Death in the Haight (10 page)

“What?”

“Michigan.”

“I'd rather be there, if that's what you mean.”

“You have a big place, don't you?”

“Yes. I grew up there. It was my father's home, my grandfather's as well.”

“Woods, lake.” Lang wanted to test the truth of his Google Earth tour. “I bet it was great growing up there.”

“Wonderful place to grow up. Fishing. Hunting. Autumn. The air. The smell. Yes, you knew there was a God. How else could that world have come about?”

Lang ordered a shot of tequila, which he sipped in the silence.

“Will we get him back?” Mr. Vanderveer asked.

“If I were forced to put money on it, I'd say no.”

“Then why are we doing this? I'm just throwing away a million dollars—worse, giving it to some undeserving . . .”

“You have to do it or you couldn't live with yourself. Maybe we can get a line on the kidnappers, some glimpse, some piece of the trail to follow. We have nothing now. Maybe we find Michael or we find the person to punish.” Lang wasn't sure the man was listening. Wouldn't blame him if he weren't. “I'm obliged to tell you the police will be at the stadium tomorrow afternoon.”

The man nodded, looked away.

“The Vanderveer furniture business died on my watch. The name means little anymore, and less and less as the years go by.” He took a sip. “It should have been something the boys carried on.” There was a long silence. “I'm not complaining. I have more than I need, perhaps more than I should. But of course that's not the point.”

“Better save some brain cells for tomorrow,” Lang said.

“I'm not sure I have much use for them anymore,” Vanderveer said. He turned on his seat so he could face Lang completely. “You're not a religious man, are you, Mr. Lang?”

“No. Guess not.”

“How do you do that?”

“What?”

“Get through the day without belief in God.”

“Gotta get through the day whether there's a god or not.”

 * * * 

Tomorrow would be an important day. Lang wanted the hours before bedtime to be hours of escape. Buddha was giving his roommate the ‘I don't know you' punishment for being gone so long. Even fresh food and water didn't warm up the atmosphere. Lang didn't blame him. Buddha's world was limited to four walls and a high ceiling. Having a human wandering the space offered at least some entertainment.

Lang was relieved that he didn't have to cook, which also meant that there would be no need to clean up the kitchen. He could coast through the evening with a good movie, a slice or two of cheese, and some spirits, and drift off to sleep and face a do-or-die day when he woke up.

The problem was that his cluttered mind didn't permit him a smooth descent into sleep. He couldn't figure out how the kidnappers were going to do it. It was brilliant to pick up the bonds at a sold-out baseball game. And it was clear that it was next to impossible to guard all the exits when thousands of people were leaving by all kinds of transportation at the same time. Smart. Really smart. But he knew where Vanderveer was seated. Were they amateurs or not?

Tomorrow was already beating him down. If they didn't pick up a strong scent when the money changed hands, that might be it. He didn't believe that the runaway Vanderveer kid would show up no matter what happened. So failure tomorrow likely meant it would be over and the Vanderveers would be within their rights to wonder what they'd got for their money, let alone their trust. He slept uneasily, waking again and again, thinking that it was later than it was. He gave up the struggle entirely at six a.m.

It was too early to get everyone synchronized for what would happen shortly after noon. Daylight was weak but coming. After showering, he walked down to Central Perc for coffee and an apple turnover, then onto the park. The fresh, slightly chilly air, the stretches of green lawn, and the open space calmed whatever it was in him that needed calming.

 * * * 

Lang's seat was on the first base line. He was at the park early. Despite his focus on the money exchange and getting a clue to the whereabouts or at least the condition of the Vanderveers' gay, younger son, his mind was stolen for a few moments by the beauty of the San Francisco Giants' baseball stadium. In a city often characterized as being the least “American,” here was the ultimate symbol of America: a big, blue-skied summer day with a walled-in green lawn surrounded by tiers of seats, and soon the crack of a bat and the roar of the crowd.

As Lang aged, he had become less and less enamored with what could be seen as mainstream patriotism or the narrow interpretation of family values. Even so, there was a tug at his American heart seeing the flag fly over ground made sacred by the constancy of this summer ritual. It was as American and as religious as he was going to get. Competition and teamwork and occasional heroes. Something to strive for, he thought. Today it was not so difficult to understand what else was taking place—the American tradition of greed and crime.

