The Crooked Street

by Brian Freeman

  He also checked the mobile records on the phone that had been recovered from Fox’s body, but they led him nowhere. The numbers that the killer had used to communicate with Lombard—which obviously changed every week—all ended at disconnected burner phones.

  The operatives were gone, too. Romeo Laredo had vanished and left behind a vacant apartment. So had Luis Moreno.

  By the time the clock ticked to midnight, Frost was still at his desk in police headquarters, and he was at a dead end. None of the threads in the case brought him any closer to finding Lombard.

  The man was still a mystery, a ghost. He was Moriarty.

  Frost rubbed his eyes, which were tired from staring at the brightness of the computer screen. He leaned back in his chair and studied the desk where Trent Gorham had sat. It had already been cleared off, leaving the surface stark and empty. Gorham had spent years conducting a shadow investigation of Lombard, and the only result was to get him killed.

  “Easton?” a voice called to him. “You’re still here?”

  Captain Hayden filled the doorway of his office. The rest of the detective floor was quiet. The graveyard shift was mostly out on the streets. Hayden waved him inside, and Frost joined him and shut the door. Cyril was there, too, standing behind the captain the way he always did.

  “Why don’t you go home,” Hayden told him. “You’re not going to accomplish anything more today. And frankly, you still need to recover. You’re not one hundred percent by a long shot.”

  “I’m fine,” Frost replied.

  “That wasn’t a suggestion,” Hayden told him.

  Frost nodded. “All right.”

  “Hey, Easton,” Cyril called to him from the window. His hard-edged voice sounded apologetic. “You know, I really thought Gorham was going to shoot that kid. That’s why I fired. I sure as hell never thought Gorham saw the kid break the neck of that chef.”

  “Fox fooled me, too,” Frost said. “And he wasn’t a kid.”

  “Well, I’m not happy about how it went down,” Cyril went on. “I wanted you to know that.”

  “Okay.”

  Hayden nodded at Cyril and then gestured toward the door. “Give me a minute alone with Frost. Warm up the car. I’ll be leaving soon, too.”

  “Yes, sir,” Cyril replied.

  The other cop left, and the two of them were alone in the captain’s expansive office.

  “I told Cyril you had suspicions about him,” Hayden said. “I hope that Fox’s confession took care of that. We’re both sorry about Gorham, but Cyril had to make a split-second call. You or I would have done the same thing. What happened on the roof was bad luck.”

  “You’re right,” Frost agreed, but he also remembered what Fox had told him in the Chinatown alley. It’s not luck, man. Around here, people have my back.

  “It’s important that the three of us trust each other going forward,” Hayden went on, as if he could hear the doubts in Frost’s voice.

  “I understand,” Frost said.

  “Lombard is still out there.”

  “That’s true. Although I’m not sure where we go from here.”

  “You haven’t found anything else?”

  “No.”

  “So what’s your next step?”

  “I don’t have one,” Frost said.

  “What are you saying, Easton? Are you done with Lombard? Are you walking away?”

  “That depends, sir,” Frost said. “Do you want me to walk away?”

  Hayden took a while to say anything more. His breath smelled of coffee and chocolate, and his teeth were wine stained. He grabbed a half-smoked cigar from an ashtray and rolled it between his fingers. “I was at a political dinner tonight. I hate those things, but they’re a necessary evil. The mayor was there. He asked about the incident at the Embarcadero.”

  “What did you tell him?” Frost asked.

  “I said it was about drugs,” the captain replied. “He seemed relieved to hear that.”

  “I’m sure he was.”

  “He also asked about Denny Clark. I told him the investigation was closed. He was pleased about that, too.”

  “No doubt,” Frost said.

  “What I’m saying is, nobody’s pushing for the truth. I won’t blame you if you want to let it go.”

  “I appreciate that,” Frost replied, but he left the original question unanswered. He wasn’t making any promises.

  Hayden waited. The silence between them drew out. “You know, Easton, you’ve still never told me who was really on that boat.”

