The Love-Haight Case Files (3 page)

Then there were the buildings along Haight Street that he often paused for moments to study. He never tired of looking at them, not just from an architectural standpoint, but to see the merchant displays, and to be pleasantly surprised by the scattered renovations in progress with the old Victorians.

After graduation from Stanford, and opting to follow his heart and avoid his father’s firm, Thomas had purposely looked to hang out his shingle in this neighborhood. He liked the aura of the place; the “vibe” as residents from a few decades past would have called it. And he appreciated the lower rent. While he didn’t have any college loans to pay off—thanks to his father and a few scholarships—he had only a little savings to throw at this venture.

He and Evelyn crossed the street and headed toward the law office, passing a fruit vendor and a trio of girls playing hopscotch in front of a thrift shop. The law office was just down the block.

“I really feel for Holder, you know,” Evelyn said. Her gaze was cast downward, no doubt so she could watch for the uneven blocks in the sidewalk. Thomas knew the sidewalk by heart. “Not able to see his kids? I think that’s just horrid, Thomas. I want him to win,
us
to win.”

“It’d be good to make a difference, wouldn’t it?” Thomas really believed that. He wanted to make a difference—for the better—for the Other-Than-Human element in this crazy world. And he was beside himself that Evelyn shared his vision. He knew she’d been a little skeptical at first about this particular case, actually worrying if Holder’s children would be bothered by seeing their father as a ghoul. But she was the one to find the studies about children being more nonplussed than adults around the undead and more accepting of oddities and alternate lifestyles in general.

The office was a long, narrow, three-story brick building on the corner. It dated to 1905, the year before the big earthquake. This entire neighborhood had somehow avoided the fires that followed the quake and had consumed more than eighty percent of the city. There were two sections on the top story where the bricks had noticeably shifted, either from that quake or the not-as-big-rumbler in 1989, not jeopardizing the structure, but giving it a hair more character. One of the quakes had also taken down a corner gargoyle, leaving one that wasn’t especially obvious, but the stony protrusion made the old building a little more interesting.

The law office was on the first floor. An apartment occupied the second and another on the third, the latter of which was Thomas’s. He liked the notion of walking up and down three flights for a little extra exercise, and he liked going out onto the roof. The basement was an earthen crawl space where he kept cartons of soda and bottled water for the office fridge. Cozy. But more to the point it was within his budget. If he got more cases like Holder’s he might be able to rent—or buy—better digs. But something in this neighborhood. This place beat with a rhythm found nowhere else. Hell, maybe he could buy this building if the landlord would agree to let it go.

“See you tomorrow,” Evelyn said, disrupting his musings.

She was standing close to him, her lilac cologne teasing his nose, and there was a hint of strawberries remaining from the fruit salad she’d had at lunch. He could get drunk on the scent of her. He should kiss her now, he thought, as he leaned in.

For a moment it looked like she would oblige, tipping her face up, the setting sun making her hair look like liquid fire. But a rust bucket trundled past and coughed up a backfire. The moment lost, Evelyn turned and headed toward the side door that led to the stairwell. She rented the second floor apartment from him.

“Have fun in admiralty,” Thomas said.

If she said something in reply, it was lost in the sounds of the traffic, which had picked up as people headed home from work.

Chapter 1.4

Thomas pulled out his iPhone and texted the landlord, suggesting they meet so he could pay past-due rent now that he had money from Holder’s case. The reply came back immediately, the landlord conveniently online.

On my way,
the landlord texted back.

Thomas stared at his reflection in the law office window. He’d looked good in court today, hadn’t he? He was six-two and had the broad shoulders of a swimmer, cornflower blue eyes, mud-brown hair, and was only a few pounds overweight. His nose was crooked, though, not horribly, but noticeably. He knew he looked good in court—physically—wearing his navy suit, but that wasn’t what he’d meant. He’d presented his case quickly and succinctly, and he’d scored points with the judge.

He adjusted his dark green tie and saw a face looking out at him. Gretchen, his secretary. She waved a stack of pink phone message slips.

Thomas went in, the bell above the door jangling merrily. “Surprised you’re still here,” he said.

“Wanted to hear how it went. I like that Mr. Holder. Very polite.” Gretchen paused and rested her hands against her waist. “So … don’t keep me twisting. How did it go? Did we win?”