His seat was above and to the left of where Mr. Vanderveer would sit. He had managed to get a seat at the end of the same aisle for Brinkman. Stern, Rose, and other officers they brought in were stationed around the park. Authorities were posted at each of the main exits. Lang wasn't sure, but he suspected the FBI had been brought in and briefed.

Dressed like a tourist, Lang wore a flowered shirt, jeans, sneakers, and a baseball cap. Around his neck was a small but powerful pair of binoculars. He used them to scan the seats—roughly forty thousand of them—beginning to fill.

Lang was nervous. Not frightened. Very little scared him these days. The little shot of adrenaline and the butterflies in his stomach were more like those moments before having to speak in public or ask some beautiful woman to go to dinner.

Where was Vanderveer? Of course it was still early. Not even half the seats were filled. He told himself to stay calm and focus only on what was about to unfold. He didn't know what that was exactly. But at minimum the envelope in Vanderveer's pocket had to be put somewhere or picked up by someone. And they had to follow it.

But Vanderveer's failure to get there early as they had discussed bothered him. He used his cell to call Brinkman, who was to trail him from the time he arrived to pick up his tickets until he went inside. Rose was to pick him up inside.

“I'm here,” he said. “He went to Will Call, came out, and went into the park. I saw Rose on Vanderveer's heels.”

“He's not here yet.”

Patrons were streaming in.

“What do you want me to do?” Brinkman asked.

“Come on up.”

Lang stared right at Vanderveer's seat. It was empty. He looked around, couldn't see him.

An elderly black man edged into the seat Vanderveer was supposed to occupy. Lang went over.

“I think you have the wrong seat, sir,” Lang said, trying very hard to take the edge out of his voice.

“No, sir,” the man said, “I don't think I do.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out the ticket stub, looked at it, then, standing, looked at his seat. “It's mine, all right.”

“May I see?”

The man wouldn't let him have it but held it so Lang could verify the seat number. The man was right.

The stands were nearly filled, and more were piling in.

Something was wrong, very wrong. He used his binoculars to scan the crowd. It was a daunting task. Rows and bleachers and people hidden behind people and many, many others hidden in the shade beneath the upper decks. The sky was pure blue still. The sun was strong. There was a rumbling of excitement. The huge video in the outfield distracted him. Stereo speakers, mounted overhead every few feet, blared, attempting to ratchet up the excitement. The loud, crowd-rousing music only added to Lang's anxiety. He had missed something, and it was difficult to think about what it was.

Rose called. “He's here. He's in his seat.”

“He can't be. I'm staring right at it. Shit.” Lang cursed himself. How could he have been so stupid? “The kidnappers changed tickets,” Lang said. “Where are you?”

With the binoculars he found Vanderveer, sitting in seats across the park, along the third base line.

“Did he talk to anyone?” Lang asked Rose.

“When?”

“Anytime. While he was walking to his seat, while he was seated.”

“I didn't see anything,” Rose said, defensively. “He got his seat, then came up for a beer and went back to his seat.”

“Anything exchanged besides money and beer?”

“I don't think so.”

What if it was all over? What if the exchange had already been made? Why had Vanderveer's seat changed? Did they know he'd checked on the ticket, or were they just extra tricky? Could there be some insider knowledge? Calm down, he told himself. The baseball game was about to begin. “Oh, say can you see” had been sung. There was excitement in the air. There were kidnappers, very clever kidnappers, here—among forty thousand strangers.

“Okay, stay there. Stay on him.”

“I know what I'm doing, Lang,” Rose said. It was a warning. The cops were being nice, but taking orders was something else.

“Thanks,” Lang said. No need to engage in a blame game at this point. He didn't dare contact Vanderveer. He'd simply have to watch and wait.

Lang kept the glasses on Vanderveer. The man looked out at the park, disinterested. The game had begun. He wasn't watching it. He barely moved his head, frozen. He hadn't yet taken a sip of beer. Beer. Another thought hit Lang. Vanderveer didn't drink beer. At the bar, he told Lang he'd rather have nothing than a beer.

