Fever: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Novels) (16 page)

She glanced up from her computer screen when he sat down. Prim little professional smile. Devout and conservative, Dré Janssen had called her, and she looked it: gray skirt and jacket, white blouse, minimum amount of makeup, no cornrows or any other kind of distinctive African American hairdo. Her eyes had a remote quality, as if they were looking at you through a self-imposed filter.

“May I help you?”

“I hope so.” He laid his card in front of her. “I’m not here on bank business. Private professional matter.”

“Yes?” She glanced at the card, frowned, and said the word again with a flatter inflection. “Yes?”

“It’s about Brian Youngblood.”

She froze. Like running water suddenly turning to ice. In a strained voice she said, “I have nothing to say to anyone about Brian Youngblood.”

“He’s in trouble, Ms. Lawson. Maybe serious trouble.”

No response. Silence built up between them, thick and heavy. It occurred to him that she intended to keep on sitting there like that, frozen and silent, until he gave it up and went away. He waited as motionlessly as she sat, holding eye contact, letting her know he wasn’t leaving until she talked to him.

The silence lasted for maybe two minutes. Then, “I’m not surprised.”

“That Brian is in trouble?”

“He’s sick. He has been for a long time.”

“Sick in what way?”

“Mentally. He’s mentally ill.”

“That covers a lot of territory. It might help if you’d be more specific.”

Tight little headshake.

“Is that the reason you wouldn’t marry him? Because you think he’s mentally ill?”

“I won’t discuss my private life.”

“If you know something that might explain—”

“I said I won’t discuss it.”

“I understand it must be painful for you—”

“Don’t you listen? No means no.”

“Brandy,” he said.

She jerked as if he’d touched her with an electrode. The tight little headshake again, then the frozen silence.

“You know her, Ms. Lawson. Tell me about her.”

Nothing.

“She’s part of Brian’s troubles, isn’t she? Maybe the root cause.”

Nothing.

“Is she the reason you ended your relationship with him?”

Still nothing. But the ice was beginning to crack. She sat just as rigidly, but muscles had begun to twitch in her face—an effect like fissures forming and spreading on a glacial moraine.

“Ms. Lawson?”

She started to laugh. A low, bitter, humorless sound that caused a couple of nearby heads to turn. The facial muscles
kept twitching, as if they were acting as a pump for the dribbling laughter.

“Brandy,” she said. “Oh God,
Brandy.”

“Ms. Lawson?”

“Sick,” she said, “sick, sick,” and went right on laughing.

It was as if she were alone somewhere, all alone in a place he couldn’t get to and wouldn’t want to be if he could. He got up and went away from her and the empty sounds of her anguish.

B
ack to the city. He took the Lincoln Boulevard exit just beyond the bridge toll plaza, wound down through the Presidio past Baker Beach and Sea Cliff and over to Lake Street. Brian Youngblood’s former girlfriend Verna Washington had recently moved from the Haight to an apartment on Lake, but stopping there was a wasted effort: she wasn’t home. Already at Bon Chance, the downtown French restaurant where she worked as pastry chef? He called the restaurant number. She wasn’t there, either.

Getting on toward noon. His schedule was open until two o’clock, and he wasn’t hungry. Bill had the Nick Kinsella lead covered, and Tamara had been in touch with Rose Youngblood to report on progress, or the lack of it, so far. Which left him with Aaron Myers.

He called Fresh To You Frozen Foods. Myers was out of the office again today. Home ill with the flu, the woman who answered told him; might not be back at his desk again until next week. Did he want to be connected to Mr. Myers’s voice mail? No, he didn’t.

Runyon drove down Lake, took Divisidero south to
Castro, and went along there into Noe Valley. He leaned on Aaron Myers’s doorbell for two minutes without getting a response. Too sick to answer, maybe. Or maybe his illness was an excuse to take a few days off work for reasons of his own.

Another talk with Brian Youngblood? Might as well give it a shot. If the man was alone, without Brandy to intimidate him, he might be induced to give out with some straight answers.

He drove up to Duncan Street. Another waste of time. No answer to another couple of minutes of bell-ringing. It went like that sometimes; people not home, unavailable, information hard to come by and sketchy when you did manage to pry some loose.

