The last day had made it clear that Lane couldn’t be trusted. With his grandparents dead, rather than just merely pushed aside, he would presumably pay Michelle out of the company coffers and I still wouldn’t know what dark secret of his led to the poisoning the Linfords. I was essentially back to square one. And if the newspapers latched onto the sordid story, there was no doubt Lane would throw Goat Hill Extermination under the bus. He’d say anything to protect his reputation—and he was getting in some good practice when it came to lying.
Dennis appeared at the top of the stairs, carrying a clipboard and looking every bit the professional. He joined us, flipped through a few pages, and declared that the upstairs was free of vermin. Even if he was overacting, I was impressed with his timely and convincing arrival on the stage.
~||~
When we were in the truck, I clicked on the radio and we caught Mozart’s Symphony No. 25 in G minor, which I suggested was a much less “spooky” example of the great composer’s work. We listened for a few minutes.
“It’s not bad, I guess. Might be nice background music in an expensive restaurant or classy store.”
I bit my tongue. “Setting aside your music review, what did you find in Lane’s wing?”
“Most of the rooms had the fancy furniture and artsy doodads that I seen in rich houses before. But the dude had an insect zoo in his bedroom.”
“I’ve seen his upscale ant farms. Even the insect neighborhoods in this city are becoming gentrified.”
“Nice one, Riley. Did you check out his mealworm and cockroach condos?” That explained the smell coming from the covered terrariums. “Those was some badass roaches. But the real deal was in this office connected to his bedroom. There was shelves of scientific magazines.” He paused to look through the notes on his clipboard. Dennis had taken his job seriously, as usual. “Our boy subscribes to the Journal of Abnormal Psychology and the Journal of Sex Research. These be Penthouse for college graduates, I s’pose. And then there was video tapes.”
Now he had my full attention. “What did the labels say?” He flipped to another page.
“There was a mess of nature programs, like ‘Secrets of the Ant’ and ‘The Swarming Hordes.’ Then there was a few hand-labeled videos hidden behind the standard stuff. I couldn’t make out some of the writing, but one had ‘Formicophilia’—which I’m prob’ly not sayin’ right—then it said ‘LL October 1981.’ Another said ‘Crush: stiletto and crickets’ and one said, ‘Penis sting close-ups.’”
I was going to need another visit with Dr. Chen—and maybe some counseling afterward.
CHAPTER 14
As I pulled in behind the shop, KDFC was finishing the Mozart program with Eine kleine Nachtmusik which Dennis judged as being pretty enough to play in the elevator of a nice hotel. I cringed, unable to decide whether my morning tutorial had been a failure or a success. At least he’d listened, which was something.
We went inside where Dennis checked the work schedule and started diligently loading the other van. He wasn’t going to let down Larry by having played private eye with me rather than spraying for vermin. I headed to my office, ignored the “While You Were Out” notes festooning my door and called Dr. Chen, my reluctant, consulting psychologist.
As expected, I got the receptionist whose job it was to make sure that her boss never talked to anyone without an appointment and a checkbook. But this time I was ready for her.
“Hello, this is Dr. Müller.” I drew out the long “u” as Mr. Müller, my 7th grade history teacher at St. Teresa’s, had done. I figured that Freud was Austrian so a German name would sound important. In the haughtiest voice I could muster, I pushed on: “I am the head of the psychology department at San Francisco State.”
“Ah, yes,” she murmured with false assurance, which was good as I hadn’t figured she’d know the faculty. But one could never be certain about the ignorance of others.
“Please connect me to Doctor Chen.”
“May I tell her what this concerns?”
I sighed audibly. After all she was only a secretary and no self-respecting professor would deign to inform the office staff of professional matters. “I wish to invite the doctor to speak at the Cedric Riley Lecture series.” Nothing like naming a prestigious event after oneself. There’s no cause for humility when you’re the imaginary head of an academic department.
