Lay Your Sleeping Head

by Michael Nava

  “Why would they think that?”

  “There was some physical evidence at the scene that indicated one, maybe two other people were present when he died. A private autopsy revealed some marks on his body inconsistent with accidental overdose.”

  He had leaned forward against his desk and was listening with rapt attention. “A private autopsy? Who authorized that?”

  “His mother,” I said. “Katherine Paris.”

  He frowned. “What marks?”

  “There were bruises on his chest where someone might have held him down. Ligature marks around his wrists where he might have been bound. The injection site was clumsy, as if he’d been shot up quickly or by someone who didn’t know what he was doing.”

  “You say the police know about this?”

  “Yes, and the district attorney.”

  “Do they have any suspects?”

  “No,” I said. “In fact, they’ve closed the case.”

  He relaxed into his chair. “So, why are you here?”

  “Because whoever killed Hugh is still out there,” I said. “The cops and the DA should still be looking. Mr. Smith is an influential man. If he leaned on them, they’d reopen the case.”

  Barron looked at me for a moment and again, I felt the quiver of recognition.

  “This is the first I’ve heard that anyone thinks Hugh’s death was anything other than an accidental overdose,” he said. “If Mr. Smith thought differently, he would have told me, so we can assume he doesn’t.”

  “I’m telling you now,” I said.

  “But who are you? Not a cop, not a DA. Just some random guy. How did you even know Hugh Paris?”

  “He was a friend,” I said.

  Barron smirked. “Right, a friend. Okay, well, thanks for the information. I will pass it on to Mr. Smith.”

  “That’s it?”

  “I’m afraid so, Mr.—what was your name again?”

  “Rios,” I said. “Henry Rios.”

  “Yeah, Mr. Rios. Thanks for coming in.”

  I stood up. “Have we met?”

  That startled him. “Uh, I don’t think so, bud.”

  “You’re sure? You look and sound familiar.”

  He shrugged. “It’s a small town, Henry. Maybe we’ve run into each other, but I don’t remember you, sorry. You’ll have to excuse me. I’ve got work to do.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Thanks for your time, Peter.”

  I stalked from Barron’s office through the Financial District to the restaurant where I was meeting Grant for lunch. I had been prepared for a polite hearing and a noncommittal response but with Barron the rejection had felt personal. He was lying when he said he didn’t remember if we had met before. We had met and whatever the occasion had been, it had not ended well. That’s why he had hustled me out of his office as soon as he could, worried maybe that I would remember. Because it felt from the moment I had stepped into his office that something had happened between us. The air was bad from the start. I tried to think where I had met him, but fury clouded my mind.

  Grant was already in the restaurant when I arrived. It was one of those pre-1906 landmarks that locals called an institution but was really a fossil representing San Francisco at its most affected and self-congratulatory. Housed in the same narrow room since 1860, the walls and floor were oak and the tables covered with stiff white tablecloths. The waiters moved through the room in white jackets and black ties and pegged the quality of their service to the quality of their customer’s suits and shoes. Grant occupied a booth at the end of the restaurant, a prime spot that reminded me, again, that he and Peter Barron had more in common with each other than I did with either of them.

  I waved away the waiter who attempted to pull out my seat for me and sat down.

  “How did it go with Peter?” Grant asked.

  “He’s a dick,” I said. “How do you know him?”

  He shifted back slightly in his chair as if to escape the force of my hostility.

  “We dated,” he said, quietly. “I don’t know what happened between you, but I don’t think you’re being fair. Peter’s a good guy.”

  “Only if you’re a member of the same club,” I said.

  “Which club would that be?”

  I indicated the room. “This one.”

  He frowned. The waiter returned to the table with oversized menus he laid before us and asked us for our drink order. Peter asked for iced tea. I ordered a double Jack Daniel’s on the rocks.

  “What’s got into you, Henry?” Grant asked, after the waiter left.

  “Barron. He could barely be bothered to hear me out before he dismissed me.”

  “I’m sorry it didn’t go well,” Grant said. “Would you like me to call him?”

