Nocturnal

Alder Jessup

For the first time in his career, Bryan hoped things would go bad. He hoped this Alder Jessup would start some shit, or maybe just turn tail and run. That would give Bryan an excuse to take him down. Someone had to pay, and if Jessup wanted to find out how bad Bryan could hurt someone, well, Bryan would be happy to oblige.

He and Pookie sat in the parked Buick, looking out at Alder Jessup’s residence — 1969 California Street. The place stood out like a road whore at a convent. The wall-to-wall line of houses on that street all wore colorful paint — white, yellows, pastels and terra-cotta brick. Nineteen sixty-nine, on the other hand, was gray — completely devoid of color. It looked like a haunted English mansion taken from some soggy countryside estate and jammed into the neighborhood like a fat man dropping his big ass onto an already packed bus bench.

Half of an English mansion, that was. Just the left half. The right side of the house rose to a peak that just stopped. Below that peak was a half-arch that once might have been intended as an entryway for servants or horses. Where the mirror half of the gray mansion should have been sat a modern three-story brick apartment building trimmed in white.

“Peppy,” Pookie said. “Martha Stewart doesn’t use dungeon-gray enough for my taste.”

“Looks expensive,” Bryan said. “What do you think it’s worth, two million?”

Pookie laughed. “You don’t get out much, buddy. This thing is fifteen mil if it’s a penny. And it’s not a penny, in case you suck at the multiple choice. Black Mister Burns said Alder Jessup has lived here for at least sixty years. That’s all we have for now.”

Sixty years? Well, maybe Bryan would have to cool his jets. No matter how churned-up he felt inside, it wouldn’t be cool to beat the shit out of a senior citizen.

“It’s enough to get started,” he said. “Ready?”

Pookie scooped up his stack of manila folders. “Yep, let’s go.”

They slid out of the Buick and crossed the five lanes of California Street. Four concrete steps led to an archway door that looked like it belonged in a church. An intentionally rusted gate made of crossed diagonal half-inch iron bars blocked the archway. Behind the gate, more stairs, at the top of which sat a fancier door into the house proper.

The gate looked like a high-security rig, although you could reach right through the diagonal spaces between the rusted bars. In the middle of the gate was a small, cast-iron image of Sagittarius — the half-horse, half-man archer.

Pookie gripped the iron bars and gave the gate a shake. “It would take a tank to get through this.”

There was a buzzer to the right of the door. Bryan pressed it.

Moments later, the interior door at the top of the internal stairs opened. The man that descended was not what Bryan expected to see greeting them at a multimillion-dollar Pacific Heights mansion. The man stopped behind the gate. He looked at Pookie, he looked at Bryan, then he sneered.

“Who the fuck are you two ass-clowns?”

He was in his early twenties, five-eight, about a buck-fifty. He wore a black KILLSWITCH ENGAGE concert T-shirt. A black belt with a silver skull buckle held up heavy black jeans. Black combat boots completed the ensemble. His short sleeves showed off intricate tattoos running up both arms. Silver bracelets decorated both wrists: some thin loops, some thick bands with detailed engravings. A dozen small, silver earrings pierced each ear. He also had a silver loop in each eyebrow, one through his lower lip, and a thick one dangling from his septum. His pitch-black, sculpted hair hung down over his left eye.

“San Francisco Police,” Pookie said. “I’m Inspector Chang. This is Inspector Clauser. We’d like to talk to Alder Jessup.”

“About what?”

“About a murder.”

The tattooed man sneered. “Got a warrant, bitch?”

Bryan instantly disliked this kind of person, the type that hated cops for the intolerable sin of enforcing the law. Best to let Pookie handle this, or Bryan knew he’d want to rub the guy’s face against the concrete sidewalk.

“We don’t have a warrant,” Pookie said. “But if we have to go get one, someone is going in the back of a marked car, in cuffs, in front of the whole neighborhood.”

“You think I care if any of the zombies around here see me in a cop car?”

“Are you Alder Jessup?”

“No,” the tattooed man said. “I’m his grandson, Adam.”

Pookie rolled his neck, like he was trying to loosen a deep kink. “Adam, no offense, but you look like the kind of guy who’s familiar with the back of a squad car. Am I right?”

Adam nodded.

“I’m guessing Grandpa Alder isn’t. Am I right about that one, too?”

Adam stared hatefully, then nodded again.

“Fine,” Pookie said. “Now, unless you want me to come back here and haul Grampy Alder off in cuffs, stop busting our balls and let us come in.”

Adam thought it over for a second, then he opened the metal gate. He led Pookie and Bryan up the steps, through an ornate oak door and into a foyer.

“Wait right here,” Adam said. “I’ll go get Grampa.”

Bryan watched Adam bound up a beautiful staircase, the railing of which was so lacquered and polished it could pass for wood-toned glass. The man’s piercings clinked as he ran.

