Death in North Beach (3 page)

‘It'd be better if you'd talk a little louder.'

William smiled, got up, peered around the doorway. ‘Nothing personal,' he said, closing the door. He returned to his seat.

‘You overheard us at Anselmo's.'

‘I hoped you'd talk a little louder,' she said, smiling.

‘The police came to my place early this morning,' he said.

‘What did you tell them?'

‘Nothing. I went out the back.'

‘Not to drive business away, but maybe you need a lawyer not an investigator.'

‘Look,' William said, standing, walking to the window. ‘Here's my take on this. I was with Whitney late the night of his death. We were in a bar in North Beach. We were arguing. It got hot. He was drunk and unreasonable, though he doesn't have to be drunk to be unreasonable. He stumbled out. I followed. We argued on the street. Not good. Add to this,' he continued as he moved back toward her, ‘most would not consider me a paragon of virtue. I'm a professional companion.' He waited. Carly remained quiet. ‘There are other names.'

‘There was a song,' she said.

He smiled.

‘Once the police put my career and the argument together, they won't look anywhere else. And even if they can't prove I did it and don't, in fact, indict me, the suspicion alone is a career killer. What I need is for someone to find the killer. That's the only way I'm safe.'

‘Were you drunk?'

‘No. I never have more than two drinks in public.'

‘What were you arguing about?'

‘Are you working for me?'

It was clear to Carly he didn't want to say a whole lot more unless they had an agreement.

‘Yes.' She explained rates and conditions, which included a retainer. ‘I'll put it in writing.'

‘I'll take you at your word. We were arguing over a book he was writing.'

‘You were going to be in it, I bet.'

‘I was, but that wasn't the worst part. I have had relationships with people to whom I promised absolute discretion. As smart as he is . . . was . . . discretion was not part of his vocabulary.'

‘But if you didn't tell him anything . . .'

‘He picked up a lot of gossip. Most of it was wrong. But if I corrected him, I was collaborating and going against my word. If I didn't correct him he was going to take it as a confirmation of his suspicions. And there were foolish people who confided in him as well as people who passed along confidences. He traded in such gossip.'

‘Who are the people most likely to get hurt by the book?'

He gave the question a lot of thought.

‘This is going to be absolutely essential. This is the suspect pool, William.'

He nodded, but stayed quiet.

‘You've got to trust someone.'

He smiled. ‘Not trusting has been the reason I've survived.'

‘You mean that in a general sense,' she said.

‘Yes.'

‘I'm sorry. But in this case, silence is like going to the doctor and not telling her where you hurt.'

He nodded, but was still deliberating.

‘I'm charging by the hour, William. And I'd think time isn't on your side.'

‘Whitney knew that his life was coming to an end.'

‘He knew someone wanted to kill him?'

‘No. He was old and not in the best of health. It was a matter of time. And so far the end hadn't been kind to him. His books went out of print. The media didn't call him . . . about anything anymore. His old circle of friends and enemies were dying off. His whole story was losing relevance. He wanted to chronicle his time, with him as the star, of course. To build himself up, to make himself heroic, he had to drag down a few contemporaries, living and dead.'

‘Somebody didn't want him to finish his book.'

‘That seems the logical answer,' William said.

‘Including you.'

‘Precisely. The police would make that connection first. That, coupled with the events preceding his death, puts me right in the center of all this.'

‘Did you and Whitney have an affair?'

‘No. I can't tell you the number of very straight men who, after a certain age, flirt with the idea of playing around with a younger man. This is much more common than anyone admits. But Whitney had an overabundance of testosterone. He was definitely and wholly into women. But he was very interested in knowing the gritty details about those who liked to jump the fence now and then.'

‘And you. Do you see women?'

He smiled. ‘Yes. Most of my relationships are with women.'

‘But?'

‘Of course. I love people. I love money. I like the good life. I don't appear to have the same inhibitions as most people.'

‘Different inhibitions. Like trust.'

‘Yes.' He smiled. His green eyes bored through her.

She could see him on the arm of some middle-aged woman on opening night for the opera or symphony.

‘Where are you living?'

He was considering a response, it appeared, not giving one.

‘And your last name?' she added. ‘Trust, remember.'

‘Blake,' he said, smiling. ‘You'll have to trust me on that. I travel some. But I live most of the time in a condo on Telegraph Hill.'

‘You own it?'

‘And you ask this because?'

‘I guess I'm interested in how self-reliant you are financially,' she said.

‘You want to be sure I can pay you?' he asked.

‘That too. But I need to understand your motives. You've already admitted that you love money.'

‘I don't own it. I house-sit for someone who comes to San Francisco for a month once a year.'

‘He or she lets you stay there?'

‘Yes.'

It was clear he wasn't ashamed of his life. Carly made no judgment either. Growing up in San Francisco, one learns quickly about how life is.

‘Are you a native?' she asked.

‘Yes. All my life. I come from a long line of companions,' he said, smiling again. Warm, flirting, funny. ‘You?'

‘I come from a restaurant family. Here all my life. I even live in the home I grew up in, near Lafayette Park. When my parents passed on, I inherited it. And as things seem to be going, I'll die there too.'

‘Not too soon, I hope.'

‘I plan to be around for a while.'

‘I'd like to think I will too. I might need your help with that.'

‘Beyond the police, do you think your life is in danger?'

‘That's something I cannot know without knowing who killed Whitney. So, you see, I have very important reasons to find the murderer.'

‘I need a list of all those people Whitney was writing about – that you know of. I need to know where he hangs out? What people he hangs out with? Friends, girlfriends. Can you do that?'

