Death in North Beach (31 page)

Buddha stopped, turned back.

‘I know, that was unkind. I know that. Thing is, I don't knit doilies and I don't go to see the revival of
Cats
, but I
live
with a cat and seem to have no other life.'

Buddha, Lang thought, may have regretted stopping to listen to such garbage. The brown creature walked gracefully toward the kitchen, where his water was changed and his dry food bowl replenished.

Lang checked the cabinets and refrigerator. Aside from a few condiments, he might as well be on a deserted island. Not even a coconut. He didn't feel like going out, but he pretty much had to if he wanted to eat and . . . drink.

‘You want something? A little crab, maybe?'

Lang walked down to the Panhandle, the narrow sliver of Golden Gate Park a few blocks from his converted laundry space. A few blocks to the East was Falletti's. He'd find something there. Maybe a bottle of decent, cheap wine or a beer he had yet to try. Some sausage to throw in a bit of pasta or a piece of fish.

He began to feel better as he walked the few blocks on the path under the trees before the park ended at the Department of Motor Vehicles. The smell of eucalyptus was in the air. Dogs chased things – sticks, Frisbees or bright green tennis balls. Bicyclists and runners traversed the paths. Elderly folks were getting a bit of fresh air and exercise.

Lang took a moment to sit on a bench. Yes, he told himself, stop rushing. It only hurried the end, didn't it? Not the end of the case or the day, but the end of it all. He took a few deep breaths and allowed himself to re-enter the present, a slower present, a more pleasant present.

He wandered inside the grocery unhurriedly, the evening now out before him in the most pleasant way. Even so, at the perimeter of his consciousness, he thought about how this case might all come down. And it was coming down. He could feel it.

Perhaps William Blake was telepathic or just extremely intuitive. She wanted to talk to him. And now, there he was, sitting on the sofa. He was sipping what appeared to be a Martini. He wore a camel-colored cashmere V-neck sweater with a white tee shirt beneath and tobacco-colored pants with a deep crease. His feet were sockless inside some brown Gucci loafers. He looked comfortable but not all that happy.

Carly felt as ambivalent as he looked. She was glad to see him, but had never quite gotten over his lack of respect for her privacy. She was entertained by his unpredictability as much as she believed it to be self-indulgent and immature.

‘Doors have locks for a reason,' she said, more harshly than she intended.

‘If I were a little freer,' he said, raising his eyebrows, ‘if I didn't have to hide or look over my shoulder . . .'

‘All right,' she said. It was a fair point. ‘Are you blaming me?'

‘No.' He stood, put his hand on her shoulder. ‘I'm getting antsy. Another death. Mickey Warfield. This is what I wanted to avoid. Are we getting close, Carly?'

She nodded. ‘I have some questions for you.'

‘How about I fix you a drink? Martini?'

‘Sure. Not too strong.' She followed him to the kitchen. ‘How did you end up with Whitney that night?'

‘He called me,' William said. He put some ice in both glasses as he cut a sliver of lime. He waited. ‘Wanted to meet me there.'

‘Whitney knew your number.'

William nodded. ‘Friends and friends of friends. I don't want my name on a billboard, but can't be too hard to find or I'm in trouble.'

‘Why Alighieri's?'

William paused for a moment. A moment too long in Carly's mind.

‘It's where he holds court.'

‘When?'

‘Every night after eleven.'

‘Every night?'

‘Every night. Everyone there knows his schedule. He has late-morning coffee at Caffe Trieste, writes in the early afternoon, has dinner, writes in the evening, and at ten thirty or eleven shows up at Alighieri's where he drinks and pontificates the night away. He works really hard to get a buzz before closing.'

‘You say “everyone knows”.'

William smiled. ‘I'm sure the president is unaware of Whitney's habits, but the natives know.'