Now what?

He should have gone downtown to make sure he was on time for his two o’clock appointment. But he didn’t. Without making a conscious decision, he drove up and over Twin Peaks and west to Nineteenth Avenue. When he got to Moraga, he turned off and circled down to Bryn Darby’s address.

Small, single-family home, brown-shingled, not much larger than a cottage tucked between a larger house and a two-story apartment building. Strip of browning lawn and some kind of flowering shrub in front. Security gate across the front porch. Drawn venetian blinds over the facing windows. No sign of the chocolate-covered Scion anywhere on the block.

At the corner he made a U-turn, drove slowly until he neared her house, then braked and pulled over to the curb
opposite. And sat there looking across at the house. Not thinking about anything, just sitting and looking for three or four minutes with the engine running. Then he switched it off, opened the door, and started to get out. But that was as far as he got. Duty rather than propriety stopped him: he was going to be late for his two o’clock appointment as it was and he hated being late. He slid back under the wheel, fired up the engine again. Before he drove away he shut himself down all the way, so he was not thinking at all.

T
he big hype is that cell phones are one of the wonders of the modern age. Bells and whistles galore. You can talk to others, receive voice and text messages, send text messages, take photographs, play music and games, access your e-mail, and, for all I know, track the progress of herds of elephants on the African veldt. All in one self-contained little unit that fits in your shirt pocket and the palm of your hand. Some people seem to worship the things; they’re the ones you see every day on streets and highways and sidewalks and in public buildings with cells glued to their ears and rapt, satisfied expressions on their faces. Instant telecommunication orgasms delivered by your choice of jaunty, sappy tunes and other fun electronic noises.

Not for me.

For me, they’re a sometimes useful business tool and a pain in the ass.

No photograph has ever been taken or text message sent on mine. I don’t have e-mail to access—Tamara and Kerry
take care of my needs on that score—or interest in any of the other options. And I’ve never felt the desire for constant connection to my loved ones, business acquaintances, casual friends, and total strangers. A phone, in my old-fashioned world, is an instrument that provides necessary-emphasis on the word
necessary—
access to another person for a definite purpose. It is not a toy. It is not a source of public auditory (or visual) masturbation. Above all, it should not be, but too often is, an annoying, attention-distracting, accident-causing, self-indulgent plaything used at others’ expense.

Two other negative aspects of cell phones. The battery usually runs down when you need it the most and you’re someplace far away from the charger, and the thing then beeps and burbles at you until you shut it off—if you can figure out how to shut it off. And it invariably rings at the most inconvenient time. All phones ring at inconvenient times now and then, but cells seem to be the worst offenders by far. Mine is, anyway. Mine is controlled by gremlins. If I’m at the office or at home, or someplace waiting quietly for a call, it never rings. It seems to go off only when I’m in the car driving. If I get ten calls a week, that’s when nine of them will come in. This doesn’t seem to bother most drivers; you see them everywhere with one hand clapped to an ear, mouths moving like mental cases muttering to themselves in locked rooms. There was a new law in California against this, as there is in New York and other states, but it had yet to be enacted and even when it was, the cell phone junkies would ignore it and the law would play hell trying to enforce it. Once you give people a fancy new toy, you’d
better not try to take it away from them; it produces tantrums, and in adults tantrums can sometimes be accompanied by guns, knives, and other deadly weapons.

What set me off on this frustrated internal rant was not one, not two, not three, but four incoming calls while I was making the cross-city drive from the Outer Mission to North Beach. Time-consuming, every one, because I refuse to talk while driving and so I had to pull over each time to answer. I could have let the calls go onto voice mail, but I’m not made that way, either. Phone rings, you pick up. Might be important. You never know.

I was on Mission near Army, headed east, when the first one came in. Mitchell Krochek. He’d gone to his house on his lunch hour, he said. Still no sign of his wife, still no messages. Had I found out anything yet? No? He started in on another of his this-waiting-is-driving-me-crazy laments, and I cut him off, not as tactfully as I might have, in the middle of it.

