Death in North Beach Page 3

  She nodded. It made sense, her expression seemed to say. She had been hesitant at first, but in the end she just blurted out her request for him to assist in the new case.

  He understood why she needed help with the investigation. There were a dozen names on the list. And often, in these cases, one name led to another. It would take forever for one person to track them all down, interview them, follow up on leads they provided and put it all in perspective.

  The wallet that Gratelli extracted from Warfield’s soggy suit contained mushy bills, some unreadable notes on paper tucked in every little orifice, a check-cashing card, a charge card, a library card, and a San Francisco Museum of Modern Art membership card. A key ring and some change were found in his trousers. Inside the left front breast pocket of his suit jacket was a notebook. Also soggy. There was no pen. Gratelli thought that a writer, one who carried a notebook, would also have a pen. He concluded that the pen in Warfield’s neck was the author’s own.

  Live by the pen, die by the pen. The pen is mightier . . . Gratelli let his thoughts trail off.

  The lab worked on the notebook. It was far too delicate an operation for Gratelli to undertake the separation of the wet pages and the preservation of the writing on them. The notebook was back at his desk in the Homicide Detail office in hours and some names were legible. There were also a few phone numbers. Throughout the morning, Gratelli made the calls, looking up numbers for names without numbers and calling the numbers that were legible. He made half a dozen of these calls and two of them volunteered hearsay that Warfield had made a spectacle of himself again at Alighieri’s, a bar just off Grant, and that he had argued with a man who one person identified as William. William was commonly thought a gigolo, said the man. By mid-morning Gratelli, through a series of additional calls and callbacks, used various sets of information to pull out other information. In hours, he had tracked one William Blake to an expensive home on Telegraph Hill, a home that he did not own. When police arrived, William Blake was either not at home or he wasn’t answering the door. Gratelli had the home watched.

  The widow, Mrs Elena Warfield, preferred coming to the office rather than have the police at her home.

  She was dark-haired, obviously Italian – still had a slight accent. He would guess of peasant stock. He chided himself at the observation, but forgave himself. Gratelli would boast of his own peasant stock – plain-spoken people who worked the earth. It wasn’t really a slight, though he would not relate his observations to her.

  Elena Warfield, a big woman with a hard to ignore ample bosom, meant to be cooperative, but she was not helpful. She had no idea about any book or why anyone would want to kill her husband. She often, she said, didn’t know where he went and just as often wasn’t the least bit curious. She had her friends. And he had his.

  ‘And your son?’ Gratelli asked.

  She shook her head as if she had been beaten and stubbornly refused to answer despite the torture.

  ‘He’s not mine.’

  ‘Mickey Warfield?’

  ‘I know his name,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you for coming to see me . . . on this day especially. I am very sorry for your loss.’

  ‘I can go?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  She stood, put on her coat.

  ‘I won’t have to talk to you again?’

  ‘I don’t know the answer to that.’

  ‘There’s nothing I can tell you.’

  ‘If you think of something . . .’

  ‘I won’t,’ she said, leaving at more than a casual speed.

  The homicide inspector had put in a solid day’s work and it was only early afternoon. The key, he believed, was this William fellow, who might be the last person who saw the old writer alive and, just as important, had been engaged in a loud and angry argument with the victim only hours before.

  The inspector would do a little canvassing of the North Beach bars tonight. He’d talk with the bartender and the regulars, which meant he’d be out late in order to talk to the people who were out at the time of the disturbance. He decided to get out of his office for a while, grab a cup of coffee, get a bite to eat.

  Gratelli picked up a fish sandwich and a steaming cup of coffee from McDonald’s. He sat outside at a picnic table. Not much of a view – a busy street, bail bond agencies and parking lots. But he needed a moment, just a moment, to gather his thoughts. He had a few minutes before meeting with the celebrated District Attorney. This was the second high-profile case he’d had this year – this on top of nearly a dozen other homicides he was working on. He concluded he was as ready as he’d ever be to tackle the forces at play now – politics, the media and the case itself.