  “Will he be friendlier to you because you fucked him?”

  “Okay,” Grant said, evenly. “Now you’re just being a jerk.”

  The waiter brought our drinks.

  “I am tired of running up against the Peter Barrons in this town,” I said. “Smug, white gay guys with their gym bodies, little moustaches and condescending attitudes.”

  “Is that really what you think of us?”

  “I wasn’t talking about you.”

  “Hey, Henry,” he said. “I’m gay, I’m white. I work out at a gym. I even had a moustache for a while.”

  “Are you smug and condescending?”

  “You tell me,” he said. He sipped his tea. “I admire so much about you, Henry, but I don’t understand these chips on shoulders.”

  “You don’t? Look around this room, Grant. Here we are in the heart of the Financial District. Lawyers, bankers, financial advisors. The only people who look like me are clearing off plates and glasses. You’re not aware of it because, why would you be? I am never not aware of it. And by the way, a chip on my shoulder? That’s condescending.”

  “I’m aware that life is a lot easier for me than it is for most people,” he said, quietly. “Have I thought about why? Believe it or not, I have, though clearly not as much or as deeply as you. Are you going to write me off because of that, Henry? What about Hugh? Did you have this talk with him? Because he was a member of my club, too.”

  “Hugh’s father was insane, his mother was an alcoholic, his grandfather raped him and he ended up hooked on heroin. What’s lucky about any of that?”

  “You don’t want a boyfriend,” he said. “You want a cause.”

  The waiter returned and asked if we were ready to order.

  “I was just leaving,” I said. I pulled a twenty out of my wallet. “This should cover my drink.”

  I heard Grant say, “Henry, I’m sorry,” but I left without looking back.

  I woke up in the middle of the night, still half-drunk from all the booze I’d consumed to relieve my guilt from unloading on Grant, when it came to me with perfect clarity where I had met Peter Barron before. Met him twice. His voice was the voice of one of the men who had abducted me. And his face? I’d glimpsed it as he was scaling the fence in Aaron’s yard, just before he coldcocked me with his gun.

  TWELVE

  “Are you sure?” Sonny Patterson asked for the third time.

  I tried to keep the exasperation out of my voice. “Yes, I’m sure, Sonny. Peter Barron was the guy I saw at Aaron’s that night. I’d swear to it in court.”

  Patterson rubbed his temples. “You told me you only saw the guy for a few seconds before he coldcocked you with his pistol.”

  “I’m telling you, it was Peter Barron.”

  “Not enough for an arrest,” he said.

  “An eyewitness identification is not enough?” I said, incredulously.

  “Not if it’s all I’ve got,” he said. “Any half-decent defense lawyer could take your identification apart. Plus, this guy’s a war hero.”

  Patterson, Ormes and I were in his office with its overflowing ashtray and cigarette stench. On his desk was a file Terry had compiled about Peter Barron. Patterson was referring to the bronze star Barron had
earned on one of his three tours of duty in Vietnam. He was also an ex-cop, five years in the San Francisco Police Department where he quickly climbed the ladder before going into the private security business. Needless to say, he had no criminal record. He’d worked for John Smith for the past six years.

  “What about the fact that he kidnapped me?”

  Patterson said, “Come on, Henry, your voice I.D. is even weaker than your visual I.D. Anyway, unless we can draw some connection, the mugging is irrelevant to Gold’s murder. Plus, it didn’t even happen in my jurisdiction.”

  “My apartment was tossed by whoever kidnapped me,” I reminded him. “That did happen in your jurisdiction.”

  “You’re going to blame that on Barron, too?” Patterson said. “Look, your whole theory of the case is that Judge Paris was behind these murders. Barron works for John Smith. Explain that.”

  “I can’t,” I snapped. “Ask him.”

  Terry said mildly, “You have to admit, Henry, it muddies the water.”

  “I know that,” I said. “But all I can tell you is what I saw. What it means is up to you guys to figure out. Even if it’s not enough to arrest him, it’s still a lead, right? Don’t you guys follow leads? Or are you afraid to because on paper he looks like a Boy Scout?”

