The Big Exit (8 page)

S
AN
F
RANCISCO IS THIRTY MILES NORTH OF
M
ENLO
P
ARK, AND
depending on the time of the day and what freeway you choose, the trip can take anywhere from thirty minutes to twice that.
This time of night there’s no traffic, and going eighty most of the way, they get up to the city in twenty-four minutes.

Most of the officers drive sedans but Madden gets to charge around in a fancy Chevy Yukon SUV, one of the perks of being a
sergeant that he doesn’t really like. For starters, he isn’t a flashy guy, and after so many years of driving a sedan he’s
still not totally comfortable riding so high in a big car. But when his old boss, Pete Pastorini, was bumped up to commander,
Madden was promoted to detective sergeant and they made him take the truck, which is what he and Billings are in as they head
up to the city.

Directly in front of them is Brian Carlyle, the sergeant in charge of the patrol officers, a former Marine with the requisite
barrel chest and a crew cut. In his matching SUV, Carlyle has another veteran officer with him, Sam Wycoff. Both have spent
time in Oakland as part of special drug-related task forces, so they are probably the most battle-tested cops in the department
in terms of heavy action.

One of the reasons they get there so quickly is that Richie Forman lives in the southern part of the city, right near the
ballpark and the entrance to the Bay Bridge. They pull over on Third and Brannan,
where a couple of SFPD cars are waiting for them. Madden knows the officer in the lead vehicle, Felix Hernandez. He’s the
patrol officer in charge of the precinct, which covers a large portion of the South of Market area.

Felix Hernandez gets out of the car and shakes Madden’s hand through the open window. As soon as Madden gets out of the truck,
he’s glad he has his extra jacket in the back. A brisk breeze is blowing off the bay, and it’s a good fifteen degrees colder
up here, maybe more.

“Hey, Hank,” Hernandez says. “Thought you retired.”

“Yeah, the joke is I’m so old I got dementia and forgot to.”

A smile. Hernandez is approaching fifty, might be there already. “Know what you mean. So, you’ve got a person of interest
in our neck of the woods. How much interest are we talking?”

Madden gives him the background, tells him about Forman, how he’s gotten out of prison eighteen months ago, and how he may
be carrying a little grudge. They already have some evidence linking him to the crime scene.

“Forman,” Hernandez says. “Name rings a bell.”

“He was that Bachelor Disaster guy from eight years ago. I don’t know if you remember. Started the night up here. Ended up
in a DUI fatality down our way.”

“No, I think he paid us a visit the other day.” He turns to a black woman officer who’s standing nearby: “Something about
an assault and a couple of Tongans, right Joyce? He had a license plate and some photos.”

“Yeah, the Sinatra dude,” Joyce says. “We traced the plate to some woman’s car in Burlingame. It had been swapped out and
she didn’t even know it. The plate, not the car.”

“He get beat up?” Madden asks.

“No,” Joyce replies. “Just said these guys had hassled him. Didn’t know why. He said he didn’t want to report the incident
but his boss made him. When he’s not being Sinatra, he said he volunteers at some nonprofit.”

“Interesting,” Madden says, half surprised, half perturbed by the news. Assault? Tongans? Stolen license plate? None of that
sounds good.

“So you’re looking to chat or collar?” Hernandez asks.

“We’re hoping he might take a ride with us willingly and answer some questions. Just wanted to let you know we were showing
up for a visit.”

“Well, we’re here for you if you need us.”

Hernandez gives him a lay of the land, explaining how the Bayside Village complex is set up. There are basically three possible
exit routes. He suggests they have one officer set up in the courtyard and one in the garage in case the guy decides to run.
Madden and his partner should come at it from the front of the building and just buzz and see if Forman will let them in.

They finish the briefing and split up. Madden parks a little further down on Brannan and Carlyle parks on a side street adjacent
to the Brannan entrance of the building. After a few minutes, a slight, middle-aged Asian man walks out of the front door
of the building, his eyes darting around, looking very concerned. Seeing Madden’s Menlo Park police vehicle, he comes over
and introduces himself. He’s the building manager, who’s going to let them in the main entrance if Forman doesn’t.

“In position, Hank,” Carlyle says. He sounds pretty amped up, probably hoping the guy will run. This isn’t exactly Iraq, but
it’s a step up from Menlo Park. “We better get going. Brewster just texted me that word’s out. It’s all over Twitter. That
webhole Bender got wind of it.”