  The air was warm and the smell of boiling oil mingled with the scent of carbon dioxide. Eau d’Urban, he told himself.

  The two of them – Carly and Lang – looked at the crime scene. A tiny, triangular park of sorts, fenced in, was formed by the intersection of three streets – Union Street going east and west, Powell going north and south, and North Beach’s main street, Columbus Avenue, angling through them. The little park was more of a decorative median than a place to feed the squirrels.

  There were six smallish trees that shaded an oval pond that Lang estimated was about twelve feet by ten feet. Around the pond were clumps of purple flowers. Inside, small goldfish darted about.

  The area was still cordoned off by yellow crime scene tape.

  ‘It would take some strength to get Warfield over the wrought-iron fence and into the pond unless he was chased there and his own adrenaline got him over,’ Carly said.

  ‘An unlikely place to escape unless he thought he could hide in there,’ Lang said. There wasn’t any real place to hide, Lang thought, but if it was night, maybe Warfield thought he couldn’t be seen.

  Lang looked around, trying to figure what direction he might have come from. The answer was multiple choice. Lang walked around the small triangular park, noting that the little purple flowers had been smashed on the Columbus side. If the bar was on Grant, Warfield might have come down beside or across Washington Square Park. He didn’t know what good that kind of speculation was, but it was a start and stirred the juices.

  Carly was making her own calculations.

  ‘It’s not a difficult fence to hop,’ she said, ‘but Warfield wasn’t a spring chicken and if his murderer was one of his contemporaries, this looks pretty challenging. What do you think?’

  ‘Lunch. I think lunch.’

  Mario’s Bohemian Cigar Store and Café was catty-corner from the deadly little triangle (Warfield’s wasn’t the first waterlogged body discovered there). The restaurant was small and was, as far as Carly could see, without cigars. There were eight tables and a dozen or so stools at the bar.

  She knew the place. She knew her way around North Beach from the days her parents ran a restaurant there. She’d had coffee at the corner landmark many times and relished again hearing the cook and server talking Italian to each other just as her parents had done. The place had not changed. Mario’s – she assumed they were his – bowling trophies were displayed above the bar.

  Lang ordered the sausage polenta and a glass of Malbec. She ordered the chicken panini and a lemonade.

  ‘I didn’t take you for a wine guy.’

  ‘No doubt other discoveries await you.’

  She laughed. ‘Now you’re scaring me. Anyway, the list,’ she said, shoving it across the small table.

  There were a dozen or so names and a short note beside each one. He recognized a few of them from the news just as he had been familiar with Warfield. There were a couple of painters, a few writers and poets, a political activist, a newspaper editor, and a politician. Also noted were both Warfield’s wife and his mistress.

  She explained that Warfield was about to publish a book that told lurid tales about a number of the folks who traveled in his circle. Lang doubted there would be much national impact, but there had been a recent book chronicling the intert
wining lives of some local rich and famous families, warts and all, by one of the sons. The book was a roaring success as far away as New York. Maybe Warfield thought he could pull this off or maybe he could resurrect his career the way Truman Capote promised in his largely imaginary tell-all, Answered Prayers.

  ‘Who’s on the case?’ Lang asked.

  ‘According to the newspaper, it’s Gratelli.’

  Lang was relieved. There were a couple on Homicide Detail Lang would like to avoid. Gratelli was a good cop.

  ‘But you see the problem,’ Carly said.

  ‘I always try not to.’

  ‘We’re working on an active murder investigation. We haven’t run this by the police. And we’re working for someone who may turn out to be the prime suspect.’

  Lang took a bite of sausage. He didn’t have an answer.

  ‘If we follow up on the names on this list, it will get back to Gratelli,’ she continued. ‘And, decent as the guy is, he’s not going to be happy. We have licenses that can be lifted at will.’

  ‘We lie.’

  ‘Lie.’ It wasn’t a question for Carly, just a repetition to make sure he knew what he was saying.

