Death in North Beach (18 page)

She didn't look too happy about it.

‘Looks like the game is getting serious,' Lang said.

‘Are we causing any of this? The deaths, I mean.'

‘It's us or the police.' He nodded toward her. ‘And now, it's personal.'

She looked at him. She liked him more that second than she had since she met him. And there were a couple of really good moments. She considered herself pretty strong and definitely independent, but it didn't hurt to have someone taking care of your back. She hadn't really had that since her father died – a long time ago.

Seventeen

After dropping Carly at her place and seeing her to the door, Lang stopped for coffee at Quetzal on Polk Street. He called the office to see if Thanh was in. He wanted his sometimes assistant to check on the Jaguar. But it wasn't Thanh who answered the phone.

‘Brinkman, Paladino and Lang.'

‘That you, Brinkman?'

‘Last time I looked.'

‘You're answering the phone?' Lang asked. To an outsider it would seem to be a dumb question, but Brinkman never answered the phone, which was understandable because it was never for him.

‘It's not exactly engineering a soft landing on Jupiter.'

‘How is it that Brinkman is first?' Lang knew better than to ask, but he did anyway. ‘You said “Brinkman, Paladino and Lang”.'

‘Alphabetical order.' His tone suggested Lang's intelligence was in question.

‘But if that's the case Lang is before Paladino.'

‘I never knew you were so petty.'

It was hopeless.

‘Is Thanh there?'

‘If he was I wouldn't be answering the phone.'

‘Thank you. You've been most helpful.'

The coffee was good. The place was busy. All of the half-dozen iMacs on a counter near the door were occupied. Lang was seated by a window that overlooked busy Polk Street. Watching the people walk by, he noticed that the neighborhood, once called Polk Gulch and Polk Strasse – and now by order of the merchants, Polk Village – seemed to attract Middle-Easterners as well as Vietnamese. A copy of the
Fog City Voice
was abandoned with the dishes on the table next to his. He picked it up. The cover said it all. There was a collage – a digitized photo of Whitney Warfield, a partial map of North Beach, and an artist's rendering of a hotel. All of this was under strategic drops of blood. At the bottom of the cover, it read: ‘Did Warfield's opposition to North Beach Hotel sign his death warrant?'

The story went on for six long pages. Lang was amazed at the skill of the writer. There were no accusations, only questions, subtle and sometimes far-fetched implications. Was there a hotel being built in North Beach? If so, Warfield was opposed to it. It was possible the land that the hotel was to be built on could have been owned by Mr Chiu. And if that was the case this was the district represented by Council member McFarland.

The story, quoting ‘sources close to the investigation', indicated that Warfield's missing book might have implicated the players the story mentioned and that they had motive to kill Warfield to keep him quiet about the secret plan until developers were ready to reveal it. Big bucks and intricate political maneuvering were required for the project's success. Timing was essential.

It was a great non-story with the thin plotlines augmented by the often bizarre assortment of characters surrounding Warfield. The late author's flattering obituary was a sidebar to the story. Lang finished his coffee and copped the paper to show Carly.

At the office he made some calls and, before noon, Lang had his second major surprise of the day. The Jaguar young Warfield was driving last night was registered to Daddy's mistress, Marlene Berensen.

Shortly after noon, Carly called.

‘I'm not going to make it,' she said wearily. ‘Oh, I didn't mean it the way it sounded.' There was a faint laugh. ‘Sounded pretty dramatic. What I mean is, I'm not going to be able to just hang around the flat for three days. I'm ready to scream now.'

He told her about the article in the
Fog City Voice
and then about finding out that young Warfield was driving the car belonging to old Warfield's mistress. Carly came to life. She wanted to read the story. She wanted to talk about the case, and she was willing to offer lunch in exchange for Lang's visit.

Carly could see that Lang was impressed with her flat. He looked around, wide-eyed.

