Death in North Beach (7 page)

Lang flipped through the movie listings, glanced at the masseuse ads and then checked out the first few pages of the paper to see what moral crusade they were on at the moment. There were several articles on a rumored new hotel in North Beach. The
Voice
was vehemently against it. He finished his coffee and walked back toward his place. Though it would be autumn officially in a few weeks, there was no hint of it in the air.

Two guys stood in front of his door. As Lang got closer, he saw who they were. Rose, a black guy and the smaller of the two, leaned back against the building, one foot up against the wall. He smiled. His partner, Stern, was a big white guy in his fifties, the strain of alcohol and general disdain etched on his face. He wasn't smiling. He stepped toward Lang as Lang approached.

‘The party was last night,' Lang said. ‘Next time.'

‘You know, you're not as smart or as funny as you think you are,' Stern said. The guy's suit was two sizes too small.

‘Of all the cops on the force why is it always you?'

‘We miss you,' Rose said, coming forward to join the conversation. He had a casual attitude and a well-pressed look.

‘No we don't,' Stern said.

‘Stern doesn't appreciate sarcasm,' Rose said.

‘He has a lovely childlike quality,' Lang said. ‘I've long admired it.'

‘What are you doing sniffing around the Warfield killing?' Stern asked.

‘Who says I am?'

‘Gratelli says so,' Rose said.

Lang thought that Gratelli must have come in the bar after he left. The bartender wasn't as tight-lipped with the homicide inspector as he was with Lang. And Lang had given the barkeep his card. In retrospect, maybe that wasn't a good idea.

‘It's a murder investigation,' Stern said.

‘I would think so,' Lang said.

‘And you?' Stern moved closer to Lang. It was his way of intimidating people. That and ‘the look'. The cop look.

‘I have nothing to do with it. Hope you find out who did it,' Lang said. ‘I leave it entirely in your capable hands.'

‘That's very nice of you,' Rose said.

Lang looked at Stern. ‘More sarcasm.' When Stern didn't respond, Lang said, ‘You'll catch on.'

Stern sneered. Lang knew he shouldn't tease the bear. But he couldn't resist.

‘You know about PIs and active murder investigations, right?' Rose said.

‘Of course. Gumshoe 101.'

‘Then what are you doing?' Unlike Stern's, Rose's tone was civil. Rose seemed the smarter of the two. But, having been partners for a couple of decades, they played games. When Stern was in a better mood, they would do a little comic routine.

‘Just looking for a book,' Lang said.

‘Then you should go to a library,' Stern said.

‘You practicing your sarcasm?' Rose asked his partner.

‘It's never too late to learn.'

‘You want to answer the implicit question?' Rose asked.

‘Won't be in a library. It's unpublished.'

‘Let me guess. A book by Warfield.'

‘God, you guys are good,' Lang said.

‘You know there's a book out there?' Rose asked.

‘No.'

‘You're looking for a book you don't know exists?'

‘Keeps me busy. I don't like crossword puzzles.'

‘The book have something to do with the murder?' Rose asked, while Stern wandered off, stared down the street.

‘I haven't read it yet.'

Rose smiled, shook his head. ‘Don't piss him off too much,' he said softly, referring to his partner.

‘Who is your client?' Stern said, coming back. There was anger in his voice, but there was almost always anger in his voice.

‘I don't have a client.' Technically, William Blake was Carly's client.

‘Then why are you looking for the book?'

‘Because I don't know where it is.'

Stern's face reddened. ‘I'm gonna beat the shit out of him,' he said.

‘There's a right time and a right place,' Rose said, then turned to look at Lang. ‘Maybe later.'

‘You and your promises,' Stern said.

Six

Reed Fine Arts was on the fifth floor of 69 Geary, an address where a number of respected firms had their galleries. Carly had settled on a loose-fitting knit sweater and slacks, a delicate gold necklace, and low-cut boots by Jimmy Choo she bought in a moment of weakness . . . or madness. But dressing right was important. She knew it was superficial, shallow. Sometimes she liked superficial and shallow.