  ‘Redesign the assignment that your boy gave us.’

  ‘First, he isn’t a boy,’ she said.

  ‘OK, he’s Cary Grant. Second?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If you have a first, it means you have a second.’

  ‘Second,’ she gave in, ‘second, his name is William Blake.’

  Lang closed his eyes. The name bubbled up from his mind slowly. He put it in place.

  ‘William Blake. The poet. Thanatopsis. The big death poem.’

  ‘No, that was somebody else,’ Carly said. ‘But death was big with Blake too. So what is it we lie about and how will that keep us out of jail for interfering with a police investigation?’

  ‘We redo Mr Blake’s request. We alter it slightly. We are not hunting for the murderer.’

  ‘We’re not,’ she said in a tone that suggested she was humoring him and was only playing along for the moment.

  ‘We’re looking for the book.’

  ‘What book?’ she asked.

  ‘The book that Warfield was writing.’

  ‘Do we even know if there is a book?’ she asked.

  ‘You are so literal. We believe there’s a book.’

  She was nodding.

  ‘It gives us a reason to talk to all these people and if we find the book we find the murderer,’ he continued.

  ‘Well, that’s a theory.’

  ‘How do we divide up the list?’ Lang asked.

  She took the sheet of paper back, folded it roughly in half, creased it and then used the edge of the table to rip it cleanly. She handed him one of the halves.

  ‘Very scientific,’ Lang said. ‘I can see a lot of thought was put into this.’

  ‘You get six, I get six.’

  ‘Twelve suspects right off the bat.’

  ‘Zodiac,’ she said, ‘apostles.’

  ‘Number of inches in a foot,’ Lang said.

  ‘Come with me,’ Lang said after they finished lunch and paid the bill. He grabbed her hand and the two of them dodged traffic, jaywalking across the street to Washington Square Park.

  ‘What are we doing?’

  ‘We’re going to sit a while in the park,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  He didn’t answer but took her across the expanse of grass to the north-east corner, where there was an unoccupied bench.

  Trees lined the perimeter, but most of the park was open field, except for a grouping of cedars in the center. Most folks – homeless, jobless, lovers, nannies with strollers, and a smattering of tourists – sat on the shady edges. However, in one corner, a legion of Chinese women in baseball caps practiced t’ai chi, moving arms and legs in a kind of earthbound synchronized swimming. In the sunlight there were sunbathers and dog walkers and people cutting across the park’s expanse merely to get from one place to another.

  ‘Noah,’ she said, sitting on the bench, ‘what are we doing here?’

  ‘We’re relaxing. We’re contemplating the world.’

  Not far away on another bench a young man played the accordion.

  Carly laughed. Then she sang along with the tune, ‘Let the devil take tomorrow . . .’

  ‘Exactly,’ Lang said.

  ‘You are laid back,’ she said. Then a little sternly, she added, ‘We’re working.’

  ‘We’re also living a life. Or haven’t you noticed?’

  Pigeons gathered in a loose formation and swooped from one corner of the park to the other, occasionally causing folks to duck. Then they quieted again.

  Carly seemed to relax.

  ‘I repeat. I think it’s likely that Warfield came down from Grant,’ he said, motioning behind him. ‘He crossed the park and thought he could hide in that little island.’

  ‘He was being chased?’ she asked.

  ‘Or followed and he became aware of it. He wasn’t a young man. He couldn’t run far. He probably felt like he couldn’t make it home.’

  She nodded. ‘He would have had to run uphill.’

  ‘He lived on Russian Hill, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He wanted to rest, hide in the darkness. And it was dark in there, under the trees.’

  ‘The only place that was completely dark,’ she said.

  There was at least five minutes of quiet. She looked out over the park. To her right and slightly behind her was the gigantic Saints Peter and Paul Church. She had been inside many times with her parents. Why didn’t he go into the church, she wondered.

  ‘The list,’ Noah said. ‘You should add your Mr William Blake.’

  ‘That would make thirteen,’ she said.