“Webholes” are what Carlyle calls dot-commers he considers assholes. Tom Bender is more of a blogger than a dot-commer, but
he reports on them and has managed to develop a rather oversized ego in the process, cultivating the perception that he can
make or break fledgling companies while building his own one-man media empire.

“I forgot the guy lives like six blocks away,” Madden says.

“Actually two,” Carlyle corrects him. “He moved last year. His mother’s in his old house now.”

Despite their better efforts to keep the killing quiet by staying off the radios, Madden knew that it was only a matter of
time before it leaked. You just needed one cop to shoot his mouth off to a couple of bystanders and the jig was up. Or perhaps
the county coroner’s car had been the tip-off. It didn’t take much.

“We’re at the front,” Madden says. “Stay on the line.”

Billings goes up to the intercom and buzzes the number for Richie Forman’s apartment.

No response. The manager had already pointed out Forman’s second-floor apartment from outside. The window is easily visible
from the street; his apartment is dark, with the shades drawn.

Madden buzzes again. This time, Billings walks across the street and looks up at the window. He shakes his head. No change.
No light comes on. No one looks through the blinds.

Madden asks the manager to open the door.

“Do me a favor,” the guy says. “Don’t break his door down. I’ll let you in if you need to get in.”

“Don’t worry,” Madden says. “We can’t go in.”

They don’t have a warrant. Not yet, but they’re working on it.

“You want me to stay here?” the manager asks. “Guard the entrance?”

“Yeah,” Billings says. “Hold the fort.”

Madden goes to the elevator and presses the up button. In a minute, he and Billings are upstairs, looking down a long hallway
that’s painted off-white, with gray carpeting that appears to be in good condition, probably replaced in the last few years.
It’s a clean, generic-looking building. Forman’s apartment is in the middle of the hallway on the right.

Madden takes one side of the door and Billings the other. Madden knocks. No answer. He knocks louder.

“Mr. Forman. Are you in there? Menlo Park police. Please open up. We’d like to have a few words with you.”

Madden purposely raises his voice, hoping to wake the neighbors. He repeats the request and while they don’t get any response
from Forman, a door down the hall opens a crack. A young Asian woman looks out.

“He’s not here,” she says.

Madden walks slowly toward the other apartment. He takes out his police badge and flashes it.

“Hank Madden. Detective from the Menlo Park police,” he says. “How do you know he’s not here?”

“He’s over at the View, that place on top of the downtown Marriott,” she says. “He’s singing tonight. Wait a sec.”

She closes her door, but returns quickly enough. She hands Madden an odd-looking business card from the top of a small stack
she has in her hand. It has the logo for the joint and Sinatra @ The View, along with an offer for a free beer or glass of
wine. The card has a perforation in the middle. It looks like you’re supposed to tear it in two.

“He gave me some of these the other day. Told me to pass them out to friends. He’s there on Fridays, I guess. Just started.
Have you been? Great view, expensive drinks. I took my parents there when they came to town.”

“Do you know him?”

“A little.”

“Did you see him tonight?”

She shakes her head. “I went out to dinner. Just got back a little while ago.”

Billings takes out a picture of Beth Hill.

“You ever seen him with this woman?”

More curious, she opens the door a little more. She takes the photo and looks at it. After a moment, she shakes her head.

“No, but I’ve seen him with other women. I’ve heard him fucking.”

Madden and Billings look at each other, surprised at the F-bomb. She seems rather prim and proper in her Hello Kitty T-shirt
and pink velvet sweat pants.

“Actually, I shouldn’t say I’ve heard him. But the women. I’ve heard them. These walls are paper thin. My dad says it’s pretty
crappy construction.”

“He has a girlfriend?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t ever really see him hanging with anybody. And you know, the voices sound different each time. Why,
did he kill someone or something? Is he a serial killer?”

Madden ignores the question.

“You’ve spoken to him?” he asks.

“A few times. I see him in the building gym. It’s not really much of a gym. It’s like a hotel gym. A lot of people in the
building get a membership to a real gym. But he’s in there a lot. The guy’s pretty ripped. I mean serious. He offered to train
me, said he would do it for
half of what the building trainer was asking. He said he was looking for extra money.”

