Death in the Haight (3 page)

He dipped a piece of the muffin in his coffee. He wasn't all that far from being homeless himself. He looked out over the grass and between the trees. What were they meeting about? Of course Lang knew that, like most minorities in the city, they had organized to ensure their needs were met or their objections heard. There was a brouhaha over a proposed new policy to outlaw sitting or lying on the sidewalks, brought to the fore by the new police chief after complaints that sidewalks were blocked and aggressive panhandling techniques were used in the Haight. Was that what this was about? After all, the city was made up of powerful constituencies—gays, bicyclists, the homeless, the eco-warriors.

Because there wasn't a need to rush, because the day was pleasant, because he needed to keep in shape and keep his hard-to-come-by parking spot for his slightly battered old Mercedes sedan, Lang—for all these reasons—decided to walk to the office.

 * * * 

Gratelli saw Stern sitting at the picnic table outside the McDonald's across the alley from the Hall of Justice. The big cop had his suit jacket off. Sweat circles had formed under his arms. He was munching on one of two sausage, egg, and cheese breakfast sandwiches he'd purchased.

“You mind?” Gratelli asked, setting down his hot cup of coffee.

Stern, chewing, shook his head no.

“I talked with the captain. You were right to stay quiet on the Vanderveer case.”

“Glad to hear you approve,” Stern said sarcastically after following a swallow of sausage with a swig of coffee.

The day was starting to heat up. The sky was crisp blue.

“It still doesn't explain why you go out of your way to piss on Lang.”

“People around him die, Gratelli.”

“Did he kill them?”

“He killed the guy on the bus. I know it.”

“You mean the Russian who killed a few folks before he got on that bus?”

“That doesn't make it right,” Stern said. “Like I said, people die around him. The woman on the pier. The woman at Sea Cliff. And he walks around like he's got kryptonite or something.”

“I'm not sure you mean kryp . . . oh, the hell with it.” Gratelli nodded, got up. Stern was an angry cop. Then again that was practically in the job description.

 * * * 

“Lang here,” he said into the phone.

“I have a job for you,” West said.

“Really? Good.”

“The Vanderveers.”

“I thought . . .”

“They're here. They met Rose and Stern, and apparently one of them was particularly obnoxious.”

“Stern.”

“. . . didn't inspire confidence. They were sorry they went to the police at all. But now they need someone who knows the city, who can act in their name should that become necessary. The police think the parents have gone back to Michigan.”

Lang took the stairs and was soon outside, where the bright sunlight showed up the slightly dilapidated nature of the apartment buildings and storefronts in the neighborhood. It was a place that Lang nonetheless found comfortable. Residents hadn't fallen completely through the cracks.

“So when do we meet?” Lang asked. He stopped in front of a coffee shop until he knew which direction he needed to go.

“You can now. They are at the Huntington Hotel.”

“Wow,” Lang said. The place wasn't for the discount trade.

“That doesn't mean you can charge them an arm and a leg.”

“No. I have a rate. It just means I won't be sliding it down.”

“I know. I trust you. That's why I told them about you. You can take it on?”

“Yeah, unless there's something I find out when I meet them . . . or they meet me. Give me an hour.”

“I'll call you back if we need to change anything.”

 * * * 

The Huntington is on the top of Nob Hill. Most tourists, if they have the money, would go to the Fairmont, the hotel of choice for Presidents Clinton and Obama when they visit, or perhaps to the other famous hotel across from the Fairmont, the deco Mark Hopkins. The Vanderveers' choice of the less showy Huntington, if it wasn't a fluke, suggested they were wealthy but quiet about it. This is the reserve expected of folks whose families are used to money because they've had it for generations.

They all were to meet in what by comparison to the two other big Nob Hill hotels was a very sedate lobby. The year could have been 1935. The Vanderveers were fiftyish, well dressed in a classic way, matching the stylishly restrained ambience of the hotel. They sat on a sofa across from two upholstered chairs. Mr. Vanderveer, trim in a suit and tie, stood to greet Lang and West.

