The Love-Haight Case Files (4 page)

“Tom, this looks expensive.” He held the can to his face. “Gubna’s Oskar Blues. Some micro-brewed thing. How can you buy this expensive shit when you’re two months behind on me?”

Thomas pulled a cashier’s check out of his pocket and passed it over.

Zaxil’s eyes widened and he nearly spilled the beer.

“The two months back rent I owe you, interest on that, plus four more months. That’ll take me to March, right?”

Zaxil let out a low whistle, kissed the check, and stuffed it in his front jean’s pocket. “Who died?”

Thomas raised an eyebrow.

“Who died and favored you in their will?”

Thomas laughed. “A case, Zaxil. I have an ex-football player for a client and—”

“Ooooooh! That dead guy you was tellin’ me about?”

“Emanuel Holder.”

“A ghoul, right?”

Thomas nodded. Zaxil knew a lot of OT terminology, whether because he picked it up on the Internet or on the street, Thomas had never bothered to ask. It pleased him, though, that the young landlord didn’t show the prejudice held by a lot of other folks in the city.

“Mind if Pete joins us?”

Thomas nudged the third beer. “I planned on it.”

Zaxil took a pull from his can. “Yo, Pete! Got a can of good stuff today. How about you come and have a drink?”

There was a grating sound, stone against stone, and the gargoyle sculpture on the top corner of the building separated itself from the rest of the trim, stretched, and climbed over the ledge to join them. The creature was about three feet tall, hence why it was not terribly noticeable from street level. Save for the stubby wings, which could not possibly sustain its granite form in flight, it resembled a goblin from the Dungeons & Dragons game.

“It’s still nice and cold, Pete,” Thomas said, pointing at the third beer.

“Thanks, Mr. Brock.” The gargoyle’s voice sounded like gravel being spread on a road. Thomas had to concentrate to pick out the words, and marveled that Zaxil appeared to have no such difficulty. “Nice night, Mr. Brock.” The gargoyle padded over and eased himself onto the folding chair, the metal groaning from the stone creature’s weight. “But I like Miller,” Pete said. “Or Bud.”

“Try it,” Thomas coaxed.

The gargoyle tipped the can up and drained it in one go. He brought the can down so he could read the label. Thomas wasn’t sure how the gargoyle could read, as his stone eyes were solid and never moved.

“A microbrew, eh? Spicy. I like this. It’s a do-over.” The gargoyle reached for the box of crackers and dug his claw in.

Thomas had met the gargoyle before he signed the lease. Zaxil had told Thomas the gargoyle’s name was Permythius, but that Zaxil always called the creature Pete. It had been a condition of the lease that Thomas respect Pete, and it was why he’d paid ahead on his rent today … to protect Pete. Maintaining the building, maintained the gargoyle.

“This’ll keep the wolves from my door a little longer,” Zaxil said, patting his pocket. “Pete-my-pal, this place is secure at least until March.”

The gargoyle nodded and stuffed his mouth with another handful of wheat crackers.

Thomas wondered if Pete ever eliminated what he ate and drank. Thomas had found no waste or gravel on the roof. Maybe he’d ask some day. Not today, though.

“They been after you again, Zaxil?” Thomas drank a little of the beer. “That Arnold fellow and his friends?”

The gargoyle looked concerned. “Z-man, don’t you let them get this building.”

Zaxil finished his beer and crumpled the can. He set it in the cooler and reached for a second, stopped, and instead passed it to Pete. “They called yesterday and upped the offer. Made it tempting, Pete-my-pal.” He winked at the gargoyle. “But I won’t let them get this place.”

The gargoyle filled his stony lungs and let out a sigh of relief so great that it wobbled the box of crackers. Usually he breathed so slightly Thomas couldn’t see his chest rise and fall. “They’ll kill me, you know, Z-man.”

“I know.” The young landlord’s face was instantly glum. “They want to tear this building down, and the one next to it to put up bright and shiny condos. They bought the other one a few weeks ago.”

“But we won’t let that happen,” Thomas said. He couldn’t imagine the neighborhood without this building—without
his
building. “This Holder case is just the start. I’ll get some good publicity off this, more clients, more money.”