There was a pause on her end as she processed this fabrication. Sensing her uncertainty, I bet that pomposity would trump doubt. In for a penny, in for a pound as my father used to say, despite the expression being British and his contempt for all things monarchical.
“Surely you’ve heard of the lectures. Anyone even vaguely familiar with the psychological profession knows that our series is nationally prominent. In fact, internationally. We had Dr. Gustav Marx here last fall.” Okay that was weak, but Marx was the only Germanic name I could remember at the moment. It worked.
“Of course,” she said as if it all made sense. “I’ll put you through to Dr. Chen.”
There was a few moments of silence followed by some clicking and then, “This is Dr. Chen. I understand you’d like me to give a lecture at your university?”
“Absolutely. A lunchtime lecture to an audience of one, but he’s a very attentive fellow for being an exterminator.”
There was silence as she tried to decide whether or not to simply hang up. “You are bordering on a diagnosis of being a pathological liar, Mr. Riley.”
“Hey now, your receptionist is a wee bit protective. I had to come up with something to get through to you. Deception requires mental agility and deep understanding of other minds, don’t you think?”
“I’m very busy. I’ve told you what you need to know about delusory parasitosis in your line of work.”
“Yes, and you were a great teacher. But I have come across something even crazier.”
“By which you mean mentally ill, I presume.”
I’d failed to learn that lesson in professional terminology. “Right, sorry. What do you know about something called formicophilia?”
This time there was a long pause. “Where did you come across that term? It’s a very unusual condition.”
“I have reason to believe that a person involved in my little train wreck of mental illness and murder is mixed up in this practice or whatever it is. So, what is it?” I’d managed to work in the accepted terminology. Call me a teacher’s pet, but it kept her talking.
“The condition was covered briefly in a graduate seminar on paraphilia, during a lecture on zoophilia in particular. I’d have to pull out my notes and I have a patient coming in a few minutes. But I’m intrigued if, in fact, you’ve encountered someone with this disorder. Skeptical, but fascinated, as a professional.”
Michelle had referred to “zoophiles” which I’d inferred meant people who loved animals—and not in a platonic way. I wasn’t sure about “paraphilia,” but using my high school Latin, I surmised that it involved something about a person being in the vicinity of love. I didn’t want to get us off track by asking for definitions. So, having set the hook, it was time to reel her in.
“How about lunch at Yee’s Restaurant? You have to eat sometime and I doubt you’ll find a more charming companion in the next two hours.”
Dr. Chen sighed but evidently found my discovery of Lane Linford’s condition to be irresistible and agreed to meet me at noon. If I’d only known the powers of obscure mental conditions to attract women, I might’ve been far more successful in my younger days.
I hung up and read through the pink messages Carol had taped to my door. The top one informed me that she was out getting quotes from ComputerLand and the Byte Shop. My technological fate was sealed. The other messages were from prospective clients, including a couple of potentially big contracts. Given my success in luring Dr. Chen, I figured I was on a roll and would try beguiling prospective customers with my enchanting repartee. But first, I had to find out what Larry had learned from his screwy pals.
~||~
The diner had been my hangout when I was on the force. I suppose the place had a name but there only was one of those pink and green neon signs with an arrow (as if people couldn’t figure out where to go) and the word “Diner,” so we just called it “The Diner.” It was a couple blocks down Valencia from the Mission Station, and in the old days cops got free coffee which, given its quality, wasn’t a great deal. Sometimes you get what you pay for.
To make sure police don’t actually get to know citizens or cultivate relationships with local businesses, the Police Advisory Board in conjunction with the city’s Ethics Commission issued a “professional standards policy” banning freebies shortly after I turned in my badge. I bet the appointed and anointed ones didn’t pay for the coffee during their deliberations.
From what I could tell, the rules were the only things that had changed at the diner in the last thirteen years. The yellowed linoleum tiles, cracked vinyl seats, stainless steel counter and truly bad coffee took me back. From appearances, the waitress looked like she’d been working since the San Francisco earthquake.
