Death in North Beach (28 page)

‘If we stretch the definition a little.'

‘Are you in the office?' she asked.

‘I am.'

‘Could you spray my orchid?'

‘I'd be honored,' Lang said.

‘What does that mean?'

‘I have no idea. It was what popped into my head. I've never been asked to spray someone's orchid. I wasn't sure what you meant.'

‘What do you mean, you didn't know what I meant?'

‘Came out of left field. Suddenly. I thought maybe it was a euphemism.'

‘For what?'

‘I couldn't begin to guess.' He meant ‘wouldn't', but it was better to say ‘couldn't'.

‘Goodbye,' she said.

Brinkman came in, muttering something before he hit Lang's office. All Lang heard was a sudden outburst.

‘Oh, God, I hope that's jelly,' he said. He had taken off his jacket and was examining his forearm, touched it, and brought it to his lips. ‘Thank God.' He noticed Lang looking at him. ‘You get old, you don't know what in the hell is growing on you.'

‘I understand,' Lang said.

‘Splotches and moles and liver spots . . .'

‘Yes. About Markham . . .'

‘. . . rashes, strange hairs, little bits of . . .'

‘Again, thanks for the preview,' Lang said loudly, interrupting. ‘You have me looking forward to my golden years.'

‘Markham left the real estate office and went to a bar on Geary,' Brinkman said. ‘McKinney's. He was in there a couple of hours.'

‘You go in?'

‘Yeah, had a beer, watched him talk to the bartender. Markham wasn't just another customer. He had four glasses of Guinness and walked out like all he had was a bowl of noodle soup. Obviously old friends. Then he stopped at Burger King and went to Daly City. His house, I'm guessing, 'cause he had a key to the front door. You want any of this in writing?'

‘Nope, thanks. Have you seen Thanh?'

‘The little sprite blew through here shortly before you called. He was in a hurry.'

‘I think I was followed,' Lang said, moving to the window and looking out. ‘I decided to walk from Polk Street. I needed to think. And there was one Asian guy on foot and another in a car – a silver Honda – seemed to be circling the blocks.'

‘How could you tell? Every other car on the road is a silver Honda.' Brinkman said.

True enough, Lang thought. Hell, he might have been tailed every moment of the day and night and only spotted them twice. If these were the same guys who were in the Toyota Cressida, they changed cars. Smart. Having tailed so many in the past, he was more sensitive than most to being tailed himself. He was impressed. The question was: did he pick up the tail after talking with Chiu or was that merely the first time he saw them?

On telepathic cue, it seemed, Thanh arrived. Lang went out to the reception area to greet him. He was very ordinarily dressed – gray cotton slacks, a pressed striped shirt and a tan corduroy jacket. Other than noticing his natural good looks, no one would give him a second glance. It was perfect. It seemed the shape shifter anticipated what was expected of him.

‘You have time to tail the tail?' Lang asked.

‘Sounds sexy.'

‘Maybe not so sexy. Maybe interesting, requiring guile, craftiness and skill.'

‘I guess that leaves only me,' Thanh said, smiling.

‘You have your bike?'

‘I do, all tuned up and humming.'

Lang called Brinkman in and explained.

Lang went out first, walked a few blocks and picked up a cup of coffee and came back to his beat-up Mercedes.

‘You comfortable back there?' Lang asked.

‘Is the bear Catholic?' Brinkman replied from his post scrunched down in the back seat.

‘Glad you're happy.'

It was starting to get dark when Lang drove to Howard Street where, after paying the fee, he pulled in line for a car wash. As he moved up in line he noticed Thanh arriving and parking just across the street. When his Mercedes was just inside the drive-thru and out of view of those following him, Lang got out, took off his stocking cap and gave it to Brinkman who climbed behind the wheel. It was Brinkman who drove the car through and out on to the street when he was finished. If the plan worked, Brinkman would drive a few miles and get out, letting the tail see that it wasn't Lang. When the guys gave up, Thanh would tail them to see where they would go. It was a gamble, but not a bad one.

