Death in the Haight

by Ronald Tierney

  “A drunken accident. You’d have gotten away with it, probably.”

  “Could have set fire to your chair. A careless cigarette. Or your revolver, over there.” Lang pointed to the .38 now on top of a stack of newspapers. “I could have put it in your limp hand and put the barrel right up under your chin and fired right into your brain.” Lang mimed, putting his finger under his chin. “Or here,” Lang said, putting his finger in his mouth. “You exhibit every symptom of a man who wants to destroy himself.”

  “You been talking to Gratelli?” Stern asked.

  “Tell me, Stern,” Lang said, looking around, “do you have a real life somewhere that nobody knows about?”

  “I got nothing and nothing to lose.”

  “Look, the last thing I want to do is kill you. You seem to be doing a good job all by yourself. But I want to make sure you know that I will if I need to. I can’t be looking over my shoulder to find out if this crazy cop will jump out of the shadows and beat me up or maybe put a bullet through my head. I promise you, I will kill you first.”

  “Like you killed that woman in Sea Cliff?”

  “I didn’t. The Russian set me up. He killed her or had her killed. And if I didn’t work out as his alibi, then I was set up to take the fall. Clever.”

  “You’re dirty, Lang.”

  “If I could do her, surely to God, I’d have already done you.”

  “I haven’t changed my mind. You’re dirty.”

  “A little. It’s all relative.”

  “You killed the Russian?” Stern asked. “Get me a glass of water, will you?” Lang went back to the kitchen. “You murdered the Russian, right?”

  “His own people wanted to kill him after that night in the park. He killed his crew, but one of them got away. If I did it, I’d call it self-defense.”

  “Just like you’d call killing me self-defense?”

  “Preemption, Stern,” Lang said, bringing in a glass of tap water. He held the glass as Stern swallowed, eventually all of it. “Americans have adopted it as part of foreign policy. If it’s good enough for them . . .”

  “And the guy on Columbus Avenue?”

  “You’re my alibi,” Lang said.

  Stern laughed. “I’m not as dumb as you’d like to think, numbnuts. You arranged it.”

  “Did I?”

  “So what now?”

  “We either agree to a live-and-let-live attitude, or we have the battle of the expiration dates,” Lang said.

  “You could do it?”

  “Yes, I said I could. Not now, with you tied up. But I could do it, I promise.”

  “You know I’m not afraid of you.”

  “Yes.”

  “You know I’m not afraid to die,” Stern continued.

  “I am, and that’s why I’d get you first. On the other hand, I don’t want to help you commit suicide. That’s your business.”

  “It is,” Stern said soberly. “I gotta get ready for work.”

  “I can help you on the Vanderveer case,” Lang said.

  “If we don’t kill each other first.” He smiled, looked down at his restraints. “I promise to shut my eyes and count to ten before I come after you,” Stern said, again smiling.

  “You only have to count to five,” Lang said as he went to free him. “I don’t need much time to get away from you.”

  * * *

  Brinkman had taken the early shift in the park, having had just eight hours off. Lang drove up to Nob Hill as well to check in with the Vanderveers but checked in with Brinkman first. The old man sat on a bench, a copy of the morning Chronicle open. He looked like the perfect occupant—a retired gentleman, up early, getting some fresh air.

  “Anything?”

  “Quiet as a graveyard up here until a few minutes ago. Then the dogs started appearing and pooping. A natural cycle. Kind of strange, don’t you think”—nodding toward the hotel—“him paying us to watch him?”

  “We don’t know what’s going on. Things aren’t always what they appear.”

  “That’s what I used to tell you.”

  Lang nodded. There was no need to bother the Vanderveers. He had nothing for them. “I’m going into the office for awhile. Call me if he leaves. Only follow him, but let me know if the wife or kid goes out. You bring your lunch?”

  “Is the bear Catholic?”

  Lang laughed. “Does the Pope . . . never mind.”

