There were those who thought that the words of a drunk were unreliable. Others thought the uninhibited mind spoke the truth. Lang fell in the middle. The only real truth, he thought, was that they were likely to say things they wouldn’t say if they were sober – true or not.
‘May I use your bathroom?’ Lang said, standing up.
‘Be my guest,’ she said, getting up and staggering toward a bottle of gin on the table by the door, probably where she set it when she went to answer his knock.
‘Nice place,’ Lang said, yelling back over his shoulder.
‘Used to be,’ she said.
For Lang the place exuded a faded elegance that made its formal beauty less cold, more hospitable. He glanced in the bedrooms. One room was spotless. The other was tossed by careless living. The bedclothes were barely on the bed. Clothing was scattered. The ashtray by the bed was full of ashes and butts. There was an empty cigarette package crumpled on the floor.
It was a red package. He examined it. Non-menthol. If he was correct Marlene smoked menthol. Even if someone wasn’t particular about what brand they smoked, only few jumped from menthol to non-menthol or the other way around. Someone else had stayed there. How recently, he didn’t know. There were no men’s clothes in the closet, however, and no other clues that he could see in his quick inventory.
He could hear her coming and stepped quickly into the hall and pretended to admire a print hanging there.
‘Sorry, got sidetracked,’ he said when she came upon him.
He went into the bathroom and shut the door. He checked the shelves behind the mirror. There was a Darvon generic, a tube of K-Y and . . . a bottle of Viagra prescribed to Mickey Warfield. Lang couldn’t repress a smile. Not because he looked down on those using a little helper, and not just because it belonged to the macho Mickey, but because it proved Mickey was here and what he was probably doing here from time to time. Other tubes and bottles might be embarrassing but shed little light on Marlene, other than that she was human with nagging little physical annoyances.
Lang looked around the bathroom, saw nothing else that was of interest. He flushed the toilet, washed his hands and emerged into the hallway and then into what dim light the closed blinds allowed into the living room. He found her on the sofa. She was out cold. He hoped she was just unconscious. He checked her pulse. These days, it seemed, it was important to check. She was alive, though her behavior suggested she might not want to be.
No more questions for now, he thought, but he checked what appeared to be a combination den, office, library, media room. It was comfortable, but had none of the design coherence of the rest of the house. This is where she could kick back. Then again, it looked a little masculine in its disdain for style.
The kitchen yielded nothing. The garage wasn’t very telling either. Her blue Volvo was parked there. He looked inside. Nothing. He checked the exterior. He was no CSI, but he was pretty sure there was sand in the grooves of the tires. Not all that conclusive because much of the city was built on dunes and it was a very sandy place.
Her timely unconsciousness allowed him to check all the drawers and closets. No sign of Mickey or any other male. He left, locking the door from the inside. He felt sad about Marlene not being the tough, smart person he thought her to be. She had to put on a costume and manufacture an attitude. Nothing was what it appeared to be. This was not a sudden loss of innocence on his part. Early on in his professional life he had received a forced indoctrination about books and covers and how that applied to the human species. And certainly Thanh, the shape-shifting creature that he was, proved it nearly every day.
All in all, stopping by was a good investment of his time. In addition to the fact that Mickey Warfield was driving a car registered to her, the bottle of sexual performance pills in Marlene’s medicine cabinet with Mickey’s name on them pretty much sealed the case, perhaps not for a court of law, but for him. He wondered if that made Marlene Mickey’s stepmistress. As far as Lang was concerned, Warfield the Younger was the prime suspect. It was often difficult, Lang thought, for the sons of celebrities to find their own light.
But what was the specific catalyst to the killing? Why now? Did he just find out he wasn’t in Daddy’s will? Was there a fight over Marlene? Hard to believe, now that Lang saw the sadly vulnerable personality and what she looked like before she went on the public stage.
