Papadopoulos had donned a tailored trench coat which was a bit classier than the 49ers sideline jacket I wore, having bought the souvenir after “The Catch” by Dwight Clark a couple weeks ago. The lieutenant was leaning against the stone balustrade separating the patio from a formal garden complete with fountain and goldfish pond. I assumed most of the shrubby plants were medicinal herbs, given the Linfords’ entrepreneurial affinities.
“Find anything?” he asked as I crossed the expanse of brick, punctuated with black wrought-iron furniture and a grill that probably put out more heat than the furnace in my house.
“Nope,” I said, wondering what it would be like to sear a steak on that gas grill instead of my charcoal hibachi.
“Liar,” he said. I shrugged. “But I don’t think you came across anything of importance that the crime scene boys missed.” He looked out across the garden and the immaculate lawn, which sloped down toward a manicured hedge. On a clear day, there was probably a great view of the bay. Today, low, steely-gray clouds with leaden streaks threatened something between drizzle and downpour.
“How’re you enjoying homicide?” I asked, hoping some chitchat might get him to loosen up and share information.
“Better than vice,” he said.
“A higher class of criminals, eh?” Papadopoulos gave what passed as a smile for him, which would count as a wince on any other face.
“This case was tailor-made for me, according to the captain.”
“You hit the jackpot—naked corpses and dog collars. This could be a high point in your career.” He shook his head, rejecting my analysis.
“The cap needed someone with time in the trenches.” Papadopoulos was probably a couple years my senior, maybe mid-forties. But his hair didn’t have a strand of gray, his face didn’t have the slightest wrinkle, and his gut lacked even a hint of paunch. Cosmetics, genetics, whatever. Asshole.
“The brass figured this was likely to be complicated, eh?” I asked, hoping to feed his ego.
“There’s that,” he said with evident pride. “And the word from the top is to keep a lid on this case. We have some gung-ho detectives who just moved to homicide and they’d be happy to get some ink.” I understood: the politicos wanted the case buried along with the Linfords, discretion being one of the perks of wealth. To serve and protect—and conceal, as necessary.
“Sure, but with your experience in vice, nobody in homicide would be better prepared to unravel the weirdness upstairs. How do you figure it?” A bit more ego stroking was a small price to pay for whatever he knew. He loved being the guy with inside information.
“While you were poking around and finding ‘nothing,’ the M.E. gave me his initial findings.” I waited. Papadopoulos couldn’t stand not sharing what the medical examiner had revealed. I’d learned that during an interrogation, silence is an effective technique—even when the guy being questioned knows all of the tactics. He shifted his gaze toward the shrouded bay. “Poisoned. Both of them.”
I gave a low whistle, to convey a sense of conspiratorial discovery and sustain his self-aggrandizement. “How’d it go down?”
“Can’t say, yet. Could be murder-suicide or double suicide,” he said, still staring into the distance with an air of authority. I continued to play along.
“So, your instincts don’t point to a double murder?” Most of Papadopoulos’ instincts pointed to himself, which made sense given that the Greeks came up with Narcissus—one of the few things I remembered from Sister Mary Leon’s eighth grade course. I actually read a fair chunk of Bullfinch’s Mythology because adolescent rumor had it that the stories involved lots of sex. I was mostly disappointed, although the possibility of gods humping nymphs was more intriguing to a hormone-fueled kid than the idea of virgin birth.
“No. The only suspect would be the grandson who lives in the house, but he doesn’t have a motive.”
“How about money?”
“Look around, Riley,” he said, sweeping his arm toward the mansion. “How many guys in their twenties are living in the lap of luxury? From my interview with Lane Linford, it was evident he received a very generous allowance.” That explained the vanity plate on the Ferrari.
“Greed’s a funny thing,” I said. San Francisco was up to its Golden Gated armpits in millionaires these days—and up to its Tenderloin in homeless folks.
“Maybe there’s some convoluted way he could get richer, but the twisted aspects of this case point to the grandparents, not the kid.”