He drained the water off the ice in the glasses and put it in the shaker along with additional ice. He poured an infinitesimal amount of vermouth and a more substantial amount of gin into the ice. He didn't shake the container but swirled it for a few seconds and then poured the contents into the glasses. He snapped the lime peeling and rubbed the rims of the glasses. He handed one to Carly.

‘You said we were close to the end on this,' William said.

She wasn't sure how much she wanted to say. Not all the pieces were in place and they wouldn't be until she could get the people on the list together – including him – in one room.

‘You read or watch any of those old British mysteries?'

William nodded and smiled.

‘I need a place,' Carly said. ‘A place where I have enough room to put up sixteen large photographs and have maybe fifteen or twenty people in a somewhat relaxed atmosphere.'

William took a deep breath, suspicion and amusement on his face. ‘I know of a place.'

‘Really?'

‘Alighieri's. The back room. When do you want it?'

‘Just like that?' Carly asked.

‘Just like that.'

‘How can you do that?'

‘I own the place,' William said.

‘You own it?'

‘You look surprised. I'm not going to be beautiful for ever,' he said, grinning. ‘I have a few investments. What I do is similar to playing sports . . . there comes a time, you know.'

There was obviously more to learn, Carly thought.

‘Alighieri's is the place where all this began,' Carly said.

‘It was.' He walked back into the living area. She followed. ‘I promise you,' he said as he settled into the sofa, ‘I didn't kill anyone. Ever. And I have never hired anyone to do anything nearly that evil. Faced with fight or flight, I always choose flight.'

‘I noticed. Anyway, I didn't accuse you.'

‘Directly.'

The Martini was good. It was also strong.

‘I'll cook,' he said. ‘Am I getting too comfy?'

‘When this is all over, will I ever see you again?' Carly asked.

‘No. Probably not.'

‘Then you're not getting too comfy,' Carly said. ‘Dinner sounds lovely.'

‘And?'

‘And that might be lovely too.'

It was settled. Alighieri's back room at ten. Ten was determined because, as Carly soon discovered, there was to be a prelude to the Alighieri get-together – services for Frank Wiley at St Francis of Assisi that would begin at eight. A phone call to Nadia was helpful. She would set up sixteen large easels to display the photographs as well as arrange the tables for the evening's event. Nadia saw it as a launch to her very own show of Wiley's ‘art', as she now described it.

Over dinner Blake asked Carly to tell him about all her loves.

She laughed. ‘A boy when I was very, very young. He went away.'

‘That's the sum of it all?' Blake asked, comfortably embedded in the large sofa next to Carly, sipping wine from a large glass.

‘Love? Maybe that's the sum of it all. I let my life drift,' she said. She looked at her wine, swirled it a bit, not out of any attempt to enhance the flavor, but to allow the debate in her mind about what to tell and what not to tell. What would reveal too much about herself. And what would no doubt bore him to death.

‘Go on,' he said. ‘We have the night ahead of us.'

‘There was Peter. We were together for a long time. I would describe it as an interim relationship, a long, long interim relationship.' She looked up from her wine and saw him staring. ‘Don't look at me like that. I didn't lead him on. He was to me as I was to him. We had a lot in common, including a lack of passion for the other. And . . . he left me. A job in Seattle. Didn't even invite me to go along. And it was absolutely fine.' She thought William looked doubtful. ‘True. It was the beginning of . . .' she gestured broadly enough to almost spill her wine ‘. . . this!'

He nodded.

‘In whatever time I have left on this earth, I want to live a little, not sleepwalk through it.' Was she being a little loud? Maybe she needed to put a cap on it. ‘And I'm getting a little silly.'

‘A little silly is fine,' William Blake said. She remembered Lang's comment about letting go a bit. She didn't say anything. ‘What about dreams? Are they important?' he asked.

‘Short dreams sometimes,' she said, ‘like this one. They're nice, aren't they?'

He nodded.

