Death in North Beach (14 page)

‘Could you look up a PI named Scotty Markham?' he asked Thanh. ‘Maybe Scott Markham. Scotty may be a nickname, so do your best.'

The place was called Thorough Bread and Pastry. It was a little before ten and she saw no one in the front who looked old enough to be a seasoned city supervisor. She had Googled him, knew what he looked like – a San Francisco businessman. That is, in the photo he had a suit and tie, but the look wouldn't play in the Financial District. His hair was just a little too long for most executives. He was playing down the middle. Maybe forty-five. White guy. Not a given in San Francisco. Of the eleven supervisors, roots could be traced to Africa, Asia, Mexico and Persia. Gay was OK too.

The little cafe was pleasant, offering what they promised, pastries, some prepared sandwiches, and coffee. The walls were shelves filled with fine wines. Straight ahead, past a few tables, was a three-step rise to the outside.

Carly guiltily ordered a latte – she'd flaked out on her planned morning run – and headed toward the outdoors, her feet crunching on the gravel once she got there. It was a shady, cool place, under surprisingly tall trees.

She sat so she could see back through the opening to the front door. In the next few moments she reviewed her strange night. She had not only allowed a strange man with questionable occupation to stay over but climb in her bed. If that wasn't some indication she was slipping out of control, then the fact that this man could himself be the killer was. Yet . . . yet, she thought, he was, after all, a powerfully calming force. She didn't understand it, or herself at this moment.

Promptly at ten, Mr McFarland appeared to rescue her from the unending loops of worry. He wore a tan raincoat, though rain was not in the forecast, showing a cautious personality and an awareness of the weather prognosticators' justifiable inability to get forecasts right. He also seemed nervous, all hunched into himself and looking around warily.

Carly stood and motioned. He saw her, paid for his coffee, and carried it carefully toward her, up the steps and to the table.

‘Thank you for coming,' she said.

‘I wasn't aware I had a choice.' He started to take off his coat, looked up and decided against it. There was an odd fussiness about him as he settled into a seat.

‘You didn't return my calls.'

‘I was out of the country.'

‘I'm sorry. Your staff said you were unavailable.'

‘Vacation. My staff is protective. I got in last night and then I got this message today. What's this all about?'

He was seated now, seemed to settle in.

‘How long were you gone?' Carly asked.

‘Why are you asking me all this?'

‘Whitney Warfield was murdered. The story is that he has written a book in which he names names and couples them with embarrassing anecdotes. You were on that list. You are, some say, running for mayor. You don't want scandal.'

‘What do you want?' he asked. ‘Or should I put it this way: how much do you want?'

‘No, no, Mr McFarland. I've been retained to find the manuscript. We think it has been stolen. It's out there somewhere. We want to find it.'

‘And the person who stole the manuscript is the same person who killed him?'

‘Did you know he was dead?'

‘Yes. We got a call. We were told.'

‘Where were you vacationing?'

‘Costa Rica.'

‘How long were you gone?' Carly asked.

‘We were gone a week.' He took a deep breath, smiled. ‘Well, I couldn't have done it. And I'm relieved, very relieved. I thought someone was out to blackmail me. You have no idea.'

‘Blackmail. Some skeletons, Mr McFarland?'

‘Wouldn't you like to know?' He laughed. ‘Can I get you a pastry?'

‘No, thank you,' she said. ‘Can you tell me a little bit about the hotel project in North Beach?' McFarland's face drained, his eyes lifeless, a rabbit in the clutches of an eagle, knowing its fate and knowing there was nothing to do about it. ‘My partner has learned that that there is an effort to build a hotel in North Beach. I imagine that either makes you very happy or very sad.'

‘I'm not at liberty to discuss these things. You seem to move from one embarrassing topic to another.'

‘They could be linked, couldn't they? Maybe that was what Mr Warfield was writing about. Could that be? I mean, he wanted to preserve North Beach the way it was. He wanted it historic without the tee shirt shops.'

‘I think our discussion is over, Miss . . .?' He stood.

‘Paladino. You guys are usually pretty good with names.'

