Death in the Haight (2 page)

“Have you been to bed?” Thanh asked.

“Is that any of your business?”

“Did you sleep in your clothes?”

“Again, is that any of your business?”

Thanh wore a green cotton sweater. A delicate chain around a long neck suggested a subtle hint at femininity. The black hair was swept back and could conceivably have been worn by an artistically bent male. However, the effect today was, in the end, female. Tomorrow would likely be another story.

“Do I have any calls?”

“I'm not here yet,” Thanh said.

“Then who was asking me all those silly questions?”

“That you didn't answer?”

“Oh crap,” Lang said. “This will be a long day.”

“It gets worse,” Thanh said. “Mr. Brinkman is here.”

Brinkman was the fourth person in the office. It was his office that Paladino and Lang expanded into when they formed their partnership. Brinkman, unable to pay the rent anyway, consented to turn over his space to the new and unlikely partnership of Carly Paladino and Noah Lang with the stipulation that he could use the small airless, windowless room behind Lang's office as his own—when he felt like it. As a former PI himself, one whom technology and advanced age had left behind, the elder private eye nonetheless came in handy on stakeouts. No one suspects an old man sitting on a bench or in a shiny old Buick.

“What's he doing?” Lang asked.

“Reading the paper and smoking on the fire escape.”

When Lang got to his office, he noticed that Brinkman had put a chair out on the fire escape. He was reading the paper and, from time to time, contemplating his cigar. It was as if he had put a folding chair on the beach.

Lang clicked on his computer, and while he waited for it to come to life, he flipped through his old-fashioned Rolodex for Inspector Gratelli's number.

“Inspector?” Lang said to the voice on the other line.

“Yes?”

“This is Noah Lang. Remember me?”

“Who could forget?”

“Many have. I've got a question. You mind?”

“Go ahead.”

“I got a visit last night from Rose and Stern.”

“And?”

“They were asking me about some kid I'm trying to find, a Michael Vanderveer.”

“Why are you calling me?”

“I'd like to know what the story is. Rose and Stern are homicide. What's going on? Is the kid dead or is he a suspect or what?”

“I don't know. Rose and Stern don't work for me. Nobody works for me. It's for them to tell you.”

“Stern would rather push me out of a lifeboat.”

“Yeah, he would. He's not your biggest fan.”

“C'mon, you and I worked together on the Whitfield case.”

“We did. We traded information. Can you tell me something I need to know?”

“You're not going to tell me anything, are you?” There was a pause indicating that Lang's question had been made rhetorical. “As far as I know, the boy might be dead and I'm chasing a ghost.”

“If the guys on the case didn't want you to know, then what do you want me to do? You know how this works. You're not going to work against your partner, are you?”

Lang didn't like it, but he understood. He would chat with West later to see what he had learned from Vanderveer's parents.

 * * * 

Parking lots and bail bond offices faced the Thomas J. Cahill Hall of Justice, an unforgiving, cold gray granite building that housed San Francisco's criminal courts, police, jail, medical examiner, and CSI units, all of which ground out approximations of justice. The elevators were often crowded with a mix of cops, prosecutors, defendants, judges, jurors, press, and a vast array of the accused.

Just inside the drab stairwell of the fourth floor, avoiding the busy corridors, Gratelli cornered Rose and Stern.

“You poking around Lang, you know, the PI?” he asked Rose.

But it was Stern who answered.

“That dick. Is he whining to you? And what's it to you anyway?” Stern was almost always filled with red-faced anger.

“Nothing to me, except sometimes he's helpful. Just thinking maybe I could toss him something, keep him friendly, if it's okay by you.”

“Need to know, Gratelli,” Stern said. “And you don't.”

“I'll remember that,” Gratelli said in his usual calm manner.

“Shit!” Stern's neck seemed to swell still more. How his starched white collar didn't strangle him, Gratelli couldn't imagine. “I'm not giving Lang shit.”

“He steal your girl?”