  “I didn’t say I was going to let him off the hook,” Patterson said. “I plan to invite him down here for a talk.”

  “Keep me in the loop,” I said.

  “No way,” he said. “You’re a witness now.”

  Ormes walked me out of the DA’s office. Before we parted, she said, “Be careful, Henry. If you’re right about Barron, he’s already killed two people. Once we call him in for questioning, it won’t be hard for him to figure out who implicated him. Watch your back.”

  A couple of days later, Patterson called me.

  “Barron’s in Japan for work,” he said. “He’s expected back Friday. Smith’s people assured me he’d cooperate.”

  Friday came and went, then the weekend, then half the next week. On Wednesday Patterson called again.

  “Barron’s in the wind,” he said.

  “What?”

  “He left Japan the day I called you. No one knows where he is.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “It means I’ve got a search warrant for his apartment and his office,” Patterson said. “I’ll be in touch.”

  A week later, another call from Patterson.

  “Hey, John Smith has asked for a meeting with the District Attorney and the Chief of Police. Ormes and I are also invited. I’m inviting you.”

  “What does he want?”

  “His lawyer says he wants to make a statement about Barron. Ormes will pick you up tomorrow morning at eight-thirty.”

  I put on my best suit, my nicest tie and buffed my shoes. Ormes arrived in her dress blues.

  “Look at us,” I said. “You’d think we were meeting God.”

  We drove into the city where Smith lived in his grandfather’s house at the top of Nob Hill. The residence had once been surrounded by the mansions of other nineteenth century robber barons, but the demands of a growing city, the dispersal of the old families and the earthquake had led to their demolition or conversion to hotels, schools or other uses. Only the Linden House remained a private residence, a nineteen thousand square foot, forty-four room, Renaissance Revival structure in gray granite on a quarter acre of the most expensive real estate in the city. The gates swung open for Ormes’s car. We drove up a circular driveway to the sweeping entrance staircase that led to a door carved out of California oak where Sonny Patterson was waiting for us.

  “Remember, you’re here as a courtesy,” he told me. “So keep your mouth shut.”

  “Scout’s honor,” I said.

  Patterson rang the bell. A maid opened the door and we stepped into a long hall illuminated by gilded wall sconces decorated with oak leaves and sheaves of wheat. The walls themselves were covered with medieval tapestries and lined with ornate chairs, tables and cabinets that seemed to serve no other purpose than to take up space. I remembered Hugh’s comment that his uncle collected antiques. That was an understatement. We were led down the hall on a thick Oriental carpet to a two-story oak-paneled library—oak seemed to be a theme here—the shelves of which were filled with leather-bound books apparently chosen more for their size and color than their content. Above the fireplace was a framed Bear Republic Flag, not the one that served as the state’s flag but one of the original flags that had flown over Sonoma in 1846 when California briefly became an independent country. I knew this because the small brass plaque on the bottom of the frame identified it as such. The Santa Clara DA, and Linden’s Chief of Police, sitting uncomfortably on a settee upholstered in pink silk, gave me the stink eye as I wandered around the room. Ormes tugged my coat sleeve like an impatient mother with an errant child and quietly told me to sit down. Before I did, I saw that a couple of tall bookcases were filled with mystery novels; I caught sight of books by Agatha Christie, Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett, Rex Stout, Ross Macdonald and John D. MacDonald and even, interestingly, the gay mystery writer Joseph Hansen. These weren’t the beat-up paperbacks I bought at used bookstores when I wanted to kill a couple of hours, but pristine first editions.

  “Henry,” Ormes whispered again. “Sit down.” I sank into a leather armchair and looked up. The ceiling was so high I expected to see clouds passing overhead. There was, instead, a crystal chandelier. The windows, separated by pilasters, were heavily draped, apparently to block out the view of the twentieth century. The carpet and furnishings were Victorian era. I doubted they were reproductions.