She always remembered her grandmother taking her downtown to the City of Paris before it closed and telling her how important clothes were to the proper young woman. Maybe her grandmother made it true, but dressed like this Carly felt confident, and she was about to meet with people who were knowledgeable about a subject she knew little about. It was the philosophy that if everything is all right on the outside, the inside will adapt. It did.

There were two desks behind a rosewood wall on the right as she entered. At each was a young woman dressed in black, sitting in front of an Apple computer. They didn't look up as Carly passed by them. Beyond was where the exhibitions began. The first room showcased very large underwater photographs . . . brilliant blue-greens and ephemeral shapes in the water. The images didn't come from the ocean deep, but from swimming pools. There was something both ghostlike and cheery – a very difficult mood to embrace. Off to the left was a hallway, clearly a place for offices. But there was another opening, a smaller room where portrait photographs, maybe twenty-five of them, resided on white walls. They were all the same size and looked at first to be identical. In fact, they were portraits of just one person, each with a subtle difference.

Carly came back to the women who sat at the desks by the entrance. One of the women, a blonde of maybe thirty, looked up. Smiled and nodded. Eyebrows lifted, she was asking what Carly wanted without uttering a word.

‘I'm trying to find Frank Wiley,' Carly said.

‘The photographer?'

‘Yes.'

‘Just a moment,' the woman said, picking up the phone. After a brief conversation, she said, ‘Mr Reed will be right with you.'

Carly moved into the room of swimming pool photographs and waited. A slender man in a pinstriped suit that made him look slenderer came in. He wore squarish horn-rimmed glasses. He was probably fifty. His hair was brushed back. There was a Fred Astaire kind of elegance, but his face was solemn.

‘Yes?' He forced a smile from a face that seemed uncomfortable with the exercise.

‘I'm trying to find Frank Wiley,' she said. ‘I understand you carry his work.'

He put his fingers to his lips. Obviously, this required some thought.

‘We did,' he said finally.

The conversation was held in hushed tones as if they were in a library or church.

‘You don't anymore?'

‘No. Mr Wiley, you might be interested to know, is holding his own retrospective. Probably his last. He wanted to do it here, but frankly . . . well, nothing.'

‘His work has slipped.'

‘No, it's just that his work is a bit . . . uh . . . historic now. He's a fine photographer. We've always been a little ahead of the times, you know.'

‘I'm trying to find him. Do you know how I can contact him?'

‘I'm not sure that would be appropriate,' Reed said.

‘I'd like to see his new show,' she said.

‘I'm sure there will be some notice in the papers,' Reed said. ‘Anything else I can help you with?'

‘Thank you for your time,' Carly said.

He stood for a moment, obviously waiting for her to depart. Instead she went back to the photographs. Reed gave up and disappeared into the hallway.

Carly stopped by the desk.

‘I just got done talking with Mr Reed,' she said, misleading them with the truth, ‘do you have a phone number or address for Frank Wiley?'

‘Sure,' the blonde said. Her fingers tapped on the keyboard and when they stopped, she said, ‘I'll write this down for you.'

Carly Paladino departed the gallery with the information on a Post-it note. She had a sudden thought and came back in.

‘Do you have anything on an artist, Lili D. Young?'

The blonde looked at her then to her right where Mr Reed stood, more serious than one might think possible.

Carly smiled, waved. Noah Lang was rubbing off on her.

Lang stopped by the office. Carly arrived at the same time and they both took the stairs. The elevator was slow. A snail could make it up the steps faster than the clanging, groaning and notoriously unreliable lift. There, sitting in the reception area, was Thanh. He wore a blue blazer, a white shirt and Palomino-colored pants, all custom-made. The clothing was loosely draped and elegant. His hair was combed back, a touch of silver around the temples. There was an air of sophistication in the way he looked up at Carly, who was stunned for a moment.

‘How is Carly Paladino today?' Thanh asked, barely suppressing a grin.

‘You are a chameleon aren't you?' Carly asked.

