Death in North Beach (23 page)

Lang was allowed out of handcuffs so he could dress. He looked back as they took him from the bedroom. They were putting Angel in a body bag.

In the car, heading toward the Hall of Justice, Lang tried to remember the night before. He remembered climbing into bed with her, remembered a deep kiss, remembered his hands on her warm body, exploring. They were making love when his memory ran out.

‘We'll run a few tests to see if you have something in your system that would put you out,' Rose said.

‘But listen here,' Stern said, looking back over his shoulder from the driver's seat, ‘you could have drugged yourself.'

‘So, you're saying there's no way out here?'

‘I'm just saying what I'm saying,' Stern said.

‘Why would I kill her?'

‘God knows,' Stern said. ‘People don't need reasons.'

‘Why would I set myself up? You don't make sense.'

‘For a guy found in bed with a dead woman, I wouldn't go around talking about somebody else not making sense,' Stern said.

‘What else did Angel tell you?' Rose asked.

‘Nothing. She was going to pull the alibi from her boyfriend Mickey. Mickey, you guys ought to know, is somehow connected to Marlene Berensen, Warfield's mistress.'

‘In what way, connected?' Rose asked.

‘I don't know. But this is connected to Warfield's death and Wiley's.'

‘I know,' Rose said.

‘No, you don't fuckin' know,' Stern said to his partner.

‘Whether Lang is a slime ball or not is an open question. I got your back there,' Rose said to Stern. ‘But he's not going to randomly kill some woman he's balling and if he did, why an ice pick?'

‘Who uses an ice pick these days? Why?' Lang asked.

‘She might be cold,' Stern said, ‘but she wasn't frigid, was she, Lang?'

Lang didn't answer. But he did have a question.

‘Who called you?' Lang asked.

Neither cop responded.

‘C'mon, guys,' Lang continued, ‘you didn't just drop by to say hello. You were told where to go.'

‘We ask the questions,' Stern said. ‘Don't we, Rose?'

‘How far is up? Why are we here? What happens after we die?' Rose asked.

‘What was a lowlife like Noah Lang doing in bed with a suspect's girlfriend?' Stern asked.

‘That's a question,' Rose said. ‘Takes Stern only a moment to catch on.'

They were on their routine. Lang wouldn't get anything. Maybe Gratelli could help.

Lang was allowed to sit in homicide, at Rose's desk. Stern wanted to book him. Rose wanted to let him go. A compromise was reached. They would push for the fingerprint match. If Lang's prints were on the ice pick, it was over for the private detective, no matter what happened with the tox screen. Lang wasn't relieved. If someone went to the trouble of killing Angel while Lang was unconscious beside her, there was little reason to believe the killer wouldn't have wrapped Lang's fingers around the handle. But he wasn't in a position to negotiate.

‘I'm going to make a call,' Lang said, ‘are you cool with that?'

‘Call to your heart's content,' Stern said. ‘You might try for a presidential pardon. My money says you're gonna need it.'

His first call went to Chastain West, the defense attorney who provided Lang with most of his work. This time, instead of West hiring Lang, it would be the reverse.

‘Tough times,' Lang said.

‘What's up?'

‘I may be up for a murder charge. I'm here at homicide. Can you break away anytime soon?'

‘Yeah. Give me an hour.'

West was one of a handful of people Lang could count on. He believed in the idea of justice and would often take cases when there was absolutely nothing in it for him but seeing that the weak or the poor weren't trampled upon.

Lang called Thanh and explained the situation. Thanh was surprisingly emotional and, for a moment, he seemed panicked.

‘Let me think,' Thanh said. ‘We'll do something. You tell Carly?'

‘Next on my list. Is she there?'

‘No.'

‘I'll catch her on the cell. We need to get a line on Mickey Warfield. Every move he makes. You might pick up the trail at Marlene Berensen. She lives in the Marina. He uses her car sometimes and who knows what else?'

‘All right.'

