Death in the Haight (9 page)

Brother Mark still looked perturbed, but after shaking his head, he went back to his ergonomically designed chair and buried himself in hardware.

Lang was pretty sure this was a dead end. The two kids looked clean-cut, and he doubted they were involved in the dark world of sex trafficking and murder. The office looked like a place where the only intensity was related to hard drives and computer programs. Times were changing. Pimps were giving way to entrepreneurs who weren't in the business of beating people to a pulp. But the sex trade was still dangerous. Maybe more so. The girls weren't getting slapped around by pimps, but they weren't getting protection from them either.

“Thanks,” Lang said.

“Good luck,” David said, closing the door close on the heels of Lang's departure.

Outside was Clement Street, at the heart of a bustling second, newer Chinatown. The wide sidewalks were crowded. The parking spaces were hard to get. And the signs on the produce were in Chinese.

Lang called the Vanderveers. Dad answered gruffly.

“Lang here. Anything?”

“I'll call
you
,” he said.

“Stay in there,” Lang told him. “It's their move.”

“They're not moving. Do they even have Michael?”

“I don't have a good answer for you. Maybe you should talk to Chastain West while you're waiting. It's only a matter of time until we have to deal with the police and the courts.”

“If he's alive.”

Lang still didn't have an answer.

“I suspect he is, Mr. Vanderveer. Let's think that he is.” Lang spoke more out of hope that belief.

Strike two, Lang thought. Progress was slow this morning. Too early for lunch, and he'd had enough of Chinese for a day or two. He remembered a great little place just down the street. It was called Eats, and they served a plate of fried chicken and waffles that he'd grown fond of. It was a restaurant with comfort food for foodies, a great place to feed a bad mood. He felt his belly but shrugged off the urge to be intelligent about this. He'd swim in the afternoon and eat light in the evening.

The corner restaurant was crowded, mostly young and cheerful. He sat at the bar that ran along the window. He had a view of the piece of Clement closest to Presidio Heights. The shops here were more European than Chinese. And the sidewalks were far less busy.

What Lang believed he had discovered was that the girl's killer was not likely an angry pimp or a crime organization. And it wasn't likely that the young Mark and David had kidnapped some kid who happened to have murdered young Marnie. None of this helped Michael's case any.

What if Michael had engineered his own kidnapping, as the inspectors suggested? Not beyond the realm of possibility. He would know about his parent's wealth, what kind of money they were capable of putting together. The thought had occurred to him before, but the picture he had of Michael was of a sensitive young man who was used to running away from his problems. And that picture didn't include ordering a prostitute in the first place, let alone killing her. He was still having trouble with that one.

 * * * 

After lunch Lang wandered back up Clement Street. He went inside a large Chinese hardware. There were long rows of plates and bowls—of a seemingly unending variety of color and size—among other curiosities. Most of the china was made in China. Some came from Japan. Lang was in the market for a bowl for his frozen dumplings, to replace the ones that he had dropped over the past year or so, and was comparing two slightly different sizes when his phone jingled.

“Lang,” he said, noticing the call was from the phone he had given Vanderveer.

“Tomorrow.”

“They called?”

“What do you think?” Vanderveer appeared no happier to have some movement than he was when it was quiet.

“I thought it might have been a note.”

“No, I received a call. Tomorrow afternoon at a baseball game. At the park downtown. The Giants, I guess.”

“What else was said?”

“Bring the bonds. Pick up a ticket from Will Call.”

“A ticket?”

“Yes, one. Apparently the kidnapper is a cheapskate.”

Lang almost asked “why?” but stopped himself. Vanderveer wouldn't know the answer, and the question would only piss him off more.

“Any other instructions?”

“No. The time of the game. One p.m. I'm to simply sit down and then . . . well, then something will happen.”

Clever, Lang thought. There would likely be forty thousand people in a crowded ballpark with several entrances and exits. In fact, people could leave not only by walking or grabbing one of the many trolleys or taxis but also by catching the ferry. That's why the kidnappers had waited. To get the right game. In this case, oddly, a day game. Why a day game? Wouldn't it be easier to get away in the dark?

