Death in North Beach (10 page)

For a moment, his stare was cold. ‘Who told you that?'

‘The people at Reed Fine Arts.'

‘Yeah, well. I do, I guess.'

‘New work?'

‘Never before seen,' he said. He was uncomfortable.

‘Are those for the show?' she asked, pointing to the sixteen cartons against the wall.

Wiley looked nervous. ‘What is it you want?' he asked.

‘Can I get a sneak preview?'

‘No.'

‘Mrs Wiley, who might be either angry enough to kill him or so ashamed of something they'd kill him to keep him quiet?'

‘I don't like the question.'

‘You're not going to answer it?'

‘Not my business,' he said.

‘Police may want to talk to you,' she said. It was not so veiled a threat, but Wiley had thought through it.

‘Can't do anything about that, I guess.'

She got very little else. Wiley only had nice and very general comments about the folks on the list, except for two, and he chose to say nothing about them. Marlene Berensen and Mickey Warfield.

The note was tacked to Lang's door.

Room 563 had maybe a dozen desks. Along one wall was a row of smaller rooms with windows that opened to the larger room. Gratelli, in a gray, slightly wrinkled suit, was talking with Noah Lang when Carly arrived.

‘You got the invitation,' Lang said to her.

She looked puzzled.

‘I got a call last night at home,' she said.

‘Well, I got a formal invitation. Not quite engraved, but the intention was noble.'

The two of them followed Gratelli into one of the interrogation rooms.

‘This is pretty scary,' Lang said, grinning. ‘Should we call a lawyer?'

‘We're short of conference rooms,' Gratelli said. The two private investigators sat on the far side, where suspects usually sat. Gratelli sat across from them, hands folded on the table, a look of troubled patience on his woeful, ageing face. ‘We have two ways of doing this,' he said without menace. His tone was almost always sane and drama-free. ‘One, we can make your lives miserable because you are interfering in a police investigation . . .' He waited.

‘Or?' Lang said.

‘Or we can work together. One problem we always have as civil servants is that we are understaffed. Now, officially, we aren't sanctioning private investigation, but we can all go about our business in a friendly way by including the others in what we find out.'

Carly looked at Lang. Lang nodded.

‘We can do that,' she said.

‘All right, let's start with this: Who is your client?'

Both Lang and Carly smiled and in the same not-on-your-life way.

‘We'll give you a list of names,' Carly said. Lang winced. ‘These are people we are told who have at least one major reason to keep Warfield from publishing his book.'

Gratelli nodded.

‘What can you give us?' Carly asked.

‘I can tell you what the medical examiners said.'

‘What was that?' Lang asked.

‘He was killed by a Mont Blanc fountain pen.' Gratelli gave them a long look. ‘I'm telling you this, but I'm not releasing that information to the media or to the public in any way. You understand?'

Lang nodded.

‘And what did you find at the crime scene that would be helpful?' Carly leaned forward.

‘Nothing. No fingerprints. Nothing left behind in the crime scene. No footprints. Nothing.'

‘Insurance? Wills?' Carly asked.

‘Too early.'

‘Well, you're coming up short,' Lang said. ‘Not exactly a fair trade.'

Gratelli unfolded and refolded his hands.

‘One of the most important things we can do in a murder investigation is to understand what we don't know.'

‘This is a known unknown or is that an unknown known?' Lang asked and then responded to Gratelli's raised eyebrows. ‘The great poet Rumsfeld. Rummy as he is often called with very little affection.'

‘Known unknown,' Gratelli said. ‘You see, you're catching on.'

‘Thing is, you have nothing,' Carly said.

‘We have a body. Actually we do know what he had for dinner, that he was on high blood pressure medicine, that his liver would have done him in pretty soon. We also know you've talked with Richard Sumaoang and Mrs Berensen and that Ms Paladino raised the ire of Mr Reed and Reed Fine Arts and amused the publisher of the
Fog City Voice
who wanted to send out a reporter to interview me for a story. Your investigation hasn't been particularly subtle.'