‘We need to go deeper on Mickey's life. We don't know what he does for a living. We don't even know where he lives, unless he lives with Marlene. If that's the case then that's very, very interesting. Can you find out?'

‘I'm on it. Anything else?'

‘Yeah. If you have the time. Find out about gang activity in Chinatown in the last few years. Has there been any? Who was involved? Find out if Ralph Chiu has any suspicious associations. Keep Carly in the loop.'

Carly Paladino was still adjusting to being her own boss. After years of regular office hours at Vogel Security, nine to six or seven, weekends off, she found it odd that work could be done when it needed to be done. That working until midnight some nights meant that she might hang out at home until noon. Saturdays and Sundays were whatever she wanted them to be.

She spent this Friday morning at the Ferry Building, wandering through the farmer's markets. Because it was late September, she was aware the amount and variety of fresh produce would soon be in decline. But there were fall vegetables and fruits. Her head felt normal and she reluctantly admitted that while last night caused her to engage in a little critical self-reflection, she felt good. Relaxed. Renewed. She also felt somewhat relieved that this was not an affair. Not an affair, she repeated in her mind as she looked at what might be the last of the really good local tomatoes.

Her cell had beeped several times. Finally, she worried that it was truly urgent.

‘Lang here,' the voice said.

‘Hi, Noah.'

‘I'm in a bit of trouble.'

‘What kind of trouble?'

‘Murder trouble. I'm being arrested for the murder of Angel LeGard aka Chang.'

‘What?' Carly heard him. She just needed a moment to process it.

‘My fingerprints were found on the handle of the weapon that killed her.'

‘I don't understand. This Angel Chang . . .'

‘Mickey Warfield's girlfriend.'

‘How did they connect her death to you?'

Lang cleared his throat. ‘I've only got a minute. They just told me about the prints. As they say in the movies, “I wuz framed.”'

‘Noah, tell me how they came to you.'

‘When I woke up she was beside me. Dead. The police were coming through the front door.'

‘Someone dumped her at your place? It doesn't sound . . .'

‘No, I was at her place. Things . . . developed,' Lang said. ‘I think that in the process, she put something in my Scotch.'

‘Noah . . .'

‘I gotta go. Not my idea . . .'

Click.

Carly didn't know what to think. She wasn't even sure what she felt. There was anger. Was it because Lang had acted unprofessionally? Or was it that she didn't like the idea that Lang was sleeping around?

‘Well, you're a prize hypocrite,' Carly said out loud and to herself. Life should be clearer, she thought.

Twenty-Three

And there it was. After all these years, after all these close calls, Lang found himself in jail. He was surprised that he had not been before. And, for an experience that was now only an hour old, he was also surprised at how frightening it was. He wasn't fearful of his life or limb. He wasn't fearful of inmates or guards. He was fearful of the confinement, the sense that he was no longer in control of anything. It was a mix of claustrophobia, which he knew he had, and the strange reality that he could be lost in time and space. After only an hour.

‘Big baby,' he said to himself.

He was relieved to see Chastain West. The man was dressed as usual in low-key style – browns today of various textures, perfectly, self-consciously chosen, as were his movements and words. He was a handsome black man, a little silver around the temples suggesting that even his wisdom was cool.

‘Who shall I hire to investigate?' Chaz said, smiling, seemingly not concerned. ‘You're busy, it seems.'

‘Not busy,' Lang said. ‘Need to be busy. Can you get me out?'

‘Not before morning. And then, I don't know. I don't know what they're charging you with yet. Murder, do you think?'

‘Maybe. She's dead. I was there. My fingerprints were on the weapon.'

‘The big cop said ice pick. Ice pick?'

‘Yes.'

‘How strange. Who uses ice picks these days?'

‘You can work with Carly Paladino. She's a partner now. And this is connected in some way with the investigation we were both hired to do.'

‘By whom?'

‘Some mysterious gigolo named William Blake.'

