San Francisco Night (19 page)

Nightingale watched with amusement as Chen speared a chunk of Kung Pao chicken with her fork and popped it into her mouth. “I’d have expected you to use chopsticks,” he said.

Chen helped herself to fried rice. They were taking their food from cartons and spooning it onto their plates – chicken, sweet and sour pork, beef and broccoli, and egg fried rice. “My dad wasn’t allowed to use chopsticks. His parents came to the States in the fifties and they wanted their kids to fit in, to be real Americans. They spoke English all the time and made him use a knife and fork. My dad did the same with me and my brothers.”

“I’ve never understood why anyone would use chopsticks anyway, once they’d seen how a fork works,” said Nightingale.

“Tradition, maybe. But I don’t feel Chinese. I’m American through and through.”

“And your grandparents? Why did they leave China?”

“My grandpa was a Christian at a time when Christians weren’t well-treated in China,” she said. “He managed to get out and swore that he would never go back.” She put down her fork, stood up and went over to the framed photographs on the window sill. She picked it up and took it over to him. It was an antique silver frame, a dragon on one side and a tiger on the other, as if protecting the two figures in the photograph. The man was in his thirties, his back ramrod-straight, arms clasped behind his back as he stared straight-lipped at the camera. He was wearing a tuxedo and next to him stood a beautiful Chinese girl in a flowing white dress, holding a posy of pink flowers. “He met grandma here in San Francisco. Turned out she had lived in a village close to his in China but they had never met. He got a job mowing lawns and she was the maid in one of the first houses he worked at. They married six months later.”

“Life’s like that sometimes,” said Nightingale.

Nightingale examined the frame. “Is this Chinese?”

Chen nodded. “I got it at a flea market years ago,” she said. “I love it because grandpa was born in the year of the dragon and grandma was year of the tiger.”

“You must miss them?”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

Nightingale held up the frame. “You know…”

She realized what he was getting. “They’re still alive, you idiot. They live in a retirement community in San Pablo. Still in love, still happy.” She shook her head. “You really are one of those ‘the glass is half empty’ guys, aren’t you?” She took the photograph from him and put it back on the windowsill before picking up a remote control and scrolling through the on-screen menu.

“Looking for something in particular?” asked Nightingale, helping himself to more sweet and sour pork.

“I’m pretty sure Blood Network is on,” she said. “Featuring Lucille Carr. There you go.”

The episode had just started. Chen put down the remote and continued eating. She had opened a bottle of red wine and they were half way through it.

Nightingale thought Blood Network was utter rubbish. Two gorgeous heroic sparkly vampires battling against a mob of demons and evil vampires. Naturally, the good vampires lived off artificial blood, could go outside on cloudy days and spent most of the show wandering around looking gorgeous and saying profound stuff about bad vampires.

Lucille Carr played a girl vampire, and the camera loved her. Every time she was in a scene, the camera focused on her almost to the exclusion of the plot and any other actors. Her long red hair and wide green eyes filled the screen, drawing Nightingale’s attention to her, and making him forget the paper-thin story. She was beautiful, but it was more than that. She had a magnetic quality, and it wasn’t just a sexual thing. Nightingale noticed that Chen’s breathing had slowed, she was giving all her attention to the screen. “She’s good, eh?”

Chen shook her head and gathered her thoughts. “I guess. She has something. I hate this kind of show, but I still watch this one all the time.”

“She makes it,” said Nightingale.

“Yeah, like I told you. She hit the big time at her first audition. I guess they were right about her.”

“It’s star quality, isn’t it?”

“There’s something about her. Something that makes you forget everything else.” She looked over at him. “And that comes from Satanism?”

“It can do, yes. It can give you money, power, influence. Anything your heart desires. All you have to do is give yourself over to the Left Path.”

“The Left Path?”

“Satanism. Devil Worship. Dark Paganism. The bad stuff.”

“She sells her soul to the devil and she gets to be a movie star?”

“I don’t think she has sold her soul,” he said. “The way I hear it, if you’ve sold your soul you can’t become an Apostle.”

“And you believe this, Jack? You believe that you can trade your soul with the devil?”

“Not just the devil,” said Nightingale. “There are lots of devils and you can offer your soul to any of them.”

Chen sipped her wine, staring at him over the top of her glass. The show finished and as the credits rolled Nightingale stood up, stretched, and walked to one of the windows. He could see the Golden Gate bridge in the distance, the outline picked out with lights. Chen came up behind him and handed him his glass.