‘It wasn't meant to be,' Lang said, defensively. ‘And we're just looking for a book, remember?'

‘You might be surprised to know there is some validity to your claim,' Gratelli said. ‘Warfield's hard drive was stolen and if he had downloaded any material on disks or thumb drives, they're gone too.'

‘Broke into his house?' Carly said.

‘His studio,' Gratelli said. ‘A small place in back of his house where he apparently went to write or escape the family.'

‘And he'd want to do that because?' Carly continued.

‘The Warfields are not the Nelsons.'

‘You have any thoughts on any of those folks on your list?' Gratelli asked.

‘No one admits to having a motive, but so far everyone seems to agree that he had enemies.'

‘We'll keep in touch,' Carly said, getting up. Lang followed her lead. ‘So you keep in touch.'

Gratelli nodded, but didn't move.

Lang turned back. ‘Do your friends Rose and Stern know we're all one big happy family?'

Gratelli's look suggested that Lang already knew the answer.

‘They know.'

‘But?' Lang asked.

‘Yeah, but what am I gonna do?'

Nine

Lang ran into Brinkman on the first floor.

‘We can walk faster,' Lang told Brinkman as he stood in front of the elevator doors.

‘But I'd have to move my legs,' Brinkman said.

‘Yes. There are disadvantages.' They stepped in the elevator and it slowly began to clunk upward. ‘Incidentally, your fly is open.'

Brinkman looked down, zipped up, looked at Lang.

‘Why in the hell are you looking down there? Jesus.' He zipped up angrily.

‘If you think for one minute that I'm interested in an ill-tempered, sloppily dressed old male carcass, you are mistaken.'

‘Ah . . .' Brinkman said, shaking his finger at Lang, ‘your lips speak but your eyes say different.'

After a brief eternity, the doors opened in front of Lang's office. Lang stopped to respond to the strange look on Thanh's face. Brinkman went on.

‘There are a couple of guys in your office,' Thanh said to Lang in the reception area. He made a grim face. The hard, tough look was especially strange because Thanh was a kind of androgynous creature this mid-morning. Dark hair swept back in what used to be called a page boy, a loose-fitting, expensive tee shirt that dipped unusually low from the neck, and a gold bracelet, also loose-fitting, on his left wrist. However, what make-up, if any, Thanh had applied, was invisible. Lang doubted anyone could be sure whether this mysterious being was male or female.

‘Stop over when you're done,' Carly said to Lang. She took a long look at Thanh. Her eyes smiled even if her lips didn't.'

‘Rose and Stern?'

Thanh shook his head, spoke in a whisper. ‘Not cops. Not accountants either. The big guy, a gun under his left arm.'

‘A gun?' Lang asked softly.

‘Or his lunch. But it's something.'

Lang nodded, took a deep breath, walked into his office.

The big guy allegedly carrying a weapon was looking out of the window. He turned to face the room. He could have been Stern's brother, a big white guy who, like Stern, wore a suit he grew out of five years ago. The other guy, seated on Lang's tacky sofa, was at least six foot, but he was all bone, almost lost in his suit. Eyes recessed in their dark sockets, he had a feral, hungry look.

It was the big guy who spoke first. He came away from the window, took a few steps and stopped. He pulled on his nose, perhaps, Lang thought, to show how bored and unintimidated he was with his task, which began to unfold immediately.

‘Lang, nobody likes violence,' the man said.

‘Nobody,' the feral man agreed.

‘You should tell the film industry,' Lang said. ‘Body parts flying everywhere.'

‘So you like violence?' the man asked as if it was an objective inquiry.

‘I'm not committed to it.'

‘You have any idea why we're here?' The big man walked over to Lang, who remained by the door.

‘Apparently to register your personal opinion on the nature of the world, but I'm not collecting or keeping track of opinions. You might want to talk to the Gallup people.'