Brock was always struck by how small Gretchen looked behind the big oak desk, the largest and nicest piece of furniture in the office, and the one just inside the door. It had been the only piece he’d bought new, and Gretchen had claimed it when he’d hired her. He hadn’t argued; he wanted the best up front to make an impression on potential clients.

“Not yet,” he said. “But I’m pretty sure we will.” He proceeded to tell her about the afternoon spent before the Honorable Vernon Vaughan.

Gretchen listened raptly, turning up the volume on her hearing aid. Gretchen was seventy-three, and looked as stately as Katherine Hepburn had in her later years, but she was tiny, not quite five feet, and shrunken from the years. Her cane was propped against the desk, her overlarge purse next to it. Brock could tell she’d packed up for the day.

“Good,” Gretchen pronounced. “I like that Mr. Holder. Very polite.” Sometimes she repeated herself.

“So we go back Monday morning to wrap it up, though we probably won’t get a final judgment until later in the week. Vaughan wants to talk to the children.”

Gretchen pushed away from the desk and adjusted her thick glasses. “You got a dozen calls to return,” she said, fluttering the pink message sheets before setting them down with a flourish. “Though I suppose some of them have already gone home for the day. Most of them are normals, but you got two from that psychic trying to warn you about something and one from that shape-shifting dog-man.” She opened her desk drawer and pulled out an antique Colt revolver, dropping it in her purse. Thomas knew she kept the gun for protection, but didn’t know if it actually worked.

“That psychic, she was persistent as all get-out.” Gretchen bent to retrieve her purse and slung it over her shoulder, the weight momentarily setting her off balance. She reached for the cane. “I’m going home.” She toddled to the door. “See you on Monday, Thomas. I have tomorrow off, remember?”

He remembered. She’d signed up for a day-long senior citizen bus trip to wine country. “You have a good weekend, Gretchen.”

She turned and looked over her hunched shoulder. “Oh, and Val pestered me pretty much all afternoon. He cut out just before you showed up. Tell him to lay off me, will you? Can’t go through the case paperwork and deal with him at the same time. You tell him that, will you? He never listens to me.”

“Certainly, Gretchen. Enjoy your week—”

“I’m hoping for some Zinfandels. I like blackberry zin. Gonna watch the Forty Niners game on Sunday. They’re gonna crush Detroit.” She was gone with the jangling of the bell, heading toward the bus stop that would take her to the San Francisco Towers, the retirement community where she lived.

Gretchen Cain was Brock’s part-time legal secretary, though she usually kept full-time hours. When he first opened his practice, he hadn’t been able to find a good young or middle-aged legal secretary who would work for his rates. So he hired Gretchen, who’d come in answer to his classified advertisement.

She’d told him she was bored at the Towers; that retirement hadn’t agreed with her, and that she needed something to keep her occupied. She had a wealth of experience working as a legal secretary, first for the DA’s office and then later for a couple of corporate firms, and Brock, a crusader against discrimination, could hardly turn her away because of her age. He’d found her indefatigable, tolerant of the odd clientele that crossed his threshold, and she’d taught him more than a little bit about the law.

The ceiling creaked. Evelyn was walking through the apartment above. A moment later he heard the upstairs door shut and the thud of her hurried footsteps down the side stairs. He stepped back behind Gretchen’s desk and stared out the window, moments later seeing Evelyn jog by. She’d changed into blue jeans and a sweatshirt and had one of those messenger bags slung over her shoulder, the faint outline of an iPad inside. It looked like she was going to run to her class rather than wait for the bus; he knew she did that sometimes. Evelyn was in great physical shape, and San Francisco University and its School of Law wasn’t all that far.

A familiar male voice coalesced in the empty space behind him. “Chick’s a looker, eh? Fine as wine, and no foam domes. I like to watch her, too.”

Thomas shivered from the instant chill and whirled to see a translucent image hovering a few inches above the floor. As he watched, the details grew sharper; the figure looking like a piece of morning mist along the bay that had congealed into the semblance of a man.

“Valentino,” Thomas pronounced. “Gretchen said you bothered her today.”

The mist shrugged. “She can be a real drag, you know, Tommy-boy.”

Thomas scowled.

“Sorry … She
can
be a real drag, you know.” The manlike shape had a mass of wispy hair that hung past sharp, narrow shoulders. “I know. I know. Lay off her.”