  The maid wheeled in a trolley with a coffee service and for a few minutes we all busied ourselves with that. We talked in whispers, as if we were in a museum or a church. The DA and the police chief continued to eye me suspiciously, but before either of them could question my presence, two old men shuffled into the room.

  One of them, short, stout, white hair curling over his shirt collar, was garbed in the uniform of the legal profession—gray chalk-stripe suit, rep tie, gold cufflinks. The other man, the elder of the two, tall, thin, stooped, his pate covered by wisps of white hair, wore khakis, a red-and-white striped button-down shirt, a shapeless navy blazer and red carpet slippers. His blue eyes—the Linden blue—were glazed with age. He glanced at me appraisingly and allowed himself a tiny smile. What had Hugh told me? The old bachelor who collected antiques. I smiled back at him.

  The two men sat down and introductions were made. Patterson glossed over my presence by introducing me simply as “my associate, Mr. Rios.” I thought Smith’s eyebrows climbed a bit when he heard my name, but I could have imagined it. After we all got chummy, Smith’s lawyer, Mr. Caldwell, cleared his throat and began.

  “Thank you for coming, gentlemen and Miss Ormes. Mr. Smith wanted to make a statement about one of his former employees, Peter Barron.”

  Former?

  “As soon as we learned the police wanted to talk to Mr. Barron about the shooting in Linden, we called him in Tokyo and asked him to return to San Francisco immediately. We told him we expected him to cooperate fully with the police. As we informed you earlier, however, Mr. Barron did not return. At the moment, his whereabouts are unknown.”

  “You have no idea where he might be?” the DA asked.

  “I’m afraid not,” Caldwell replied coolly. “Mr. Barron served as an intelligence officer during the Vietnam War. We assume he retained some useful contacts in Southeast Asia. It wouldn’t be hard for him to disappear.”

  “I thought he was Army,” Patterson said.

  “That was a cover,” Caldwell replied. “He was CIA. In any event, after he failed to return, we launched our own internal investigation.” He turned to the DA. “Mr. Bradbury, thank you for holding off on the execution of your search warrants to allow us to complete our investigation.”

  I glanced questioningly at Patterson. He shrugged.

  “I can
tell you now what we’ve learned,” Caldwell continued. “We have evidence that Barron and another man abducted and killed Hugh Paris. That other man was Aaron Gold. We believe that Barron and Gold had a falling out that ended with Barron killing Gold.”

  Only Terry’s hand squeezing my arm kept me from jumping up and demanding proof that Aaron had anything to do with Hugh’s murder.

  “Why?” she asked. “Why did these men kill Mr. Paris?”

  “That requires some background.” Caldwell said. “I expect everything I am about to tell you remains private. Yes?”

  Bradbury, apparently speaking for all of us, said, “Of course.”

  “Thank you,” Caldwell said. “A few month ago, Hugh Paris came to Mister Smith with some rather incendiary charges against his grandfather.” Caldwell paused, looked at Smith, who nodded slightly. “Hugh alleged that his grandfather had sexually abused him when he was a child. He wanted compensation from the judge and he asked Mister Smith for his help. Mister Smith assigned Peter Barron to look into the allegation. This involved questioning some of Judge Paris’s associates. When Judge Paris learned of the investigation, he had one of his lawyers, Mr. Gold, approach Barron and, basically, suborn him. The judge offered Barron two million dollars to terminate the investigation.”

  “Terminate meaning kill him,” I said, unable to hold my peace.

  Caldwell did not deign to look in my direction. “What the judge intended can’t be established for obvious reasons but what followed is that Barron and Gold killed Hugh Paris. You can draw your own inferences.”

  “Why did Barron kill Gold?” Patterson asked.

  “Again, without Barron here, we can’t say definitively. They have may quarreled over money or perhaps Mr. Gold’s conscience troubled him and he wanted to turn himself in. Whatever the exact reason, Barron was worried enough that he decided to eliminate his accomplice.”

  The DA asked, “You have proof of all this, Mister Caldwell?”