“I guess an ex-vice detective would focus on the fact that the victims were naked. But I also suppose that stripping your grandparents before poisoning them might be a little too weird even in your experience.”
”I’ve seen plenty of cases more perverse than that,” he said.
“So did the grandson offer any explanation?” I had Papadopoulos on a roll and he was enjoying playing teacher to a wayward student who’d fallen from the graces of the SFPD.
“The kid says it must have been an accident. He claims that for weeks they’d thought something was crawling under their skin. They couldn’t make it stop.”
“Hence, the flea collars.”
“Sort of like old Howard Hughes. Money and madness.”
“Except with the Linfords, the germs were moving,” I said.
“Precisely. So in their desperation, they doused themselves with chemicals.”
“Better dying through chemistry. Seems like a tidy explanation.”
“Maybe too tidy,” Papadopoulos said, adjusting the knot of his tie to let me know that a godlike judgment was forthcoming.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I might buy some germophobic craziness, but the bug story is lame. I worked the City’s alleys and dives. There were plenty of crazies, but I never heard about imaginary insects except with some cokeheads and alcoholics, and the Linfords don’t appear to be either.”
“Don’t seem the type,” I said. “So, what’s the kid trying to hide?”
“These upper crust types value their reputations. You know, social connections and all that.”
I suppressed a snicker, given the suave lieutenant’s effort to cultivate his image.
“I figure that the kid’s trying to cover up suicide. Just because you’re rich doesn’t mean you’re happy.”
“Could be that there was a fat life insurance policy that wouldn’t pay off with suicide,” I said, still trying to find a financial incentive for murder. Greed is a helluva motive, almost as good as sex which is where Papadopoulos was headed.
“Or, more likely, he knows that his grandparents were into some sort of sick, sexual game.”
“And if the word gets out, San Francisco’s elites won’t welcome perverts—or their grandperverts—into the best restaurants, clubs and parties,” I said.
“That’s right. Playing doggy with each other is one thing, but S&M is really sick—and dangerous. I’m no M.E., but I could see their skin was rubbed raw.”
“Okay, but that’s a long step from suicide,” I said.
“So perhaps the kid’s half truthful. Maybe it was an accident of sorts. Some people get off on strangulation, so why not intoxication? Maybe adding poison to their repertoire was exciting. Could be something like Ecstasy. You know, that hot, new psychedelic that’s supposed to be an aphrodisiac?”
“I gotta start getting out more.” I had no idea what he was talking about other than I enjoyed the hell out of sex without suffocation or hallucination. “Damn, you spent too much time in vice,” I said.
Papadopoulos fell quiet and then started walking down the steps from the patio into the garden. I followed behind, waiting for what might come next in the strangest conversation I’d had in months. Discussing which poison is most effective in killing rats or roaches is lightweight banter compared to where this was heading.
~||~
The lieutenant’s pace slowed to a pensive amble. “The assistant district attorney, Grant Roberts, is putting pressure on the vice squad to hunt
down perverts. And I’m not sure where this case is going to fit into his grand plan to clean up the City,” he said with a deep sigh. “The guy is a Moral Majority hardliner, a second cousin or some relation of Jerry Falwell. Roberts was hired to placate the Christians and their political allies who figure San Francisco is the poster child of sin.” He stopped to pluck a camellia blossom. It might be winter, but these defiant flowers didn’t care.
“Seems about right. Summer of love, the Castro District, nude beaches. And your bottom line—so to speak—is to both publicly root out deviants and privately cover up this case. Sounds like you have a problem.” He nodded and started to absentmindedly pull petals from the flower.
“There’s major political pressure, what with Reagan in the White House and Falwell condemning fags to hell. Don’t get me wrong, I think the Gipper is what America needs, and guys screwing guys is disgusting.” From what I knew of the ancient Greeks and young boys, Papadopoulos was on thin ethnic ice when it came to condemning homosexuality. But I thought better of sharing my cultural critique.