“Yes, Val, you need to lay off her.”

“Especially when she’s in one of her moods.”

The ghost had first revealed himself to Thomas after the law office had been open two months. Thomas had spent time with a handful of OTs at college, including his vampire roommate who’d become a close friend during his senior year of law school, but ghosts…? Val had been his first ghost.

Always open-minded and curious, Thomas nevertheless didn’t initially like the dead hippie. Val was all about getting high and talking about Haight-Ashbury’s summer of love; he definitely “lived” in the past, not in the “now.” Straight-laced Thomas just wasn’t a good fit with him. But as the weeks wore on, Thomas mellowed on the spirit, eventually coming to enjoy the ghost’s company. Now he almost considered Val a friend.

“And Gretchen was certainly in one of her moods,” Val continued.

A silence settled between the spirit and Thomas and in it a siren wailed mournfully, crescendoing as an ambulance sped past, and then fading to nothing. Traffic resumed, a little sparser now. A Golden Gate Transit bus went past, looking almost full, and then there was a gap before an aging Buick trundled by and slowed in front of the office, its windows dark.

“Sounds like that dude’s running open pipes,” the spirit observed.

Thomas agreed that the car was loud, probably a bad muffler, and the driver could get cited for it. Maybe a potential client was behind the wheel, looking in to see if the office was still open. Thomas realized he hadn’t turned the sign around yet. Maybe he’d get another case. With the windows of the car tinted like that, you couldn’t tell who was driving. Maybe an OT.

“I’d at least put a glasspack on that baby, don’t you think? Pigs’ll pick him up if he keeps revvin’ like that.”

Thomas took a step toward the door.
Let the driver realize we’re still open.
But then the car squealed away. An opportunity lost, he thought. “Val … about Gretch—”

“Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. I’ll lay off Gretchen. Really, I will.”

“Thanks.”

“You have to understand—It’s just—” The spirit let the thought dangle for a moment before explaining. “It’s just that her arthritis was acting up more than usual today. Can you dig it? She was popping Vikes.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said Gretchen got her a script for Vicodin and popped a couple with her Cheese Doodles, and I hung close to get the effect. That was all. I wasn’t really bothering her, just … you know … copping the buzz. Didn’t you notice how she practically floated out of here?”

Thomas stretched out an arm toward the closed sign, fingers grabbing it, but hesitating. The Buick cruised past again. Something niggled at the back of his brain. “That car—”

“Yeah, it could be bitchin’ don’t you think? But the dude probably doesn’t have enough bread to get it sanded out and cherry.”

Thomas remembered that he’d seen the old Buick back at the courthouse, right before he and Evelyn had boarded the bus. “That car—”

“Listen, Tommy-boy, I gotta split. Catch you tomorrow, man. You hang loose.”

Thomas dismissively waggled his fingers. He didn’t have to look to notice the spirit had vanished. The chill in the air was gone.

Chapter 1.5

Thomas always paid his rent on the roof, another of his little rituals—this one started by his landlord, who shared an appreciation for beer, conversation, and OTs. The roof was accessible from a fire escape near the back of the building. It had recently been painted and inspected, some of the welds reinforced to keep it up to code.

Three folding chairs lay near the front corner of the roof under a vinyl tarp. Thomas opened all of them and pulled over a plastic milk crate to serve as a table in the middle. He’d lugged a small cooler with him. Reaching in, he pulled out three cans of beer, set them on the milk crate, and then brought out a box of whole wheat crackers.

He sat back and waited. He liked coming here. The city smelled different, and the sounds were muted, echoing oddly and not unpleasantly against the short canyons created by the buildings of Haight-Ashbury.

The landlord arrived just as the cans were fully beaded with condensation.

“Zaxil!” Thomas waved him over.

Zaxil Mandala, or Z-man, as he preferred to be called, had recently turned twenty-one but could pass for fourteen and grumbled that he was carded everywhere. He snapped up one of the beers and plopped down on a folding chair, running his thumb through the water beads before popping the tab. He was short, skinny, with flawless ebony skin, and inky hair shaved so close it looked like a swim cap. That he wore baggy blue jeans and a Transformers sweatshirt added to his youthful image. Zaxil had inherited this building from his grandfather.