  “That’s because I can’t prove it. I have no witnesses.”

  “But you know, right?”

  “Does it matter now, sir? I mean, since the case is closed.”

  “I guess not,” Hayden said.

  “Will there be anything else, sir?” Frost asked.

  “No. You can go home. We can talk more tomorrow.”

  Frost left the office. He gathered up his things at his desk and took the elevator down to the street. Outside, in the darkness, the unusual early-season heat stubbornly refused to yield to the typical cool evening air. Between the downtown buildings, it was still warm enough to make him sweat. His Suburban was parked at the water on the east end of China Basin, and he walked that way alone past the glass windows of upscale condominiums. His pace was slow as he passed in and out of the glow of streetlights. The neighborhood was deserted. He could smell the bay as he got closer, and when he reached the water, the city skyline and the baseball stadium came into view on his left.

  He stopped.

  Directly in front of him on the other side of the street was a black Bugatti. Its ferocious engine idled. Its distinctive C-curve swooped along the roofline and bent below the driver’s door, making the machine look like the Batmobile.

  Romeo Laredo leaned against the hood. “Well, hey, Inspector, how are you? We keep running into each other, don’t we? San Francisco’s a small town.”

  “Looks that way,” Frost replied. He stayed where he was and slid back the flap of his jacket like a gunslinger to reveal the holster for his weapon.

  “Oh, you won’t be needing that,” Romeo told him. “In fact, I’d really appreciate it if you could come over here and hand it to me.”

  “Why should I do that?” Frost asked.

  “Well, first of all, if you look around, you’ll see that I’m not alone, so if you’re thinking about being a hero, that’s a really bad call. Second, there’s somebody in the car who’d like to talk to you, and I sort of think you’d like to talk to him, too.”

  Frost took a quick glance in every direction and confirmed Romeo’s story. Other men with guns had appeared on all sides and were closing in from the shadows. He slid his pistol slowly into his hand with two fingers and then crossed the street and deposited it in Romeo’s palm. The athletic operative grinned.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll get it back,” Romeo told him.

  Frost went around to the passenger side of the Bugatti. He noted that there was no license plate. The door opened on its own for him with a soft click, and he got inside. As he sank into the rich leather seat, which practically melted around him, the door closed automatically. There was almost no light inside the vehicle behind the smoked glass. The man at the wheel was very close to him, but Frost could make out few details of who he was. He wore an elegant dress fedora tilted to cover much of his face, and his eyes were hidden by owlish sunglasses. The collar of his dark raincoat was up, and his mouth and cheeks were in shadow. He was ageless and had no identity. All Frost could make out was a sheen of black hair and the outline of an unremarkable nose that he tried to capture in his memory.

  “Hello, Inspector Easton,” Lombard said.

  He had a much softer voice than Frost was anticipating. His tone was firm but calm, like a teacher discussing the ins and outs of Plato with a student. It wasn’t the kind of voice that would intimidate strangers, but this man’s entire world had been built around intimidation and cruelty. Frost thought about the
cigarette burns on Belinda Drake’s chest and about the trail of dead bodies, and it reminded him whom he was dealing with.

  “Why are we meeting?” Frost asked. “Are you planning to kill me?”

  In the darkness, he saw the smallest smile creep onto Lombard’s lips. “Now, why would I do that when I’ve already won, Inspector? You’re no threat to me now.”

  “Then why? Or do you just want to gloat?”

  “Actually, my first thought was to see if I could recruit you to join my organization,” Lombard told him.

  “I thought you already had spies inside Mission Bay,” Frost said.

  “One can never have enough information. Besides, there are many roles for someone with your talent and intelligence. I’m sure you see me as one of the bad guys, but I would argue the point with you. We’re both trying to make San Francisco a better place.”

  “With murder?” Frost asked.

  “With whatever’s necessary. I hope you don’t think the status quo is working here. Rampant homelessness. Unaffordable housing. Crime and street problems that your colleagues and the politicians seem unable to do anything about. This is not the city we both love, Inspector. My goal is change. I’m offering you a chance to be part of it.”