Again, Lang was clearly underdressed in his jeans and sweatshirt. And the Vanderveers eyed him warily.

The wife, a slender, bird-faced woman, nodded her modest hello.

“A little undercover work,” Lang said, suggesting his manner of dress was all business.

“Mr. Lang has a small, discreet investigative firm,” West told them. “His partner was a top-level executive at one of the largest, most respected security firms in the West. I believe together they are the best choice for the behind-the-scenes work you want.”

Mr. Vanderveer leaned forward. He spoke softly. “Our son is gay, Mr. Lang. He told us roughly six months ago and . . . the family, Miriam, me, his brother . . . well, we probably reacted inappropriately. We're Christian Reformed. We've believed and lived that life. Being gay is regarded as a sexual aberration and a sin. Needless to say we did not take it well. We were determined to make things right. Against his will, we forced him to see a psychiatrist known for treating and often curing those with homosexual tendencies.”

“We didn't stop loving our son,” Mrs. Vanderveer said, offended by the conclusions Lang and West might draw.

Lang looked at West, who maintained a poker face.

“Thanks for your honesty,” Lang said to the man.

“You're welcome.” Mr. Vanderveer said, accompanied by a cold look at his wife. “This wasn't easy for me. We had no idea, and it came upon us suddenly. Our oldest son was never a problem. Well behaved, brilliant at school . . .”

“He's going to major in finance,” Mrs. Vanderveer said. “He's helped us with our investments already.”

“But the younger one started having academic problems, then emotional problems,” Mr. Vanderveer continued. “Threatening to send him off for serious counseling was the first of many mistakes I made with the boy. At any rate, instead of going to a camp where he would be with others like himself for treatment, he disappeared.”

“You were pretty sure he came to San Francisco even before you were contacted,” Lang said.

Vanderveer nodded. “We all came out here a couple of years ago, and our son was infatuated with the city. It's all he talked about when we came back to Grand Rapids, how beautiful and exciting it was and how he was going to move here one day.”

Lang nodded.

“Can you explain everything you know and what expectations you have?”

Vanderveer sat back against the sofa as he took a deep breath.

“We want our son back,” he said. He looked at his wife. She returned a chilly look. “They are asking for a million dollars in one hundred dollar bills. Unmarked and a mix of new and old. We have it here in a safe-deposit box at a bank in the financial district. If there were a way not to pay it, I'd be for it, but that is secondary.”

“How did the kidnappers contact you?”

“Phone. My cell,” Vanderveer said. “It's my personal phone. Only a few friends and family have it. That was some sort of verification in itself.”

“What did they say? Exactly, if you can.”

“Just what I said, Mr. Lang. ‘Mr. Vanderveer,' they said, ‘we have your son and we will kill him unless you provide us with one million dollars in unmarked new and used one hundred dollar bills.' They were very clear and straightforward.”

“They sound nervous?”

“No.”

“Old, young, accent?” Lang asked.

“I don't know. It was all muffled or altered in some way. No accent that I could tell.”

“They say anything else?”

“They told me that if I went to the police they would kill him. And that I should come to San Francisco and they would provide instructions when they were ready.”

“They said to come here? This hotel?”

“Here, meaning the city. Again, this all made sense. I wondered if it was just someone who knew my son had run away. And they would use that to extort funds. But as I said, they had my personal phone number, how else could they have gotten it? They were in San Francisco, and they sounded very professional.”

“Why did you go to the police?” Lang asked. “They told you not to.”

“I've learned over the years to always talk to the experts,” he said. “I made a mistake.” Again he looked at his wife. She stared daggers. “After meeting with them, neither Miriam nor I are comfortable with the people assigned to the task.”

“Is that it?” Lang asked.

“No,” Mr. Vanderveer said. “They think Michael was involved in the murder of a young girl and that the ransom is his idea to finance, I presume, a trip to Brazil or something.”

“That's why homicide cops are involved,” West said.

