Death in the Haight

by Ronald Tierney

  “Yes, some do. Usually they take the tickets if they’ve bothered to come down, but I suspect this was going to be a gift or something. That happens.”

  As he started to leave, an older man who had been standing next to the woman said that he remembered it. He didn’t make the transaction, but he remembered there was a young Hispanic kid, maybe eleven or twelve.

  “He came in with a note and the cash. There was a big deal made about the name. Did they spell it right? The kid didn’t know. I remember thinking this was a Latin kid and here he was buying a ticket for somebody he didn’t know. I remember it was a Dutch name.”

  The man, who was probably a grandfather, assumed it was a mom, with no place to park, waiting in an idling auto. Unfortunately there was no reason for him to check his theory.

  “And the note?” Lang asked.

  “I don’t know. I think he took it back with him.”

  This was going to be tough. They probably paid some kid to buy the ticket—someone with no ties to the kidnapper. No way to find the kid who bought the ticket, and therefore they couldn’t figure out who hired him.

  After a rocky, maybe quirky start, whoever was playing this game was playing it pretty well. The kidnappers had put Vanderveer where they wanted him in the stadium. They would have many potential avenues of escape. There was, it seemed to Lang, only one chance to catch or at least catch a glimpse of the person making the exchange or picking up the drop, and that would be when the bonds were turned over to someone or left somewhere. Instructions could easily come by phone. He was in over his head. He could enlist Brinkman and Thanh, but there were forty thousand fans who would all leave at the same time. Forty thousand. That would mean, he quickly calculated, close to fifteen thousand for each of them to keep track of.

  Outside the handsome brick stadium, he stopped and punched in the numbers for Stern.

  “I need to fill you in,” Lang said.

  “Cool,” Stern said, completely out of character.

  * * *

  One bar looked like another along Geary. Geary is a boulevard, or so the maps say. But it is simply a wide street that runs from Neiman Marcus downtown all the way out to the ocean. Once out of the downtown area, the street is lined with a seemingly limitless number of largely undistinguished businesses—computer repair, vacuum cleaner sales, mattress shops. You want tires, insurance, pet supplies? Whatever you need—except for the stuff of dreams.

  Out of the sunshine and into the dark, airless room. The three of them—Lang, Stern, and Rose—sat in a booth. The walls were knotty pine, interrupted by various neon beer signs and indications that this was a place for Giants and 49er fans. A pitcher of beer, a quarter full, sat in front of them.

  “It goes down tomorrow,” Lang said.

  “When?” Stern asked.

  “Afternoon.”

  “Where?”

  “AT&T Park.”

  “Game on?” Rose asked.

  Lang nodded.

  “Shit,” Stern said.

  Lang looked around. For those who thought San Francisco was occupied exclusively by wine-sipping, brie-eating elites, just about any bar on Geary would change their minds. They might as well be sitting in a bar in Milwaukee.

  “Kidnappers put a ticket at Will Call,” Lang continued. “Just Dad. I have the seat number.” He handed Stern a sheet of paper where he had copied down the seat number and the instructions. “Vanderveer is to bring a sealed envelope with a million dollars’ worth of bearer bonds inside. Sometime during the game, somehow that envelope goes to the kidnappers. We don’t know how or when. Dad will be watched, we’re told. No phone calls. No conversations with anyone. And Vanderveer is to stay until whatever happens, happens.”

  “When do Mom and Dad get the kid?”

  “We’re running on faith. We got nothing else.”

  “The kid’s dead,” Stern said. He loosened his tie, twisted his head from side to side.

  Rose shook his head in fatigue or frustration. “Smart guys. I thought maybe the kid—the kidnappee, as it were—kidnapped himself and held out for money from Dad. But it doesn’t make sense. He’s so fucking dumb, leaving evidence all over the murder scene, and suddenly he’s a tactical genius. I don’t think so.” No one spoke for a moment or two. “You know who’s playing tomorrow afternoon?” Rose asked, breaking the silence. “The Dodgers.”