No sooner had I pulled out into traffic and beat a yellow light at the intersection than the phone rang again. Tamara this time. She said, “Guess who just called?”

“The idiot in the White House. He wants my input on gay marriage.”

“Funny, but wrong. Guess again.”

“Enough guessing. Who called?”

“Carl Lassiter.”

“Well, well,” I said. “So word got back to him. Quilmes, probably.”

“Looks that way.”

“What’d he have to say?”

“Wanted to talk to you. I told him you were out of the
office and unavailable. So he asked me why we were investigating him and QCL, Inc. Not hostile—real polite and businesslike. I told him we weren’t, just that their names’d come up in the course of another investigation.”

“And he asked what that was and you said it was confidential.”

“You got it. Wanted to know when could he see you. I told him I didn’t know, I’d have to call him back. Gave me his cell number and said ASAP.”

“That’s all right with me. But let’s dangle him a little. Tell him not until five o’clock, so he has to fight the rush hour traffic.”

“Here?”

“Nowhere else. Make him come to us.”

The third call arrived about four minutes later, as I was trying to maneuever around a stalled Muni bus on Mission and Twenty-second. The thing jangled five times before I could get around the bus and into a yellow zone on the next block. I growled a hello, and Kerry said, “Well, don’t bite my head off.”

“Sorry. I’m in the car fighting traffic. What’s up?”

Nothing was up. The late-scheduled meeting at Bates and Carpenter had been canceled, so she’d be able to pick up Emily at her music class after all. Okay by me. Parenthood for the first time at our ages carries a lot more responsibility, compromise, and time-juggling than you consider going in, even when one of the parents is supposed to be semiretired. Semiretirement, for me these days, seemed to mean working as many hours as I had when I ran the agency single-handed.

I was downtown when the damn phone went off for the fourth time. Somebody from the Blacklight Tavern who didn’t give his name. One-line message: Mr. Kinsella was in his office now and he’d see me anytime before three o’clock, the sooner the better, he was a busy man.

Yeah. Me, too. But all right. North Beach and Carol Brixon could go on hold. I don’t like jumping when men like Kinsella snap their fingers, but I was the one currying favor here. Bite the bullet and get it over with.

T
he Blacklight Tavern was on San Bruno Avenue, off Bayshore west of Candlestick Park. One of the city’s older residential neighborhoods, working-class, like the one I’d grown up in. During World War II, and while the Hunters Point Naval Shipyard humped along for twenty-five years afterward, it had been a reasonably decent section to raise a family in. But then the shipyard shut down, and mostly black Hunters Point began to deterioriate into a mean-streets ghetto. Now, with the gang-infested Point on one side and the drug deli that McLaren Park had degenerated into on the other, the neighborhood had suffered badly. Signs of decay were everywhere: boarded-up storefronts, bars on windows and doors, houses disfigured by graffiti and neglect, homeless people and drunks huddled in doorways.

Kinsella’s domain fit right in. From a distance it looked like something that had been badly scorched in a fire. Black-painted facade, smoke-tinted windows, black sign with neon letters that would blaze white after dark but looked burned-out in the daylight. No graffiti. None of the
neighborhood taggers would dare deface those black walls. Nick Kinsella had a big, bad rep out here; even the drug-dealing gangs left him and his people alone.

I parked in front and locked the car out of habit. It was safe enough here, this close to the Blacklight; in the next block it would’ve been fair game for anybody who thought it contained something tradeable for a rock of crack or a jug of cheap wine. Inside, the place might’ve been any downscale neighborhood bar populated by the usual array of daytime drinkers. A couple of the men and one of the women gave me bleary-eyed once-overs, decided I wasn’t anybody worth knowing, hustling, or hassling, and turned their attention back to the focal point of their lives. The bartender, a barrel-shaped guy with a head like a redwood burl and a surly manner, was the same one who’d been on duty the last time I was here. If he recognized me when I bellied up, he gave no indication of it. All he said was, “Yeah?”

“Nick Kinsella. He’s expecting me.”

“Name?”

I told him. He said, “Just a minute,” and used the phone on the backbar. When he came back he said, “Okay. First door past the ladies’ crapper.”