“Get many jumpers?” he asked, nodding at the bridge.

She nodded.  “Over sixteen hundred since it opened in 1937.”

“That’s a lot.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Plenty of work for a police negotiator in this town. Though most of them didn’t wait around to talk. They don’t even have an accurate number, some of it’s based on finding abandoned cars in the parking lot, people who disappeared and were last seen heading that way. I hear they stopped the official count back in ‘95 at nine hundred ninety-seven, when some radio stations started offering prizes for the family of the thousandth jumper. They didn’t all die, I think around thirty of them survived. Two or three went back and did a better job the second time.”

“If at first you don’t succeed....”

“You did a lot of talking to would-be suicides, when you were a negotiator?”

“A fair bit.”

“I’ve never seen the point of suicide. It seems the coward’s way out, don’t you think?”

Nightingale shrugged. “It’s complicated.”

“You always say that. It’s your way of avoiding a conversation.”

“No, seriously, it’s complicated. I can imagine situations where suicide might be the only option. If someone’s got a terminal illness, for instance. Or if by dying, you save someone else’s life.” He shrugged. “It’s complicated.”

“It just seems to be so unfair to those that you leave behind.”

 “Yeah, I think some people do imagine they’re going to teach everyone a lesson, then they’ll wake up afterward and everything will be better. Young people, they think it’ll make them more important. It doesn’t, it just makes them dead.”

“So, did you talk a lot of people out of it?” she asked.

“I doubt it. If they genuinely wanted to do it, they’d just kill themselves. Waiting for a trained negotiator to show up generally meant they wanted to talk, wanted somebody to take some notice of them. I don’t think I talked anyone out of it, just listened and helped them find the right moment to come back inside, maybe.”

They both jumped as Nightingale’s cellphone burst into life. He didn’t recognize the number but he took the call. The voice on the line was thin and high-pitched, the diction precise. “My name is Basil Dukas. You sent me an email an hour ago.”

“Yes, I did. Can we meet, Mr. Dukas?”

“I’m not sure that would be a good idea, Mr. Nightingale. But tell me, why do you think I might be able to answer your questions about the Left Path?”

“I have some books that used to be in your collection. By Anton LaVey.”

“And you think I might have information useful to you?”

“I hope so. I believe that something very significant is due to happen on the night of the blue moon.”

“Do you, now?  Ordinarily I do not see people, especially not in my home, but your message intrigued me. I am familiar with the name of Joshua Wainwright, and have done business with him on a number of occasions, though we have never met. What is your connection with him?”

“It’s a long story,” said Nightingale.

“You work for him?”

“I do.”

There was a long silence and Nightingale was starting to think that the connection had been cut. “Come and see me tomorrow at eleven,” Dukas said eventually. “I live at Nob Hill, in one of the famous Painted Ladies. Do you have a pen?”

Nightingale wrote down the address, and Dukas ended the call. Nightingale put his phone down and picked up his wine glass. “Who was it?” asked Chen.

“Someone who I hope can answer some of my questions. He lives in Nob Hill. Steiner Street, one of the Painted Ladies, he said. Any idea what’s that about?”

“They’re a group of Victorian houses painted in different colors,” said Chen. “Bit of a tourist attraction. Used a lot in movies and TV shows, there are always tourists walking around taking photographs.”

“Expensive?”

“Not as much as Speckman’s mansion, but big bucks, yes. Do you want me to come with you?”

“Best not. The sort of information I want from him, he might not want to talk about in front of outsiders.”

Chen frowned. “I’m an outsider and you’re not?”

“The guy I work for, Wainwright, has a bit of reputation.”

“And he’s the guy who asked you to look into Father Mike?”

Nightingale looked pained. “I might have been stretching the truth a bit when I mentioned Father Mike.”

“You lied to me?”

“I have a client who was very concerned about Father Mike’s death, that’s true. But Wainwright  isn’t a family member.”

“But you are a former cop?”

Nightingale nodded. “Amy, it was a slight bending of the truth because you’re a cop and I’m a foreigner. I’m sorry. I won’t lie to you again.”

“So you admit you lied?”

“Okay, I won’t bend the truth again. Look, you know everything now, you know who the Apostles are and that if we don’t do something Brett and Sharonda are going to die.”

Chen looked at him but said nothing.

“Can I stay on your sofa tonight, or are you kicking me out?”

She wrinkled her nose as she gave it some thought. “You can stay,” she said eventually. “But you’re on probation.”