  “The game will be a sellout. Big crowd,” Stern said. “You’re just now telling us, Lang. Just now. Shit.”

  “That’s what I mean,” Rose said. “These guys have everything covered. It’s all planned out. They waited until there was a guarantee of standing room only. You know how crowded it will be?”

  “Exactly, that’s why I’m bringing you in. I can’t watch all the exits,” Lang said. He divided the remaining beer between the two cops.

  “Gee, thanks, you’re fucking bringing us in.” Stern started puffing up again.

  “Let’s get past this,” Lang said. “The bad guys are pros, you’re saying. So I need pros on my side.”

  Stern shook his head. “You’re one lousy ass kisser.”

  “Not a whole lot of practice,” Lang said, smiling.

  “Do the parents know we’re involved again?” Rose asked.

  “Kind of. I don’t know that it matters now. They’ve been danced into submission. What do you guys know?”

  “The gay kid is invisible. He went from slobbering and spilling crap all over the place to invisible,” Rose said. “We’ve checked the motels in the city, especially along Lombard, here on Geary, and out at the ocean. But these kidnappers are smart. They’re probably not even in the city. And the kid is probably dead.”

  “While we’re talking, let me ask you something. How does a murderer get kidnapped?” Lang asked. He had his own theories, but he wanted to know what they were working on. He looked directly at Rose. Rose wasn’t the top dog. Stern was. But Rose had a better mind and was much more likely to be cooperative.

  “What could have happened is that somebody wanted to get rid of the girl. Maybe she witnessed something. Who knows? They set it up so her next john gets blamed for the murder. Maybe the kid didn’t do it. But maybe the kid talks to save his life. Folks have tons of money. Let him off, and he’ll help get it for them.”

  Stern didn’t argue. “That would explain some things,” he said.

  “Could be something like that. Some variation,” Rose said. “At least we know where Vanderveer is sitting. If he has the envelope with him, then, barring an appearance from the Great Houdini, I don’t see how the kidnappers pick it up and get away with it.”

  “So I can count on your help?” Lang asked.

  “Oh yeah,” Stern said. “Count on it.”

  Outside Stern tugged on Lang’s sweatshirt. Rose moved on.

  “I still don’t like you,” Stern said. “But maybe you got a little character.”

  “Now my life has meaning,” Lang said.

  Rose came back to see what was going on.

  “What happened with you two?”

  Stern didn’t speak. He just smiled.

  Rose looked at Lang, a questioning look on his face.

  “Just one of those things,” Lang said.

  “What things?” Rose asked, exasperated.

  “You know,” Lang said, walking away. Rose deserved what he got, Lang thought.

  * * *

  It might as well have been night. Vanderveer was at the bar at the Big 4 Restaurant at the Huntington Hotel. Dark wood, green leather on the stools and chairs, and leaded glass was around for the turn of two centuries.

  “Buy you a beer?” Lang asked before he saw that Vanderveer was nursing a glass of something stronger in front of him.

  “Have no use for it. If you’re going to drink, drink something real or don’t drink
at all.”

  “I thought you by-the-good-book Christians had strict rules against the consumption of alcohol,” Lang said, sitting on the stool next to the man from Grand Rapids.

  “We do,” he said, sipping his Scotch. “I’m in San Francisco, though, the land of murder, drugs, kidnapping, and illicit sex. My sin is definitely minor.”

  “No drugs, murder, and kidnapping in Grand Rapids?” Vanderveer didn’t answer. “You miss it?”

  “What?”

  “Michigan.”

  “I’d rather be there, if that’s what you mean.”

  “You have a big place, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I grew up there. It was my father’s home, my grandfather’s as well.”

  “Woods, lake.” Lang wanted to test the truth of his Google Earth tour. “I bet it was great growing up there.”

  “Wonderful place to grow up. Fishing. Hunting. Autumn. The air. The smell. Yes, you knew there was a God. How else could that world have come about?”

  Lang ordered a shot of tequila, which he sipped in the silence.

