“We’re talking about it now.”
“We’re only talking about it because I found out. Did you know that there was a snake painted near Carla’s apartment?”
“Another snake. No kidding.”
“Yeah. No kidding.”
Gorham chewed his gum. “You’re getting as paranoid as Coyle. I don’t know anything about snakes. As far as I’m concerned, they still don’t mean a thing. I knew Denny and Carla. I was trying to be helpful, but I turned up squat, so there was nothing to tell you. That’s all.”
They stared at each other in silence, not blinking. The rest of the room was loud with voices. Gorham began to hang up his phone, but Frost interrupted him.
“Wait. I’ve got another name for you.”
Gorham looked impatient now. “Who?”
“Fawn,” Frost said. “Denny called her last Sunday. I think she may be an escort. Do you know her from vice?”
The other detective was slow to reply again. His face was a mask of hostility. “Yeah, I know Fawn. And yeah, she’s an escort. Very high-end.”
“I assume Fawn is an alias. What’s her real name? Where can I find her?”
“Her real name is Zara Anand. I think she shares a place with her sister in Presidio Heights.”
“What’s her connection to Denny Clark? Why would he call her?”
“I have no idea.”
Frost clenched the phone hard. “Give me one reason I shouldn’t march your ass to an interview room and interrogate you about everything you know.”
Gorham deliberately angled his head toward Captain Hayden’s office. Frost followed the signal and stole a casual glance in the same direction. Cyril Timko stood in the doorway, watching Frost from behind his gray eyes.
“Because neither one of us knows who to trust around here,” Gorham replied.
Just like that, the other detective hung up the phone and cut him off. Gorham got up, shrugged on a coat, and disappeared toward the elevators without glancing in Frost’s direction. Frost kept the phone at his ear, even though the connection was dead. He mouthed words but didn’t say anything out loud. For some reason, he didn’t want Cyril to realize that he’d been talking to Trent Gorham.
He remembered what he’d heard from Belinda Drake. And from Herb.
Trust no one.
Don’t talk to the cops.
When Cyril went back inside Hayden’s office and closed the door, Frost finally put the phone down. He went back to Denny’s call list and kept dialing numbers like a robot, because that’s what he’d been doing all afternoon. His mind was elsewhere. He didn’t think about the numbers as he punched them into his phone and left messages one after another.
He didn’t even recognize that the next number on Denny’s call list was a number he’d dialed many times himself.
Instead, he simply sat there in shocked silence when he heard the voice on the other end.
“Hey, Frost, what’s up?” Tabby said.
15
Tabby answered the door and waved Frost inside Duane’s condominium, which smelled like a farmers’ market spice shop. The window ledges were thick with herbs and green plants. A song by Christina Perri played softly in the background. “Jar of Hearts.” That was Tabby’s music, not Duane’s.
The apartment was located in the Marina District a block from the bay. It wasn’t big, but its prime location made it expensive even by the insane standards of San Francisco real estate. For the small number of hours Duane actually spent here, it made no sense to have such a high-priced indulgence, but a place in the Marina had been Duane’s benchmark for success since he’d been a boy. Frost could trace most of Duane’s life simply by glancing around the condo. He saw the street sign for Duane’s first restaurant hung on the wall, lit up in neon. He saw a Pacific watercolor that Duane had purchased on a brothers vacation to Mendocino with Frost five years earlier. He saw family photographs in frames. Their parents. Duane and Frost together. Their sister, Katie, with her sunny blond hair.
“Do you want to take a walk?” Tabby asked him. “I’d love to get out of here for a while. I need some air.”
“Sure. If you like.”
“I had fun with you last night,” she added. “I’m sorry, I know that sounds weird. I mean, you must be upset about Carla and Denny.”
“I am, but I was glad for the company.”
Her face brightened. “Good.”