He knew that Carly was keen on the murderer being connected to a missing photograph. There was a certain logic to her thinking. But there were other explanations. Time had passed between the evening she saw the photographs and the night of Wiley’s murder. Maybe one photograph hadn’t been framed properly or Wiley changed his mind about including it, and it was possible Carly didn’t get the count right the first time.
‘Lunch?’ Lang asked when Carly came into the office.
‘Is that all you ever think about?’
‘More and more,’ Lang said. ‘It seems safer than some other human indulgences.’
She smiled. After a night sleeping with the client, she couldn’t really fault him for sleeping with a witness. She’d like to. And he wasn’t aware of her indiscretion, if one could call it that. But she liked to play fair.
‘We need to talk,’ Lang continued.
‘And what is this thing that we’re doing now?’
‘C’mon, Carly.’
‘Can we go back to Osteria?’
‘The place with the handsome Italian waiter?’
‘That would be the one,’ she said. ‘And the delicious food.’
‘And, incidentally, the delicious food.’ Lang smiled.
‘What are we going to talk about?’
‘Love.’
‘I’m not going,’ she said.
‘Death,’ he said.
‘That’s better.’
The restaurant Lang used as a bribe had a line of folks waiting for a table.
‘That’s the problem with good food and handsome waiters,’ Lang said to Carly as they stood on the sidewalk outside. He scanned the street. There was no shortage of good restaurants in North Beach.
‘How about a slice of pizza and a glass of wine?’ Carly asked.
‘That’s always good.’
Golden Boy Pizza was a small place on Green between Columbus and Grant. Inside the customers either sat at the counter facing the kitchen or they sat at a counter facing a wall. Two of the walls and the ceiling were corrugated steel, providing a kind of Quonset hut environment. The pie was thick and good, the wine good and inexpensive.
‘When I was young, I used to come here at night after drinking maybe a little more than I should,’ Carly said, getting comfortable on her stool.
Service was quick. Pizza came from a large tray in the front and wine was poured.
‘So what are we talking about?’ Carly asked.
‘All right,’ Lang said, gathering his thoughts. ‘As I understand it, you’re thinking that the murderer is someone who was determined to remove a photograph. If we find the photograph, we find the killer.’ She nodded. ‘I’m pretty convinced that Mickey Warfield did it, but we know the night Wiley was killed, Mickey was incarcerated in San Mateo.’
‘You’re not making a great case for yourself, Noah.’
‘I’m not, I know.’ He took a sip of wine. ‘This morning I stopped in for a surprise visit at the lovely Marina home of Marlene Berensen. This was after I learned that her Jaguar, the one Mickey was driving, was found driverless in the parking lot at Ocean Beach. Marlene was drunk on her feet and crying that Mickey was gone.’
‘And your point is?’
Lang waited until he finished his bite of pizza and took a sip of wine.
‘Mickey has to be involved. And this leads me to the possibility that maybe, just maybe, it isn’t one person trying to hide one secret. Maybe the secret is bigger or there is more than one.’
Carly nodded. ‘It’s possible, I’m sure. It does seem like Mickey Warfield is involved but someone killed Frank Wiley and I am
sure there is a photograph missing.’
It was Lang’s turn to agree.
‘So where are we?’ Lang asked.
‘In the dark, I think.’
‘It’s always darkest before the dawn.’
‘You’re just full of quotes.’
‘And trite expressions,’ Lang said.
‘You spend the weekend reading Bartlett’s?’
‘How’s William?’ Lang smiled, knowing he had just stopped the attack.
Damn, she thought, as she felt herself blush.
‘What makes you think I know how he is?’
‘I wasn’t sure, but now I know. You have what gamblers call a “tell”.’
‘What kind of tell?’
‘I can’t tell you. If I told you what your tell was it would no longer be a tell.’
‘So?’
‘I like you having one.’
‘Well, maybe you have it wrong.’ She gave him a Cheshire Cat smile. Behind the smile she was cursing herself. She didn’t want him going anywhere near the truth. If he did, then she lost whatever leverage she had knowing he had slept with the recently dead Angel.