“Did you do it?”

“No. But I was thinking about it. I saw him working out with another woman from the building. What’d he do?”

Madden smiles. “We’re just looking to ask him some questions about something that happened down on the Peninsula. Mind if
we take your name and phone number in case we think of anything else to ask you?”

She nods. Billings takes her number down and Madden gives her his card.

He starts to return the card she’s given him, then asks whether they can keep it. She says that’s fine, she has more, and
gives an extra one to Billings. Flashing a little smile, she says, “He did tell me to hand them out.”

After she closes the door, they take one last look down the hallway, then go back to the elevator. As the door opens, Billings
says, “Anybody for cocktails?”

Madden looks at the perforated card, then at his watch. If the information on the card is accurate, Richie Forman is about
to start his last set.

M
ADDEN DOESN’T WANT TO MAKE A SCENE, SO WHEN THEY GET TO
the Marriott he tells Carlyle and his partner, who are in uniform, to wait downstairs with the vehicles while he and Billings
go upstairs.

Rising swiftly in the elevator, Madden feels his ears pop. Next to him Billings looks ready for a night on the town, not the
interrogation of a possible suspect. Madden is wearing a coat and tie; Billings has his top two shirt buttons open, exposing
a little chest hair. A couple of women in their early forties are in the elevator with them, dolled up in heels and short
skirts underneath long leather coats. One of them flashes Billings a smile.

“How you ladies doing tonight?” he asks, his hands on either side of his belt buckle.

Madden jabs him in the side.

“What?” Billings says.

“We’re working,” he whispers.

“Intermezzo, man. Intermezzo.”

Madden doesn’t know what the hell Billings is talking about. When the elevator doors open to the lounge, Billings, channeling
his inner Matthew McConaughey, says, “You ladies have a good night. Y’all be safe now.”

The Southern drawl kills Madden. Billings is from Southern California, not
the South
South. Lately he’s been tossing out his “be safe” sign-off so often that some of the guys have started calling him Officer
Condom, which doesn’t seem to bother him. When Madden asks about it, he just shrugs. “Envy, man. It’s a bitch.”

A tall, dark-haired hostess tucked into a formfitting blue dress greets them. The women from the elevator blow past her, seeming
to know exactly where they’re going.

“Gentlemen,” she says. “Welcome.”

Madden doesn’t hear music or anybody singing, but he does hear someone who sounds a lot like Frank Sinatra speaking over the
sound system. He’s saying something about smoking.

“Are you meeting folks, or is it just you two?” the hostess asks.

“Just us two,” Madden says, and hands her one of the cards they picked up a little earlier.

“Sorry,” she says, “those expire at midnight.”

“Sorry, I didn’t see the fine print.”

“There isn’t any.”

With that, she steps out from behind her station and leads them to a table.

“Not too close,” he requests, eyeing Forman on the small stage in the center of the room. The lights of the city shimmer through
the large, almost floor-to-ceiling windows behind him. He’s wearing a suit with a thin black tie and a dark fedora hat like
the one Madden’s father used to wear. The hat’s tilted just so. Sinatra circa 1960, he thinks. His second prime.

“We’re almost at last call,” the hostess says as they sit down. “If you want, I’ll put your orders in before the bar closes.”

Much to Billings’s chagrin, Madden asks for two beers. Bud Lites.

“I don’t want a beer,” Billings says.

“What’s the difference? You’re not drinking it.”

“It’s the principle, man.” He smiles at the hostess and says, “I’ll have a Patron Silver on the rocks.”

“Give him a beer,” Madden says, waving her away.

As she goes off, Billings gives a little a pout, and murmurs something about how he has an image to uphold.

“I will not waste taxpayer dollars on your personal extravagances.”

Billings isn’t listening. He’s staring at Forman, who’s broken into “Come Fly with Me.”

“Damn,” Billings says. “He’s pretty good.”

* * *

Richie’s in between songs, riffing on how he can’t smoke in clubs anymore, when he sees two guys walk in and sit down at a
table on the outer perimeter. The place has a decent crowd, but there are a few open tables here and there, and he’s happy
at first to see a few more folks come in, gay or straight. Then he’s not.

