by Steven Gore
“You know his name?”
“I’ve got his business card.” She walked into the kitchen, then returned with a glossy blue card with gold lettering: Sang Ngoc Pham Plumbing and Rooting.
Gage took it from her hand, examined it, and then shook his head.
Chapter 52
Sang Pham’s first words as he crawled out from under the house in South San Francisco were, “Oh shit.”
Gage reached down and grabbed Sang’s arm before he could slither back under, then yanked him out onto the grass. Sang rose to his feet and glanced around. His eyes hesitated when they found his stepside van, but his dejected expression seemed to be saying there was no point in running because he’d have to come back for it and Gage would be waiting.
“It’s called the statue of limitations.” Sang’s Vietnamese accent had faded a bit since they last met. “My lawyer told me about it.”
“Statute of limitations,” Gage said.
“Yeah. Statute.”
Two generations of police detectives in San Francisco knew Sang, his grandfather, his father, his five brothers, and their sister—and the Phams made sure they knew each of their enemies. The family was a form of organized crime: gambling, extortion, fraud, prostitution. Gage’s last contact with them was ten years earlier, in connection with a year-long series of Silicon Valley high-tech burglaries in which Sang’s role was to deliver the stolen microprocessors to off-brand server manufacturers.
Sang was the youngest and the lightweight among the siblings, less a danger to society than a burden on it.
“What exactly did you do?” Gage asked.
Sang stared at Gage, then smiled the subservient grin Gage suspected he reserved for white people to whom he was giving plumbing estimates.
“Oops.”
Gage pulled the Sang Ngoc Pham Plumbing and Rooting business card out of his shirt pocket.
“How’d you get a plumbing license?” Gage asked.
“Felonies okay. Really.” He shrugged “Bonding, maybe not.”
“The card says licensed and bonded.”
“Good intentions.”
Gage pointed toward the concrete front steps of the lime green stucco house. They walked over and sat down.
Sang spread his hands, grinning. “What do you think? Really.”
“About what?”
“My rental house.”
“Who chose the color?”
“Nobody. It was on sale. It’s good in Vietnam.” Sang surveyed the earth-toned houses bracketing his. “Here, maybe not.” He lowered his hands and let his grin fade. “But you didn’t come to talk real estate investment.”
“I wanted to ask you about Charlie Palmer.”
“Who?”
Gage cast him a sour look.
“I don’t know a Charlie Palmer, really. He deal in computer chips? I’ve been out of that business a long time, since I got out of prison. Really.”
Sang seemed convincing. With or without all the “reallys.”
Sang cocked his head and squinted toward the sky.
“Palmer . . . Palmer. I did a Palmer.” He looked at Gage. “A woman with a Mexican name. Senora or something.”
“Socorro.”
“That’s it. She had a clogged drain in the kitchen. And I cleaned out some roots in the line near the street.”
Gage gave him another sour look.
“She needed it. Really. I didn’t cheat her.”
“Did anyone come to the house while you were there? Maybe an older guy, heavyset?”
Sang scrunched up his face in thought, and then shook his head and said, “There was just a young guy in a golf shirt who came down from upstairs. I remember because he wanted to use the sink to get a drink of water. I don’t know if he was still there when I left.”
“What was he like?”
Sang gave a limp wrist wave, then grinned.
“Like that.”
Chapter 53
Jeffrey Stark wasn’t at all like that. He was all black leather, except his butt cheeks, which were pink and hairy, and he was a hard man for Gage to find, even with the DMV photo Spike had given him. Gage spent the evening searching for a twenty-five-year-old in a golf shirt, not realizing it was theme night at the Bootstrap on Folsom Street.
Gage wore slacks and a button-down blue shirt, trying to look like a closeted middle-aged suburban husband on the prowl. He was leaning against his car three spaces down from the club when Jeffrey walked out, led by a shirtless eighteen-year-old in a black vest and leather pants. The combination was absurd even by San Francisco standards and too early for Halloween. The kid looked like an elf leading a wolf.
Gage pushed himself off the car and stepped in their path as they approached.
“Mind if I hold the leash?” Gage said.
A heavy chrome chain hooked to a spiked leather collar around Jeffrey’s neck terminated in Elf’s left hand.
Elf’s eyes registered the ten-inch rise between his eyes and Gage’s. It caused him to a come to a stop one step sooner than Jeffrey, who bumped into his back.
Gage took the chain out of Elf’s hand and pointed at the Bootstrap.
“Maybe you should go back inside for a couple of minutes.”
Jeffrey’s eyes were red and his face was bleary from too much dancing, too much beer, and too much giving and receiving inside the jail cell arena, the service stalls, and the glory holes.
“I want to ask you about a client,” Gage said.
Gage’s presence registered.
Jeffrey struggled to put some words together. “I . . . I can’t talk about clients . . . because of . . . because of HIPAA. Confidentiality and all that.”
Gage glared down at Elf. “I asked you nicely.”
Elf looked up at Jeffrey, who shrugged and said, “Go. I’ll meet you when I’m done.”