  “Will we get him back?” Mr. Vanderveer asked.

  “If I were forced to put money on it, I’d say no.”

  “Then why are we doing this? I’m just throwing away a million dollars—worse, giving it to some undeserving . . .”

  “You have to do it or you couldn’t live with yourself. Maybe we can get a line on the kidnappers, some glimpse, some piece of the trail to follow. We have nothing now. Maybe we find Michael or we find the person to punish.” Lang wasn’t sure the man was listening. Wouldn’t blame him if he weren’t. “I’m obliged to tell you the police will be at the stadium tomorrow afternoon.”

  The man nodded, looked away.

  “The Vanderveer furniture business died on my watch. The name means little anymore, and less and less as the years go by.” He took a sip. “It should have been something the boys carried on.” There was a long silence. “I’m not complaining. I have more than I need, perhaps more than I should. But of course that’s not the point.”

  “Better save some brain cells for tomorrow,” Lang said.

  “I’m not sure I have much use for them anymore,” Vanderveer said. He turned on his seat so he could face Lang completely. “You’re not a religious man, are you, Mr. Lang?”

  “No. Guess not.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “What?”

  “Get through the day without belief in God.”

  “Gotta get through the day whether there’s a god or not.”

  * * *

  Tomorrow would be an important day. Lang wanted the hours before bedtime to be hours of escape. Buddha was giving his roommate the ‘I don’t know you’ punishment for being gone so long. Even fresh food and water didn’t warm up the atmosphere. Lang didn’t blame him. Buddha’s world was limited to four walls and a high ceiling. Having a human wandering the space offered at least some entertainment.

  Lang was relieved that he didn’t have to cook, which also meant that there would be no need to clean up the kitchen. He could coast through the evening with a good movie, a slice or two of cheese, and some spirits, and drift off to sleep and face a do-or-die day when he woke up.

  The problem was that his cluttered mind didn’t permit him a smooth descent into sleep. He couldn’t figure out how the kidnappers were going to do it. It was brilliant to pick up the bonds at a sold-out baseball game. And it was clear that it was next to impossible to guard all the exits when thousands of people were leaving by all kinds of transportation at the same time. Smart. Really smart. But he knew where Vanderveer was seated. Were they amateurs or not?

  Tomorrow was already beating him down. If they didn’t pick up a strong scent when the money changed hands, that might be it. He didn’t believe that the runaway Vanderveer kid would show up no matter what happened. So failure tomorrow likely meant it would be over and the Vanderveers would be within their rights to wonder what they’d got for their money, let alone their trust. He slept uneasily, waking again and again, thinking that it was later than it was. He gave up the struggle entirely at six a.m.

  It was too early to get everyone synchronized for what would happen shortly after noon. Daylight was weak but coming. After showering, he walked down to Central Perc for coffee and an apple turnover, then onto the park. The fresh, slightly chilly air, the stretches of green lawn, and the open space calmed whatever it was in him that needed calming.

  * * *

  Lang’s seat was on the first base line. He was at the park early. Despite his focus on the money exchange and getting a clue to the whereabouts or at least the condition of the Vanderveers’ gay, younger son, his mind was stolen for a few moments by the beauty of the San Francisco Giants’ baseball stadium. In a city often characterized as being the least “American,” here was the ultimate symbol of America: a big, blue-skied summer day with a walled-in green lawn surrounded by tiers of seats, and soon the crack of a bat and the roar of the crowd.

  As Lang aged, he had become less and less enamored with what could be seen as mainstream patriotism or the narrow interpretation of family values. Even so, there was a tug at his American heart seeing the flag fly over ground made sacred by the constancy of this summer ritual. It was as American and as religious as he was going to get. Competition and teamwork and occasional heroes. Something to strive for, he thought. Today it was not so difficult to understand what else was taking place—the American tradition of greed and crime.

  His seat was above and to the left of where Mr. Vanderveer would sit. He had managed to get a seat at the end of the same aisle for Brinkman. Stern, Rose, and other officers they brought in were stationed around the park. Authorities were posted at each of the main exits. Lang wasn’t sure, but he suspected the FBI had been brought in and briefed.