“And can you run me out to the Painted Ladies tomorrow?”

Chen laughed despite herself. “You don’t give up, do you?”

“If you don’t ask, you don’t get.”

“True enough,” she said. “Okay, I’ll be your designated driver, for one more day anyway.”

“You’ll get your reward in Heaven, Amy.”

“You see, now I don’t know whether you’re joking or not when you say that.” She finished her wine. “Right, I’m off to bed. You know where the duvet and stuff is. And don’t forget the toilet seat.”

Brett Michaels couldn’t sleep. The pain between his shoulder blades was throbbing again and he cried into his pillow. He had to lie on his stomach or the pain was unbearable. He knew his father wouldn’t be happy to see him crying like a little girl, instead of facing up to things like a man. His father always wanted Brett to be a real man, always told him how proud he was of Brett when he played well for his Little League or football team.

Brett wondered whether his father would be mad with him for going with a stranger. Brett hated it when his father was mad, he shouted a lot at him and at his mother. Never at Chelsea though, maybe because Chelsea always went up to her room and locked the door when his father was mad. Brett didn’t think Chelsea liked his father very much.

Brett tried for what felt like the hundredth time to reach the burning, sore spot on his back, but his arm just wouldn’t bend up that far. He knew it was a brand, he’d read about brands in a book once. Cattle had them, to show who they belonged to, but he’d never heard of children being branded. And it wasn’t like he belonged to these people. They’d stolen him. Stolen. And never going to be given back.

The brand throbbed worse than ever, Brett tried to bury his face in the pillow. He’d once seen a movie where someone had killed an old man by pressing a pillow on his face. Maybe if he pushed down on the pillow hard enough, he might never wake up.    

“Are you sure you don’t want me in there with you?” asked Chen. “He might be more forthcoming with a cop.”

She had driven him to Nob Hill, one of the city’s seven hills, once the home of San Francisco’s four main railway barons, the ‛Nabobs’ or ‛Nobs’. Their mansions had mostly been destroyed in the great earthquake, and they’d moved away, but the name remained for the rebuilt area that was still one of San Francisco’s most prestigious neighborhoods. They were sitting in Chen’s Mustang  outside Basil Dukas’s house. It was a three-storey Victorian townhouse, painted three different shades, set in a street of similar houses in a variety of bright colors. The famous San Francisco ‛Painted Ladies’.  Nightingale briefly wondered why his guide book referred to the architecture as ‛
Victorian’
and ‛
Edwardian’
, long after the occupant of the British throne had been in any position to influence things over here.

“These people aren’t intimidated by authority,” said Nightingale.

“This Dukas is a Satanist?”

“That I don’t know, but he’s a collector of books on Satanism and black magic. And once you’ve been involved with the Left Path in any way, you tend to lose respect for traditional authority figures.” He grinned. “No offense.”

“I worry about you being in there alone, that’s all.”

“He knows I work for Wainwright which will get me some respect.”

“Who exactly is this Wainwright, Jack?”

“A guy with his fingers in a lot of pies. And like Dukas, a collector of books on the Occult.”

“Why I do think there’s a lot you’re not telling me.” She held up an hand. “And if you tell me that it’s complicated I swear you can walk home.”

Nightingale opened the passenger door. “I won’t be long,” he said. “I’ll phone if I need help.” He climbed out of the car and walked up to the front door. There was a large brass knocker in the shape of a lion with a ring in its mouth. Nightingale knocked and the door was opened almost immediately by a young Latina woman in a maid’s outfit of short black dress with a white apron. The high heels and fishnet stockings seemed impractical for domestic work, but certainly contributed to an eye-opening overall effect. Nightingale did his best to keep a poker face, but the girl was a stunner. She might have been twenty, possibly a little younger. Nightingale gave her one of his most boyish smiles. “Jack Nightingale,” he said. “Mr. Dukas is expecting me.”

She opened the door wide enough for him to enter and he followed her down the hall. Nightingale was too accustomed to the unusual to gawp, but he’d never seen anything like this. Almost every inch of the wall was lined with stuffed and mounted animals and birds. Nightingale noticed a lion, tiger, a variety of deer, raptors, big fish, smaller birds and even a cat, but there were far too many to take in at once. The girl led him to a large oak door on the right. She knocked.

“Come.”

The voice was thin and querulous, but well used to giving orders and having them obeyed. The maid opened the door and gestured Nightingale inside.