Though Madden looks familiar, it’s his indelible gait—that prominent limp—that jogs his memory and sets the alarm bells off.
The last time he saw the detective, his hair and moustache were a little darker and he had more of it on his head. His hairline
had been receding back then, but now, he notes, he has less on top and what’s on the sides is trimmed closely. It’s stubble
really. And while he’s still thin, he isn’t as slight as he remembers.

His initial reaction is shock. Not so much at seeing them, but that they’d come so quickly. They must have gone to his apartment,
poked around, and someone told them where he was. How else could they know?

The cards
, he thinks. He’d given them to two people on his floor. The damn things were his booking agent’s idea. Per, a Swede who’d
lived in the States for twenty-five years and still had a slight Nordic lilt when he spoke, has worked at the periphery of
the dot-com scene since the late 90s. He’s technically an event promoter, but he dabbles in talent management and assorted
other endeavors, including a ninety-second “hyper” speed-dating circuit and this latest venture, a “referral” business card
he’s invented called the Rip-it.

“Isn’t there an app for this?” Richie asked when he first saw the cards.

“Just hand them out, okay?” Per said, not appreciating his decided lack of enthusiasm. “I can get you five bucks for each
referral. I told the manager you had a big following. Don’t let me down.”

He didn’t want to let Per down. So he took a stack of cards and distributed a few dozen of them. Now, launching into the breezy
“Come Fly With Me,” which he can do in his sleep, he thinks the tipster was most likely the young Asian woman, Lynn, who sometimes
opens her door to check on who’s out in the hallway when he dumps his garbage in the chute at the end of the hall or hauls
his clothes to and from the laundry room in the middle of the floor.

* * *

Friendly yet suspicious, Lynn didn’t seem to know exactly what she wanted. She asked once whether he’d work her out, then
abruptly cancelled. Then one night she’d knocked on his door and asked if he had any Sweet’N Low. Not sugar, but Sweet’N Low
or some other “artificial sweetener.” She had wine on her breath and her teeth had a slight pink tinge to them. When he said
he didn’t, she hovered, peeked around him into his apartment, half inviting herself in. He considered acting on the cue then
decided he’d better pass. One or both of her parents stopped by every few weeks and she had the whole “daddy’s girl” vibe
going strong. He just wasn’t confident in her ability to navigate the intricacies of a fling, especially at such close range.

That still doesn’t explain why Madden and his partner have come up to the city so fast. He’d expected the detectives tomorrow,
maybe the next day, but that they’re here now means that they have someone or something that links him to Mark. And it’s not
just his past. They have to have something more concrete.

After an initial wave of alarm an odd calm comes over him. This time at least he knows what’s coming. He finishes the song
and picks up his half-full drink glass that’s sitting on a nearby bar stool. He takes a sip and smiles at the audience.

“I can’t smoke,” he says, holding up half an unlit cigarette he’s been using as a prop, “but they said it was okay for me
to bring my old friend from Tennessee.” He takes another swig of the Jack Daniel’s and soda, savoring the bite as it goes
down.

“I’ve got a few more,” he goes on. “Real nice songs. This first one I’d like to dedicate to an acquaintance who just showed
up. We go way back. Can’t say it’s good to see him.”

He takes a fake drag on the cigarette, then holds it out in front of him, down by his side.

“I see he’s with his partner,” he says, smiling that cheerful, sardonic smile he’s worked hard to perfect. “I don’t know him
but he looks like a handsome fella. A good catch, if you know what I mean.”

He goes over to the sound system behind him, where he has his
iPod Nano cradled in a little dock. He sets his drink down and scrolls through the list until he finds the song he wants.

All those great musicians Sinatra recruited for his live performances and recordings are now packed into a tiny iPod that’s
smaller than the gold lighter Ashley had been so curious about. When he hits the play button on the little remote he keeps
in his pocket, all the instruments will be there except Frank’s voice. You can never replace or measure up to something as
big or special as that. No one can. But there’s a way to be more right than wrong, to express a profoundness of emotion that
moves people enough to overlook the limits of your talent. Sure, sometimes you end up looking and sounding like a street performer.
But if you get a good venue with a decent sound system—like this place—you can go beyond glorified karaoke. You can transcend
it.

“They sometimes ask me which song I like to sing the most,” he says, facing his audience again. “And I say, I don’t know,
I like to sing them all. But this is one of my favorites.”