“He's got some little tranny, has for years. Apparently”—Stern had a mean smile that slid up through his anger—“he don't need a girl.”

“Stern's a little rough around the edges,” Rose said. “No debutante ball for him this year.”

“Go fuck yourselves.” Stern walked away. When he realized Rose wasn't behind him, the big cop came back. “You say one fucking word . . .”

Rose shrugged, followed his partner.

 * * * 

Lang agreed to meet Chastain B. West at 1300 on Fillmore, an upscale restaurant near the recently revived jazz district. Drinks could be had while sitting in a handsome lounge in comfortable chairs and sofas.

“This is a little out of my league,” Lang said when West stood up to shake hands.

“Mine too,” West said. “But I have a mandatory dinner to attend here a little later, so I appreciate you coming down and”—he grinned—“mingling with my folks.”

“You got your own folks?”

“I do,” West said.

The restaurant, Lang knew from the reviews, offered exquisite soul food and was favored by an upscale African American clientele. But no one would feel out of place unless they were poorly dressed. Unfortunately, and as usual, Lang was poorly dressed and was glad that he could hide in the corner.

“You're looking all tweedy, Chaz. This is summer.”

“Summer in San Francisco calls for wool.” They sat, and Lang's request for a beer was granted quickly.

Lang guessed that West was older than he looked—a handsome black man with a bit of gray in his hair and goatee. His eyes had a wise look about them. The general look of his face, though, was that of amusement. Whenever he was with West, Lang felt like a student.

“You call the parents?” he asked West.

“I did. The Vanderveers, the mother said, no longer need our services. They say he's not missing anymore.”

“They found him? So that's it?”

“No. I mean that's pretty much what she said, but she sounded odd and I started to ask her if he was back home, and she hung up. I was in mid-sentence and she hung up.”

“Something's wrong,” Lang said.

West nodded. “Did you get anything?”

“Nothing. Inspector Gratelli shut me down. But I'm a private eye and one who works for a defense attorney.”

West smiled. “We're not going to give up on it, are we?”

“No.”

“I can put you on the clock,” West said.

“No. I don't have anything at the moment to keep me from doing this. So for now, let me make my tiny contribution to society. But if you would, keep your eyes open for legitimate work.”

“I always do.”

 * * * 

Lang was not one to let sleeping dogs lie, but if he was careful, he thought, he could wake up the less dangerous of the dogs. He called Rose at the Hall of Justice but was told he was gone for the day. He called Inspector Rose at home.

“How'd you get the number, Lang?” was the awakened and angry response.

“It wasn't easy. Used to be easy back when everyone had to have a landline.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to know what's going on with the Vanderveer kid.”

“I want a home in Aruba.”

“You first,” Lang said.

“This is police business. You have the mistaken notion that we're here to support Paladino and Lang Investigations.”

“How do I know what toes not to step on when I don't know whose toes are where?”

“What?”

“I need to know. I mean, maybe I just back off quietly or maybe I go ahead full speed on the investigation. But I don't know enough to make that decision. And until I do, I have to go ahead. If that means trouble for you, that's the way it is. Consider this a heads-up then.”

“You screwin' around here means trouble for the kid,” Rose said. “His life, Lang!”

“Oh.”

Lang heard a huge sigh on the other end. “Well, there you go. I've spilled a few beans.”

“I thought we were talking about toes.”

“Beans. It's more like beans,” Rose said. “I like beans.”

“Me too.”

“So are we done?” Rose asked.

“I could do with a few more beans.”

“That's all I got.”

“For now.”

“Stay away. We don't need a civilian messing around in this.”

“I forgot. You guys have done such a great job lately. The French guy who supposedly stabbed himself three times in his locked apartment and managed to hide the weapon before he died, no doubt just to piss you off. You got that case solved?”

“He was French,” Rose said. “Who cares?”

“And the regular tastings at the drug lab?”

“She only tasted the spillage.”