The result didn't give Lang exactly what he wanted, but was still more than helpful. As Lang sat on the sofa in his converted laundry space with Buddha in his lap, he got the call from Thanh.

‘You were thinking these guys were Chinese, right?' Thanh said.

‘I was.'

‘Chances are they're not Chinese. I followed them to the suburbs in Daly City. The mailbox says ‘Bantay'.

‘And?'

‘That's a Filipino name.'

Lang realized he'd fallen victim to his own narrow view. Not only was it likely he had a tail long before he realized, it was possible the tail began after he questioned Sumaoang the first time, which meant he'd been watched for a while. No way to be sure. Now, he had to be careful again not to stereotype. If they were Filipino, it didn't necessarily lead back to the tough-minded artist just because he was Filipino too. Nothing else led there particularly. And who was to say that Chiu, who might just be a legitimate but savvy businessman, or anyone else, couldn't have hired a couple of out-of-work Filipinos to do some work? Still, in his heart or mind – whatever it was that generated hunches – it seriously brought Sumaoang back into the picture.

‘That's interesting,' Lang said after a pause.

‘It is,' Thanh said. ‘You were hoping this would lead right back to the suspect. It might have, but there are phones, you know?'

‘I know.'

‘What do you want me to do?'

‘Go have fun somewhere. I'll have to figure this out.'

He didn't want to bang on Sumaoang's door again, but he'd take a chance that Alighieri's might be a regular evening destination for the passionate artist.

Later, he apologized to Buddha, encouraging the little brown cat off his lap, and prepared to go out.

Twenty-Eight

Carly wanted the evening to be over. She was eager to visit Blue Monkey Press and see what they had, but that had to wait until business hours. Though her theory about the missing photograph wasn't even much of a theory anymore, she couldn't let it go. Maybe what the printer had would shed some light.

A glass of Pinot Grigio, a chicken breast sliced in two thin pieces, lightly coated in seasoned breadcrumbs and sautéed, a tomato, and a dozen slender spears of asparagus roasted for 12 minutes in the oven with a sprinkling of salt, pepper and flakes of pecorino, constituted dinner.

She was too antsy to read so she broke a personal rule. She sat in front of the TV to watch
Gosford Park
for the third time. As wonderful and as rich as the movie was, her mind went adrift several times. She slipped back to the night of her attack at Wiley's studio. The vision of it – the details – were getting clearer, but no more revealing. The person who attacked her moved quickly. The form, against the back light, was not as large as she first thought, but slender, and the cape she thought she saw might very well have been one of the wrapped photographs. Might well have been, she thought. Might well not.

The seemingly symbolic weapon in the case of Wiley's death was a camera – fitting enough for a photographer – just as the pen was fitting for Warfield. Just as, she thought, an ice pick, for the woman in bed? Some sort of sexist male statement, perhaps. This suggests a single killer. Someone who is in decent physical shape, savvy, and deadly playful.

She shut off the television mid movie, did her dishes, had a second glass of wine on the back deck, and then climbed in bed. Before switching off the light, she called Nadia to say she'd pick her up at eight. Despite Nadia's objections, they would get an early start on her short trip to San Mateo.

‘I can go without you,' Carly told her, when Nadia's whining continued.

‘OK, OK, OK.'

Carly put her head on the pillow. In the still darkness, she could hear her own breathing. She could hear the building settle. She could hear the light wind against the trees outside. And she picked up a familiar though no less exotic scent on the pillowslip. William Blake lingered. She slept.

Sumaoang was not happy to see Lang, but he did not seem surprised. The artist, in a booth with non-bourgeois-type guys flanking him, looked up as Lang entered Alighieri's back room unchallenged – the guardian of the inner sanctum being in the john or smoking out back. But Sumaoang challenged him, putting his palms up to indicate halt. He crossed and uncrossed them quickly – a sign that Lang was to proceed no further, that he was to go away. Sumaoang closed his eyes as if it was the only way to contain the anger bubbling up inside him. Perhaps he thought Lang would be gone when he opened them. Sumaoang was wrong.