  “Pass,” Frost said.

  “Of course. I assumed that would be your answer, and I respect that. Well, then my second goal is to arrange a truce. A cessation of hostilities between you and me. We may not be friends, but there’s no need for us to be enemies.”

  “I thought I was no threat to you,” Frost said.

  “Now? You’re not. But you’re the kind of person who doesn’t give up, and who knows where that might lead? I’d rather you realize that it’s in your best interest not to pursue me.”

  “Like you agreed not to pursue Zara and Prisha Anand?” Frost asked.

  “Something like that,” Lombard replied. “They’re lovely women. Extremely bright and courageous. I respect that.”

  “And what exactly did they hire you to do?”

  Lombard tapped a gloved finger on the dashboard clock, which showed that it was one in the morning. “It’s in process at this very moment. The news will reach you soon enough. Who knows? You might even thank me when you find out.”

  “I doubt that,” Frost said.

  “Well, we shall see. So what do you say, Inspector? What do you think about my proposal? Can we agree to retreat to our separate corners?”

  Frost shrugged. “It doesn’t matter what I say, does it? Actions speak louder than words.”

  “How true.”

  “I assume you’ll be watching,” Frost said.

  “I will indeed. I must admit, I really do like you, Frost. I wish I could persuade you to come over to my side. But for now, I’ll say good night.”

  With another soft click and a warm, sticky burst of air, the door of the Bugatti swung open again next to Frost. He climbed out, but he blocked the door from shutting with his body, and he leaned back inside. The man behind the wheel was still little more than a ghost.

  “The next time we meet, it probably won’t go well for one of us,” Frost told him.

  “No, I suppose not,” Lombard replied. “Either way, I look forward to it.”

  46

  “A truce?” Herb asked.

  Frost nodded. “That’s what he said.”

  “Interesting. Do you believe him?”

  “Not for a moment,” Frost replied.

  Herb drank coffee from his silver thermos. It was midmorning the following day, and the two of them leaned against the base of the Willie Mays statue outside AT&T Park. Herb had just completed his latest three-dimensional sidewalk painting near the stadium gate, in honor of the Giants returning home for the season opener. The portrayal of hometown baseball legends, some in black and white, some in color, was already attracting a crowd.

  “So it’s true,” Herb said. “Lombard exists. In the flesh.”

  “He does.”

  “What were your impressions of him?”

  “I still don’t know anything about him at all,” Frost replied. “Honestly, he could be standing right there in the crowd and I wouldn’t even recognize him. But you know how you can hear intelligence in someone’s voice? That’s Lombard. He’s brilliant.”

  “A brilliant sociopath,” Herb said. Then he noted the braces keeping Frost’s right index finger in place. “What’s the report on your finger?”

  “The surgeon thinks I’ll get full use of it back. The break was pretty clean. Vicodin and I were pretty good friends on day one, but it’s better now.”

  “And the rest of you?”

  “Bruised but intact.”

  “Well, that’s excellent news.” Herb drank more coffee and wiped sweat from his brow on the warm morning. He smelled of paint and pot, as usual. “As it happens, I wouldn’t entirely discount the idea of Lombard wanting a truce. He may be sincere.”

  “Oh? Why do you say that?”

  “Do you remember the threat that was hanging over my head? Silvia’s disappearance all those years ago and the lawyer who seemed to think I was involved? Strangely, that all went away yesterday.”

  Frost’s eyes narrowed. “How so?”

  “The lawyer sent a follow-up letter. He said Silvia’s brother is no longer interested in pursuing the circumstances of her disappearance. His condition has worsened, and he has to focus on his health. So there will be no investigation, no interrogation, no more innuendos about my guilt. At least for the time being.”

  “That sounds like a good thing.”

  “It is, although I have to say, they piqued my curiosity by bringing it up again. After all these years, it would be nice to know what really happened to Silvia. Anyway, the fact that the lawyer backed off strikes me as a peace offering. This wasn’t directed at me, but at you.”