‘I know,' she said. ‘It's a great flat. I could never have afforded it from my work. My parents bought this place a long time ago. And I inherited it. And the furniture.'

‘It's great,' Lang said. She not only lived in Pacific Heights – at the outer edge – she had a nice place and looked at home in it.

‘Come on out to the deck,' she said. ‘Some wine? I have an open bottle of Pinot Grigio.'

He nodded. He figured it was two-bedroom and one bath. At one time this would be considered just a nice, comfortable home. But now, with a fireplace, high ceilings, and a terrific location, Carly could sell the place and live in Mexico for the rest of her life. Never have to work again.

She was also a good cook. Lunch was an omelet made with Brie and mild sausage – a joke on him, he thought – and some sautéed potatoes and Italian parsley. A lot fancier than Eddie's Cafe on Divisadero. Below them was another flat, this one with a Japanese garden, not exactly Zen, but with the simple elegance that the Japanese seem to bring to whatever they design. Gravel, stone, grass and shredded bark changed the texture beneath manicured trees and bushes and around little islands of flowering plants.

‘No wine for you?' Lang asked.

‘Not for a while. The good doctor doesn't want me to have any fun.'

‘Are you feeling all right?'

‘I don't know how to explain it, but my head feels numb. It doesn't hurt. There's just a dullness to everything.'

‘Maybe you need to nap a bit.'

‘Maybe,' she said, and then, to change the subject, ‘I think we're making progress. Agnes DeWitt is off the list, right? Too old.'

‘And too lovely,' Lang said.

‘Samuel McFarland has an alibi.'

‘He could have hired someone,' Lang suggested.

‘I thought of that. But there's too much poetic justice, too much symbolism in the way they died for this to be a hired gun. We can take Frank Wiley off the list.'

‘Being dead isn't an alibi,' Lang said.

‘But Warfield and Wiley getting killed – each with the tools of their trade?'

‘I can't imagine Elena Warfield jumping a fence to stab her husband with a pen.' He shrugged. ‘I don't want to be sexist or ageist, but I can't imagine a seventyish woman with a heaving bosom . . .'

‘Heaving bosom?'

‘They would have to heave, I promise you.'

‘You just wanted to say “heaving bosom”.'

‘Well, true. How often do you get a chance to use that in a sentence?'

‘I'm not sure Lili D. Young could do it either.'

‘Speaking of heaving bosoms?'

‘She's a big woman,' Carly said. I'm not sure how quickly she could get around, let alone climb over the fence.' She remembered how difficult it was for the artist to get to her feet.'

‘You said you thought the attacker was a big person, remember?'

‘Memories are fading in and out a bit. I'm not sure what I really saw.' Half through, and only picking at her eggs, she picked up the copy of the
Voice
.

Lang thought for a moment. ‘You know, Warfield could have gotten over the fence after he was stabbed with the pen.'

‘Last burst of adrenaline?'

Lang nodded. ‘He didn't even have to be chased. He knew his attacker, but didn't know he was being attacked. He turned to leave. Bang.'

‘It was a puncture wound. No bang.'

‘Squoosh then.'

‘But the attacker had Warfield's pen,' Carly reminded him.

‘Good point. But how did the attacker get his pen and then kill him?'

‘Maybe Warfield was physically subdued.'

‘Maybe the killer asked to borrow the pen,' Lang said.

‘Then Warfield turned his back?'

‘Another good point. We don't know what we thought we knew, which proves we don't know what we don't know. That Rumsfeld, he knew what he was talking about with known knowns and known unknowns.'

‘Got the war wrong,' Carly said.

‘Now, you're nitpicking.'

As Carly read the article, Lang constructed the revised list in his head.

Lang considered William Blake a suspect as well, but would keep that to himself.

‘Wow.' Carly looked up from the article. ‘“Sources close to the investigation” – I guess that would be me.' She shook her head. ‘I fed him the story.'