He hits the button on the remote. A moment passes, then the sound of fingers strumming a guitar, slowly, almost mournfully.
One strum, then two … on five he starts in:

People know the popular songs: “My Way.” “New York, New York.” “Summer Wind.” “Come Fly with Me.” The iconic crowd pleasers;
he mixes them in, usually finishing with “My Way.” But the real money songs, the real swoon-inducers are the songs that most
people don’t really know. Stuff like “Guess I’ll Hang My Tears Out To Dry” and Peter Allen’s “You and Me.” They are both harder
and easier to do. Easier because you don’t have to compete with such a strong frame of reference. Harder because a lot of
those tunes are dangerously schmaltzy—and he’d seen and heard plenty of less capable acts butcher them to cringe-inducing
effect.

As he sings he looks over at Madden from time to time, then shifts his attention to a group of four women and two guys who’re
sitting at one of the front tables. Two of the women have just shown up. He doesn’t know who’s with whom, but he figures the
numbers are in his favor, and soon enough the new women are gazing up at him with an expression approaching rapture. He moves
a little closer, leans down toward them, and sings as if it’s the last song he’ll ever sing.

Madden’s eyes remain glued to Richie when he finishes his set. There’s no dressing room or private side room for him to slip
away to. He simply takes his bows, unplugs his iPod dock, and walks over to the bar, where he has a drink waiting for him.
A few people come over to congratulate him, including a few women, who appear to be groupies in the making.

Madden doesn’t think he’ll run, but just in case, he has Billings go stand by the elevators. After the initial wave of well-wishers
pays their respects, Richie glances over and sees Madden sitting alone at the table. The two lock eyes and Richie gives him
what looks like a salute or tip of his hat. And then he comes over, sets his drink on the table and sits down in Billings’s
chair.

“Hello, Detective,” he says, his voice unchanged from the one Madden had heard on the stage.

“Very nice job, Mr. Forman. I didn’t realize you had that kind of talent.”

“Had some time to practice.”

“Well, we were impressed. I played some drums back in the day. Was even in a band for a bit, so I know how difficult it can
be to perform.”

“Percussionist, huh? I pictured you for something a bit more cerebral. Piano maybe. Or bass. Where’s your partner? Guarding
the exit? Tell him to come back and have a drink. I’m not going anywhere.”

Madden swings around in his chair and motions for Billings to return.

“I heard,” Richie says.

Madden: “Heard what?”

Richie pulls a cell phone out of his inside coat pocket, hits a button,
and aims the screen toward Madden. Lifting his glasses, Madden leans forward and looks at the text message that’s on the screen:

Just got a Google alert. Someone tweeting Mark McGregor is dead. Where are you?

It’s time-stamped just before midnight. Whoever sent it did so an hour ago.

“Who’s that from?” Madden asks.

“Someone I work with. Is it true?”

Madden nods.

“How? What happened?”

“Why don’t you tell us?”

This is Billings. He’s just come back to the table and flips around a chair. He sits down, his elbows on top of the backrest.

Richie smiles. “Now why would you go and say something like that, Detective? I feel hurt.”

He says the last part with a comical, over-the-top looney tunes Jersey accent.
I feel whoort
.

“Because that’s what they pay me to do.”

“I didn’t get your name.”

“Billings. Jeff.”

Richie raises his glass to toast him. “Pleasure’s mine.”

He’s still in character, still doing Sinatra, and Madden doesn’t like it one bit. He says, “Mr. Forman, would you mind telling
us where you were earlier tonight?”

“Would you mind telling me what happened?”

“Your old pal Mark McGregor was murdered earlier this evening,” Billings says.

“How?”

Madden: “Bludgeoned to death with a sharp object.”

Richie grimaces. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“Cut the funny talk,” Billings says. “Show’s over. Where were you?”

“Have a drink, sonny. Be sociable. This is me. This is how I talk. Get used to it.”

Billings looks at Madden, who puts up a hand, gesturing for him to hold off on the bad-cop routine.

“We can’t drink,” Madden says. “We’re on the job.”

“Well, I hate to drink alone. You want me to call some of the gals over? Until you guyz showed your mugs ’round here things
was looking pretty promising. One over there looks like some San Quentin quail. Not sure how they let her in. Maybe you guys
should check her ID.”

“Look, we just want to ask you a few questions,” Madden says. “We don’t think you did anything.”