Mrs. Vanderveer looked like she was bearing the weight of the world, and her husband appeared nearly lifeless. He seemed to move through sheer will.
“What we have,” Mr. Vanderveer said, “is this: Kidnappers keep him, maybe kill him or send him back in pieces to show that they’re serious. Or the police get him. Maybe the boy resists and they kill him. Or you find him and we arrange a civilized surrender. I have to do that. I’m paying you to bring my son to me.”
“I can bring him to a lawyer—your lawyer, Mr. Vanderveer. That’s about it.”
“That’s your out?”
Lang nodded. “I only commit crimes when I’m pretty sure I can get away with them. Mr. West can arrange the ‘civilized surrender.’” He walked to the window where James had stood earlier. He looked out over the park. They had a great view—the park directly in front; legendary Grace Cathedral off to the left; the handsome, but stodgy and exclusive, male-members-only Pacific-Union Club; and directly ahead, beyond and rising above the park, some of the most elegant, expensive condominiums on earth.
The Vanderveers might live in this neighborhood if they were San Franciscans, Lang thought. Mr. Vanderveer might be a member of the exclusive club across the way.
“I have to find him,” Mr. Vanderveer said. “I have no confidence in the police to find him. But if they do, I am worried Michael won’t live to see a trial. We have to do something.”
Lang nodded. “We’ll continue. You must keep me informed.”
“I’ve heard nothing. It’s ridiculous. What are they waiting for?”
Lang had some new thoughts about that, but he kept them to himself.
* * *
Lang stopped by the office to pick up Buddha. It was time to go home. Lang banked on his instinct. Stern no longer wanted to kill him. Stern lived by the code of the West, the code boys used to grow up with. Because Lang had had a perfect opportunity to kill Stern and didn’t, Stern was now in debt to Lang. That meant he couldn’t kill Lang until that debt was paid. This wasn’t the way the world worked, but Stern, asshole that he was, had his own sense of ethics.
Buddha didn’t mind the office or even Thanh’s place, but Lang was convinced the small brown cat preferred to be home, with its heights and hidden places. When Lang got to the office, he discovered Buddha was out on the fire escape with Brinkman. Brinkman smoked his cigar, and Buddha was entranced by the cloud of smoke Brinkman produced.
“Let’s go, Buddha,” Lang said.
“You leaving the Vanderveers on their own?” Brinkman asked as Buddha slipped through the open window and stood at Lang’s feet.
“I’m tired of them,” Lang said. He was tired of them. Vanderveer was more than twenty-one, he had a phone, and it was his kid and his dime.
* * *
Buddha jumped off Lang’s shoulder once they were inside their home. The brown cat disappeared into the darkness, no doubt taking inventory of the space and the smells. Lang flicked on a few lamps as he sorted through the mail dropped in the slot in the door.
The Louis Armstrong he’d ordered had arrived. West End Blues. Aside from the cover cut, there were some tunes from the ’20s he hadn’t heard—“Potato Head Blues,” “S.O.L. Blues,” “Cornet Chop Suey,” “Alligator Crawl,” and more. He opened the case and put the CD on the tray, pushed a button, and waited for Armstrong’s trumpet to fill the room. He pulled a bottle of tequila from the kitchen and poured himself a little more than was wise.
Buddha reappeared and, with a nod, requested something to eat. Lang took care of food and water. The litter was fine.
After a few cuts, Lang called Chastain B. West and filled him in on the Vanderveers and what he had learned from the police. “If we find the boy, you’re going to have to be prepared for the defense.”
“The Vanderveers will want a bigger gun than me,” West said. “What are you listening to?”
“The Hot Fives and the Hot Sevens.” Lang was testing West.
“A white man and his blues. Good Lord, Noah. Next you’ll be making chitlins.”
“Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen,” Lang said mawkishly.
“No, but I know what a pain you are.”
“I rest my case.”
“What do you think is going on?”
“Too soon to say. But some things just don’t make sense.”
“No word from the kidnappers?”
“That’s part of what doesn’t make sense.”
“So what’s your plan?”
“Find the people she worked for. I’ve got a website. Otherwise, the plan is the same as it was. We have to wait for someone to make a move. It’s not up to us.”
* * *
Savannah Brown, in person, weighed more and was a few years older than she was portrayed, or rather airbrushed, on the website. Lang was disappointed that Ms. Brown had been around longer than he’d anticipated, not because he was ageist but because he wanted someone less worldly. They weren’t going to have sex anyway. The goal was to find out who was behind the website, essentially who owned the girls.
The woman looked around, let her eyes glance up at the high ceiling and the loft that sat halfway up the high wall.
“Don’t have to go up there, do I?”
“No,” Lang said. “Beer, wine, whiskey?”
“Whiskey,” she said.
“Whiskey? Sure,” Lang said, acknowledging to himself that this was going to be tougher than he thought. He had hoped she’d want a wine spritzer. Women who drank whiskey weren’t easy, at least not right away. “Have a seat.” He went into the small kitchen area. “Ice, water, soda?” he asked.
