suppressed another smile and handed me the address that the detective had given her. “Riley, I’m serious. Watch yourself on this one. We can’t afford bad publicity with Orkin and Terminix trying harder than ever to steal our customers.”
I gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze and leaned over to give her a peck on the cheek. She grabbed a handful of my graying hair, looked me in the eye, and explained that she’d straighten my boxing-bent nose with a left hook if I messed up. Some women just refuse to accept that men have the world under control.
~||~
I took the old rust-bucket from behind the shop and clicked on the radio. KDFC was playing Chopin’s Nocturne in E-flat Major, Opus 9, No. 2, in the hope of lifting the spirits of commuters on a dreary Monday. Not many people know that Chopin was Polish, although Gustaw is keenly aware of this fact and also insists that his countryman Henryk Górecki will be the next big thing in classical music—once the world hears his work. The old Pole might be right. He knows his sweets and symphonies.
On the drive across town, I turned off Van Ness onto California so I could pass by Grace Cathedral—the gothic behemoth built by the Episcopalians to show up the Catholics. It never ceases to impress me with its Old World feel and I imagine myself in the heart of London. But if I was God, I’d hang out in St. Ignatius Church, not because the Catholics are any holier but the Jesuit Baroque architecture is classier and looks better in San Francisco.
After a few more Chopin pieces, I ended up in one of the city’s most exclusive neighborhoods—Snob Hill. Arriving at the appointed address, I came to a pair of wrought iron gates decorated with gilded, hand-sized, five-petalled flowers of St. John’s wort—the herbalist’s remedy for anxiety, depression, sleeplessness, menopause, heart palpitations, cancer, hepatitis, herpes and most likely hangnails and rabies. I knew this because I remembered having visited this estate a few months ago along with Dennis and treating the carpets for a flea infestation while the owners regaled us with the wonders of herbal medicine—my wonder being that anyone shells out big money for dried leaves. But Mr. and Mrs. Linford were the tycoons of weeds, demonstrating that P.T. Barnum was right about the birthrate of suckers.
The gates were open and the circular driveway swept past a four-car garage with a black Ferrari 308 featuring vanity plates that read “1 Lane” parked alongside. The drive curved up to a brick Tudor mansion adorned with bay windows featuring little glass panes, dormers, gables and the requisite half-timbering on the second floor. Reagan’s trickle-down economics were apparently forming quite a puddle on Nob Hill.
In front of the house, a slew of black-and-whites was haphazardly scattered. Cops park that way to remind citizens that the boys in blue can do whatever they want. I left my truck blocking a cruiser as a petty rejoinder on behalf of the public. When I identified myself to the uniformed officer at the door, he flicked his head toward the sweeping marble staircase indicating that I should head up.
At the top, I was greeted by Dimitris Papadopoulos decked out in a pinstripe suit like some GQ model. He was ahead of my class in the academy by a year and we were both assigned to the Mission station in the early Sixties. Our careers diverged: I got kicked off the force, he made lieutenant. We exchanged pleasantries and I shook his manicured hand. He looked like Greece’s answer to Jack LaLanne, one of San Francisco’s strangest gifts to the world, along with Jerry Brown and Dianne Feinstein.
We headed down a hallway illuminated by miniature crystal chandeliers and turned into a master bedroom featuring Queen Anne furniture—probably the real deal from a couple centuries ago. The contorted, nude bodies of a man and a woman in their seventies were nestled in the ankle-deep carpet.
“So, what linked my business to your loving couple?” I asked wondering how the cops had figured out they were customers of mine.
“This,” the lieutenant said, handing me a business card from Goat Hill Extermination. “We found it on Mr. Linford’s bureau, along with a sticky note that said ‘Call.’ That, and the fact that they’re wearing flea collars, made me think you might have something to share with me.”
“Maybe they overtightened their collars during some sort of kinky game,” I said.
“Nah, we checked,” he said, slipping a finger between the collar and the wrinkled neck of the old man. “No sign of strangulation. But enough with the distractions, Riley. Did you know these people?”
“Maybe. We might’ve treated this house awhile back, but I’d have to check our records. In any case, spraying for pests is a long way from convincing folks to wear flea collars.”