Lang filled him in. The rules had been relaxed and the two of them spoke for at least two hours. ‘I need to get a message to Thanh to stop by and feed Buddha.'

‘Feed Buddha?'

‘My cat,' Lang said, checking his attorney friend's face for a sign of disapproval.

‘Good for you,' Chaz said. ‘I have three. Perfect companions for people who don't need constant approval.'

The world was full of surprises. He never pictured Chaz having cats. Probably he had never really pictured Chaz beyond the time they spent together, not all of it business. Sometimes they had a couple of drinks somewhere jazz was played. Lang was partial to the Blues and West tended toward the pure and progressive. But they could meet in the middle on music and most things.

‘You have any ideas about who killed the girl?'

‘The obvious is Mickey Warfield. He had a key.'

‘But she was his alibi for another death, right?'

‘Yes, that's a problem. If she was telling the truth, she was going to the police to retract her alibi statement.'

‘Did he know that?' West asked.

‘I don't know. Maybe he knew her well enough to know she wouldn't be reliable. The thing is, she claimed to have something else to tell me. To get me to stay she said she'd tell me in the morning.'

‘That's why you stayed, to hear what she had to say in the morning?' West asked, voice dripping with sarcasm.

‘All right. All right. It wasn't the smartest move I ever made.'

‘The bad news is that they have a weapon. That means they have means and opportunity. But they're extremely shy of a motive . . . unless there's something else you haven't told me.'

‘I don't know what they could come up with as far as motive. I gain nothing from her death. And it would be extremely stupid for me to hang out after I killed her. I think Inspector Rose understands that. Not sure what Stern thinks. Or if he thinks.'

‘Murder usually puts bail out of bounds, but I can use the shaky case as leverage. I'll know better when I understand which judge is handling the arraignment. Maybe I can get the police to back off altogether. Who is in charge of the Warfield investigation?'

‘Inspector Gratelli.'

‘Good. He's a pragmatist.'

Gratelli ran into Stern and Rose on the third floor of the Hall of Justice building. The third floor was lined with San Francisco City and County Superior Courts, the courts that handled felonies. They stood next to an old telephone booth. With the phone long ago removed by Ma Bell, the booth was merely a glass enclosure. People still slipped inside the booth to make calls on their cells away from the din of those gathered in the marble-walled echo chamber they called a hallway.

‘I understand they found Rohypnol in Lang's system,' Gratelli said to Rose.

‘What does that change?' Stern asked defensively. ‘He could have drugged himself to avoid suspicion.'

‘Why wouldn't he just have left?'

‘Maybe she drugged him and he realized it. Before he passed out he killed her.'

‘Possible,' Gratelli said. ‘I just don't buy it.'

‘It's not up to you to buy it or not,' Stern said. ‘It's between us and the prosecutor.'

‘Sorry, Stern. I'm taking it.'

‘You can't.'

‘Actually, I have. It's part of the Warfield–Wiley deaths. The girl was Mickey Warfield's woman. She was the son's alibi on the night his father was killed. I don't see motive for Lang. It doesn't make sense.'

‘Christ,' Stern said bitterly.

‘C'mon, Stern,' Rose said, touching Stern's elbow.

Stern jerked it away.

‘It's just not right. Lang gets away with murder.'

‘I didn't say he was getting away with anything. We're holding him for a while,' Gratelli said. ‘We'll see what comes up.'

‘Fingerprints, Gratelli,' Stern said. ‘Fingerprints.'

Gratelli nodded. ‘I know. But is he that stupid?'

‘He's a lucky son of a bitch,' Stern said. ‘This isn't the first dead woman he's been connected to.'

‘I know. He's in that kind of business.'

Stern wasn't convinced.

‘I need to work with you guys,' Gratelli said. ‘Everybody's got their eyes on this one. We can all come out on top or we can blow it.'

He looked at Stern. Stern gave no sign he was going to pick up on team spirit.

Gratelli noticed Chastain West standing a few feet away. He was pretty sure the defense attorney was waiting for one of them.