  * * *

  Lang’s cell rang. It was Brinkman. Vanderveer, he said, was on the move. He and a kid were walking out of the hotel and down the hill, each carrying a heavy plastic bag.

  * * *

  Lang found the Xeroxed copy of Vanderveer’s retainer on his desk. Thanh had apparently made it before making the deposit. The check was drawn on the Vanderveers’ personal account and had their address on it. Curious, he looked it up on Google.

  The satellite photo must have been shot through clouds. The image didn’t provide a great level of detail, but it appeared that the Vanderveers lived in an old, but apparently posh, area near a large lake. Big homes near a big body of water were surrounded by plenty of undeveloped land, woods mostly.

  It was easy for native San Franciscans, much like native New Yorkers, to slip into a kind of provincial view of the rest of the country. And while the great Midwest was merely flyover for many, as Lang knew from having lived there, there were millions, many of them rich and powerful, who called it home. The Vanderveers cast a pretty big shadow in the larger Grand Rapids area, but they wouldn’t be slouches in the Bay Area, either.

  Big shot or not, Mr. Vanderveer’s position on the ladder of success and his unwillingness to do what Lang said, didn’t prevent the PI from calling his client to find out why, according to Brinkman’s second call of the day, the senior Vanderveer had gone to the financial district with bags of money and returned without them.

  “I don’t know why you are spending so much time following me,” Vanderveer said. “You were engaged to find my son.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do. But you are acting like I’m on their side.”

  “The blackmailers left a note that they no longer want to be paid in cash. They want bearer bonds.”

  “And you thought this wasn’t important enough to tell me?”

  “I was going to. But we’re waiting further instructions. I thought I might as well wait until then. What difference does it make how I pay them? All they’re doing now is making me dance.”

  “Big difference. It’s kind of hard to carry a couple of bags of money on a plane, right? How the hell did you get so wealthy? From now on, tell me everything, right away,” Lang said, not suppressing his disapproval. “What else?”

  “Wait. Just wait for further instructions. They said it was getting close. Why are they playing this game?”

  “Maybe to frustrate you.”

  “They are succeeding.”

  “Seems so. I need to see the note.”

  “All right. But I doubt if it will help.”

  * * *

  “Announcing the presence of Inspectors Rose and Stern,” Thanh said, standing in the door to Lang’s office, wearing what appeared to be some version of a toreador outfit. Lang was behind his desk. Lang stood as the two inspectors came in, smiling at the preposterous formality.

  Lang gestured to the slightly ripped green Naugahyde sofa.

  “Honored, I’m sure,” Rose said, sitting and sinking into the pillows.

  “Me too,” Stern said, a smile on his face.

  The smile made Lang nervous. What had happened? Had Stern gone to a therapist? Maybe he was on happy pills. Or was this merely a tactic now that he knew Lang wouldn’t think twice about killing him? Maybe the smile was pure sarcasm.

  “So now we all know that Vanderveer is here, right?” Ste
rn asked, taking a moment to glance at everyone.

  “Look around,” Lang said, letting one arm sweep the office.

  “In the city, Mr. Lang,” Stern said, surprisingly patient.

  Lang nodded.

  “Where exactly is he?”

  “Not yet,” Lang said.

  “Has he been contacted by the kidnappers?” Rose asked.

  “Yes,” Lang said. “He’s been asked to provide a vast amount of cash in exchange for the boy. And in the interim, the kidnappers have asked Vanderveer to exchange the unwieldy bulk of cash into bearer bonds.”

  “Hmmm,” Stern said. “Inexperienced, not thought through.”

  “Maybe,” Lang said. “Vanderveer’s character suggests that he is used to having his way and having it quickly. The kidnappers may be playing with him. As he put it, ‘making him dance.’”

  “Good point,” Stern said. He seemed like a different person. He even seemed a little more cleaned up. His tie still hung loose around his chubby neck, but his suit was pressed. “You’re not going to tell us where he’s staying?”