“So, you have nothing that would help with the investigation?” he asked.
“Not right off. Mind if I look around?”
“Go ahead. The medical examiner and my boys have been over the scene and found everything worth finding. I’m going to talk with the victims’ grandson. He found the bodies this morning and might’ve composed himself enough by now to be of use.” Papadopoulos turned to the door. “Don’t leave the house until you’ve checked back with me.”
I started with a careful look at the bodies. There wasn’t much to see that would explain the bizarre circumstances of their deaths. The couple appeared relatively fit but underweight. They’d both taken a healthy crap upon exiting from this world, which made getting close to them disagreeable. But looking more closely, I saw they had rashes across their shoulders and backs, along with patches of abraded skin on their torsos as if they’d furiously scratched to relieve itching or perhaps scrubbed themselves with a scouring pad.
I checked out the contents of their walk-in closet that was slightly larger than my bedroom. There were monogrammed shirts, silk ties, custom tailored suits, rows of designer dresses (Armani and Dior according to the labels; I understand that a single name means an expensive fashion), and enough Gucci handbags to hold my net worth in Italian lire. On the opposite wall of the bedroom was a locked door, presumably leading to an adjacent room. Next, I went into the bathroom, knowing that’s where people tend to keep things they consider private—and a good investigator considers important.
The first dozen drawers under the granite countertop with a double vanity and high-end fixtures revealed normal, if over-priced, toiletries. There was nothing unusual until I came across a drawer filled with lice combs for removing nits, fine-tipped forceps, and magnifying glasses. And in the cabinet under the far sink was an assortment of gallon jugs of Lysol and rubbing alcohol, along with quart bottles hand-labeled as ‘chrysanthemum tea’ and ‘citrus/eucalyptus drench’. I took a whiff from a couple of mystery containers including one with a pinkish liquid that smelled like vinegar mixed with kerosene and another that might’ve been a distiller’s nightmare of lavender and geranium schnapps. The vapors were dizzying. On the floor of the bathroom was a set of rumpled, silk pajamas with a fleur-de-lis pattern and a demure, lavender nightgown with delicate lace. I picked over the clothing but didn’t find anything interesting.
I checked out the other rooms along th
e upstairs hallway—an opulent lounge draped in maroon velvet curtains exuding an intoxicating blend of Castro’s cigars and Napoleon’s cognac, a couple of guest bedrooms that would put to shame anything at the Fairmont (or so I imagine, not having stayed there myself), and a library of leather-bound books on shelves reaching from the oriental rug to the twelve-foot ceiling. The house was immaculate, except that in the corner of each room hung a No-Pest strip, looking like a miniature apartment building with yellow windows. And in the library under an oak table with a green-shaded reading light was a spent bug bomb—one of those canisters that releases a fog of insecticide making homeowners feel much better and the pests feel worse. It seemed that the Linfords had lost their faith in botanical miracles, along with their dignity.
CHAPTER 2
I went downstairs to find Papadopoulos and play the game of pretending that neither of us knew anything while hoping the other guy slipped up. He’d never been very good at this game when he worked vice because he couldn’t bring himself to even feign knowing less than the scumbags he interrogated. Instead, he was really good at giving the impression that he knew everything about the perp and was just using the interrogation as a chance for the poor, dumb bastard to come clean and get a little leniency. Because Papadopoulos was probably a descendent of some Greek god—or at least he had the ramrod posture, swarthy machismo, and humorless presence to convey a sense of divine authority—lots of lowlifes broke down and admitted to the perversion du jour.
The same door-watching cop caught my eye again and flicked his head toward a wide opening off the entryway, managing to both dismiss my importance and indicate the lieutenant’s whereabouts. I smiled in mock appreciation and hoped that I’d parked behind his cruiser. I went into a living room large enough for a half-court basketball game, furnished with a grand piano polished to a mirror finish and clusters of tastefully upholstered sofas and wingback chairs. The ceiling boasted enormous wooden beams, the fireplace was big enough to roast a whole pig, and the dark-paneled walls were decorated with antique prints of various plants. There were no oil paintings of family patriarchs since the Linfords were New Money. On the far side, a pair of French doors opened onto a brick terrace where the lieutenant was standing.
Lethal Fetish Page 1