She grabbed a coat from a hook near the door. They took the stairs to the ground floor of the four-story building, and she zipped up her jacket and tucked her hands in the pockets when they emerged onto the windy sidewalk of Scott Street. Her red hair blew across her face. They didn’t talk to each other as they crossed Marina Boulevard and walked beside the boats in the yacht harbor. From where they were, Frost could see the flybridge of the Roughing It. Clouds had swarmed the sky in the late afternoon, and fog was already slouching over the towers of the Golden Gate Bridge.
They walked in silence all the way to the bay and sat beside each other on a low stone wall that overlooked the bridge. Waves slapped against the wet sand at their feet. It was cold, but he didn’t notice it. Sitting there, he saw Tabby turn her shoulders away from him and brush a tear from her cheek. She was upset, and he couldn’t pretend that he didn’t care about what was wrong.
“You want to talk about what’s bothering you?” he asked.
She hid her sadness behind a weak smile. “It’s nothing.”
“Is there a problem with your niece?”
“No, it’s something else.”
“Well, I could tell you weren’t yourself with Duane last night,” Frost said.
“I know. I’ve been moody lately. That’s very unlike me. It’s a phase, and this too shall pass. But thanks for being concerned.”
“Of course.”
“Was Duane pissed when I left so abruptly?” she asked. “I was asleep when he got home. We haven’t talked.”
“No, he wasn’t upset,” Frost replied, trying to choose his words carefully, but Tabby saw through him. She shook her head with a little bit of disgust.
“In other words, he didn’t even notice that anything was wrong,” she said.
“Look, Duane is a workaholic,” Frost reminded her. It wasn’t the first time he’d made excuses for his brother. “He’s always been that way, and he’s not going to change. If you wait for him to slow down, you’ll be waiting forever. I learned years ago that you have to grab Duane and make him listen if you really want him to hear you.”
“You’re right. I’m not blaming him. I’m busy, Duane’s busy, we’re just out of sync right now. It’s mostly me, anyway. I’m used to feeling in control, but these days it seems like every time I know where I stand, the ground gets pulled out from under me.” Then she rolled her eyes in annoyance with herself. “What the hell, will you listen to me? I can’t believe what a whiner I am today.”
“Cut yourself some slack,” Frost said. “You’ve had a crazy year. You know, almost dying and all.”
“I know, you shot me,” she teased him with a little giggle. “We’re like our very own Dr. Phil episode.”
He laughed, and so did she. Then she wiped her cheeks with both hands and smoothed her hair.
“Anyway, I’m done complaining,” she went on, shivering a little as the wind blew off the bay and tossed her hair. “You called me, and I haven’t even given you a chance to say a thing. What’s going on?”
“I need to talk to you about Denny Clark,” Frost said.
“Your ex-friend? The one who was killed?”
“Yes.”
Tabby looked puzzled. “What about him?”
“How did you know Denny?” Frost asked.
“Me? I didn’t.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. I’d never heard of him until Duane told me about you and Carla. Why? What’s this about?”
“Well, when I called you earlier, I was actually in the process of going through Denny’s cell phone records.
The thing is, you’re in them. A few weeks ago, Denny called you.”
Tabby shook her head. “No way. That’s crazy. Are you sure? Honestly, Frost, his name isn’t familiar to me at all. I certainly don’t remember talking to him. Could he have dialed the wrong number?”
“No, it was a long call. Almost fifteen minutes.” He took out a copy of Denny’s phone records from his pocket and showed her where he’d highlighted the call to her cell phone. She took note of the date and time and then looked off toward the bridge as she tried to remember.
“Okay. I think I know what this was about. I had no idea who the guy was. He probably told me his name at the beginning, but I didn’t bother writing it down because nothing came of it.”
“Came of what?” Frost asked.
“He wanted me to cater a private party. Now that I think about it, the gig was on a boat, but I never got all the details.”
“When was the party?”