  Dressed like a tourist, Lang wore a flowered shirt, jeans, sneakers, and a baseball cap. Around his neck was a small but powerful pair of binoculars. He used them to scan the seats—roughly forty thousand of them—beginning to fill.

  Lang was nervous. Not frightened. Very little scared him these days. The little shot of adrenaline and the butterflies in his stomach were more like those moments before having to speak in public or ask some beautiful woman to go to dinner.

  Where was Vanderveer? Of course it was still early. Not even half the seats were filled. He told himself to stay calm and focus only on what was about to unfold. He didn’t know what that was exactly. But at minimum the envelope in Vanderveer’s pocket had to be put somewhere or picked up by someone. And they had to follow it.

  But Vanderveer’s failure to get there early as they had discussed bothered him. He used his cell to call Brinkman, who was to trail him from the time he arrived to pick up his tickets until he went inside. Rose was to pick him up inside.

  “I’m here,” he said. “He went to Will Call, came out, and went into the park. I saw Rose on Vanderveer’s heels.”

  “He’s not here yet.”

  Patrons were streaming in.

  “What do you want me to do?” Brinkman asked.

  “Come on up.”

  Lang stared right at Vanderveer’s seat. It was empty. He looked around, couldn’t see him.

  An elderly black man edged into the seat Vanderveer was supposed to occupy. Lang went over.

  “I think you have the wrong seat, sir,” Lang said, trying very hard to take the edge out of his voice.

  “No, sir,” the man said, “I don’t think I do.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out the ticket stub, looked at it, then, standing, looked at his seat. “It’s mine, all right.”

  “May I see?”

  The man wouldn’t let him have it but held it so Lang could verify the seat number. The man was right.

  The stands were nearly filled, and more were piling in.

 
Something was wrong, very wrong. He used his binoculars to scan the crowd. It was a daunting task. Rows and bleachers and people hidden behind people and many, many others hidden in the shade beneath the upper decks. The sky was pure blue still. The sun was strong. There was a rumbling of excitement. The huge video in the outfield distracted him. Stereo speakers, mounted overhead every few feet, blared, attempting to ratchet up the excitement. The loud, crowd-rousing music only added to Lang’s anxiety. He had missed something, and it was difficult to think about what it was.

  Rose called. “He’s here. He’s in his seat.”

  “He can’t be. I’m staring right at it. Shit.” Lang cursed himself. How could he have been so stupid? “The kidnappers changed tickets,” Lang said. “Where are you?”

  With the binoculars he found Vanderveer, sitting in seats across the park, along the third base line.

  “Did he talk to anyone?” Lang asked Rose.

  “When?”

  “Anytime. While he was walking to his seat, while he was seated.”

  “I didn’t see anything,” Rose said, defensively. “He got his seat, then came up for a beer and went back to his seat.”

  “Anything exchanged besides money and beer?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  What if it was all over? What if the exchange had already been made? Why had Vanderveer’s seat changed? Did they know he’d checked on the ticket, or were they just extra tricky? Could there be some insider knowledge? Calm down, he told himself. The baseball game was about to begin. “Oh, say can you see” had been sung. There was excitement in the air. There were kidnappers, very clever kidnappers, here—among forty thousand strangers.

  “Okay, stay there. Stay on him.”

  “I know what I’m doing, Lang,” Rose said. It was a warning. The cops were being nice, but taking orders was something else.

  “Thanks,” Lang said. No need to engage in a blame game at this point. He didn’t dare contact Vanderveer. He’d simply have to watch and wait.

  Lang kept the glasses on Vanderveer. The man looked out at the park, disinterested. The game had begun. He wasn’t watching it. He barely moved his head, frozen. He hadn’t yet taken a sip of beer. Beer. Another thought hit Lang. Vanderveer didn’t drink beer. At the bar, he told Lang he’d rather have nothing than a beer.