‘Yes,' he said, sitting again. ‘I can write them down now, if you like.'

‘Good.'

She handed him a yellow legal tablet. He pulled out a black Mont Blanc pen from inside his jacket and began to jot down names.

‘I'm going away,' William said without looking up.

‘Where?'

‘Just away.'

‘For how long?'

‘I don't know yet,' he said, looking up.

‘It will make you look guilty. Running away.'

‘I go away a lot,' he said. ‘I don't tell people where I go. I could be in Europe for three months. No one would know. For all practical purposes, I'm not running. I simply have an engagement elsewhere.'

‘How will I contact you?'

‘I'll be in touch.' He reached in his breast pocket and pulled out a stack of banded bills. ‘Retainer. I know you can't guarantee that you can investigate without getting noticed, especially the police, but I'd appreciate as much discretion as possible.'

He finished writing the list.

‘I'm not sure the killer is on the list. But it's a start, I hope.'

‘It is.'

‘Thank you,' he said, nodding to her with a smile.

Paladino thought he didn't seem frightened. There was a confidence, or maybe aloofness, in his persona that suggested he was at home in the universe or, at best, had made peace with it. It was an attractive quality.

‘William,' she said getting up and temporarily interrupting his departure.

‘Yes.'

‘This list,' she said, ‘how do you know all this?'

‘He told me. He was going to “slice and dice” them. That's how he said it. He told me who because he wanted what I knew about them. Some of them I didn't even know. Some are dead. They aren't on the list.'

‘So that's a complete list?'

‘I can't guarantee that. Those are the people he said were on the list, the people he was going to get.'

Again he started toward the door. This time, he had it open.

‘William.'

He paused, turned back slowly, waiting for her question.

‘What were you arguing about?'

‘What?' he asked.

It was a reflexive remark. He had heard her. He wanted time to think before answering.

‘You and Mr Warfield.'

‘What I told you. He was intentionally going to hurt other people.'

‘Other people? Not you?'

‘Me too, of course.' His smile let her know he was aware of having been caught.

‘Why? How was he hurting you?'

‘Some of these are people whose lives I've shared and because of caring for them I've been rewarded with kindness. We established that earlier, didn't we?'

‘Wow,' Carly said. ‘Did we dance around that one?'

‘We did.' He smiled again. ‘Let's do it next time with a little music.' He moved back toward her. ‘Discretion is important. If you need more specific answers for your investigation, I'll be happy to share some deeply personal moments. But if this is for your . . . one's . . . personal curiosity, I'd prefer to leave this vague.'

‘We'll see, William. I may need to know. I may need the details.'

Three

‘Let's go get lunch,' Lang said, looking up at Carly.

‘Now?'

‘It's early afternoon. While some folks may prefer lunch at midnight, I'm told many people often eat lunch this time of day,' he said.

‘Some people . . .' She halted. Whatever she was going to say, she thought better of it. She took note of Lang's sandy good looks, rougher than William's smooth beauty. Interesting to compare men, she thought. Lang was a straight-on kind of guy. William seemed to cultivate mystery. Both were charming in their ways. Then there was Thanh. What was she to make of him? Or her?

‘It'll take a while to find a parking place in North Beach,' Lang said. ‘We can get a bite to eat, talk about your list and get the lay of the land.'

She nodded. It made sense, her expression seemed to say. She had been hesitant at first, but in the end she just blurted out her request for him to assist in the new case.

He understood why she needed help with the investigation. There were a dozen names on the list. And often, in these cases, one name led to another. It would take forever for one person to track them all down, interview them, follow up on leads they provided and put it all in perspective.

The wallet that Gratelli extracted from Warfield's soggy suit contained mushy bills, some unreadable notes on paper tucked in every little orifice, a check-cashing card, a charge card, a library card, and a San Francisco Museum of Modern Art membership card. A key ring and some change were found in his trousers. Inside the left front breast pocket of his suit jacket was a notebook. Also soggy. There was no pen. Gratelli thought that a writer, one who carried a notebook, would also have a pen. He concluded that the pen in Warfield's neck was the author's own.

Live by the pen, die by the pen. The pen is mightier . . . Gratelli let his thoughts trail off.

The lab worked on the notebook. It was far too delicate an operation for Gratelli to undertake the separation of the wet pages and the preservation of the writing on them. The notebook was back at his desk in the Homicide Detail office in hours and some names were legible. There were also a few phone numbers. Throughout the morning, Gratelli made the calls, looking up numbers for names without numbers and calling the numbers that were legible. He made half a dozen of these calls and two of them volunteered hearsay that Warfield had made a spectacle of himself again at Alighieri's, a bar just off Grant, and that he had argued with a man who one person identified as William. William was commonly thought a gigolo, said the man. By mid-morning Gratelli, through a series of additional calls and callbacks, used various sets of information to pull out other information. In hours, he had tracked one William Blake to an expensive home on Telegraph Hill, a home that he did not own. When police arrived, William Blake was either not at home or he wasn't answering the door. Gratelli had the home watched.

The widow, Mrs Elena Warfield, preferred coming to the office rather than have the police at her home.

She was dark-haired, obviously Italian – still had a slight accent. He would guess of peasant stock. He chided himself at the observation, but forgave himself. Gratelli would boast of his own peasant stock – plain-spoken people who worked the earth. It wasn't really a slight, though he would not relate his observations to her.

Elena Warfield, a big woman with a hard to ignore ample bosom, meant to be cooperative, but she was not helpful. She had no idea about any book or why anyone would want to kill her husband. She often, she said, didn't know where he went and just as often wasn't the least bit curious. She had her friends. And he had his.