“Whatever two guys, or a guy and a gal, or two gals, or a whole roomful of genitals wants to do is okay with me,” I said. Carol and Anna came to mind. They were happy and whatever they were doing in the bedroom didn’t do me any harm, so I couldn’t figure why it should matter. “Hell, we got nuclear missiles ready to vaporize whole cities, American fighters shooting down Libyan jets, ozone holes, and acid rain. The world’s got bigger problems than where guys are putting their cocks or girls are putting their tongues.” Papadopoulos smiled, if you looked closely and used your imagination.
“When I worked vice,” he said, dropping petals along the soggy compost of the garden path, “I was just trying to make the city a decent place for normal folks.”
“I’m with you. But did you ever wonder what ‘normal’ meant? These days, girls have pink, spiked hair and tattoos on their tits, and guys put safety pins in their noses and rings through their lips. God knows what they’re doing in the bedroom, although you have to imagine that the hardware doesn’t make things any easier,” I said.
“Lips and noses are mundane, Riley. Think lower.” I tried not to. “So what’s normal? Normal is a mom sending her kid to the park without some deviant flashing his junk. It’s a dad going in the public restroom and not hearing a couple of guys butt-fucking in the next stall.” Having plucked the last of the petals, he tossed the sad remains into a patch of lavender and took a deep breath. “My job was to keep the perverts, pimps, and prostitutes off the streets.”
“Something like trying to keep the Irish from drinking?” I asked, attempting to lighten the mood with ethnic self-deprecation as the sky darkened. The lieutenant didn’t take the bait. We got to the end of the garden and looked back at the mansion.
“I really don’t care what the Linfords were doing behind closed doors,” he said. “Decency is a public matter, sex should be private. But that’s not how Grant Roberts figures it, and if I cover-up the details of their death and Roberts finds out, then I can kiss my pension goodbye.”
“And if this thing blows up, then Goat Hill Extermination might get dragged into the muck along with the Linfords, eh?”
“Seems like a good bet. If they were poisoned by insecticides and your company is linked to them, the press will have a field day.” I could also imagine that a nosy reporter trying to sell papers or an eager detective trying to please Roberts might have a heyday with my business manager being a lesbian. This could get ugly, fast. “Your reputation could be trashed along with the Linfords,” he added.
“Onward Christian soldier, eh? With a connection to Jerry Falwell, Roberts has some big-time allies,” I said.
“And political clout. The Chamber of Commerce is pushing hard to clean up the city’s reputation. Fisherman’s Wharf merchants are leading the charge and the Board of Supervisors knows that tourism is critical to the economy,” he said, as we started to head back to the house and the foggy mist began to turn into actual rain.
“AIDS has everyone spooked and with San Francisco as ground zero, I can imagine that uptight tourists might decide to take the family to Disneyland where the kids can fondle a duck who doesn’t wear pants and hug a terminally youthful boy in green tights.”
“I’ve heard Roberts told his staff that the Almighty sent fire and brimstone to Sodom and Gomorrah and He sent AIDS to San Francisco,” Papadopoulos said.
“That son of bitch,” I said.
“Roberts or God?”
“Both, if Roberts said that or God did that. Roberts is an ignorant ass. But if God provided the parts and they fit together in ways the Big Guy didn’t figure, then so much for his being all-knowing. Speaking of which, I’m still trying to figure what the Linfords were doing when they died.”
“That makes two of us,” Papadopoulos said, as he pulled up the collar of his trench coat and stepped onto the patio. A cop who looked to be about sixteen opened the French doors in anticipation of our arrival. Make that the lieutenant’s arrival. Rookies are committed to pleasing their superiors, not raggedy-ass exterminators.
“I wouldn’t have figured old folks for kinky sex,” I said. Papadopoulos paused and the rain pattered on the bricks. He turned to me while we were still out of earshot of the young cop.
