Death in the Haight (5 page)

Still, there was a history with Stern. There was the situation with Thanh, which neither he nor Thanh talked about. There was a death, one that Stern believed Lang had played a part in. There was the woman on the pier. But both Stern and Rose had been there. It was clear Lang hadn't killed the woman, but Stern believed Lang was involved. There was the suicide in Sea Cliff while Lang was staking out the victim's home. Stern didn't believe it was suicide, but that Lang killed her. Then there was the professional hit and little hide-and-seek game in North Beach. Lang was there. All this accumulated for Stern: Somebody was getting away with, well, murder. Worse, it seemed that Lang was continually showing Stern up, making him the fool.

Lang's introspection was interrupted around four a.m. by a beat cop, who, after checking out Lang's PI license, was satisfied with Lang's stakeout explanation.

Around 6:30 Thanh showed up sporting tousled hair and wearing a one-piece mechanic's uniform—not the usual choice of someone style-conscious but, as always, bringing style to the mundane. Maybe Lang's friend had been working on his bike.

Light penetrated the layer of fog, giving the park an odd light, a soft luminescence, continuing Lang's mood of suspended reality. When Thanh sat beside Lang, it wouldn't be a big leap in the imagination to think that they were the only two people left in the world. It was a familiar and comfortable feeling.

“You are a silly man,” Thanh said. “Did you think this older couple was going to go wandering out in the middle of the night?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

“I didn't want to go home,” Lang said. “I wanted to think.”

“About why Stern hates you.”

“That too. Not just that, though.”

“He hates me too,” Thanh said. “He's having trouble living in the modern world. He wants things to be simple, like good and evil, black and white. You walked that line a couple of times.”

“You mean between good and evil?”

Thanh nodded.

“I thought about that earlier,” Lang said. In some odd and unexplainable way, the two of them were often on the same frequency.

“Good and evil or, in my case, man or woman,” Thanh said. “I am a wrong he feels compelled to make right. So are you. You have breakfast?”

“No. I'm hungry and thirsty and tired. How's Buddha?”

“He loves me. But then who doesn't?” Thanh smiled. “We're back to Stern, aren't we?” Lang didn't want Buddha back at his loft if Stern might show up, so he'd had Thanh pick him up. The cop was a petty, vindictive man. “Don't kill him,” Thanh added.

Thanh knew Lang. Knew that if Stern backed Lang against the wall, with no other way out, Lang
would
kill him. There were secrets that Lang and Thanh shared. And for those they had forgiven each other. But others might not forgive them. Some of what Stern suspected was true, but his interpretations of the facts were inventions, his own dark fantasies.

“You reviewed the photos of the Vanderveers—Mom, Dad, the kid?” Lang asked.

“I did.”

“Just follow them.”

“If Mom and Dad go in different directions?”

“Follow Dad. I want to know if he talks to anybody. Take pictures. Call me if it looks like something is going down. I'll be in the office. I need a couple of hours.”

“Got it.”

As Lang headed toward his car, he could see a few folks on the sidewalk. A man inside a rumpled robe walked by, bundled and hugging himself against the chill, holding on to a tiny, skinny dog pulling against its leash. People would pop out of buildings now. The old and early risers, the ambitious suits heading down to the financial district to get a jump on the Bay commuters, the restaurant workers.

It struck him how many different worlds there were, crisscrossing one another in time and place, in thought and emotion. Too much to think about.

 * * * 

Lang looked at his watch. He must have dozed for a couple of hours. He raised himself up from the green Naugahyde sofa. He smelled coffee and heard muffled conversation beyond the closed door, in the lobby. He also caught the scent of a cigar coming from the opposite direction.

“You're not supposed to smoke in here,” Lang said to Brinkman, more out of habit than anything.

“According to the insurance tables, I'm not supposed to be alive.”

How could you argue with that? Lang thought. Instead of agreeing or disagreeing, he called Thanh.

“Anything?”

“Something now. Dad came out of the hotel with a young man, and the two of them are on the cable car.”