“Just put it in a glass, sweetheart.”
“Drinks her whiskey straight,” he mumbled to Buddha, who was giving his roommate the stink eye.
“Who are you talking to?” she asked.
“I talk to myself, but don’t worry, I never listen.” He handed her one of the two glasses he held in his hands.
“So, my dear, what’s on your mind?”
Lang sat down beside her.
“Conversation.”
“I know how to do that,” she smiled. “About your wife?” She looked around again. “No wife, unless this is your pied-à-terre. Let’s see if I can guess.” She downed the whiskey in one gulp and handed the glass back to Lang with the look of expectation on her face. “Work? What do you do for a living?”
Lang got up, went to the kitchen, emptied his glass all at once. He poured a couple of fingers of whiskey into each glass and returned.
“Work,” he said, handing her the glass. “I’m more interested in your work.”
“Oh. Is this the ‘I’m going to save you’ speech or ‘I’m writing a doctorate thesis’?”
“This is the ‘who do you work for’ conversation,” Lang said.
She shook her head. “I’m not in the information business.”
“I am, and that’s what I’m willing to pay for,” Lang said.
She looked at him for a while longer than it was comfortable. He let her look.
“I’m not at liberty to say,” she said.
“You can tell them that you left me a very happy man.”
She smiled. “I could, you know.”
“Tonight, there’s only one way you can do that.”
“Why?”
He debated for a moment. “A young girl was killed, one of your compatriots. I want to know who did it.”
Her look changed. Instead of the tough but fun hooker, she became a serious woman. And, Lang was guessing, a smart one.
“I didn’t know her. The girls don’t know each other. We’re simply pictures on the Internet.”
“How does all this work? How do you connect with the site and how are johns connected?”
She looked up again, but th
is time her eyes weren’t searching the room. They were looking for wisdom.
“I have paid,” Lang said.
“You bought what I was selling and not what you are asking for now.”
“I’m not alone in deceptive ways, now am I? A little airbrushing here and there.”
“You’re not making any points.”
“This isn’t a game, Ms. Brown. I’d think you’d be relieved you don’t have to get all sweaty.”
“You’re not a cop?”
“No.”
“Help me believe,” she said.
He showed her his license. She took a healthy swig of her whiskey.
“I knew you weren’t a cop. This isn’t the kind of place a cop would have. And no cop I ever met would have a cat.”
“Okay. That’s settled, so we’re good, right?”
“I don’t want to get the boys in trouble,” she said.
“Boys?”
“You think that the people who run the site killed her?”
“No. But they might have done something about the person who did.”
“You’re really something,” she said, laughing. “You’ve been watching too many movies. The site is run by two young geeks from Stanford who are making a killing— I’m sorry, that’s not what I mean. They’re making a bundle by grouping services and interests on various websites and charging a fee for making the connection. They’ve got a gardening and landscaping site, a wedding services site, hair stylists, cooking experts—all sorts of services. They take a commission on each connection. I doubt they’d kill a grasshopper.”
“How can I find them?”
* * *
The sign read “Omniboing, Inc.” It was a handmade sign on a cheap plastic door in a second-floor office. Below was a Chinese produce market. Lang knocked and heard a “come in.” There were shelves and computers and four people. Two young white men and two young women, one Asian, one Caucasian. The women looked up, but only for a moment.
The thinner of the two thin youths stood.
“Can I help you?”
“Marnie Bower,” Lang said, realizing that it was the first time he had said her name out loud. Before, he had simply referred to her as “the girl” or “the victim.”
“You police?” He looked at Lang as if he wouldn’t believe him if he said yes and continued. “I’ve already talked to the police.”
“How does this work?”
“How does what work?”
“Your business.”
“We’re not looking for investors,” the kid said.
“You must be Mark Ivors and that’s your brother David, right?”
“That doesn’t get you anywhere.”
“Trying to find out who killed your prostitute. You want to help?”
He went sullenly quiet.
“She wasn’t ours,” brother David said. “She was a private contractor. Let me explain. We run a referral business. We have several sites, each covering a different set of services. We simply put up a listing and take a small fee when the client is contacted and a larger fee whenever the client is booked. That’s true of our sites featuring landscapers, wedding planners, and carpet layers as well as escorts. We rarely meet any of our clients in person.”
“You know Savannah,” Lang said.
“She helped us set up the escort referral program. We are clear with our clients. We do not screen their contacts, we do not provide security. We are kind of like the Yellow Pages.”
“The way Craigslist used to be.”
“What law enforcement did to them was criminal. Sex workers are less safe now, not more safe. For one thing, we eliminate the need for sex workers to have pimps. But we are also a little different from Craigslist. A little more hands-on. We help our clients market their products in terms of the pictures and text. We do some screening of those who want on our various lists. If there are serious complaints, off they go. We didn’t know Marnie Bower. We’re deeply sorry she was killed. We understand the police know who did it and are pursuing him right now. Anything else we can help you with?”
