Death in the Haight (4 page)

“You know better,” Stern said, this time with a snarky grin. “You know how things work. You want to play rough?”

“I don't want to play, Inspector. I want to provide my client with professional work, and I want to work with professionals on the police force. Is that possible?”

Lang didn't see it coming, merely felt the impact and he was down on the floor, taking inventory of his face. He should have expected it, but he didn't think Stern was that close to an explosion. He looked up and, even in the dim light, he could see Rose, arms around Stern, to keep him from doing more damage. Stern jerked himself free and leaned down, his face inches away from Lang's.

“I don't play fair, Lang. Never did. Now are you ready for my rules?”

Lang wanted to hit him. Wanted more than anything to smash the ugly, angry face. But, if Stern was willing to go this far, nothing would keep the man from shooting him and planting a gun in Lang's lifeless hand. He had to keep telling himself, now is not the time. Now is not the time.

“Rule number one: You tell us everything—what you know, what you suspect, and what you dreamed last night. Rule number two: You do nothing without telling us what you are going to do and wait until we give you permission to do it. You understand?”

“I understand every word you say,” Lang said, hoping that Stern didn't pick up on his failure to agree.

“This is an active murder case,” Stern said. “Just because you can use a technicality to get around the law doesn't mean you can use a technicality to get around the law. Got it?”

“You've been very clear.”

Lang heard them arguing outside as he walked to the bathroom to make sure he still had all his teeth. His nose bled, and there was a cut on his upper lip. One tooth was loose. He would look worse in the morning.

 * * * 

He did.

“Damn,” Thanh said. “Look at you.”

“I was hoping you wouldn't be here,” Lang said.

“Thank you. I was hoping you wouldn't look like a slab of corned beef. Your playmate, Inspector Stern, left a message.”

“How do you know these things?” Lang asked.

Thanh handed him the pink “while you were out” message. It read:
I hope you learned your lesson
. “I recognized his voice. He had a few choice words for me as well.”

“Sorry.”

“You didn't create the monster,” Thanh said. “And to add to your morning, Inspector Rose is waiting in your office.”

Lang headed toward his office.

“Incidentally,” Thanh called out, “I know where Stern lives.”

“Don't.”

Thanh smiled.

Rose stood when Lang came in. There was a pained look on the inspector's face as he saw what the morning after looked like. He shook his head.

“As much as I want to, there's nothing I can do,” Rose said, not his usual comic self.

“I know that. Why did you come all the way down here to tell me?”

“It's worse than you think.”

“Really?”

“You remember the woman on the pier?”

“How could I forget? But that was more than a decade ago.”

“Stern keeps going back to that, and he adds in the death of the woman in Sea Cliff. He thinks you killed her and framed the Russian.”

“Why would I have done that?”

“We're past logic, Lang. You have a place to stay? Another place to stay?”

“You're kidding.”

“I don't know.”

“You can't get him . . . uh . . . some kind of help?”

“I can try. And I will. But if he's off the force and he thinks you had something to do with it . . . it could get worse, if that's possible.”

Lang took a deep breath. “I understand.” There were two forces at work, and Lang understood them. Rose and Stern were partners. It was a kind of until-death-do-you-part kind of thing. There was also the loyalty among the police in general. There were always a lot of corners being cut and rules being broken when the only other sets of eyes belonged to people dressed in blue. Some, and there was a history of it in San Francisco, went over the edge.

“Divorce, alcohol, and some really gruesome crime scenes . . .” Rose said, not bothering to complete the sentence. “The man is a mess. You know, if you tell anyone what I said, I might shoot you myself. I just want you to take care. Get out of harm's way.”

“I don't know why I understand that, but I do. Thanks.”

 * * * 

Lang called Vanderveer. “I want to check in.”

“Sure. We're waiting, just waiting. It's torture for Miriam. Me too, I guess.”

They agreed to meet in the little park across from the hotel. Lang wanted them to open up and hoped that being outside might help.