‘Potential voters. You? Doesn't matter.' He smiled, but his smile was a knowing fake.

‘You're walking a tightrope, Mr McFarland.'

‘So are you,' he said, holding the smile before turning and leaving.

Thirteen

‘You look relaxed,' Lang told Carly.

He heard her come in and went to her office. It was time to commiserate on the list.

‘So?' she said. It was sharper than intended.

‘I like that in a woman.'

‘What?' she asked.

‘Swatting away compliments with acerbic wit.'

‘Acerbic? Your new word for the day?' She smiled.

‘Inspired by you.'

‘“Relaxed” is a compliment?'

‘I meant it that way. Lunch?' he asked.

‘No,' Carly said. She began to realize she was overreacting. She was feeling guilty – or maybe just strange – about last night. Why, she didn't know. Nothing happened, other than sleeping with a client who was an outlier of sorts. Then again, in the eyes of Noah Lang, William Blake was a murder suspect. And he was, of course, if she remained objective. She took a deep breath. ‘Thanks for the offer. Let's do have lunch. We need to talk, don't we?'

‘We do. And we need to eat.'

At the bottom of Potrero Hill is an area called ‘Dogpatch'. It's a small neighborhood characterized by quaint little houses that survived the 1906 earthquake and by its proximity to the Bay. It is part of an old dry dock area with abandoned cranes, empty warehouses, vacant administrative buildings and a huge, brick former steel foundry. The area was prime for redevelopment – but all was rusting and quiet.

Further in the residential area, not far from the San Francisco Chapter of the Hell's Angels, was Lang's destination – Piccino. Lang was not a gourmand, but he had two areas of expertise – Margherita pizza and crab cakes. And Piccino was definitely one of the top five pizza places in the city.

The two private investigators sat outside at the small corner restaurant, Lang with the pizza of his obsession and a glass of Italian red and Carly with a bowl of potato, leek and Parmesan soup and a glass of French white. The September sun was expected and performed well. And the people walking by made people-watching worthwhile. It took a few moments for the two detectives to focus on the list – the seemingly ponderous list.

Agnes DeWitt, they agreed, was off the list. Low on the list now was Samuel McFarland, who had an alibi that could be substantiated. In his case he would have had to conspire. Carly suggested that watercolorist Lili D. Young and publisher Bart Brozynski would not likely outrun Warfield, climb a fence and stab him, though it was not an impossibility. And neither of them would hire it done.

They hadn't peeled many off the list. And they had widow Elena, wandering son Mickey Warfield and realtor Ralph Chiu to go.

‘Nathan Malone admitted to killing a man,' Carly said. ‘Whitney Warfield knew who, when, how, where, and why.'

That seemed to perk up Lang.

‘Who?'

‘He wouldn't tell me.'

‘Wow.' Lang thought that was some confession. ‘What about Wiley?' he asked.

Carly shrugged. ‘I don't see the anger or the fear. He's putting on an exhibition of his early work, though. And he was very secretive about it. And you?'

‘Hawkes could have, the mistress could have. Don't know why either would. But they're both difficult to read, particularly Hawkes. He's not fond of people, it seems. And your friend, Mr Blake?'

She was ready this time.

‘And what about him? Why would he pay to have someone, in addition to the police, meddling in his affairs if he had something to hide?'

‘Gamesmanship. Arrogance.'

‘He's not arrogant,' she said too quickly. ‘I mean, he doesn't really come across that way. Yes, he has an unusual occupation.'

Lang smiled. He had nothing against professional companions. In some ways it was a more honest relationship than many of those sanctified by society. But he enjoyed seeing her ears grow red. He pulled a sheet of paper from his jacket and handed it across the table as the server picked up the empty plate and bowl.

‘Thanh followed the private detective who rousted us the other day. Before going to his office, he stopped at an apartment building very briefly – to drop off something or pick up something, but more likely to report on his activities. This is the list of people who live there. Anyone ring a bell?'

She looked it over carefully. ‘No. Can I have this?'

‘Sure. I kept a copy. It might mean something, it might be something totally unrelated.'

‘What are you up to?' she asked.

‘Mr Chiu at three and then I have to track down the widow. You?'