“Thank you, Conchita. Do come in, sir. Let me look at you.”

The maid walked away, her high heels echoing on the tiled floor. It occurred to Nightingale that she hadn’t spoken a single word since opening the front door, but he didn’t have time to ponder the matter, as he stood open-mouthed staring around the study. If he’d thought the corridor was outlandish, then Dukas’s study was in a completely different league.

On the wall behind the huge desk were mounted the heads of a bull elephant and a male rhino. Flanking them were two white tiger heads. The whole of the huge room was lined with shelves, on which stood hundreds of glass cases, each containing a small stuffed animal or bird. Rabbits, small dogs, foxes, badgers, robins, magpies. His gaze swept over them all, before coming to rest on the strange figure behind the huge antique oak desk, a figure that suited the outlandishness of the room to perfection.

Basil Dukas was a dwarf, around the size of a five-year-old child, though his huge, high chair and the desk in front of him made an accurate estimate impossible. He was wearing a black suit that was obviously made to measure but looked like it was Armani, with a gray button-down shirt. From his lined face and gray hair, Nightingale supposed he’d be well over sixty. His tiny, stubby hands rested on the open book in front of him. Nightingale noticed it was very old, handwritten and bound in what appeared to be leather. Dukas lifted his disproportionately large head and gazed at Nightingale for a silent minute. If he had any opinion on what he saw he gave no sign of it.  Finally Dukas spoke. “Please sit down. You will pardon my not getting up and shaking hands. It is a ridiculous maneuver for one of my stature.”

The high pitched voice was weak, yet oddly compelling. Nightingale nodded, and sat in the antique leather Chesterfield chair opposite Dukas. For the moment, he decided to say nothing and allow his host to do the talking. The man’s measured, mannered speech could have originated at the same time as his house. “Permit me to offer you some refreshment, sir. Tea, coffee?”

“Coffee will be fine,” said Nightingale.

Dukas touched a button on his desk and spoke into an intercom.

“Conchita, a coffee for our guest please. Tea for me. Now, sir, I was intrigued by your mention of Joshua Wainwright, and indeed of a book in which I might be interested. His collection rivals my own, though I have not dealt via an intermediary before. What is your connection with him.”

“He’s my employer.”

“And you serve him in what manner?”

“Books, sometimes. I acquire them for him. Sometimes I sell them on his behalf.”

“You suggested as much in your email,” said Dukas. “But you also said that you wanted information. What, pray tell, does that have to do with book-selling?”

 “I’m looking into something for him. Something which might turn out to be very dangerous indeed. I’m hoping you might be able to help me with it.”

Dukas said nothing, merely inclined his head to the left, then nodded once. He opened his mouth to continue but then the door opened and Conchita came in with a silver tray, on which were a coffee-pot, teapot, two cups a milk jug and a sugar bowl. She set it down on the desk and left as silently as ever. Nightingale wondered if she were actually dumb, and followed her with his eyes as she left. Dukas appeared to notice his interest. “I enjoy having attractive things around me,” he said. “And besides Conchita is an excellent medium who assists me in my operations, such as they are these days. I wish to know a little more about you. Come over here and show me your left hand, if you please.”

Nightingale walked over to the desk and held out his hand, palm upwards. Dukas stared at it for a few minutes, tracing a line or two with his broad stumpy fingers. Finally he looked up, his face impassive.

“So, what’s the verdict?” asked Nightingale heading back to the sofa.

Dukas pursed his lips, and pulled them in and out several times. At last he spoke. “I doubt I could tell you anything you didn’t know about yourself, sir, but it is surely one of the strangest hands I have ever read. It seems you have sailed perilously close to death several times, dared mighty things and enjoyed great good fortune. Your lifeline even has a distinct break in it, something I have never seen before. It might not be too poetic to suggest that you have lived many lives, many more than most people. Yet the love line is indistinct to the point of oblivion. It appears that you have no-one to care about, Mr. Nightingale, nobody at all.”

Nightingale smiled.  “But don’t I get to hear my future? Not even if I cross your palm with silver?”

“You are pleased to be cynical, sir,” said Dukas. “But I would strongly advise against it. I am not given to predicting the future, and yours seems indistinct. There might be more mighty things for you to dare, or your time may be very short indeed on this plane. There is a crisis ahead of you, sir, one you may well not survive. I merely read. I cannot read what is not written. But this is a distraction. Why are you here?”

Nightingale didn’t answer immediately, but looked round the room again.