Huntington Park was small, a short block long and half a block wide. It had a small playground and some grassy spots for dog walkers and, on those rare occasions like today, for urban sunbathers. The perimeter was lined with wooden benches. The sun that had been blotted out by the fog earlier was now both intense and gold. The reality it exposed had an almost surreal feel to it.

The elegant Grace Cathedral occupied the space to the west of the park; an imposing and exclusive men's club was to the east. To the north were some of the world's most expensive homes and condos, and to the south was the Huntington Hotel. Lang sat on a bench at the corner nearest the Vanderveer's hotel and watched them crossing the street, having to wait first for a cable car full of tourists to pass.

“Any word?” Lang asked the Vanderveers.

Mr. Vanderveer shook his head.

“They are very patient,” Lang said. “They've given you time to get the money together.”

“As I said, they seem like professionals.”

“Was there a part of San Francisco that Michael particularly liked?” Lang asked.

“I don't know enough about the city to know. I think the whole place fascinated him. The hills, of course, he couldn't get over all the hills. He said that Rome must be like this.”

“Did he make friends here with anyone or correspond with anyone?”

“No. As we look back on it”—Vanderveer looked at his wife, who seemed to understand what he was about to say—“Michael was pretty withdrawn. He couldn't relate to the other kids. I think he talked to . . .” He suddenly reached in his suit coat pocket and retrieved a cell phone. “Hello,” he said, and after a few moments, “No, I'm not trying to fool you. Nothing of the sort.” A few minutes later he responded firmly, “No, he is not police.”

He handed the phone to Lang.

“My name is Noah Lang. I am not police. You can check up on us. Paladino and Lang Investigations. My only purpose is to help the Vanderveers, to make sure you receive the ransom and Michael is united with his parents. When this occurs, we will all go our separate ways.”

There was silence.

“Is there any way we can verify that you have Michael and that he is all right?”

“I can send a body part,” the voice said.

“No. Don't do that. Is it possible for him to speak to his father?”

“I don't like the idea that you are involved. But maybe it's for the best in the end. However, you would do well to understand that you have absolutely no leverage. I will not negotiate. You simply do what I say. No heroics. I am not a sentimental man. Do you understand me?”

“I understand.”

“Tell the Vanderveers to get some rest tonight. The next time I contact them there will be instructions. Between now and tomorrow morning, have them pick up a box of black, extra-strength plastic garbage bags. Good night.”

Lang started to tell the Vanderveers what the man said, but an elderly lady was walking by with her fluffy white dog. He waited until the two of them were past hearing.

“They saw us,” Miriam Vanderveer said, her voice running toward the edge of hysteria. “They're here, somewhere. They can see us.”

Lang wasn't sure what to think. The words the caller chose suggested not that he was educated but that he wanted to come across as educated. “You would do well to understand . . .” A pretty good-sized ego, but not the way a tough guy would speak. The caller kept saying “I,” not “we.” Maybe there was only one kidnapper. On the other hand, someone was keeping close watch on the Vanderveers. And someone would need to watch over the victim—if they had the victim at all.

“Is there anyone that you came across in your business or maybe an employee who might want to get even with you?” Lang asked Mr. Vanderveer. “Someone you may have slighted?”

“I might have and not even known it, I suppose. Over the years, I'm sure there were people unhappy with my decisions. But nothing that stands out.”

“Did you have a personal staff, Mrs. Vanderveer? Maids, gardeners? Maybe someone who knew Michael and would have known where he would run to?”

“We have a woman who comes to clean twice a week. And we have a gardener. They are husband and wife. Mexican, both of them. They know Michael, but I doubt he would discuss his plans with them.” She seemed relieved to be done talking. She looked down into the folded hands in her lap.

Lang wanted to say something encouraging, but he didn't feel encouraged enough to do so. Knowing that the police not only suspected young Michael of the kidnapping but also of the murder meant that even if the exchange went well, the parents wouldn't get out of the hell they were in.