  ‘The thirteenth apostle,’ he said.

  ‘Some feet are thirteen inches.’

  ‘You’re right.’

  Four

  Carly didn’t admit it to Noah Lang, but she knew he was right. She hadn’t quite let go of her corporate weenyship. She left her safe and comfortable job as an executive investigator at Vogel Security because it was boring, stifling, and soul-killing. The same could be said about her relationship with Peter – safe, comfortable, boring, stifling and soul-killing. The difference was she quit Vogel Security. And Peter quit her. She was ready for change and leapt into it. There were times when she thought she wasn’t quite over either one.

  But the choice had been made. For better or worse, she was embarking on this new life when she stumbled upon Lang and his strange little family. And she had to give Lang his due. He was doing his best to keep her from sliding back to the way she lived before, which was, upon introspection, not exactly living. Carly was starting to like the guy she originally thought was just a little too ‘street’ for her. She was also, she’d have to admit, just a little smitten with William Blake.

  ‘I’ll be at home if you need me,’ she told Lang, who had settled in behind his computer to get background on the folks on his list.

  ‘Home?’ He smiled.

  ‘It’s a beautiful day. I’m thinking my laptop, my big old sofa, and a glass of Pinot Grigio.’

  She waited for Lang’s reply. It never came. He simply waved.

  She was still getting used to the lack of regimentation.

  It was a good decision. The afternoon was sunny, warm with an occasional breeze. She opened the doors that led out to the back deck and opened the front window to let the breezes play through her flat. She picked out a selection of CDs that would enhance such a day. The first to click on was Astrud Gilberto. This was the right rhythm. Not too slow, but relaxed.

  She plugged in her laptop and put it on the big, comfy sofa and opened a bottle of white wine.

  ‘Go slow, now,’ she warned herself about the wine. ‘It’s still afternoon.’

  She looked at her list, the names and William Blake’s brief notations.

  Nathan Malone, Warfield’s prime competitor,
successful writer who occasionally focused on the Beat Generation writers and artists.

  Lili D. Young, an artist. Warfield hated her. Not sure why.

  Mickey Warfield, wanderer, Warfield’s son.

  Bart Brozynski, newspaper editor and publisher, visceral.

  Samuel McFarland, SF Board of Supervisors, something personal.

  Frank Wiley, photographer, portraits and North Beach environs, artistic differences.

  The notations were helpful, but vague. What did ‘visceral’ mean in this case? Or ‘something personal’? But this was a start. She’d begin with Google. Next, she would try to arrange a meeting. People who hate passionately – like people who love passionately – often enjoy talking about the object of their affection or disaffection. Of course, it was possible that not one of these people was involved in Warfield’s death. But one had to start somewhere.

  The wine was perfect, cool, its ability to quench a thirst probably less endearing to wine critics than it was to her at the moment.

  The afternoon at her keyboard yielded quite a bit more in the way of biography for those on her list, except for Mickey Warfield, who didn’t come up at all. Unfortunately, there was nothing on the surface that connected any of them to Whitney Warfield in any meaningful way, or helped to explain the various animosities. She found that she could reach Brozynski and McFarland by email through their websites. She could go through the galleries to connect with Wiley and Young. There were no phone listings for anyone and that meant young Mickey Warfield and Nathan Malone would be a little more difficult to locate.

  Before the second glass of wine on an increasingly empty stomach mellowed her a little more than she anticipated, she had gotten phone numbers for the two artists and sent emails to the two who had published email addresses.

  She decided that life was good after all as she prepared the scallops she had bought at the Marina Market. She lightly roasted some asparagus sprinkled with pecorino and sliced some tomatoes. She dined on the back deck as the sun declined, which it was doing earlier and earlier each day. The third glass of wine introduced a little melancholy. Why not, she said, giving in. Enjoy it all. She took a sip of wine and remembered she liked William Blake’s sly smile. There was, though, at the edge of her mind, something dark that tugged at her newfound sunny disposition.