The foyer’s furniture, paintings and sculptures looked expensive. Bryan felt like he was standing in a museum wing. Everything, from the art to the marble floor to even the intricate wood trim on a velvet couch, exhibited some kind of archery theme: bows, arrows, arrowheads, archers.

Moments later, Adam Jessup helped his grandfather down the stairs. Alder wore an immaculate brown three-piece suit. He walked with a long wooden cane topped by a silver wolf’s head. Most of his hair was long gone, leaving a mottled scalp and a ring of fine white around his temples.

“Inspectors,” Alder said in a light, airy voice. “You need to speak with me?”

Pookie introduced himself and Bryan again, then got to it. “We’re looking for information on an arrowhead that you may have made.”

Bryan watched the Jessups carefully. Alder showed no reaction, but Adam’s eyes dilated a little — he was nervous.

Pookie opened a manila folder and handed over a printout showing Bryan’s cell-phone picture of the arrowhead. Alder took the printout. Adam’s eyes went wide.

The old man squinted, then reached into his breast pocket and pulled out silver-rimmed glasses. He put them on gently and looked again. “No, I’m afraid I don’t recognize this.”

Alder was a cool customer. Bryan knew his kind well, the kind that could lie with confidence and ease. His grandson, however, didn’t have that skill.

“But you do make arrows,” Bryan said. “And bows, and all kinds of custom archery stuff.”

Alder smiled. “You’ve been looking into us. How flattering. We do make custom weaponry. Or rather, Adam here does.” Alder looked at his grandson and beamed with pride. “My hands and eyes aren’t what they used to be. Adam has the talent, though. His father, alas, does not. My son can barely do the dishes without chipping the china … bad hands, you see. Twitchy. Certain skills can skip a generation.”

“I know what you mean,” Pookie said. “My father is a whiz at Mad Libs, but my vocabulary is a bit thin to say the least. A tragedy for me, but perhaps my future children will have the gift.”

Alder sighed. “One can only hope, Inspector Chang.”

Bryan, impatient, pointed to the printout. “You’re sure you guys didn’t make this?”

“I would certainly know if we did,” Alder said.

Pookie’s cell phone buzzed. He pulled it out, looked at a text. Bryan peeked at the screen — the text came from Black Mr. Burns.

Bryan couldn’t wait for Pookie’s slow-play anymore. He wanted to shake these guys up. “Mister Jessup, is that the same story you told Amy Zou twenty-nine years ago? And what do you know about Marie’s Children?”

Pookie looked up from his phone with an expression on his face that said what the hell are you doing?

Alder took two cane-supported steps forward to stand face-to-face with Bryan.

“Young man,” Alder said quietly, “whatever you think you know about Marie’s Children, you don’t want to know more. Just leave it alone.”

Everything about the old man screamed wisdom and patience. He was the kind of person you listened to, even if you’d just met him. Too bad Bryan didn’t give a rat’s ass about listening to anyone.

“I won’t leave it alone,” Bryan said. “And if you’re tied up in it, you’re going to find that out the hard way.”

Alder seemed to sag, just a bit. He leaned heavily on his cane. Adam caught the old man, stopped him from falling.

“Leave,” Adam said. “Don’t come back without a warrant.”

Bryan wanted to punch them both. “The old guy gets tired bit? Give me a break.”

“Bryan,” Pookie said, “we should go.”

“But he—”

“We’ve overstayed our welcome, Bryan,” Pookie said. “Let’s go.”

Bryan ground his teeth. He took one more look at the Jessups, then turned and walked out the door.

He needed to hit someone, and his partner was about one snide comment away from the nomination. Bryan slid into the Buick and slammed the door.

“Hey,” Pookie said as he got in. “Easy on the merchandise.”

“Nice fucking job having my back in there. You know those guys made that arrowhead, right?”

Pookie started the car. “Yeah, I know. But there’s more to detective work than yelling at an old man.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Like that house,” Pookie said. “Black Mister Burns ran the property records. The Jessups don’t own it.”

“Who does?”

“An esteemed gentleman by the name of Jebediah Erickson. In fact, that house has been in the Erickson family for a hundred and fifty years. So has one other house in town, a house very close to here.”

Why was Pookie chasing property records when the Jessups clearly had answers? “So someone else owns the house … why would that make you want to leave when they were about to give up the goods?”

“Because Mister Burns found something else about Jebediah Erickson,” Pookie said. “Thirty-six years ago, Jeb won a gold medal at the Pan Am Games. Take a guess in what sport?”

Bryan’s anger started to fade. “Archery?”

Pookie smiled and nodded.

“Wait a minute,” Bryan said. “Thirty-six years ago? So even if the guy was in his mid-twenties when he won, he’s at least sixty. Probably not a guy who can do the things you saw.”

“Probably not. But we have a gold-medal archer who owns the house of a man who makes custom arrowheads. Think that merits a visit?”

It sure as hell did. “Where is Erickson’s place again?”

“Five blocks away,” Pookie said. “Let’s go see if he’s home.”