“I’m pretty sure it was scheduled for last Tuesday. I remember because it was the day after I was handling an anniversary party, so I would have been scrambling to juggle the two jobs.” Her eyes widened. “Tuesday. Is that the charter you were worried about? The one where Denny and Carla walked away with all the cash?”
“That’s it. What did he tell you about it?”
“Not much. He said it was a small party, just a handful of people. I don’t think he gave me an exact number. The whole thing had to be absolutely first class. I mean, five-star food, top-shelf booze, unlimited budget, the works. He dangled a big number in front of me to make it happen.”
“Sounds like a pretty good job for you,” Frost said.
“It was. I was flattered that he approached me. In normal circumstances, I would have loved to take it.”
“So why did you say no? Because of the conflict with the other job?”
Tabby shook her head. “No, believe me, I would have worked around it and made sure both got done. That wasn’t the problem. I mean, looking back, I guess I should have sucked it up and said yes, but there was just something off about the whole thing.”
“What do you mean?” Frost asked.
“Well, he told me that the first thing I would have to do is sign a nondisclosure agreement before he gave me any information. So would anyone I brought in to work the event. I couldn’t talk about the job, who hired me, how much I got, who was there, what I saw, what I heard—and if I did, I’d be subject to a penalty equal to twenty times the amount of my fee. That made me nervous right away. If I brought in a bartender who happened to tell a friend, ‘Hey, you’ll never guess who I mixed a margarita for last night,’ I’d be on the hook for a lawsuit that could bankrupt me. I didn’t like that. And I don’t know, it just felt weird. I’ve dealt with clients who are over the top about privacy, but this was more than that. Somehow it made me think there was going to be stuff going on that would make me uncomfortable, or that would put me and my team at risk.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“It could be anything. Sex, drugs, who knows. I’ve been to catering conventions, and you wouldn’t believe the stories I hear. I don’t want to have anything to do with that scene.”
“So what did you do?” Frost asked.
“I said thanks but no thanks.”
“How did Denny take it?”
“He was disappointed. He said I had a great reputation. I liked hearing that. Although now that I think about it, I can’t help but wonder if he called me because of you, Frost.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he knew about me and my injury. He said he’d read the stories in the newspaper about me getting abducted and shot. That’s how he knew about my business. You were in all of those stories, too, Frost. Denny would have seen your name.”
Frost thought about it, and he suspected that she was right. Denny hadn’t chosen Tabby by accident. He’d chosen her in part because of her connection to his old friend. It made him wonder again if Denny had been looking for a way to erase some of the sins of the past.
“Do you remember anything else?” he asked.
“He wanted a recommendation from me,” Tabby replied. “He said if I wasn’t available, who would I suggest? He was looking to bring in the best chef in the city for this job.”
“Did you give him a name?”
“I did. He wanted Asian, and for me, there was only one name. Mr. Jin.”
“Should I know who that is?” Frost asked.
Tabby smiled. “Not unless you’re in the culinary world. Mr. Jin owns a hole-in-the-wall restaurant in Chinatown, but as far as everyone in the business is concerned, he’s the best in the city. He mostly does private parties, and he doesn’t even offer a fixed menu. Clients just trust him to pick things they’ll like. He’s that good.”
“How do I find him?” Frost asked.
“I can give you his address,” Tabby replied, “but I don’t think he’s there. You remember I told you I had a chef who canceled on a big gig for me? That was Mr. Jin. He called me last Wednesday and left a message. He said he was leaving town for a while. I haven’t been able to reach him since then. I called his restaurant, and they gave me the same story. Nobody knows where he is.”
16
The aromas of the street-level Chinese restaurant permeated the hallway in Mr. Jin’s building. Frost had a takeaway container of spicy Singapore noodles in one hand, and he ate them with wooden chopsticks as he made his way down the corridor. The carpet under his feet was worn and stained. Noise pummeled him through the thin apartment doors. He heard a birdlike serenade from a bamboo flute in one room and the sick beat of a Taylor Swift song across the hall. Through an open door, he saw four Chinese teenage boys playing liar’s dice as they lay sprawled on the floor.