He asked a few more questions before they separated. Lang reminded them that they wouldn't hear from the kidnappers any more that day and recommended a small café a block and a half down on Taylor.

“I couldn't possibly eat,” Mrs. Vanderveer said.

“You mind?” Lang asked, but didn't wait for an answer. He used his phone to photograph the Vanderveers. “About the hotel, why did you choose the Huntington?”

“We always stay here when we're in San Francisco.”

“Did Michael stay here with you?”

“Yes. At least twice. The whole family.” Vanderveer shrugged. “It was a whole family then.”

 * * * 

Lang took a moment to grab a bite to eat at the Nob Hill Café. Even though the address spelled “money,” and the clientele looked to be local and therefore moneyed, the atmosphere wasn't the least snooty and the menu was surprisingly affordable. Unsure about where his next paycheck would come from, Lang ordered with cautious economy—a plate of spaghetti alla carbonara, which turned out to suit his appetite perfectly, and a glass of the house red, which cut through the rich, creamy pasta.

Back outside, as night eventually started to fall, he sat in the park again and called Thanh. He told his friend to wrap up the insurance case and be ready to move on in the morning. There were other things that needed doing, Lang explained. He did the same with Brinkman. Brinkman was happy that he might have something more to do. Lang told him his assignment began immediately and provided instructions.

Park benches weren't made for long-term comfort, Lang soon discovered. He walked down to Powell and looked farther down the steep hill as it descended into a glittering Chinatown and a deserted but impressive high-rise financial district. For many tourists this was a magical, fanciful city. And it was that, but there was no shortage of dashed hopes, deep tragedies, and genuine monsters lurking just this side of the dreams.

He walked to his car, retrieved a coat and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses with plain lenses. He had the night shift, and Thanh, completely briefed, would relieve him early in the morning. He wished he had a pillow.

Lang understood that the stakeout was nearly useless. It wasn't likely the kidnappers would make any move this evening. Surely they didn't expect the Vanderveers to keep the money in their hotel room, and the banks were closed when they'd made their call. He wasn't likely to recognize them if they walked in through the front door. Yet it was possible that this was a setup for a robbery. That would be clever. Plan an exchange, but steal the money beforehand. Lang would maintain his surveillance.

 * * * 

Lang was bundled up against the chill. The fog meant visibility ended about a hundred feet away. He could barely see the entrance to the Huntington. Lacy fog hung about the hotel's doorway. The other buildings, usually dominating Nob Hill, had vanished or merely hinted at their existence.

He thought he saw a rat, or perhaps it was a cat, scurrying across the walkway and into the first translucent, then opaque gray cover of fog.

 * * * 

It was the “why” of things that was disturbing him. Why he was sitting in the park at this hour? That was a good question. He knew the plain answer. He was avoiding a run-in with Stern as much as watching out for a potential robbery. But that presented, in turn, a more difficult question. Was it cowardice? He had told himself when Stern punched him, and again later in that dark night, that he understood he would lose no matter what in a battle with a cop. If he killed the cop in self-defense, it wouldn't matter to the police or to the courts. Was he a coward to refuse to fight when it was clear he could not win? It would be as stupid as walking into a propeller. Yet that wasn't how the code worked. He felt rotten and small.

There was a police siren—a whooping sound—somewhere down the hill. He couldn't tell which direction it was going. The sound trailed off. After a few moments of silence he heard the tires of a car on the streets damp from the fog. He looked. It passed slowly and steadily across California Street.

Lang wasn't done with the questions. Why had he provoked Stern so thoroughly? Surely the veteran cop, who had seen so much in his career, had seen worse characters than Noah Lang.

Not usually given to introspection, Lang revisited the major events in his life. His treatment of his wife had not been criminal. He had not abused her unless being selfish and emotionally remote was abuse. He had been immature and wrong. He had been a jerk. He had been a chauvinist in the worst possible ways. He wasn't sure how he'd do in conventional relationship today. But it didn't matter. He didn't have them. He really couldn't hurt people because he simply didn't get involved.