The loss of complimentary java hadn’t entirely dissuaded the cops from coming by. A couple of blues were at the table nearest the door, so I took a booth in the back to assure privacy. As Larry came through the door, my coffee arrived with half of it splashed into the saucer and the rest in a chipped cup. He slid into the opposite bench, winked at the fossilized waitress, and ordered a cinnamon bun to go with his coffee.
“Damn, that was a freaky job,” he said, pulling up the sleeves of his moth-eaten rag wool sweater and resting his elbows on the table.
“From the schedule, I thought you were doing a simple roach raid at some swanky condo in Pacific Heights.” I took a sip from my cup. The coffee was as bitter and acidic as ever, but you couldn’t beat the atmosphere and service.
“Looked that way before I got there.”
“Not so swanky, after all?”
“That’s not it. The place was posh. Marble entryway, floor to ceiling windows, white leather upholstery, teak bar in the living room, cut glass decanters, you name it.”
“So, you didn’t find any cockroaches and sipped Bloody Marys all morning while trading interior design tips with a rich, sensuous and lonely housewife whose husband was making deals in London.”
“The mister was at work but otherwise, wrong again—sadly. The roaches were rockin’. Turns out that the owners didn’t want to be seen having an exterminator show up at their place. Our presence undercuts a couple’s social standing. To avoid the shame, they put out those lame-ass roach hotels which probably just gave the roaches a grungy place to rent by the hour and crank out little roaches.”
The waitress came with Larry’s coffee and bun. He took a bite, washed it down with a swallow of coffee and continued. “Once the problem got bad enough, the husband, a lawyer, worried that their little house guests would invade the neighbors who would sue for damages.”
“I gather that’s how people get to know one another in those condo castles,” I said, wondering if the sweetness of the bun would make the coffee any better. I decided to add a packet of sugar to mine. It didn’t help.
“So, they called us. I did the usual, like convincing her that a bowl of dried cat food was like a soup kitchen for their growing family of greasy beasties. For a bimbette, she seemed sharp enough to see the connection. But when I brought up the sprayer, the missus wigged out like I was going to rain liquid death on their classy digs. She decided to go shopping to avoid the danger.”
“Probably best for all concerned. But it doesn’t sound all that freaky.”
“Hold on, homey. In the course of the treatment, I checked all of the rooms for signs of infestation. There was a bodacious nightie hanging in the bathroom and in the bedroom there was this freaky device.”
“A water bed? You know Larry, even decent folks have them these days,” I teased as my coffee cooled and became even less drinkable.
“Try a swing hanging from a metal frame with ropes and straps and stirrups. The damned thing look like it was designed for a mountain climbing cowboy. I couldn’t quite figure out what went where and it didn’t help that I got dizzy looking at myself in the mirrored ceiling.
“With that freaky playground and funhouse, they were embarrassed with the neighbors seeing an exterminator in their condo,” I said, adding more sugar. “But that reminds me of why we’re here. What did you find out from your buddies last night?” The waitress came over and refilled our cups. At least the coffee was hot.
“It wasn’t like conducting a police interrogation. More like nudging a conversation.”
“I bet they have good reasons to be wary.”
“The way vets get treated, trust is hard to come by and it doesn’t help that it’s such a fluid group. There’s a VA counselor who runs the meeting, but he pretty much just asks us what we think about what someone says. It’s horseshit but better than watching Real People which is real lame or WKRP, although Loni Anderson has a helluva rack. Don’t tell Carol I said that. Anyway, we go out for coffee after. Better than this, which isn’t saying much.”
“I know. Go on.”
“One of the guys knew about the Pleasure Palace. He’s done some low-budget porn with the owner, Stefan, who directs quick-and-dirty films.”
“I thought Michelle was the owner.”
“She runs the place. Kinda like you and Carol, except they’re married.”