They watched Elf walk to the entrance and glance back. The opening door released a thumping blast of music and a flood of light as he stepped inside.
Gage gave the chain a tug.
“Hey man, that’s not a—”
Gage smiled. “A leash?”
Jeffrey’s eyes flared. “You know what I mean.”
“I’m not asking about anybody’s medical condition. I just want to know what happened at Charlie Palmer’s house during the two days before he died.”
“Who are you?”
“Graham Gage. I’m a private investigator.”
“For who?”
“His wife.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Just what I said.” Gage tilted his head toward the club. “Didn’t you get enough dancing inside?”
Jeffrey bit at his thumbnail. “Nothing happened during the last two days.”
“The sun came up, the sun set . . . what do you mean nothing happened?”
“I mean nothing important.”
“You remember a plumber coming by the day before Charlie died?”
“Yeah, that happened.”
“How long was he there?”
“A couple of hours. He left before I did.”
“Anything else happen?”
A transvestite wearing a pink empire halter dress came clicking down the sidewalk in high heels. She stopped next to them and smiled at Gage holding the leash.
“Mm’mm. Room for a third?”
Gage shook his head. “Sorry. We’re monogamous.”
She shrugged and moved on.
Gage looked back at Jeffrey. “I was asking what else happened that day.”
“I don’t remember anything.”
“What about the day he died?”
“I didn’t even go inside the room. There was nothing for me to do. He was already dead when I showed up.”
Jeffrey put on a satisfied expression, like he was off the hook.
Gage circled back. “You remember anyone coming to visit Charlie?”
Jeffrey paused and then seemed to drift off.
Gage tugged the leash.
“Hey. I’m thinking . . . Yeah, a guy came by the day before he died. A Polish name nobody can pronounce. He claimed Charlie called him so I let him in.”
“What did he look like?”
“White guy, big. Sorta stooped over. Had a comb-over. Silliest thing I ever saw. I don’t know who he thought he was kidding.”
“You sure it was the day before?”
Jeffrey nodded. “Positive.”
Chapter 54
The comb-over was missing.
“What happened?” Gage asked, as the deputy removed John Porzolkiewski’s handcuffs at the doorway to the visiting room on the seventh floor of the Hall of Justice. Porzolkiewski’s hair was clipped short all around and the saddle-shaped patch of skin on the top of his head was pale and bald.
Porzolkiewski settled into a chair across from Gage as the windowed metal door slammed shut.
“I got a look at myself in a mirror in the psych ward. It seemed kind of ridiculous all of a sudden.”
“Staring at the death penalty can suck the vanity out of anyone.”
Porzolkiewski drew back. “The what?”
“You haven’t heard?”
“No one talks to me. They think I’m crazy.”
“That’s not their fault.”
Porzolkiewski shrugged. “Maybe it wasn’t such a good strategy on my part.”
“I heard from Spike Pacheco the DA’s death penalty committee is reviewing at your case, deciding whether to charge you with special circumstances. They’re probably going to do it.”
Porzolkiewski smirked. “You here to celebrate?”
“I’m here to finish the conversation you marched out of the other day.”
“Why the renewed interest in my welfare?”
“I have no interest in your welfare, at least not directly.”
“That’s a start.”
Gage flipped open a manila folder lying on the table. “Let’s begin with the things you’ve lied to me about.”
Porzolkiewski threw up his hands. “Not this again.”
“This again.” Gage fixed his gaze on Porzolkiewski. “Why did you lie to me about not having Brandon Meyer’s wallet?”
“Because it was like having that asshole by the balls, that’s why.”
“How? It’s just a wallet. Everything in it is replaceable. It’s more like you were standing there gripping the crotch of an empty pair of pants.”
Porzolkiewski smiled. “You should be a writer.”
His smile faded and he seemed to disappear into a memory.
“My wife used to write,” Porzolkiewski finally said. “Mostly travel articles after we went on vacations. A lot of times for the AAA magazine. I was reading through some of them a couple of weeks ago. I’d forgotten how much more she saw in the world than I did, and we were looking at the same damn things.” Porzolkiewski peered at Gage. “You ever take a picture of something the same time as somebody else and your picture is shit and theirs is magic?”
“I don’t even bother trying anymore. I just hand the camera to my wife.”
Porzolkiewski folded his hands behind his head, and then stared down.
“What a sweetheart. What she ever saw in me . . . There is an expression I remember from when I was a boy in Poland. Milo´s´c spada znienacka. Love comes unexpected, and that’s how she came to me.”
He dropped his hands to the table and looked up again. “I don’t get it. Why are you here?”
“I went by your shop and talked to your night clerk.”
“Suzanne.”
“Suzanne. She said she filled in for you for an afternoon three days before Charlie Palmer died.”
“Why’d you believe her, when you wouldn’t believe me?”
“She showed me the delivery receipts she signed. Some of them were time-stamped by the food service companies.”
“I told you I didn’t do it.”
Gage held his palms up at Porzolkiewski.
“I’m not ready to go that far,” Gage said. “Once you knew the layout of Charlie’s house, it would’ve been easy to sneak back in.”