  “No. He wouldn’t be happy that we are having this conversation. He was upset with whatever business he had with the police. He’s staying under a false name.”

  “Here in the city?” Rose asked.

  “Near enough,” Lang said. He looked at Thanh, who remained quiet. Thanh was there primarily as a witness in case things got out of hand.

  “You have anything else? Any leads?”

  “None. But when we know how the exchange goes down, I’ll get in touch with you.”

  “Okay,” Stern said. He related pretty much what Lang already knew from Gratelli’s phone call.

  Lang’s ears pricked up when Rose added a detail beyond what came from that secret conversation: “The room was rented with a cash card that belonged to Michael.”

  “A cash card?” Lang asked.

  “It’s like a credit card, issued by a bank or credit card company. The difference is that there is cash on deposit of a certain amount and the card allows the holder to draw against that balance,” Thanh said. “It’s often used by students. The parents can put them on a monthly budget by depositing into that account, say, once a month.”

  “So it was Michael’s card?” Lang asked.

  “Michael’s card. Michael’s computer searched the Internet and found the prostitute, ordered using his name. Michael’s DNA,” Stern said, fixing his eyes on Lang. It was a gotcha look. Guilty as charged.

  “Fingerprints?”

  “No,” Stern said. “Don’t need them. This is a no-brainer.”

  “DNA test?” Lang asked. “You were able to get something after all?”

  “Mitochondrial,” Rose said.

  “That means?” Lang said.

  “Uses the Y chromosome,” Rose said. “The profile isn’t huge. We didn’t have to do a complete match. There is what’s called a short tandem repeat that matches with father and son. It’s quicker, but it’s a clear identification.”

  “How did you get the father’s DNA?” Lang asked.

  “We did when we first talked and we thought having DNA would be helpful in locating the boy,” Rose said. “He sent a hair sample.”

  “So now it fries the boy?” Lang asked.

  “Truth cuts both ways,” Stern said in even tones. “So what we’re saying here, Mr. Lang, is that this is clearly not just a kidnapping investigation but a murder investigation, and in the interest of courtesy, we will have our DA talk to your employer, Mr. West, concerning the whereabouts of the Vanderveers and their full cooperation in this investigation.” He stood. “We thank you for your time.”

  If there were a coating of sarcasm in his voice, Lang still couldn’t pick it up. He looked at Rose.

  Rose responded by giving him a “the world is a crazy place” look.

  “Who was the prostitute working for? What service?”

  “Empress Gardens Spa. Only there’s no empress, no gardens, and no spa. Just a website,” Rose said. He looked at Stern to see if he had crossed a line. Stern seemed calm enough.

  “Thank you,” Lang said, standing up.

  “No, thank you,” Stern said. “Just doing our job, right, Rose?”

  “Excuse me?” Rose asked.

  “Our job. Just doing our job,” Stern repeated. “Serving the public.”

  “I think I’m in the wrong movie,” Rose said.

  “Too late for tea?” Thanh asked.

  “Another time,” Rose said.

  “It was kind of you to offer,” Stern said to Thanh.

  “Are lobotomies popular again?” Thanh asked as the reception area door closed behind them.

  “This isn’t good,” Lang said.

  “Pretty clear, isn’t it?” Thanh said. “You get paid to find the son so the kid can spend the rest of his life in prison.”

  * * *

  “I didn’t take you for a vegetarian,” Thanh said to Lang. Thanh wore flowing black silk—a little too chic and perhaps too feminine for such an unpretentious place. The two of them sat at the big round table at the rear of the tiny Chinese restaurant.

  “I’m not. But good food is good food. My treat.”

  “This is probably the least expensive restaurant in the city,” Thanh said.

  “It’s not always polite to be so observant,” Lang said.

  They were lucky to find a seat at lunchtime. Lucky Creation, as it was called, was in the heart of Chinatown and had only a few tables tucked into a tiny, narrow space. At the back, looking out over the dining room, was a five-foot Buddha surrounded by orchids. A plate of oranges occupied the space near Buddha’s right knee. Incense burned and sent a pleasantly foreign fragrance into the room that mixed with the scent of curry.