“Well?” Vanderveer said harshly, interrupting Lang's private debate.

“I'll be over tonight.”

He disconnected in the midst of a spew of words from Vanderveer. Lang had to get to the ballpark. If the tickets were already at Will Call, who had bought them? If they weren't, then something could be set up to capture the identity of the person who got them.

This could be the one window of opportunity he needed.

 * * * 

Lang was down on the Embarcadero, at the ballpark. It was quiet. The fiftyish blond woman in an orange-and-black baseball cap at Will Call wanted to be cooperative, but all she could do was say there was a ticket in an envelope for Vanderveer. It apparently had been purchased with cash, and she had no idea who had bought it.

“People, all sorts of people, come through here.”

“They all pay in cash?” Lang asked, making note of the seat assignment.

“Yes, some do. Usually they take the tickets if they've bothered to come down, but I suspect this was going to be a gift or something. That happens.”

As he started to leave, an older man who had been standing next to the woman said that he remembered it. He didn't make the transaction, but he remembered there was a young Hispanic kid, maybe eleven or twelve.

“He came in with a note and the cash. There was a big deal made about the name. Did they spell it right? The kid didn't know. I remember thinking this was a Latin kid and here he was buying a ticket for somebody he didn't know. I remember it was a Dutch name.”

The man, who was probably a grandfather, assumed it was a mom, with no place to park, waiting in an idling auto. Unfortunately there was no reason for him to check his theory.

“And the note?” Lang asked.

“I don't know. I think he took it back with him.”

This was going to be tough. They probably paid some kid to buy the ticket—someone with no ties to the kidnapper. No way to find the kid who bought the ticket, and therefore they couldn't figure out who hired him.

After a rocky, maybe quirky start, whoever was playing this game was playing it pretty well. The kidnappers had put Vanderveer where they wanted him in the stadium. They would have many potential avenues of escape. There was, it seemed to Lang, only one chance to catch or at least catch a glimpse of the person making the exchange or picking up the drop, and that would be when the bonds were turned over to someone or left somewhere. Instructions could easily come by phone. He was in over his head. He could enlist Brinkman and Thanh, but there were forty thousand fans who would all leave at the same time. Forty thousand. That would mean, he quickly calculated, close to fifteen thousand for each of them to keep track of.

Outside the handsome brick stadium, he stopped and punched in the numbers for Stern.

“I need to fill you in,” Lang said.

“Cool,” Stern said, completely out of character.

 * * * 

One bar looked like another along Geary. Geary is a boulevard, or so the maps say. But it is simply a wide street that runs from Neiman Marcus downtown all the way out to the ocean. Once out of the downtown area, the street is lined with a seemingly limitless number of largely undistinguished businesses—computer repair, vacuum cleaner sales, mattress shops. You want tires, insurance, pet supplies? Whatever you need—except for the stuff of dreams.

Out of the sunshine and into the dark, airless room. The three of them—Lang, Stern, and Rose—sat in a booth. The walls were knotty pine, interrupted by various neon beer signs and indications that this was a place for Giants and 49er fans. A pitcher of beer, a quarter full, sat in front of them.

“It goes down tomorrow,” Lang said.

“When?” Stern asked.

“Afternoon.”

“Where?”

“AT&T Park.”

“Game on?” Rose asked.

Lang nodded.

“Shit,” Stern said.

Lang looked around. For those who thought San Francisco was occupied exclusively by wine-sipping, brie-eating elites, just about any bar on Geary would change their minds. They might as well be sitting in a bar in Milwaukee.

“Kidnappers put a ticket at Will Call,” Lang continued. “Just Dad. I have the seat number.” He handed Stern a sheet of paper where he had copied down the seat number and the instructions. “Vanderveer is to bring a sealed envelope with a million dollars' worth of bearer bonds inside. Sometime during the game, somehow that envelope goes to the kidnappers. We don't know how or when. Dad will be watched, we're told. No phone calls. No conversations with anyone. And Vanderveer is to stay until whatever happens, happens.”