He was an Asian version of William Blake, looking a little younger, a little slimmer, but catching that smooth, sleepy-eyed charmer completely.

Carly looked at Lang, who shrugged.

‘You should see his Audrey Hepburn,' Lang said.

Carly thought that she shouldn't have been surprised at this act of impersonation. She'd seen Thanh in action before – as a glimmering goddess and then, of course, yesterday, when he looked like a slippery pimp from the tropics.

‘Any calls?' Carly asked.

‘One, but I just got here,' Thanh said, voice reverting to normal. ‘You can ask Brinkman. He got here at seven this morning, said it was easier to sleep at the office.' He looked down at Carly's footwear. ‘Jimmy Choo, cool.'

‘Who's Jimmy Choo?' Lang asked as he headed for his office.

‘Don't worry your pretty little head about Jimmy Choo,' Thanh said, smiling.

‘That's a relief,' Lang said. ‘I needed that room in my brain to figure out the meaning of life. Good to have the pressure off. And the call you took?'

‘Marshall Hawkes,' Thanh said.

Lang stopped, turned back.

‘He can see you today at noon.'

Lang looked at his watch. ‘That makes it pretty much now,' he said.

It was a short walk to the address Lang was given for Hawkes. Even so, he was greeted with the usual South of Market population, ranging from the down and out and the up and coming. The architecture reflected the same arc of abandonment and resurrection. Empty, trashed buildings existed side by side with creatively remodeled spaces and shiny, new condominiums.

Inside one of those condo buildings, the artist, Marshall Hawkes, wore a silk kimono. The pinks and burgundy dominated an intricate abstract pattern in the silk that seemed more garish than it was because of Marshall's flaming red hair. The man was thin, sharp-featured, eyes narrow-set and a crisp, heartless blue.

Hawkes welcomed Noah with a thin smile and a dramatic gesture. The living room was very Japanese, very minimal. There wasn't the scent of oil or turpentine, just Marshall Hawkes's cologne. Off the living room was a terrace that overlooked the street.

‘Yes,' Hawkes said, perching himself like a skinny bird on the edge of one of the two sofas, both upholstered in a fabric similar and complementary to the kimono.

‘You know about the death of Whitney Warfield.'

‘I know what's going on in the world,' Hawkes said. There was condescension in his voice.

‘It seems . . .' Lang began, then with a nod asked if he could sit.

‘By all means. You were saying?'

Lang sat on the opposite sofa. ‘It seems as if Mr Warfield was writing a book . . .'

‘That's what he does,' Hawkes said.

‘. . . that was to chronicle the indiscretions of his friends,' Lang said, bumping up his tone and his vocabulary involuntarily. He couldn't help but smile at his own foolishness. He couldn't remember ever using the word ‘indiscretions', let alone ‘chronicle' as a verb in a sentence. ‘And any other embarrassments. This means that people who have something to hide might also have a motive for his murder.'

Hawkes smiled. ‘That's all very Agatha Christie, isn't it?'

Lang nodded.

‘And what is it you want?' Hawkes asked.

‘Just trying to get a feel for the people who traveled in his circles.'

‘I don't travel in anyone's circle, Mr Lang. If there's any traveling done, they are traveling in mine.'

A fawn-colored greyhound peeked around a corner and retreated.

‘Do you have any idea who might have hated or feared Mr Warfield enough to have killed him?'

‘The buzz seems to be that a certain young man who sells his affections to the highest bidder had an argument with Whitney just before he was killed.'

‘Word gets around,' Lang said.

‘You know this fellow?'

‘Never met him. You have a name?'

‘William something. You could check with Anselmo Ruiz,' Hawkes said. ‘They are very close. Other than having talked with Whitney, who was also curious about artists and writers in the city, I don't have much to add to the gossip. As I mentioned, I don't . . . what . . . don't
hang
out
with the people who populate Whitney's world.'

‘You, then,' Lang said. ‘Did Warfield have something on you? Do you have something that you would prefer the world not to know?'