Thirty-Two

Carly woke up to the sounds of the shower running and the smell of coffee brewing. The light that squeezed between the broad-bladed Venetian blinds was intense. She had slept well, surprisingly well considering how difficult it was to sleep beside another living creature. Unless William had slipped out to sleep on the sofa during the night, this was a first. How could she be so trusting?

She just was, she thought. She reached for her cell and punched in Lang's number. Without going into detail, she explained the event that would take place that evening. Would he make sure those on his list, those remaining, were in attendance?

‘How am I to coax the unwilling?'

‘You're just the first step. I'm going to ask Gratelli to make the invitation more formal. But you might mention that we have the manuscript.'

‘We do?' Lang asked.

‘No.'

‘What are we doing?'

‘We're going to figure out who did what to whom.'

‘On the spot?'

‘Yes,' Carly said.

‘Cream or sugar?' William asked, coming into the room unclothed, his fortyish body looking like a thirtyish one.

‘Where are you?'

‘At a coffee shop.'

‘Who's with you?'

‘I'm just talking to the barista.'

‘You're up and out early,' Lang said.

‘The early bird gets the worm.'

‘Some people say that,' Lang said.

‘No one said the early bird is witty.'

‘Are you dressed?'

‘Why would you ask a question like that?'

‘Because there is no buzz. No sounds of dishes or conversation. It's all too soft, padded, no echo. So you're not in some commercial coffee shop. It's more like you're in bed.'

‘And if I were?'

‘Then we would talk about what else the early bird was getting . . .'

‘The list. Just talk to the list, OK?' She flipped the phone shut. She had to call him back to give him the time and place.

‘Does he always get to you that way?' William asked, still naked and smiling, but bringing her the coffee.

‘What way?'

‘You are flustered a bit,' William said.

‘He's difficult sometimes.'

‘What are you doing today?' William asked.

‘I need to talk to Gratelli, get the folks to Alighieri's tonight, check out some bank statements. All sorts of things. You can stay here if you need to. If you go out on the balcony, please put some clothes on. Don't want to give Mr Nakamura a heart attack.'

‘A proper lady,' William said.

‘A proper lady,' she repeated. For some reason that description made her sad. Yet, no matter how many nights like last night she might have, the description seemed apt. ‘You'll be there tonight,' she said matter-of-factly. It was a statement, not a question or even a request.

‘Maybe,' he said, sitting on the bed, sipping his coffee. ‘There's nothing wrong with being a proper lady. Learn to love yourself a little,' William said.

Lang, while shaving, briefly discussed plans for the day with Buddha. It was doubtful the cat cared even the slightest about the words. Instead, attention was paid to the strokes of the razor and the peeling of the shaving cream. Buddha was interested in how things worked. He, for example, watched intently a few months ago when Lang set up the video and sound system. He always watched Lang cook or make coffee. He usually watched him dress and was all too curious about the human urination process for Lang.

‘I don't watch you,' Lang told him once before shutting the door.

This morning, like most mornings, Lang dressed and went down the street to Central Brewing – a coffee shop on the corner of Fell and Central – for a morning cup of coffee and a muffin, usually blueberry.

It was a cool, sunny morning. It had every indication of warming up and becoming the kind of day that lucky tourists seem to think is the norm. It was not at all a time Lang expected surprises.

Sitting at a table in front of the coffee shop was Inspector Stern, overflowing his suit much like a muffin top. After a sip from the large paper cup, he gave Lang the smile: I know you are not happy to see me and that makes me very happy.

Lang went in, asked for his non-latte, non-foamy, not steamy, normal, everyday coffee and got it in seconds. He decided to skip the now unappetizing muffin. He stepped out and pulled a chair up to the table where Stern presided.

‘You are so predictable,' Stern said. ‘Every day the same routine.'

‘Home away from home. I didn't know you cared. But I'm honored to have my very own stalker. I had hoped for a pretty woman, but . . .'

‘I don't like you.'

‘I'm shocked,' Lang said, smiling. ‘I am deeply shocked.'

Stern gave him the smile again.