‘We are getting paid for this, aren’t we?’ Lang asked as they walked to the car.
‘We are,’ she said.
‘In money?’
She gave him the look. It was more threatening than Inspector Stern’s threatening look. Perhaps, just perhaps, he told himself, he’d gone too far.
Twenty-Six
Lang climbed out of Carly’s Mini Cooper on lower Polk Street. She wished him well as she pulled away. Lang went up the narrow stairway and toward Scotty Markham’s office.
Markham sat at his desk amidst the clutter of Chinese takeout cartons and newspapers. It was as if Lang never left. Markham looked up, said nothing.
‘I seem to have lost Mickey Warfield,’ Lang said.
‘You lost him, you find him.’ Markham didn’t bother putting down the newspaper.
‘You know about Angel?’ Lang asked.
‘The Chinese chick, right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Yeah.’
‘You know, your hands aren’t real clean where Angel was concerned. We know you went there after visiting our little office.’
‘Hey,’ he said dryly, ‘I wasn’t with her when she croaked.’
‘Mickey tell you that?’
‘Mickey schmickey. What do you want from me?’
‘Some help maybe. You know where or how I might find him?’
‘Why should I help you?’
‘Professional courtesy,’ Lang said, knowing how Markham would take it. ‘Listen, Scotty, wasn’t I a nice guy when you and your pal showed up threatening me and my friends? Did I punch you out? Did I call the police?’
‘I’m not going to play with you, Lang. I don’t like you. I don’t care what happens to you. I have no investment in you whatsoever. So, go away.’
‘How’s your license?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m working with Inspector Gratelli on this. They want Mickey too. You know, I tell him about your working relationship with him and how you stopped by to see Angel and, well, you find yourself . . . Oh, well. I hadn’t really thought about it. But you’re hired muscle. Maybe you killed Angel.’
‘Nah, Lang. If I did I’d have done you for free while I was at it.’
‘You might wish you did,’ Lang said, smiling.
‘Lang!’ Markham called as Lang exited into the hallway.
‘What is it?’ Lang asked, peeking back in.
‘Mickey hangs out with an old broad, Marlene Berensen.’
‘I know.’
‘So I gave you something.’
‘The way this game is played is that you give me something I don’t already have. So don’t tell me he drives her Jag and stays at her place sometimes. Don’t tell me that the car was abandoned at Ocean Beach and Mickey left Marlene in a drunken funk. Don’t tell me he’s involved in massage parlors. Don’t tell me he’s not in his dad’s will. These are things I have. So what do you have?’
Lang didn’t mind revealing what he knew.
‘He’s not in his dad’s will?’ Markham asked.
‘No.’ Lang smiled. ‘He stiffed you. Wow.’
Markham looked away, maybe so Lang wouldn’t see the anger he couldn’t conceal.
‘How much?’
‘None of your business,’ Markham said, trying to put a look of terminal disinterest on his face.
‘Who else does he owe?’ Lang asked.
‘I’m not his accountant.’
‘You have any clients in common?’
Markham didn’t answer. Lang wasn’t going to get anything more.
‘Such a sensitive guy. Anyway, thanks for the present, Scotty. You came through.’
Markham did come through, unwillingly and unwittingly. Maybe Lang could have put the pieces together himself – staying on with an older woman in order to have a place to stay and a car to drive – young Warfield was having serious money trouble.
Outside, Lang called Thanh’s cellphone. No answer. He called the office. Carly was back already. Lang asked for Thanh.
‘Not here,’ Carly said.
‘What about Brinkman?’
‘Brinkman’s here.’
‘Let me talk with him.’
Brinkman pulled up in his ’86 Buick, a cigar between his lips, a sarcastic smile on his face. He double-parked on Polk, just outside the entrance to Markham’s building.
Lang got into the car and asked Brinkman to pull up a little.
‘I need you to tail a guy.’
‘So far so good,’ Brinkman said.
‘Name is Scotty Markham . . .’