There may have been a note with new instructions in with the new ticket.

Lang went to the walkway that was lined with food concessions to get to the side of the field where Vanderveer sat. He called Rose on the way.

“Do you know where Vanderveer bought his beer?”

“The Anchor Steam just above his section.”

When he got to the top of Vanderveer's section, he met Rose.

“I was just thinking,” Rose said, “Vanderveer took off his jacket and put it on his chair. I thought it was to save his spot, but that doesn't really make sense because the ticket says you own the seat. Maybe it was too hot. He put it back on when he got back. There's a little chill in the shade.”

“You see anyone move near his jacket?” Lang asked.

“I was watching Vanderveer, like you said, but I had one of my men stay near the coat. Nobody saw anything.”

Lang shook his head. “You know, this makes no sense. Maybe they won and we'll never know how.”

The crowd roared. Lang looked up at the nearby TV screen, one of hundreds in the stadium, mounted in the walkway. One of San Francisco's players was rounding the bases.

He had Rose call those watching the exits, and he called his little group. Look for someone suspicious who was leaving early in the game. It wasn't likely, but if they had somehow gotten what they came for, they might get impatient, just want to get out of there. But Lang didn't expect the perpetrators to leave when leaving would call attention to themselves. They had used a sold-out game for a reason—to get lost in the crowd. And he really didn't expect that they, as smart as they'd been so far, would look suspicious. It was a foolish request. But just in case . . .

Lang went back to his seat, used the binoculars to keep an eye on Vanderveer, who sat rigidly and wasn't drinking his beer.

Lang lowered his binoculars. Nothing to see. Vanderveer in the same place, doing nothing. It was going to be a long and likely unproductive afternoon, after which there would probably be little else to do but declare defeat.

“What do you think has happened? Anything?” Brinkman asked.

“I don't know. The kidnapper—or kidnappers—has feinted before. Or could be that's what he wants us to think.”

All the while Lang was answering questions about what appeared to be true, he doubted any of it was.

Lang sent Thanh back to the office to do some quick research. Using the phone and the computer were two of many things the shape-shifter was good at.

The game was spirited. The lead changed several times, and the hours were punctuated with cheers and groans and music designed to lift the spirits and continue rallies. Extra innings. All this and Mr. Vanderveer remained seated, still as stone. A couple of times Lang wondered if the man were dead, but he would move his head slightly from time to time, looking left and right cautiously and down in despair or weariness.

In the bottom of the eleventh a double and a single ended the tie, and people shouted, hooted, hugged, and milled about. Lang's view of Vanderveer was blocked for a few minutes. When Lang again found him in the crowd, he was still seated. When most of the crowd had cleared, he got up, moved slowly up the steps toward the walkway and down back steps toward the street.

Just in case, Lang and his friends let him return to the hotel on his own. That was where they would find him.

 * * * 

Lang arrived in the hotel lobby after Vanderveer. Vanderveer was probably in his room. Stern and Rose were probably with him.

Lang called the office. Thanh had a couple of calls yet to make.

Upstairs, in the suite's center room, Mr. Vanderveer sat in a single chair, Mrs. Vanderveer and her son James on the sofa. Rose stood at one of the windows, looking out. Stern pulled the wicker chair from the desk, straddled it so that he peered over the back. Lang found a spot in the doorway to one of the bedrooms.

“Big bust, Lang,” Stern said.

“I just followed instructions,” Vanderveer said. He appeared angry—but, more than angry, tired.

“Somebody got played here, don't you think?” Stern said to the room in general. “They got the bonds, Lang. Vanderveer got an envelope full of paper.” Nobody responded. “First and foremost,” he continued, “it was you, Lang. This was your party. You planned it. You and the Vanderveers didn't want the police to do anything, and you went around us. At the last minute you asked for our help in your little plan, and it blew up in your face.” He was quiet for a few moments. No one filled the silence. “Now where are we? We don't have the kid. We don't have the money. And we have not one fucking—I'm sorry, Mrs. Vanderveer—we don't have one frigging clue to follow. We don't even know if it's a needle in a haystack because we don't even have a fucking haystack.”