Death in the Haight by Ronald Tierney Page A

“Have you found the boy?”
    â€œThis isn’t a friendly, two-way conversation, Lang.”
    â€œIt rarely is. We could change that. You have a hobby?”
    â€œI do now.” His grin was big and genuine.
    â€œYou know that I didn’t kill that woman in Sea Cliff.”
    â€œNo, I don’t know that.”
    â€œWell, you should. Does Rose know you’re here?”
    â€œWhy should he? I told you I was off the clock.”
    Lang thought he heard the sound of Thanh’s motorcycle, but the rumbling stopped some distance away.
    â€œYou’re going to catch your death of cold out here, Stern.”
    â€œWe can go somewhere, get warm,” Stern said. “What about it?”
    The sound of the engine was sudden and deafening. Thanh’s bike had a black matte finish, and he was wearing black leather and a black helmet. He was just a shadow in the darkness. The bike squealed to a stop in front of Lang. Lang hopped on the back and waved at Stern before wrapping his arms around Thanh’s waist. And they were off.
    Lang wasn’t sure he heard shouts. Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t. He looked back and the big cop was jogging toward his car.
    â€œCan we lose him?” Lang yelled into Thanh’s ear.
    â€œWe already have. He’s got a flat tire.”
    Shit, Lang thought. Now he’ll really be pissed.
    Â * * * 
    â€œHe had three stiff drinks, which he downed like he was dying of thirst,” Brinkman said as Thanh and Lang arrived. “By the way, leather boy, you’ll wake the dead with that thing.”
    It was true, Lang thought. The sound would draw complaints.
    â€œThanks,” Lang told his friend. “You probably need to make yourself scarce.” Thanh nodded, and the harsh roar of the engine when he took off faded as he disappeared. “You too,” Lang said, turning to Brinkman.
    â€œWhy are the kidnappers waiting so long?” Brinkman asked.
    â€œGood question,” Lang said. “Maybe the timing has to be just right in order to work. Maybe disagreement in their ranks.”
    â€œIt’s certainly working on Mr. Vanderveer.”
    â€œAnd us. We can’t let our impatience make us less effective.” Brinkman turned to leave. “Tomorrow,” Lang said, interrupting the older man’s departure.
    â€œSame time, same place?” Brinkman looked exhausted.
    â€œI’ll call you.”
    Brinkman nodded.
    â€œMore money for the horses,” Lang said. “Right?”
    â€œOh,” Brinkman said, almost painfully, “another era. They’re closing down the tracks right and left. Not like it used to be. Not much like it used to be. You going to sit out all night again?” Lang didn’t answer. “Vanderveer is snug as a bug in a rug, the great whiskey knockout,” Brinkman continued. “You should try it.”
    Â * * * 
    It would be all too easy, Lang thought. Thanks to a detail-oriented Thanh, Lang had Stern’s address. He also had a few insights that would be helpful. Stern was in his mid-fifties and divorced. His only interests—aside from harassing Lang—appeared to be baseball and drinking. It was too late for a game. And the seriousness of Stern’s alcoholism made it a sure bet that Stern wouldn’t merely go to sleep; he would pass out.
    Lang took a cab back to his place, picked up a few items he expected to need, and waited until three a.m. before heading out to Dogpatch, a blue-collar neighborhood in what was, at one time, a nearly abandoned part of the city. Stern’s was a small frame bungalow, built before the earthquake and bought before the inevitable gentrification. Unlike the others, his house showed all the signs of neglect—not out of poverty, probably, but disinterest.
    Behind the curtains, Lang could see the kaleidoscopic colored flashing of a television set. He slid on a pair of latex gloves before he did a