‘You knew I was coming,' Lang said, nodding toward the cellphone by Sumaoang's water bottle. Lang pulled a chair up to the table. ‘Why the drama?'

Sumaoang, who had put his hands in his lap, or at least under the table, tried to stare Lang down. Lang didn't know why people, the male of the species in particular, thought that a mean stare would melt an opponent. On the other hand, if there was a gun under the table, that would be truly intimidating.

‘I used to be a cop,' Lang said. ‘The “look” doesn't work. If you didn't want to see me, you shouldn't have put a tail on me.'

Poker face. Expressionless. It finally broke into a smile and Sumaoang shrugged. He looked at each pal and they excused themselves. The look apparently worked on them, Lang thought.

‘They were supposed to be pretty good,' the artist said.

‘Who said?'

Sumaoang just smiled.

‘You don't want me to find out who is killing all these people? Unless you're the killer, you ought to be worried.'

‘I know. I also want the book. You blame me?'

‘I don't know. How dark is your secret?'

Sumaoang didn't answer.

‘The thing is, I know you are not rolling in money. Hiring twenty-four-hour security – two of them – can't be cheap,' Lang continued.

Nothing.

‘Are you desperate?'

Sumaoang smiled.

‘Or are you not paying for it?'

The artist looked down at the table for a moment, lightly twirled his iPhone, before looking up and pasting on a smile.

‘Gotcha,' Lang said. He stood. ‘Thanks.' Looking down the way Sumaoang did was a tell. His physical responses to questions, or lack of them, had been consistent until then. Sumaoang, if he was a player at all, wasn't acting alone.

‘You're really attached to that phone. I didn't peg you as a high-tech guy.'

‘You obviously have a special talent for being wrong.'

‘We all have our gifts. By the way,' Lang said, looking around, ‘what's so special about the back room?'

Sumaoang smiled. Didn't answer.

‘What's so special about these folks?'

‘It's not who we let in,' Sumaoang said, ‘it's who we don't. Tourists. Bankers. Insurance salesmen. And sleazy private eyes.'

‘Murderers?'

‘Oh, very different,' the artist said. ‘Depends on who they murder.'

Lang found the situation humorous. Warfield might never have his last hurrah, but he had certainly stirred up his old friends and enemies, leaving them in the terrible wake of his death. He wasn't going to be forgotten; he wasn't, as Dylan Thomas – one of the few poets Lang could recall – had advised, going ‘gentle into that good night'.

For Noah Lang, going into that good night for a few hours of sleep seemed appropriate. Sleep was overtaking him even as Chet Baker's voice inhabited his mind. He was distantly aware that Buddha was at the edge of the loft as usual, looking down, making sure there was no movement below.

San Mateo is half an hour or forty-five minutes south of San Francisco depending on traffic and one's opinion on speed limits. It is a thriving area that benefits from its location on an interstate between San Francisco and Silicon Valley and minutes from the area's busy international airport.

Nadia was uncharacteristically quiet as Carly's Mini Cooper purred like a car twice its size on 101. Carly had already talked to Lang, who filled her in on Richard Sumaoang and his Filipino posse. She agreed that it clouded both their theories. On the other hand, one didn't have to be a murderer to pursue what appeared to be a most embarrassing exposé.

The trip was a waste. Except for the food paradise that was Draeger's. Rarely did she have the chance to ooh and aah at the luxury supermarket – vast selections of high-quality chocolates and wines, a deli that went on for ever, baked goods that doubled as art masterpieces. She and Nadia took the escalator to an upstairs that featured fine kitchen and dining paraphernalia, including such things as Versace teacups. But really all she had to show for the trip was an apology from the manager of Blue Monkey Press.

The mock-up and supporting materials to Warfield's tell-all could not be found. The wispy-haired owner explained that they had thought at first they couldn't find it because it had been sent out, but then they realized they'd been burgled. The place had been broken into recently, but they had found nothing missing – until now. It hadn't occurred to him that this kind of thing would be stolen and he had therefore not checked, even after Carly's call.