“A young man. You following?”

“I am. At one point, Dad put his arm around the young man.”

“That's interesting. If he's with a blackmailer, he wouldn't likely do that. Which way are they headed?”

“Downtown. Heading toward the Embarcadero.”

“My guess is they get off in the financial district. Keep up the tail. Call me if things get weird.”

Lang called Vanderveer.

“Yes?”

“Lang. What's up?”

“We've been instructed to have the money at hand. That's it. Nothing else.”

“You're not at the hotel?” Lang asked, pretending he didn't already know.

“No,” Vanderveer said, irritation in his voice.

“You should let me know about these things,” Lang said.

“I'll let you know what you need to know.”

“When you hire someone to do a job you don't know how to do, do you tell him how to do it?”

There was no response,

“Are you alone?” Lang pressed.

“No. My son James came in from Grand Rapids.”

“Why?”

“He wanted to be with us when we found Michael.”

“You need to tell me these things,” Lang said.

“I am. You're hearing them now.” His tone was one of a boss making sure his employee didn't get too uppity.

“That might not be quick enough in the future,” Lang said.

Vanderveer disconnected.

Lang couldn't help but think that Dad wanted no part of this adventure. If it was up to him, the kidnapping would solve the problem with his wayward son. The search-and-rescue was driven by Mrs. Vanderveer. Would he pay a million just to shut her up? For the briefest of moments, he entertained the idea that Mr. Vanderveer wasn't really giving up the million. He'd have to think about that.

 * * * 

Lang's phone rang.

“Your Mr. Vanderveer and his young friend—” Thanh said.

“His son James. Michael's older brother.”

“They came back to the hotel with two very full and heavy Macy's shopping bags.”

“The money.”

“The money. That means someone will have to stay with the money at all times. Hence the kid coming in from Grand Rapids.”

“Yes, seems so. It also means Dad's not telling us everything,” Lang said. “Can you stick around until later this afternoon?”

“I can. The pickup could be any time now.”

“I'll send Brinkman over there as well.”

 * * * 

Finished with his testimony in court proceedings on the second floor, Gratelli went down the back steps and out to the sidewalk that went by the medical examiner's office. He walked through the McDonald's parking lot to a popular little Vietnamese restaurant around the corner. He ordered his sandwich to go and got in and out before the crowds arrived.

On his way back to the Hall of Justice, he again saw Stern sitting outside. Gratelli, like many other cops, judges, and lawyers, usually skipped the McDonald's. The likelihood of running into a felon, witness, or defendant was too great. But that didn't seem to bother Stern, who'd had his order supersized.

Gratelli moved toward him. The heavy-set cop had a copy of the
Examiner
open to the sports section.

“You mind?” Gratelli asked.

Stern shook his head, but it was difficult to tell whether he was indicating “No, I don't mind” or “Can't I get a minute's rest?”

“You remember McClellan?” Gratelli asked.

“We all remember McClellan,” Stern said.

“He was a lot like you.”

Stern said nothing. He took a bite of his sandwich.

“People thought he was just a big crude guy, too tough and hard for his own good. That's what some people think of you,” Gratelli continued

“You think I give a shit what people think?”

“Just what he would have said.”

“I'm not your partner, and I sure as hell don't need a friend. Go away.”

“Every crime ate at him, especially the kids and especially the ones he couldn't do anything about. Too many of those, right?”

Stern slammed his sandwich back in its cardboard container, shut it. Picked up his large fries and put them in the paper bag.

“There was a string of murders,” Gratelli said. “Young girls. It was years ago now. You know what happened to him. Not officially. I mean what really happened.”

“Yeah, you're a caring cop, Gratelli. Disgusting. I hope when I get old, I don't get all sloppy and sentimental. You're like some . . .” Stern stopped, changed his mind, put his bag down for a moment, put his hands up as if to stop traffic. “Find someone else to bleed on. I don't want any part of it.” He grabbed his lunch and headed back to the office.

Gratelli gave him a long head start.