“You shot all these yourself?” he asked.

“Do you see me hacking my way through the jungles of the world with a powerful rifle held to my shoulder? A foolish question, indeed. I shot none of them sir, I am no assassin. The majority I bought for my collection, some were brought to me and I used them to practice my taxidermy skills. Some I needed for other work. My ambition is, one day, to have a specimen of every American bird and as many of the world’s animals as possible. But now, sir, no more digressions. What do you want from me?”

“I have some questions,” said Nightingale.

“Questions about what?” asked Dukas.

“About Anton LaVey, for example. You were an associate of his when he first founded his Satanic Church?”

“LaVey? Briefly, until it became obvious he was deluded. He denied the existence of the supernatural and the occult with his ramblings.”

“You’re a collector, right? Why did you sell the three LaVey books to Pagan World?”

“I am a collector but I am also a dealer,” said Dukas. “I have several copies of the LaVey books. The ones I sold were less valuable. A collection has to be a living thing, it has to change and grow otherwise it withers and dies.”

“What do you think of LaVey?”

 “I come from a line of Occultists which can be traced back for centuries. LaVey was merely a particularly clever self-publicist and a poor philosopher. But what of it, the man is long dead?”

“I need to find someone in San Francisco who can help me, and I thought, with what I’ve heard about you and your connection with LaVey and his Church, it might be you. A number of Christians have gone missing in San Francisco. I believe they have been murdered. Sacrificed, as part of a greater ritual, one that will end with the ritual slaying of two young children, almost certainly on the thirtieth of this month.”

“It sounds as if you know everything already, Mr. Nightingale?”

Nightingale shook his head. “I don’t know the nature of the ritual, and I need to know how to stop it.”

“The missing? Nuns, priests, monks? Virgins, all?”

Nightingale nodded.

Dukas closed his eyes and shivered. “Surely not. Surely not. Not again,” he whispered.

“I have it on good authority,” said Nightingale.

Dukas opened his eyes. “Tell me about the children.”

 “I’m told those two fit different profiles from the adults. Born at a solstice, on the same day.  I went to see an astrologer and he suggested that virginity might be an issue for all of these people. He thinks they might be marked for sacrifice. Those that haven’t been sacrificed already.”

“This astrologer. Would that be Gabriel Starr, perchance?”

“Nightingale nodded. “You know him?”

“I know of him.” Dukas sat bolt upright in his high leather chair. Nightingale had often seen fear in the expression of people sitting opposite him, and he saw it now on Dukas’s face. The little man folded his arms across his chest and hugged himself.

“No, no. Surely not,’ Dukas whispered.

“This means something to you, doesn’t it?” said Nightingale. “Tell me, please.”

Dukas was silent. He unfolded his arms, laced his stubby fingers together and looked up at the large brass chandelier which hung from the elegant molding in the middle of the ceiling. He dropped his gaze back to his book, then raised it again and looked Nightingale squarely in the eyes.

“To be frank, Mr. Nightingale, I see no reason to assist you, there may well be persons of power involved in this whom I would not wish to displease. Some of them might manifest their displeasure in strong ways. What you tell me disturbs me greatly.”

“What is it, Mr. Dukas? What’s happening?”

“I sincerely hope not,” said Dukas. “The idea is too terrible. Yet, as I say, our world is not a large one, and one hears things. Rumors, stories.” He frowned. “Surely they cannot be true,” he whispered to himself. “Not again.”

“Can I have it in plain English, Mr. Dukas? You’ve evidently heard something...spit it out.”

“I may be seeing a connection where none exists, I sincerely hope so. Yet one hears rumors.”

“You’re talking in riddles. Just tell me what the hell is going on.”

“I can not.”

Nightingale nodded slowly. “Perhaps I can sweeten the pot for you. What is the book you would most like to buy. The one book you would really want in your collection?’

“Are you serious?”

Nightingale nodded. “I am.”

“Then it would be Les Oeuvres d’ Agrippa. Attributed to Pierre d’Aban, though of course the real author is unknown. The 1744 edition. It is the stuff of dreams, sir.”

Nightingale took out his phone. “Give me a minute,” he said. He tapped out Wainwright’s number. The man answered on the third ring and Nightingale quickly explained what he wanted. “It’s the only way?” asked Wainwright.

“I think so.”

“I went to a lot of trouble to get that book, Jack. I had to call in a lot of favors.”

Nightingale took the phone away from his face. “If I get you the book, you’ll help?”