“So if we get him back, he might be arrested?” Lang said.

Mrs. Vanderveer looked away angrily, then looked back.

“We believe finding him will clear things up,” Miriam Vanderveer said. “He'd have nothing to do with murder.”

“How is it you have easy access to a million dollars?” Lang asked.

“I don't know about ‘easy,' but I could get it and did.”

“What is the source of your wealth?”

“Is that necessary?” Mr. Vanderveer asked.

“Tell them what they need to know,” Miriam Vanderveer said.

“My father was in the furniture business, back when that could be done in America. He made furniture is what I mean to say. That kind of manufacturing is long gone, but we had holdings and I earn a substantial enough income from investments. In other words, I can afford you, Mr. Lang.”

“I asked because I'd also like to know how the kidnappers knew you could afford their demands,” Lang said. “They had to know something about your finances. Perhaps your son said something inadvertently, and that was why he was taken.”

“I understand,” Mr. Vanderveer said. “Where do we go from here?”

“What have you told the police? Do they know you are at the hotel?”

“They don't know we're in the city. We told them we were leaving, going home.”

“And your other son?”

“Home,” Miriam said. “He wanted to come, but we thought he should . . .”

“Hold down the fort,” Mr. Vanderveer said.

“Are they close? The boys?” Lang asked.

Mr. Vanderveer looked at his wife. Lang could detect a slight shaking of her head negatively. Either the boys weren't close or she was still angry with him.

“I know of brothers who are closer,” Mr. Vanderveer said.

“They have different outlooks on life,” Mrs. Vanderveer said.

Mr. Vanderveer looked away.

“Here's what I suggest,” West said, leaning forward. “You provide me with a modest retainer so that, in effect, you have hired me to handle your legal affairs and I will hire Paladino and Lang Investigations. Working for an attorney affords Noah and his partner greater access to the case. Normally, police can keep private eyes off active investigations. It also means we can be as confidential as we want to be under attorney-client privilege.”

“What else can we do?” Mr. Vanderveer asked.

West turned to Lang.

“I'll give you a cell phone to use to call me,” Lang said. “Keep me informed of anything and everything that happens. Have they told you what the next steps are?”

“Only that they would contact us. Oh, yes, and to have the money ready.”

“Especially important: Don't deliver the money until you've talked with me. Also, both the kidnappers and the police may be monitoring your moves. So let me know, even if you're going out to dinner.”

She nodded. He didn't.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

“Think about a plan. I don't have one, I'm sorry to say. At the moment, we're in a position to react but not act. And at the moment, your son and his captors could be anywhere in the Bay Area. Seven million people. Lots of places to be.”

“I understand. Do you know anything about the gay world?” Mr. Vanderveer asked them both.

“Here, it's not so much a separate world anymore. Pretty run-of-the-mill,” Lang said. “But our staff has connections. If you have a few more minutes, I have a few more questions.”

 * * * 

Lang's late evening was interrupted once more.

“Let me explain the rules,” Stern said. He, along with Rose, stood inside Lang's doorway. Lang, who had been in bed and who had slipped on a pair of jeans, let them in to keep the door pounding from disturbing his neighbors.

“You are a rowdy bunch. Out in the dark of night again? What are you? Vampires?”

“You don't want to know,” Rose said, pointing to his partner.

“You are one sneaky, slimy son of a bitch,” Stern said, poking a finger into Lang's chest.

“If you are referring to the Vanderveers, this is all aboveboard, all legal. I'm responding to their requests,” Lang said. “None of this was my idea.”

“And I can leap tall buildings in a single bound,” Stern said.

“Talk to my boss and, incidentally, my lawyer, Chastain West.”

Stern pushed a palm against Lang's chest, sending him back a step. “I'm talking to you.”

“I don't mean to be a whining little brat, but if you continue this, I'm going to go after you for harassment.”

“Am I harassing him?” Stern asked his partner.

“Of course not,” Rose said to Stern, then to Lang, “I have to work with him.”