“But I didn’t sneak back in. I didn’t. There was no need to. The guy was a wreck. He fell apart the moment he saw me.”
“You mean he was terrified, thinking you were going to finish him off.”
“That’s not what—” Porzolkiewski caught himself. “I’m not talking about that. It has nothing to do with why I’m in here.”
“So what happened when you went into Charlie’s bedroom?”
“He acted like he knew I’d be coming. Maybe he heard the physical therapist talking to me. It was weird. The therapist looked at me like he knew who I was.”
Porzolkiewski paused, then shook away the thought.
“Who knows? Anyway, Charlie tries to say something, but gets all choked up, sort of gagging. I thought he was going to suffocate himself. The therapist came running in and propped him up to get him through it. He said I should leave, so I did.”
Porzolkiewski patted his thigh. “I even had Meyer’s wallet in my pocket. I was going to give it to him or trade it to him. But then I forgot about it until I got home that night.”
“What about the ten thousand dollars you told me you got for the wallet?”
“It wasn’t for the wallet. It was for not telling the media about what I found inside. Do the math. Meyer plus condom plus Tenderloin equals some really bad press, for him and his brother both.”
“Who gave you the money?”
“I don’t know his name. He had a Texas accent. Looked like that country singer, the one who always wears the pastel shirts and pressed Levi’s. The guy who sang ‘I Hate Everything.’ I love that song. It’s practically my anthem.”
“George Strait?”
“Yeah, except younger and darker hair. And doesn’t smile.”
“What did you tell him about the wallet?”
“I said I threw it in the bay.”
“Where’s the money he gave you?”
“In the bank. I divided it up into six thousand dollars and four thousand dollars and deposited it. I didn’t want the bank reporting a suspicious transaction to the feds. Ten grand in cash all at once.”
“It was a suspicious transaction.”
Porzolkiewski smiled. “But I didn’t want them to know it.”
Gage took a September calendar out of the folder. “Here’s the test question. Did you go back to Charlie’s house?”
“You going to walk out?”
“That’s up to you.”
“Yeah, I went back. The night before he died.”
“You passed the test. The police neighborhood canvass turned up a neighbor who described your Corona right down to the missing hubcaps. A wreck like that in a neighborhood like Russian Hill is practically probable cause.”
“But I didn’t go inside the house.” Porzolkiewski raised his right hand. “I swear. I didn’t go in.”
“I know that, too. The neighbor was watching you the whole time, cell phone already with 911 punched in, thumb poised to press send, just waiting for you to get out of the car. Until I talked to Jeffrey Stark—”
Gage felt the conflict between Stark’s story and Porzolkiewski’s, but wasn’t ready to challenge him and maybe provoke him into marching out again. There were things Gage needed to find out, even before he confronted Stark again.
“Who’s Jeffrey Stark?”
“The physical therapist. I thought you’d driven over to see if Charlie was still alive.”
“No. I wanted to go yell at him, make him confess. Looking pathetic isn’t a confession, but . . .”
Porzolkiewski’s voice faded and he pursed his lips.
“But what?”
“But then I saw his wife through the living room window. Is she Mexican or something?”
“Half.”
“Anyway, I saw her sitting by herself, just staring. Made me think of my wife. It kind of took the wind out of me.” Porzolkiewski shook his head. “I regretted it later, after
he was dead. I figured I missed my chance to force him to tell the truth. I was still pissed off when you came by the house the first time.”
Gage removed photocopies of a list of names, some in English and some in Arabic, and numbers on a scrap of paper and of both sides of a credit card, then slid them across the table.
“Why didn’t you give me copies of these?” Gage asked. “They were found in Meyer’s wallet when the police searched your house.
Porzolkiewski glanced at the pages.
“I figured I’d keep something for leverage if I needed it,” Porzolkiewski said. “All these names and numbers must mean something. And the credit card didn’t seem right.”
“What didn’t look right?” Gage already knew the answer, but was more interested in how far Porzolkiewski had gotten.
“The expiration date. It was like the way my parents wrote them in Poland. Instead of writing the month, then the day. They did it the other way around. I think they still do it like that in Europe.” Porzolkiewski tapped date on the card. “See? Instead of March 30, it’s 30 March.”
Gage pointed at the list of Arabic names. “You figure out what all these mean?”
“Other than it looking like he was involved with some kind of terrorists?” Porzolkiewski cocked his head toward Gage. “They make any sense to you?”
“No. But I’ll find out.” Gage changed the subject. “What are you going to do in court tomorrow?”
“It depends on whether you’re getting me out of here.”
“I’m a long way from that. You’ve lied to me too many times. You still could’ve done it or hired someone else. And you were in the Delta at the right time to poison Karopian.”
Porzolkiewski’s face flushed and he pushed himself to his feet.
“Not that again.” Gage shook his head and pointed at the chair. “Sit.”
Porzolkiewski glared at Gage, then dropped back down.
“It’s going to take some time,” Gage said.
“How much time?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe my next phone call should be to the San Francisco Chronicle.”