“And I can pay all the bills,” Zaxil said. Though he’d inherited the building and owned it outright, he still had to pay property taxes and all the other fees and utility bills that came along with owning real estate in San Francisco. Keeping the structure up had been costly, too, because of the building’s age.

Thomas knew Zaxil had blown through most of his inheritance on the building and paying for upgrades required because of codes. It had been vacant for nearly a year before Thomas moved in. Now it was Thomas’s money that kept the building—and thereby Pete who was physically part of it—going.

The creature had to remain in contact with the building to survive, and would be slain if the building were to be demolished. Thomas knew Pete once had a companion, but it was lost to one quake or another. Pete would not discuss any of the particulars.

Thomas and Zaxil both passed on a second beer, leaving the remainder for Pete, who made quick work of them.

“Seriously good, Z-man, Mr. Brock,” the gargoyle pronounced. “Seriously, buy this again.” He finished the box of crackers, eased himself out of the chair, then politely folded it and laid it down against the ledge. “And if you want to come up with some more money, you better go downstairs, Mr. Brock. A car keeps circling the block. Maybe the driver needs a good attorney.”

He gave Thomas a salute and climbed back to his post, the sound of stone grating against stone echoing around them.

Chapter 1.6

Evelyn craved the adrenaline rush that jogging gave her. It was a pleasant, aching burn that started in her chest and spread to her toes. She should have worn different jeans, not this only-washed-once pair, something a little looser, or some decent sweatpants that wouldn’t have looked horrible in class, something not so stiff to run in. The sweatshirt was new too, ocean blue, thin and not bulky, with LITQUAKE in black block letters against a white word balloon. It had been a splurge when she’d attended the annual book festival a few weeks ago. More than eight hundred authors packed events spread across San Francisco.

She’d bought a dozen books, all but one small press mysteries written by locals who’d inscribed them to her. The twelfth was a memoir by a skateboarder … the cover looked interesting, and it had been half-price. It was a good thing she’d only allowed herself two days of Litquake; it ran a little more than a week, and if she’d treated herself to even one more day she feared she would have doled out all her meager savings. Evelyn loved to read, real books where she could bend over the pages to mark her place, not the e-stuff her friends and classmates downloaded. But she vowed that her purchases from the event would remain stacked in the bottom of her closet until after the bar exam. Books were the only things she let clutter up her life.

In the meantime, there’d be only Holder’s case, whatever else crossed Thomas’s desk, and studying. She sniggered. How many other law students realized that “dying” was the largest part of the word “studying?”

A song ran through her head and she set her feet in time to it: Sonny and Cher’s “The Beat Goes On,” a moldy oldie that fit her pace at the moment. She’d heard it on the radio in the bus and couldn’t get it out of her head. One of those … what did they call them … earworms. She’d refused Thomas’s offer to borrow his iPod when she ran; she didn’t want earbuds delivering songs that kept out the noises of the city. She loved this city.

She jogged in place at the light, Cher wailing away in her head, while a pair of older women looked in each other’s shopping bags and made
tsk
-
tsk
ing gestures. The “WALK” sign came on just as her imaginary Sonny started singing “la dee da dee dee, la dee da dee die.” Then she was off, picking up speed and leaving the sidewalk behind, stretching her stride and cutting across the park.

More than a thousand acres, larger than Central Park in New York City, Golden Gate Park ran three miles north to south, a half-mile east to west. She ran under the shade of a stand of tall trees—blue gum eucalyptus and Monterey pines. This was in the opposite direction of the San Francisco Law School on lower Haight, which was basically downtown.

She’d given herself enough time for Strawberry Hill. It was an island in Stow Lake in roughly the center of the park, and she took the closest bridge and pounded across it, narrowly avoiding a group of Japanese tourists and a chattering, red-skinned imp. The heat in her legs intensified as she climbed the trail, not losing speed, pushing herself, letting the breeze that had picked up comb her short hair. Fortunately, the temperature had dropped a half-dozen degrees since court and made for better running.