  The conversation was interrupted by bowls of walnut soup and plates of peanut sushi, turnip cakes, three-mushroom chow mein, and braised eggplant in bean sauce.

  “Vanderveer thinks all this waiting and now the sudden demand to change cash into bonds is just a way to drive him nuts. Seems to be working.”

  “Keeps everyone off guard,” Thanh said as something heavily curried and steaming arrived in a clay pot. “Or could be that the kidnappers are figuring it out as they go.”

  “Maybe the kidnappers didn’t realize how much space a million dollars takes,” Lang said. “But why didn’t they just have the money transferred to some overseas account if that were the case? Could it be the kidnappers are not all that sophisticated?”

  “Wiring the money might leave a trail. This way, nothing.” Thanh smiled. “Did anyone wonder why someone would kidnap a murderer?” Thanh continued, oblivious to the stares he received from the other customers.

  “Maybe the kidnappers are connected to the victim,” Lang said.

  “Or the pimp—one person or a firm—loses something of monetary value and decides to cover the loss,” Thanh said. “In fact, maybe it’s the pimp who is setting up the kid. The employer kills a difficult employee, blames a client, but first extracts some funds.”

  * * *

  Lang wasn’t going to tell the Vanderveers, who were now three in number with the addition of James, about the various theories. After sending Brinkman home, Lang crossed California Street, went into the Huntington lobby, and called up to the Vanderveers. They were in.

  The suite was surprisingly unkempt. Beds were unmade. Clothes were strewn about. With the exception of James, naturally energetic, impatient, and seemingly adventurous, they weren’t going out. Food was brought up, and maids were excused after changing the towels. They didn’t want to miss that call. And they didn’t want to take a million dollars, either in cash or now in bearer bonds, with them or leave it home alone.

  “I’ve had a serious discussion with the homicide inspectors,” Lang told
the three of them. “It’s pretty damning for Michael.”

  The senior Vanderveers sat in matching chairs. James stood by the window.

  “Why is that?” James asked.

  “His cash card was used to secure the transaction with the young lady and pay for the room,” Lang said. “His computer was used to connect to the website. She was found dead in his room.”

  “If he was gay,” Mrs. Vanderveer ventured hesitantly—she said “gay” as if it were an offensive word and she didn’t want to offend—“why would he . . .”

  “Hire a female prostitute?” Lang finished the question. He started to answer but decided he was interested in what the others might say.

  “Michael was a troubled young man,” Mr. Vanderveer said. “Who knows?” It was the senior Vanderveer who looked troubled. He had accepted as fact that Michael was guilty. After all, Lang thought, he was a practical man. And that conclusion was very hard to avoid.

  No one else ventured a theory.

  “The police think it was the last act of a desperate boy,” Lang said. “Maybe, they think, before he completely accepted he was gay, he gave straight one last try. . . .”

  “His first try,” James said.

  “First and last, maybe,” Lang said. “That’s what the police think anyway.”

  “Probably right,” James said.

  “James,” Mrs. Vanderveer said, lightly scolding.

  “I don’t care. He was getting . . . acting like an asshole before . . . when he left.” He shook his head in apparent disgust. “I’ve got to get out for a while. It’s too stuffy in here.” He slammed the door behind him.

  It was too stuffy. The room seemed airless, and vague odors of sleep and food thickened the air.

  “So much to be nervous about,” Mrs. Vanderveer said. “His brother’s disappearance, the coverage in the media of all this sordid business, and poor James will enter Harvard this fall.”

  “It’s tough being young,” Lang managed to say, though his heart wasn’t in it. “Another spoiled rich kid” was the thought that crossed his mind. “You sure you want me to help the police find Michael?” Lang asked. “Because that’s really what I’d be doing if I find him before they do.”