“After putting in fifteen years on vice, I learned the young are supple. You wouldn’t believe the positions that twenty-year-olds can manage in alleys, cars, and bathroom stalls.” He wiped the wetness from his trimmed eyebrows. “The young may be limber, but the old are twisted.” Papadopoulos finally flashed an unmistakable smile which disappeared when he turned toward the open doors and headed into the Linfords’ living room.
CHAPTER 3
Papadopoulos gave me the green light to interview the Linfords’ grandson, saying that I probably couldn’t do any harm. In reality, he’d not been in homicide for long and his vice-cop approach to punks and perverts wasn’t likely to have shaken loose much from a rich kid. He knew that I sometimes worked cases on the QT since a felony conviction kept me from acquiring a private investigator license—and my business kept me too busy to moonlight anyway. Most of the guys on the force looked the other way when I got involved, knowing I wouldn’t get underfoot and my off-the-books legwork could pay dividends for their overworked caseloads. So, I promised the lieutenant I’d give him anything important. We both knew I was lying unless sharing was to my advantage, and he was gambling on that chance. Betting on the truthfulness of an unlicensed PI is a bad wager.
Lane Linford didn’t have his own room. He had his own wing. A gleaming, hardwood hallway on the first floor was paneled to the ceiling, and even the damned ceiling was wood paneled. On one side of the hall was an office with all the standard furnishings in dark-stained maple with brass hardware. One of the filing cabinets probably cost more than all the furniture in Goat Hill Extermination. On the opposite side was a game room with the de rigueur pool table (red felt was a nice touch) and an obnoxious video arcade along one wall, with images of jumping frogs, frenzied gorillas, and a yellow ball wandering through a maze. Pinball might’ve been just as senseless but at least the machines were beautiful.
Further down the hall was an exercise room with various metal-framed devices featuring tension springs, elastic bands, and rubber wheels. I wasn’t sure what they did, although I did recognize a stationary bike and a treadmill—inventions that people buy to stay indoors so they can work hard and get nowhere. Much like the cubicles in an office building. There was also a bathroom with enough marble to rival the Taj Mahal and what looked to be a drinking fountain for midgets next to the toilet, but I’m pretty sure it was meant to satisfy the other end of the digestive tract.
At the end of the hall was a half-open door leading to a massive bedroom with plush, forest-green carpeting. The bed would’ve slept a family of four, and across the room was an elegant writing desk, where Lane Linford was seated, wearing an outdated argyle sweater vest over a shirt with a too-big collar. It didn�
�t help that he was a notably unattractive young man. His head was too big for his scrawny body, which hadn’t spent much time in the home gym. His face was pale and horsey; his limp hair was parted down the middle and didn’t reach his ears but yet seemed too long. He’d been writing in a notebook and turned toward the door as I knocked softly.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Linford, I know this is a difficult time but I wonder if I might have a word with you.”
“Who are you? The police have already questioned me, and I’ve told them everything I know.” He was understandably annoyed. Now was the moment for tact, otherwise known as deception.
“I’m C.V. Riley, the owner of Goat Hill Extermination. Lieutenant Papadopoulos asked me to come to the house because of a possible link between my business and your grandparents.” That much was mostly true. “He suggested my expertise could help wrap up this awful situation with minimum intrusion. Doing so would seem advantageous to both your interests and my own. After all, nobody has anything to gain from publicity regarding this tragedy—other than those who market smut and relish innuendo.” I was hoping to put us on the same side, against the scandalmongers.
“What do you need from me?” he asked, turning fully toward the door. The young Mr. Linford was nibbling at the bait.
“May I come in for a few minutes?”
“Yes, if you must,” he said, gesturing to a tufted leather chair. The shelves over his desk caught my eye. There was a pair of ant farms, like the ones you find in toy stores, except these were a couple feet long and the glass was framed by oak. There were also several terrariums covered with black cloth—a very odd approach to growing plants. As I sat down, I caught a vaguely familiar whiff I couldn’t quite place. Sort of a combination of fryer grease and moldy leaves.
Lethal Fetish Page 2