‘The guy who came in to roust you?’
‘The same. The one you scared to death.’
‘Be right back,’ Brinkman said.
Brinkman clicked on the car’s caution blinkers, got out, went to his trunk and came back with a baseball cap to cover his flat-topped head and a pair of non-prescription, horn-rimmed eyeglasses.
‘Great disguise,’ Lang said. ‘You’re like a completely different guy with that hat.’
‘Don’t get smart,’ Brinkman said. ‘No one pays attention to old codgers like me. Believe me, a hat and a pair of nerdy glasses are enough. Where do you think he’s gonna go?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Maybe he’ll just go home,’ Brinkman said.
‘Maybe he will.’
‘What if he drives to Chicago?’ Brinkman asked.
‘You have something better to do?’
‘You have a point,’ Brinkman said, glancing up in his rear-view mirror. ‘He’s coming out. Coming this way.’
‘Crap,’ Lang said. He slipped down on the floor, cursing fate for sending Markham this way and thanking fate for Brinkman having a big, old, roomy Buick. ‘Tell me when he’s gone by.’
After a few moments of silence and Lang sucking in the cigar smoke air Brinkman gave him the all-clear.
‘Call me if he comes back to his office in the next thirty minutes. Right now, he’s going to the parking garage at the end of the block. Only one exit. Bye,’ Lang said, getting out of the car. He patted the Buick on the trunk as it accelerated up Polk Street.
Lang went back, up the stairs and into the hall toward Markham’s office. Markham had locked the door, but it wouldn’t take much for Lang to get in. Somehow, it didn’t seem like a bad thing to break into Scotty Markham’s place. More like poetic justice. He looked around. He saw no one. Heard nothing. It was quiet on the second floor.
It took five minutes to get in. Longer than he thought, but not bad really. If Lang had to explain what he had learned that was of the most value in his profession, he would have to say patience.
Markham didn’t take his laptop and it was left on. All the files were closed, but it wouldn’t take much for Lang to look around and leave the screen as he found it. For a guy specializing in security, Markham paid little a
ttention to it for himself. A little browsing, opening files, checking the Excel spreadsheet showed Lang the guy was barely making it. He checked the history. There were indications that Markham visited porn sites regularly. He had played more than 25,000 games of Solitaire online.
There were a few people searches, but no one he recognized. He clicked on to the Google Search and went through the alphabet one letter at a time, letting the little opening reveal where Markham had gone. Again, nothing that seemed to connect to Warfield or to anyone Lang recognized.
Boring work. He pressed the voicemail. Markham hadn’t cleaned that up either, so there were thirty-three messages, the voice said. Lang played them back. There were many hang-ups. There was a guy wanting his money. There was Mickey Warfield’s voice asking Markham to call him back. That was the day before Markham and his skinny friend visited Lang. A couple of calls telling him this was Markham’s last chance to sign up for a warranty on his car. Lots of crap.
There was only one call that meant anything and if Lang was the kind of guy to feel cold chills he would have felt them as he heard Angel’s voice. ‘I’m afraid, Scotty. You have to help me.’
‘Jesus.’
Lang opened the voicemail case, noticed the tiny cassette. Thank the Great Whatever for Markham’s dinosaur ways when it came to technology. Lang put the cassette in his pocket. He searched Markham’s desk, found another, replaced the tape he’d taken.
Lang looked around, gave the filing cabinet a cursory search, found nothing. He checked the computer screen. OK. He wiped his prints off everything he touched and left, remembering that Markham may have had more brain cells and more skills than Lang originally thought. He’d have to be careful. The man was dangerous.
Twenty-Seven
Brinkman was on the other end of the line, on the cellphone Lang had given him.
‘Markham stopped at some real estate office on Geary,’ Brinkman said.
‘Where is he now?’
‘Inside.’
‘Where are you?’
‘On the sidewalk, half a block away near some old folks’ home or something. Some big old nurse tried to herd me on a bus to goddamn somewhere.’
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