Brother Mark still looked perturbed, but after shaking his head, he went back to his ergonomically designed chair and buried himself in hardware.
Lang was pretty sure this was a dead end. The two kids looked clean-cut, and he doubted they were involved in the dark world of sex trafficking and murder. The office looked like a place where the only intensity was related to hard drives and computer programs. Times were changing. Pimps were giving way to entrepreneurs who weren’t in the business of beating people to a pulp. But the sex trade was still dangerous. Maybe more so. The girls weren’t getting slapped around by pimps, but they weren’t getting protection from them either.
“Thanks,” Lang said.
“Good luck,” David said, closing the door close on the heels of Lang’s departure.
Outside was Clement Street, at the heart of a bustling second, newer Chinatown. The wide sidewalks were crowded. The parking spaces were hard to get. And the signs on the produce were in Chinese.
Lang called the Vanderveers. Dad answered gruffly.
“Lang here. Anything?”
“I’ll call you,” he said.
“Stay in there,” Lang told him. “It’s their move.”
“They’re not moving. Do they even have Michael?”
“I don’t have a good answer for you. Maybe you should talk to Chastain West while you’re waiting. It’s only a matter of time until we have to deal with the police and the courts.”
“If he’s alive.”
Lang still didn’t have an answer.
“I suspect he is, Mr. Vanderveer. Let’s think that he is.” Lang spoke more out of hope that belief.
Strike two, Lang thought. Progress was slow this morning. Too early for lunch, and he’d had enough of Chinese for a day or two. He remembered a great little place just down the street. It was called Eats, and they served a plate of fried chicken and waffles that he’d grown fond of. It was a restaurant with comfort food for foodies, a great place to feed a bad mood. He felt his belly but shrugged off the urge to be intelligent about this. He’d swim in the afternoon and eat light in the evening.
The corner restaurant was crowded, mostly young and cheerful. He sat at the bar that ran along the window. He had a view of the piece of Clement closest to Presidio Heights. The shops here were more European than Chinese. And the sidewalks were far less busy.
What Lang believed he had discovered was that the girl’s killer was not likely an angry pimp or a crime organization. And it wasn’t likely that the young Mark and David had kidnapped some kid who happened to have murdered young Marnie. None of this helped Michael’s case any.
What if Michael had engineered his own kidnapping, as the inspectors suggested? Not beyond the realm of possibility. He would know about his parent’s wealth, what kind of money they were capable of putting together. The thought had occurred to him before, but the picture he had of Michael was of a sensitive young man who was used to running away from his problems. And that picture didn’t include ordering a prostitute in the first place, let alone killing her. He was still having trouble with that one.
* * *
After lunch Lang wandered back up Clement Street. He went inside a large Chinese hardware. There were long rows of plates and bowls—of a seemingly unending variety of color and size—among other curiosities. Most of the china was made in China. Some came from Japan. Lang was in the market for a bowl for his frozen dumplings, to replace the ones that he had dropped over the past year or so, and was comparing two slightly different sizes when his phone jingled.
“Lang,” he said, noticing the call was from the phone he had given Vanderveer.
“Tomorrow.”
“They called?”
“What
do you think?” Vanderveer appeared no happier to have some movement than he was when it was quiet.
“I thought it might have been a note.”
“No, I received a call. Tomorrow afternoon at a baseball game. At the park downtown. The Giants, I guess.”
“What else was said?”
“Bring the bonds. Pick up a ticket from Will Call.”
“A ticket?”
“Yes, one. Apparently the kidnapper is a cheapskate.”
Lang almost asked “why?” but stopped himself. Vanderveer wouldn’t know the answer, and the question would only piss him off more.
“Any other instructions?”
“No. The time of the game. One p.m. I’m to simply sit down and then . . . well, then something will happen.”
Clever, Lang thought. There would likely be forty thousand people in a crowded ballpark with several entrances and exits. In fact, people could leave not only by walking or grabbing one of the many trolleys or taxis but also by catching the ferry. That’s why the kidnappers had waited. To get the right game. In this case, oddly, a day game. Why a day game? Wouldn’t it be easier to get away in the dark?
“Well?” Vanderveer said harshly, interrupting Lang’s private debate.
“I’ll be over tonight.”
He disconnected in the midst of a spew of words from Vanderveer. Lang had to get to the ballpark. If the tickets were already at Will Call, who had bought them? If they weren’t, then something could be set up to capture the identity of the person who got them.
This could be the one window of opportunity he needed.
* * *
Lang was down on the Embarcadero, at the ballpark. It was quiet. The fiftyish blond woman in an orange-and-black baseball cap at Will Call wanted to be cooperative, but all she could do was say there was a ticket in an envelope for Vanderveer. It apparently had been purchased with cash, and she had no idea who had bought it.
“People, all sorts of people, come through here.”
“They all pay in cash?” Lang asked, making note of the seat assignment.
Death in the Haight Page 7