Everyone in the hallway stared at him. They knew he was a stranger and probably guessed that he was a cop. A cluster of young girls giggled and whispered as he passed them. An old woman in a wheelchair gave him a toothless scowl. Two men in suits, talking at a rapid clip, clammed up and let him squeeze by in silence. He could feel their eyes on his back all the way to the end of the corridor.
Mr. Jin lived in the last apartment on the left. Frost stood outside the door and finished his noodles, and then he leaned in close and listened. There was no movement inside. He knocked sharply and called out Mr. Jin’s name, but no one answered.
Frost twisted the doorknob. The door was unlocked. He glanced down the hallway at the neighbors, gave them a flash of his badge, and then crept into Mr. Jin’s apartment and closed the door behind him. The air was cold and fresh, tinged by remnants of incense. He found a light switch that turned on a floor lamp. The window was open, with a white curtain dancing like a ghost as the wind blew. He went to the window and looked outside at the green balcony. The apartment was at the corner of the building, with busy traffic in the street five stories below him.
He studied the rest of the living area. If Mr. Jin had money, his lifestyle didn’t show it. The small room was clean, but the mismatched furniture was old and sparse. Even the kitchen appliances were dated, and the countertops were made of an ugly cream laminate. Obviously, Mr. Jin did his cooking elsewhere. It was a bare-bones place to live, mostly without luxury or ornament. The only personal touch in the apartment was half a dozen oversized posters of Niagara Falls hung in cheap brass frames on the white walls.
There was a round end table beside an old recliner. Frost spotted a white porcelain teacup with dried grounds in the bottom and a sandalwood candle beside it. The saucer underneath the cup was painted with hummingbirds. Next to the half-burnt candle, he saw several imported magazines, some in Chinese, some in English. When he picked up the magazines, he found a notepad of ruled green paper beneath them. The most recent page had been torn off, leaving scraps caught in the spiral wire.
Frost held the blank page of the notepad up to the light and could see faint indentations of Mr. Jin’s scribbling. Most of the characters were in Chinese, but at the bottom of the pag
e, he could make out a single name that had been written in large letters:
FAWN
That was the alias of the high-priced escort on Denny’s call list. Frost frowned. Nothing in the rest of Mr. Jin’s life suggested that he was the kind of man who patronized high-end hookers.
He ripped off the page from the notepad and slipped it into his pocket.
Then he continued searching the apartment. In the kitchen, there was a cordless phone next to an answering machine that probably dated to the 1990s. A red light flashed, indicating that Mr. Jin had messages. Frost pushed the button, and the first voice he heard belonged to Tabby. Her message had been left on Wednesday morning.
“Mr. Jin, this is Tabby Blaine. I’m so disappointed about the event on the twenty-eighth. I know you’re out of town right now, but I’d love to see if we can work this out. We still have time, and I’m happy to make arrangements for supplies while you’re away. Can you call me when you get this?”
There were other messages in a similar vein. Mr. Jin was in demand, but the messages rolled on, date stamped on each of the days since the Tuesday-night party, and there was no indication that he’d received or responded to any of them. He’d obviously canceled multiple jobs on his way out of town.
When Frost listened to the next message, he heard another familiar voice, and he pressed pause on the playback.
He’d literally heard only one word from that voice in ten years, but he recognized it immediately. It was Denny. He played the whole message, and then he played it over again.
“Mr. Jin, we have a problem. I need to talk to you right away. I’m coming over, but if you’re there and you get this, get out of your apartment immediately. Go to your restaurant and wait for me there.”
The date stamp was on Friday night. Denny must have left the message not even two hours before he arrived on Frost’s doorstep. He’d obviously used a different phone, because there was no record of the call on his mobile number.
We have a problem.
The Crooked Street Page 10