The big man smiled. Maybe he was going to get to enjoy his work.

‘But sometimes violence is the only answer,' the man said, ‘don't you think?' He maintained a cool, conversational tone.

‘Depends on the question,' Lang said.

‘Exactly,' the feral man said.

‘Yes,' the big man said, ‘he seems to be bright enough to understand.'

Lang waited.

‘The question is: Will you drop your little adventure regarding Whitney Warfield?'

Thanh came into the room. He brought with him a 35 mm camera. He smiled at the gentlemen.

‘Could you two move closer together, so I can get you both in?'

The big man looked shocked. The feral man started to obey.

‘Get the fuck outta here, whatever in the hell you are,' the big man said.

‘Solo portraits are good enough, I guess,' Thanh said.

He brought the camera up to his eye and the flash went off once. Thanh pivoted and caught the feral guy as the man started toward Thanh.

Lang tripped him.

‘We have a collection of thug photos,' Thanh said, as the big guy reached for his pistol.

‘It's a lovely album,' Lang said. ‘You are perfect specimens.'

‘My boss loves people like you,' Thanh said, ‘His album is titled “Thugs I have Known”.'

‘And loved,' Lang added.

The feral man climbed to his feet, pulling out a 9 mm.

‘You are one sorry bitch,' he said to Thanh.

From the back room came Barry Brinkman, a lit cigarette between his lips, and a shotgun in his hands.

‘You're not supposed to smoke in here,' Lang said.

The two intruders turned back. From the look on their faces, they didn't know whether to laugh or run.

‘You guys are spoiling my nap,' Brinkman said.

‘Get back in your cage, you old fart,' the feral man said.

The sound of the shotgun firing shook the office and created a steaming hole in front of the big man.

‘Now I got one barrel left. Who wants it?'

Thanh took more photographs. The lights were flashing as Carly rushed in. She stopped abruptly.

‘What's going on?'

‘Brinkman's smoking again,' Lang said. ‘The only way to trust him is to keep your eyes on him.' He looked at the big guy. ‘You see what I have to put up with? You guys want some coffee or anything?'

‘Way too cute,' the big guy said.

‘Too cute to live,' the feral guy said. It was obvious the situation for them was awkward and embarrassing.

‘Take out your guns carefully,' Brinkman said.

‘Don't have one,' the big guy said.

‘Yes you do,' Thanh said. ‘Or a major growth you might want to have a doctor look at.'

‘Put it on the floor,' Brinkman said, aiming the shotgun at him.

The man did as he was asked and when Brinkman pointed the shotgun at the feral man, he too put his weapon on the floor.

They left, backing out to the outer office, then turning and moving quickly. Lang nodded toward Thanh. Thanh nodded back.

‘You had to actually fire the damn thing?' Lang said to Brinkman after everyone left the room. Carly had been the last to go, smiling and shaking her head in disbelief.

‘Didn't mean to. I farted, startled myself so bad my finger flinched. Reflex.'

Fortunately concrete separated the floors, Lang thought.

‘Let's take the ammunition out, remove the firing pins and drop the guns down the trash chute,' he told Brinkman.

Carly and Lang went to the trendy little neighborhood of Hayes Valley for lunch. They picked out some miniature sandwiches at the new Boulangerie, some bottled lemonade and, because the bakery was crowded, took their treasure to a narrow park – a wide median, between north- and south-flowing traffic ending at Hayes Street.

‘I used to live in a little studio apartment at the Estrella,' he said, pointing east to a thirties brick building, ‘when I first arrived. This area was basically Needle Park. I saw more fights at the laundromat than in most redneck bars. Now, its all shoe stores and restaurants.'

‘And slender, fashionably dressed young people,' Carly said with a sigh.

‘And you are slender and fashionably dressed,' Lang said.

‘Two out of three, huh?' She'd see if she could get by with ‘slender'. It wasn't likely she could get by with ‘young'.