  “Lombard is using a carrot instead of a stick,” Frost said. “He gives me what I want as an incentive to let it go.”

  “I think that’s about the size of it.”

  Frost glanced at the crowd around them. From now on, he had to assume he was always being watched. “I woke up to another goodwill gesture,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  “The real Fox—Mr. Jin’s teenage son—was dropped off at Human Services overnight. He’s unharmed. The social workers are trying to track down his mother in China.”

  “I’m delighted to hear it.”

  “So am I.”

  Herb lowered his voice. “I’m curious. If the offer of a truce is real, why do you think Lombard is so anxious to keep you on the sidelines?”

  “I assume he’s planning something,” Frost said.

  “But you don’t know what?” Herb asked.

  “No, but given who he is, it must be something important. He wants me far away from it.”

  “Or perhaps he’s simply baiting a trap for you,” Herb suggested.

  “Yes, that’s possible, too.”

  “So what do you intend to do?”

  Frost had thought about little else since the meeting in the Bugatti. He felt as if a spider’s web were being spun around him, entangling him limb by limb. The more he fought it, the tighter the bonds grew. “For now, all I can do is what Trent Gorham did.”

  “Which is?”

  “Go underground,” Frost replied.

  “Can you really do that? That doesn’t sound like you.”

  Herb was right. Frost didn’t like fighting in the shadows, but that was where his enemies lived. If he shined a light on them, all they would do is scatter and hide. He had to stay in the darkness.

  “For now, I don’t think I have a choice,” Frost said. “As far as the world is concerned, Lombard can stay a myth. In the meantime, I can pursue him behind the scenes. It may take time, but sooner or later, I’ll get him.”

  “Well, my advice remains the same. Be careful.”

  “Always.”

  “Even if you try to hide what you’re doing, Lombard seems to have eyes everywhere.”
/>   “Yes, he does.”

  Herb gave him one of his penetrating stares. “Meanwhile, what about your personal life? How are things in that regard?”

  “No change.”

  “Have you talked to Duane?” Herb asked.

  “No.”

  “And Tabby?”

  “No, not her, either.”

  His friend sighed long and hard. “I did warn you about all this, Frost.”

  “I know you did.”

  “It seems to me you’ve ended up with the worst of all possible worlds, haven’t you? You’re estranged from your brother, and you don’t have the woman you love in your life.”

  “Yes, I’m setting new records even for myself,” Frost agreed. He was reminded of his mistakes every time he went inside the house on Russian Hill. There were no messages on his phone. No care packages in his refrigerator. No perfume in the air. Even Shack looked lonely without Duane and Tabby.

  “My mother called me from Arizona,” he added. “She heard what happened.”

  “How was that conversation?”

  “Loud,” Frost said.

  Herb chuckled.

  Frost laughed, too, because there was nothing else to do.

  Then he dug into his pocket when he heard the text tone on his phone. His forehead wrinkled with concern. It was another number he didn’t recognize, but he suspected that it had come from the man in the Bugatti.

  You’re welcome.

  Below the text was a link to the San Francisco Chronicle website.

  “What’s that about?” Herb asked, noting the frown on Frost’s face.

  “I don’t know, but let’s find out.”

  Frost clicked the link and found himself on the newspaper’s home page. He spotted the breaking news article immediately, and he read the opening paragraphs of the story aloud.

  Zelyx CEO Found Dead in Illinois

  By Khristeen Smith

  Martin Filko, the thirty-one-year-old wunderkind entrepreneur who built Zelyx Corporation into one of the most successful new tech companies of the past decade, was found dead in his car late last night in the garage of his Highland Park home. Police in the north Chicago suburb announced the cause of death as carbon monoxide poisoning.

  An initial toxicology screening confirmed high levels of alcohol and opioids in Filko’s system, police said, but they noted it was too early to speculate whether the death was suicide or accidental.