She was on her fourth or fifth pass of “The Beat Goes On” when she reached the top of the hill. Evelyn briefly pictured herself like Rocky Balboa, charging up the steps in Philadelphia, fists pumping at the top. She stopped herself from taking that iconic pose, but continued to run in place, looking down across the park. She could see most of the western part of the city from this vantage point, the glow of sunset giving it all a warm fall cast that would make a picturesque jigsaw puzzle.

Evelyn’s side ached a little from the exertion; it was a friendly pain. She headed back down, feeling the gentle thump of her iPad against her back. It was a tough machine. Her running never seemed to hurt it or jar its circuits. She had a spiral notebook with her … just in case the iPad ever decided to give up that proverbial ghost. A part of her wanted it to succumb during one of her jogs; she was looking for an excuse to get the mini version. The red-skinned imp had stopped talking to himself and emitted a loud wolf-whistle as she passed.

Back on Haight, she felt the feverish warmth in her cheeks, the run doing its job. She guessed her pace was five or six miles an hour, a good clip, though she certainly could manage better. But “better” would mean working up a serious sweat, and she didn’t want to do that right before admiralty class—maritime law, her least-favorite subject, and therefore the one she had to study the hardest for. It was an elective she took only because she thought it might come in handy given California’s sprawling coast.

Evelyn was in her fourth year … fourth and a half … of the San Francisco Law School’s otherwise three-year JD program. If she hadn’t worked so much, she could have taken the role of a traditional student and done it in three. But she needed the work to pay for school, and working in the legal profession—first for Saul Goldstein and now for Thomas—was an equally important education.

Only six weeks to go and she’d be done.

Then the bar about eight weeks after that.

The people on the sidewalk were a colorful lot, a couple of fey in the mix huddled in a conversation under an awning, most of the passersby ignoring them. Because there were so many folks out tonight, she slowed so she wouldn’t run into anyone. Evelyn had allowed herself forty-five minutes for the run to the park and then to class; she’d be pushing it to make it on time. Dinner at her desk in the lecture hall again. Good thing she’d packed something.

Her heaviest class load was Mondays and Wednesdays … secured transactions, international human rights law, and advanced criminal law. She’d taken tax law, conflict of laws, and securities this past summer. Except for admiralty, it had been relatively easy for her … but then she’d spent about half of her twenty-seven years in law offices, basically her entire stint in San Francisco.

What would she do when she passed the bar and had her license? And she would pass the bar; there was no “if” to that component.

Well, practice with it, that was a given. But where?

Unless there were more cases that paid well like Holder’s, Thomas wouldn’t be able to afford her … and neither could she afford to keep working for part-time legal assistant rates. Not and pay back her school loans. She swore she could feel her heart skip a beat. As much as she wanted to graduate and pass the bar, she wanted to stay with Thomas. She told herself it was because of the cutting edge OT law they were involved in.

She’d hesitated renting the second floor apartment from him when he’d first hired her, wanting to keep their relationship detached and professional, and fearing that being sandwiched between the law office below and Thomas’s apartment above might breed too much familiarity. But the rent was too cheap to turn down, the location too convenient to work and to the law school.

O O O

The turkey wrap went down quick, followed by an apple juice box chaser. She crammed grapes in her mouth while she typed notes into the iPad, all the while only halfway listening to the professor.

She took the bus back, accompanied by the wail of police sirens and an ambulance. Always there were sirens in the city, part of its music. Evelyn was up for another run, but it was nine thirty, and sometimes the nocturnal element that wandered Haight at night had a seediness to it. Sometimes that nocturnal element also took the bus, but it was still considerably safer. She exited at the stop only two blocks from the office and tripped off the curb, the strobe-like effect of red and blue flashing lights bouncing off the buildings ahead disorienting her.

“No.” Evelyn felt her stomach ride up into her throat.

There were people out on the sidewalk, gawkers who’d come out of bars and restaurants or down from their apartments so they could get a better look.

Evelyn hurried toward the police cars parked in front of the law office. Barricades were set up and officers kept the curious lookiloos at bay. Traffic was redirected to the side streets.

“What—what’s happened?” she hollered, jumping to see over the heads of the people in front.

Evelyn edged through the throng, gagging at the smell of a couple of street people who were wholly filthy. She looked for Thomas, no doubt he’d be at the center of whatever was going on, trying to calm people and help the police.