All this hate was going to kill him, or someone else.

 * * * 

Before he left work, Gratelli again went down the back stairs, this time to visit the medical examiner. He found her cleaning up the last of the day's autopsies.

“Went long today,” the medical examiner said, slipping off her gloves. “Do I have anyone here that belongs to you?”

“I'm here about the Vanderveer case. The dead girl.”

“You on the case now?”

“Not officially,” Gratelli said, dodging.

“Can't.” She put her finger to her lips. “It's all hush-hush and still more hush. More hush than I've seen before. I can't say a word to you, especially you. I promised not to speak to anyone about it or hand over my files.”

“Evidence of sexual activity?” Gratelli asked, a mild and rare expression of amusement on his face. “I'm not asking you to
say
anything.” He raised his eyebrows, waited.

She thought for a moment. She didn't speak, but nodded.

“Shot, knifed, strangled, beaten?”

She put her hands around her throat.

“Rough stuff?”

She shrugged.

“Where was she found?”

She looked befuddled. But soon she was smiling. She pulled out an imaginary wallet, pulled out an imaginary credit card, handed it to an imaginary clerk.

“Excellent,” Gratelli said. “Which hotel?”

She was disappointed.

“How many stars?” Gratelli asked.

She held up one finger.

“In the city?”

She nodded.

“Tenderloin?”

She shook her head, mimicked toking on a joint.

“The Haight?”

She nodded.

“Prostitute?”

She nodded.

“How old?”

She held up both hands and flashed them twice.

“Twenty. And you haven't said a word to me.”

She smiled. “Stern is an asshole.”

“Yes, he is,” Gratelli said. If Stern had been decent, she wouldn't have cooperated at all. “By the way, you'd be a great mime out at Fisherman's Wharf.”

“Good to know.”

 * * * 

He had not been back to his loft, slept in his own bed, in nearly two days. Buddha was fine at Thanh's, a place he regarded as a second home. He called Thanh to tell him Brinkman would relieve his watch. He called Brinkman to make sure Brinkman knew where to go and what to watch for.

Lang drove over to Koret, a gym only a few blocks away that had an Olympic-sized swimming pool but also, more importantly, a shower. The key for Lang was to stay in public places. Stern wouldn't want witnesses.

The shower felt good, so good he took two of them, one before and one after a long swim. He splurged on dinner at Limón on Valencia, a lush Peruvian restaurant. The street was busy, and a few shops were still open. After dinner he walked several blocks on Valencia. He went into a couple of bookstores that bore no resemblance to a Barnes & Noble.

Eventually, back in his office, he called Vanderveer.

“I'm not hearing anything from you,” Lang told him.

“That's because there is nothing to tell.” The man seemed weary yet still impatient. “No calls. Why are they having me wait?”

“I don't know.”

“I hate having all this money here. It is like we're trapped by it. Trapped into guarding it. What kind of punishment is this?”

“I'm sorry,” Lang said. “I'm working on getting something out of the police. They haven't been cooperative.”

“Nothing is happening,” Vanderveer said angrily. “Nothing. Police. You. The kidnappers. Nothing.”

“I'll let you know if we find out something.”

“I would think so,” Vanderveer said and disconnected.

The office was still. The only light came from the little desk lamp and the computer screen, where Lang searched the local news for information about the missing kid—none.

He was in until midnight, when he would relieve Brinkman. He set the alarm. Maybe he could grab a little sleep before then. But that wasn't in the cards. A call came from Gratelli, who made him promise not to tell a soul how he got the information. He told Lang everything he knew but not from whom he had learned it. What he was told, though, didn't make a lot of sense to Lang. It boiled down to the idea that a gay kid hired a female prostitute, then killed her. Didn't seem right. On the other hand, Lang thought, maybe religion could do that to a guy.

 * * * 

The alarm rudely intruded upon a day on a beach somewhere in paradise. Obviously Lang's unconscious was having a better time than his conscious. And now the conscious self had to go out into the cold, damp night.