“Thanks for the comparison.”
“Call ’em like I see ’em boss.” He added sugar and creamer, took a sip and winced. “Turns out that Stefan is mostly into the money, but Michelle is into some really heinous action. Dangerous shit from what I could tell, but I didn’t want to push too hard so I don’t have any details.”
“What you managed to find out is a big help. I didn’t know about Stefan.” I pondered for a moment. “Stefan and Michelle. S and M, eh?”
“Life’s funny that way,” he said, taking one more sip before giving up. “I’d better book in a few. Gotta save a lonely housewife in Noe Valley from a horrible death before lunch.”
“Let me guess. We’re at the leading edge of skunk mating season and the little bastards are spraying with greater enthusiasm than the nozzle heads at Orkin.”
“More traumatizing. The note on Carol’s work order said that there was a hairy, baby snake sprinting across the lady’s kitchen floor.”
“House centipede. About the scariest harmless creature around.”
“Don’t be so blasé. I’m about to rescue a fair maiden from a freakin’ monster.”
“Seriously, I appreciate your busting ass to hold things together while I’m playing gumshoe.”
“No biggie. By lunchtime, I can tell the lady that the demon dasher isn’t deadly and lay down some boric acid powder. Then I’ll fuel up for the afternoon on a Cuban at Pequeño Habana.”
“That new sandwich shop near St. Luke’s Hospital?”
“It’s only a sandwich shop like Placido Domingo is just a singer.” I was impressed that he knew the name of the great tenor. “The owners are from Tampa, where they add salami to their Cubans which is righteous.”
“But no lettuce or tomato, I assume.”
“Would Domingo sing ‘Muskrat Love’?” I had a hazy memory of lyrics concerning rodent romance, but I refrained from answering. “C’mon Riley, can you imagine him belting out ‘You Light Up My Life’?” I hadn’t a clue but supposed this was meant to be absurd.
“No?” I ventured.
“Man, you gotta start paying attention to Carol’s radio or this century is gonna pass you by.” He shook his head and got up.
I left a fiver on the table which covered the coffee, bun and a generous tip.
CHAPTER 15
I spent the rest of the morning meeting with two prospects. Near Golden Gate Park, I caught up with a part-time super at 345 Aguello. He had a cramped office in a non-descript hulk of concrete constituting one of the nastie
st excuses for public housing in the city. Tucked into the posh district of Inner Richmond, the project had more rats and roaches than the surrounding neighborhood had poodles and gardeners. We checked out the hallways and a few of the units where tenants were home. A fair number were in their apartments because they were old and disabled—and there was only one working elevator on the property. I scratched out a lowball estimate figuring that extermination wasn’t at the top of the housing authority’s budget list and the quality of life for the residents would be vastly improved with less vermin, fewer leaking pipes, and another elevator. But I could only do something about one of these.
My next stop was in the Tenderloin, where the minister of GLIDE Memorial United Methodist Church had assembled a coalition of soup kitchen directors from around the city. The Methodists had the oldest and busiest facility, but there were nearly a dozen other church representatives at the meeting. Their plan was to pool their resources and negotiate a good rate for exorcising six-legged demons. Once again, I penciled out a breakeven estimate and hoped to be rewarded in the afterlife. The sinful markup on home treatments in Nob Hill, Pacific Heights and other tony locales subsidized the housing projects and soup kitchens. I figured that if there was a God, he would be pleased.
As I was leaving, the Reverend thanked me for coming and shook my hand which disappeared into his baseball mitt-sized paw. Cecil Williams was very big, black, and brotherly—a fixture in the Tenderloin for two decades. Figuring that he knew everyone and everything, I asked him if he’d heard of a business called the Pleasure Palace that had once operated in his neighborhood. He not only remembered the place near Ellis and Polk, but added that the former owners still lived above the converted storefront—the street level having become a Korean grocery while the upstairs apartment was reputedly a sumptuous den of iniquity.
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