“Spillage? And what about the head of the big antidrug squad selling what was confiscated and setting up massage parlors with girls he arrested for prostitution?”

“You've got to admit the guy is creative. Is this how you treat someone who gives you information?”

“You didn't mean to.”

There was a long silence. Buddha darted up to the loft. Lang went to the refrigerator, pulled out a beer.

“The kid has been kidnapped, Lang. Threats on his life. Stern thinks you kidnapped him.”

“Oh shit.”

“I think I've got him believing that we have to consider other suspects.”

“You're serious.”

“Well, it's hard to be sure with Stern, but what I'm saying isn't that far off. Listen, no one is supposed to know he was taken. We're trying to keep it quiet within the department. Threats. Parents promised not to bring in the police. We're trying to build up their trust.”

“We knew something was off about this.”

“How'd you know that?”

“They called West. West called me.”

“Christ. Call it off. Call it all off.”

 * * * 

He wasn't asleep, but the Chastain B. West that Lang reached by phone was feeling no pain. Lang decided to have a little social conversation and save the serious discussion for clearer moments in the morning. When Lang signed off, he climbed up into his loft having made the decision to recommend the two of them back off the Vanderveer thing. There was a life involved, and any attempt Lang might make, given how little he knew, would be clumsy and therefore life-threatening. Not everything was his business.

 * * * 

Noah Lang woke up at eight a.m. with the sudden but obvious realization he had nothing to do. This was not good. Financially, he lived pretty close to the bone, and rent for his renovated dry cleaners of a home and his portion of a South of Market office would come due without respect to his situation. Worse, he realized he didn't always make good decisions when he had a lot of time on his hands. There was a small job. A man named Fallow had filed a disability claim that an insurance company believed to be fraudulent. Lang had Brinkman and Thanh on shifts keeping an eye on the man's house. Perfect use, Lang thought, for an old man like Brinkman, who wouldn't be noticed if he sat on a curb with a brown bag in one hand and a cigar in the other. Also for Thanh, who could be different people at different times.

But that was it, and
it
was coming to an end. To add to the dilemma, there wasn't much profit in the case after paying Brinkman and Thanh. Unfortunately West hadn't come up with any paying work either.

Lang climbed out of bed and down the ladder with a sense of foreboding.

Buddha raced ahead of him, taking a leap halfway down. Lang took no such action. He plodded naked to the bathroom and checked out his reflection, thinking it could be worse. He would make coffee and call West and give him the bad news. Last night he had been a little relieved that he was no longer responsible for finding the young man. But last night's now forgotten dreams must have rearranged his brain. He still felt responsible—still wanted to find the kid. Down from the loft he felt a chill in the air. He slipped on his jeans and a sweatshirt.

There was only enough coffee for one cup. Enough to get him through the phone call but not through the morning.

“Bad news,” Lang told West.

“He's dead?”

“No, he's been kidnapped and there are threats on his life if anyone interferes. We're not supposed to know this.” Lang walked out onto the cement garden in the back, encountering the morning's cool fog. “But the guy who told me wants us to stay out of it.”

There was a long pause.

“What do you think?” West asked.

“I don't know. If I was a cop, I wouldn't want someone stumbling around a case when someone's life hangs in the balance. Just trying to find out what's going on could jeopardize the kid. On the other hand, Stern can be pretty ham-fisted and he's on the case. I'm still thinking about it.”

“I'll wait to hear from you.”

Lang put food down for an indifferent Buddha, took a shower, and went for a walk down to his regular coffee shop. He took the blueberry muffin and the coffee a block farther to the park, where he found an empty bench. In addition to the morning activities he regularly observed—dog walking, baby stroller pushing, people bicycling—he noticed a gathering of adults dressed in heavy, dark clothing and wearing long, often scraggly hair and full beards. The three dozen or so folks appeared to Lang as a long-lost tribe of earth people. Their clothing was all browns and grays. They sat so they faced one another and were engaged in what appeared to be a serious discussion.