‘Seems like you asked the cat to babysit the canary,' Lang said. ‘If it makes you feel better, I was used a couple of times as well. With Richard Sumaoang, he asked questions, I answered. I asked questions, he didn't. Maybe we need to take a couple of refresher courses in the art of the gumshoe.'

‘What's the plan?' she asked. She seemed tired.

‘The plan is for you to go to bed and rest and I'll see what I can do to eliminate the people on the list . . .'

‘Not eliminate them exactly, I hope.'

Lang laughed. ‘Eliminate them as suspects,' he said patiently, ‘until we find someone we can't eliminate . . . as a suspect.'

She nodded.

‘You know,' Lang said, ‘that story might move things along. Anybody asks, tell them you planted it.'

‘Thanks. You going to the service this evening?' she asked.

‘Should I?'

‘If you would,' she said. ‘See who shows up?'

Noah Lang was good to have around in a crisis, Carly thought. She smiled as she climbed into her bed. He was also quite good at creating one.

It was still warm. The sun would keep the air warm for a couple more hours. Lang decided he could avoid the office and still get some work done on the case. Round two was about to begin. He decided to drop in on Richard Sumaoang. Maybe he could get the artist to be a little more forthcoming.

Richard's place was in the Haight, off Cole Street. It was a short, single-family Victorian in need of – ironically – paint.

A woman of forty or so answered the door. Even without make-up, and probably not expecting company, she was attractive. She eyed Lang as if he was going to try to sell her some aluminum siding.

‘I need to talk to Richard,' Lang said.

‘What about?'

‘That's between Richard and me.'

‘OK, so we both have a secret. I'm not telling you where he is unless you talk to me about why.'

‘OK. I want to talk to him about murder. How does that make you feel?'

‘Whose?' she asked, unaffected by Lang's attempted shock, delivered in his best threatening voice.

‘His maybe. But if you'd rather play games, I'll drop by some other time.'

‘C'mon,' she said, motioning with her dirty-blonde head.

He followed her through the house. It was an artist's home. Plants in old coffee cans, rugs Sumaoang may have made himself, a sofa that was once a Chinese bed. The place spoke of comfort, color, and non-traditional but very individual taste. The kitchen smelled of ginger and there was fruit and bread scattered about. Cheerful Latin music also permeated the rooms. There was a sense of life, of living. It was a happy place, Lang thought, until he arrived.

Sumaoang was outside. A huge sheet, maybe fifteen feet by twenty, was on the ground, rocks scattered at the edges to keep the large drawing from taking flight and taking the artist with it. He was using a chunk of charcoal to sketch out his vision.

‘We've got company,' the woman shouted, as Lang descended the couple of steps into the back yard.

‘Go away, Mr Lang,' the artist said, standing and turning toward the interloper. ‘We've had our meeting and that was it.' Sumaoang was shirtless and if there had ever been any question about his fitness, it was instantly dispelled; he had the physique of a man many years younger than he was.

‘Between you and your girl, you could hurt a guy's feelings.'

‘Apparently Lana and I haven't tried hard enough.'

Sumaoang seemed to want to divert Lang's eyes from his work. He moved to the other side of the detective, so that wandering eyes would see only the back of the house.

‘Frank Wiley's dead,' Lang said.

‘I read the papers,' Sumaoang said. He came to the edge of the wooden steps, where Lang stood, to retrieve his iPhone. Lang took note of the seeming dependency. Perhaps it was new.

‘Yeah, good. An informed citizenry is a good citizenry.' Lang didn't know where he came up with that. ‘But I wanted to get as much information from you while you were still alive.'

Sumaoang smiled. ‘Are you for real?'

‘Unless you're the killer,' Lang said, meaning what he was saying and looking directly into Sumaoang's eyes, ‘you are in danger. You know something, I bet, whether you know you know it or not.'

Back to Rumsfeld, Lang thought. Unknown knowns.

‘I can't help you,' Sumaoang said, after giving it some thought. His tone wasn't belligerent anymore.