“When do Mom and Dad get the kid?”

“We're running on faith. We got nothing else.”

“The kid's dead,” Stern said. He loosened his tie, twisted his head from side to side.

Rose shook his head in fatigue or frustration. “Smart guys. I thought maybe the kid—the kidnappee, as it were—kidnapped himself and held out for money from Dad. But it doesn't make sense. He's so fucking dumb, leaving evidence all over the murder scene, and suddenly he's a tactical genius. I don't think so.” No one spoke for a moment or two. “You know who's playing tomorrow afternoon?” Rose asked, breaking the silence. “The Dodgers.”

“The game will be a sellout. Big crowd,” Stern said. “You're just now telling us, Lang. Just now. Shit.”

“That's what I mean,” Rose said. “These guys have everything covered. It's all planned out. They waited until there was a guarantee of standing room only. You know how crowded it will be?”

“Exactly, that's why I'm bringing you in. I can't watch all the exits,” Lang said. He divided the remaining beer between the two cops.

“Gee, thanks, you're fucking bringing us in.” Stern started puffing up again.

“Let's get past this,” Lang said. “The bad guys are pros, you're saying. So I need pros on my side.”

Stern shook his head. “You're one lousy ass kisser.”

“Not a whole lot of practice,” Lang said, smiling.

“Do the parents know we're involved again?” Rose asked.

“Kind of. I don't know that it matters now. They've been danced into submission. What do you guys know?”

“The gay kid is invisible. He went from slobbering and spilling crap all over the place to invisible,” Rose said. “We've checked the motels in the city, especially along Lombard, here on Geary, and out at the ocean. But these kidnappers are smart. They're probably not even in the city. And the kid is probably dead.”

“While we're talking, let me ask you something. How does a murderer get kidnapped?” Lang asked. He had his own theories, but he wanted to know what they were working on. He looked directly at Rose. Rose wasn't the top dog. Stern was. But Rose had a better mind and was much more likely to be cooperative.

“What could have happened is that somebody wanted to get rid of the girl. Maybe she witnessed something. Who knows? They set it up so her next john gets blamed for the murder. Maybe the kid didn't do it. But maybe the kid talks to save his life. Folks have tons of money. Let him off, and he'll help get it for them.”

Stern didn't argue. “That would explain some things,” he said.

“Could be something like that. Some variation,” Rose said. “At least we know where Vanderveer is sitting. If he has the envelope with him, then, barring an appearance from the Great Houdini, I don't see how the kidnappers pick it up and get away with it.”

“So I can count on your help?” Lang asked.

“Oh yeah,” Stern said. “Count on it.”

Outside Stern tugged on Lang's sweatshirt. Rose moved on.

“I still don't like you,” Stern said. “But maybe you got a little character.”

“Now my life has meaning,” Lang said.

Rose came back to see what was going on.

“What happened with you two?”

Stern didn't speak. He just smiled.

Rose looked at Lang, a questioning look on his face.

“Just one of those things,” Lang said.

“What things?” Rose asked, exasperated.

“You know,” Lang said, walking away. Rose deserved what he got, Lang thought.

 * * * 

It might as well have been night. Vanderveer was at the bar at the Big 4 Restaurant at the Huntington Hotel. Dark wood, green leather on the stools and chairs, and leaded glass was around for the turn of two centuries.

“Buy you a beer?” Lang asked before he saw that Vanderveer was nursing a glass of something stronger in front of him.

“Have no use for it. If you're going to drink, drink something real or don't drink at all.”

“I thought you by-the-good-book Christians had strict rules against the consumption of alcohol,” Lang said, sitting on the stool next to the man from Grand Rapids.

“We do,” he said, sipping his Scotch. “I'm in San Francisco, though, the land of murder, drugs, kidnapping, and illicit sex. My sin is definitely minor.”

“No drugs, murder, and kidnapping in Grand Rapids?” Vanderveer didn't answer. “You miss it?”