‘Just the kid.'

‘Mickey Warfield is probably not a kid,' Lang said.

‘No. And I have a question I want to pose to Wiley.'

‘The photographer?'

‘Yeah. I don't think he'd murder anyone, but he was nervous – maybe just about his show. Maybe he knows something he wasn't telling. I don't know. I'd like to pin it down.'

A lot of what Lang did was boring. Stakeouts, searching through records, or trash, tailing people as they went through their mundane errands, and questioning people. Interviewing people in this case had become particularly boring because he was asking the same questions and getting a whole lot of nothing in return. But this was part of his job description.

Chiu's real estate office was on Geary, the main east–west traffic artery, running from downtown's bustling shopping district out to the usually lonely Ocean Beach. Along the way there is a stretch devoted to small businesses – printers, mattress shops, tire retailers, laundromats, computer repair shops, small travel agencies and real estate offices – and tiny restaurants of all ethnicities.

Once mostly Russian, Chinese families had moved into the neighborhood often called the Richmond or the Avenues. On the window of Chiu's office were pictures of homes, with their prices and details printed out below in English and Chinese. Inside there were three desks. Two were occupied by women. That pretty much identified Mr Chiu as the slightly plump, slightly balding man sitting at the remaining desk. And if it didn't, then the nameplate – in English and Chinese – did.

There was nothing pretentious about the place, nothing decorative except for the calendar showing an unidentified tropical paradise. Chiu looked up, noticed Lang, then looked down at what appeared to be his appointment book. He stood, didn't smile, and motioned for Lang to come to him. He looked puzzled, but not troubled. A Caucasian as potential home purchaser? Not a problem.

Chiu, dressed in a tan cotton suit, blue shirt and red, white and blue tie, handed Lang his business card. Lang reciprocated. Chiu studied it, face frozen in seeming indifference. He sat. Lang sat.

‘You have a Chinese-sounding name, Mr Lang.'

There was a hint of a smile.

‘People say that,' Lang said. ‘You have property in North Beach, Mr Chiu.'

He nodded slowly, weighing. ‘You interested in buying or leasing?'

‘Interested in your interests,' Lang said.

Chiu nodded slowly, but remained quiet. It seemed to Lang that he could remain quiet for days if need be.

‘Hotel project?' Lang continued.

Chiu shrugged. He stood, reached out his hand. ‘Thank you for stopping by. Please let me know,' he said with only the slightest accent, ‘if I can help you with your real estate needs.'

‘You know Whitney Warfield?'

Chiu pulled back his hand, sat down, stared across his desk. ‘Who does not know Mr Warfield?'

‘He was writing a book when he met his end. Revealing information about folks the folks don't want revealed.'

Chiu gave no verbal or visual response.

‘A wise man and his words are not soon parted,' Lang said.

‘Is this some sort of attempt at Confucius humor, Mr Lang?'

‘Feeble.'

Chiu nodded. ‘Not bad. Why don't you tell me what you want and we can both move on with our business?'

‘You were on the list,' Lang said. ‘A list of people Warfield wanted to embarrass. Why you?'

‘That is a very good question, Mr Lang. Why me?'

‘He was very liberal in his politics. You, I understand, are very conservative. You are a real estate agent, who, I'm guessing, is involved in a hotel project in North Beach, a project Warfield was vehemently against. I suspect the two of you crossed swords many times.'

‘Many times,' Chiu said. ‘If I may ask, why are you pursuing this information?'

‘I'm trying to find a manuscript that was stolen from his home and may hold the key to the identity of his murderer.'

‘All of that makes perfect sense, but I cannot help you. I don't have any manuscript and I didn't kill Mr Warfield. Please send my sympathy to his family.'

He stood again, this time his invitation to leave was serious. Lang had nothing left to entertain the man, who had no doubt negotiated with wily businessmen far savvier in the art of negotiation than he. Lang had no doubt underestimated the man. He may have been richer and more powerful than his modest office suggested. After all, it is mostly a Western notion, a Trump-like vanity, to build an edifice with one's name on it. Perhaps Chiu was putting all this ego in the bank.