The Crooked Street

14

When Frost returned to police headquarters, he found that Denny Clark’s bank, credit card, and cell phone records had all been delivered to his computer. He began diving into his old friend’s secrets.

Denny had never been good with money, and he still wasn’t. He was leveraged up to his eyeballs, including a high six-figure loan on the Roughing It with a spotty repayment record. Comparing his friend’s debts to his modest bank accounts, Denny had a negative net worth. If someone had pushed him to do something illegal for a lucrative payoff, Denny was in no position to say no.

When Frost checked the phone records, the first thing he noticed was that Denny hadn’t made any outgoing calls on his cell phone since Tuesday evening. That was unusual because Denny was otherwise on his phone multiple times a day. He also saw that none of the incoming calls had reached Denny, because he didn’t see a call length longer than one minute.

After the cruise on Tuesday, Denny had stopped using his phone. Why?

Frost began using his own phone to dial the numbers in Denny’s call log one by one. It was slow going and began to eat up most of the afternoon. The majority of calls involved upcoming charters; some of the customers hadn’t heard about Denny’s death and began peppering Frost with questions he couldn’t answer. Other calls were inconsequential, involving everything from pizza deliveries to Giants season tickets.

He found several calls to Carla. When he dialed her number, he recognized her voice on the prerecorded message. There was nothing unusual about what she said — “This is Carla, tell me what you want, and maybe I’ll call you back” — but he hadn’t heard her deep, trauma-soaked voice in more than a decade. She sounded the same. Listening to her, he could picture everything about her again, how she looked, how she walked, how she held a cigarette, how she made you feel guilty if you didn’t treat her like the center of the universe. He could picture her wild eyes that practically screamed that she had never been happy for a day of her life. Carla had always wanted what she couldn’t have, and she despised what she could.

Frost was no genius about women, but he’d been smart enough to know that a relationship with Carla would have destroyed him. He would have spent his life trying to fix someone who could never be fixed.

Instead, that hopeless job went to Denny.

He shrugged off the past and kept dialing phone numbers. Among the routine calls, he found a few numbers that left him with questions. The first was a call that Denny had made to someone named Fawn. There was just one call the previous Sunday, two days before the mystery cruise. Frost dialed the number and listened to the message, and when he was done, he called back and listened to it again.

“Hi. If you want Fawn, you’ve got her. You can enter your code now. If you don’t have a code, well, honey, hang up and don’t call me back until you do.”

The voice had the sultry, inviting feel of someone who made a living dealing with men. It had a hint of a foreign accent. The condescending little intonation as she said “honey” told him that she was smart and self-confident. Based on the message, he guessed that Fawn was an escort, and if so, she was one of the elite girls who charged sky-high prices. Nobody left cash on the nightstand with someone like her or quibbled about the hourly rate. The customer called a prearranged number and handled payment in advance by credit card and then got an approval code to use in scheduling an appointment.

One thing was certain. Denny couldn’t afford a girl like Fawn. So why was he calling her?

Frost dialed Fawn’s number a third time, and this time he left a message. “Fawn, this is Homicide Inspector Frost Easton of the San Francisco police. You’re not in any trouble, but I’d like to talk to you about Denny Clark.”

He didn’t expect a call back.

The next phone number that he flagged for follow-up belonged to someone else from his own past. Frost had gone to high school with Chester Bagley, and Chester had always been one of Denny’s close friends. A couple of times during the year that Frost and Denny had spent living on the boat, they’d used Chester as a freelance bartender, and he’d poured some of the best, strongest drinks Frost had ever tasted. He was good-looking and gay, and he probably made more money on customer tips than Frost did on his police salary.

Frost wondered if Denny was still using Chester as a bartender for his charters on the Roughing It. He left a message.

“Chester? Frost Easton. I’m sure you heard the bad news about Denny. I’ve got some questions for you. Give me a call, okay?”

He kept dialing more numbers.

Denny got and made a lot of calls, and the individual numbers in the phone records began to blur. With most of the calls, Frost got a message rather than a live person, and he rattled off his name and contact information the same way every time as he asked for a call back. He worked his way backward in the records day by day, until he was at a point three weeks prior to Denny’s murder. Several hours had already gone by as he sat at his desk.

He dialed. Left a message.

Dialed. Left a message.

Dialed. Left a message.

And then a live voice answered, startling him. What made it so strange was that the voice was in stereo. He heard it over the phone, and he heard it across the busy floor of detectives around him.

“Trent Gorham.”

Frost said nothing at first. He looked up from his desk and stared across the room and saw Gorham with his phone in his hand. When the dead air stretched out, the other detective said again, “Trent Gorham. Hello?”

Finally, Frost spoke softly into the phone. “Hello, Trent.”

“Who is this?”

“It’s Frost Easton.”

Gorham’s head swiveled slowly. Their eyes met from one desk to the other. Dozens of police officers passed in and out of their line of sight, but for now, they were like the only two people in the room. Frost felt tension seeping through the phone and across the floor.

“Easton,” the other cop murmured in reply. “I figured you’d be calling me sooner or later.”

“You want to explain?” Frost asked.

Gorham didn’t even blink as he stared back. His bland, blond face was devoid of expression. He leaned back in his chair and casually propped one arm behind his head. “You mean, why I called Denny Clark?”

“That’s right. And why you didn’t tell me that you knew him.”

“I was curious how long it would take you to find out,” Gorham replied. “Everyone says you’re so smart.”

“Well, I’m the one who’s curious now, Trent. You called my murder victim three weeks before he was killed. You came to my desk and offered to help me with the case. And you never bothered to mention that you’d been in contact with him.”

“It was just one call. I’m sure you can see that in the phone records.”

“What was it about?”

“You remember I used to work vice, right?”

“Yes.”

“I bumped into Denny now and then back in those days.”

“Why?” Frost asked.

“Why do you think? Drugs.”

“Was Denny selling?”

“He was either selling or supplying his guests for free. I knew he was buying more than he’d use for himself. The product had to go somewhere.”

“I don’t see an arrest record,” Frost said.

“That’s because I used him as a snitch. He knew I could drop the hammer on him whenever I wanted, so he was more useful feeding me information than sitting behind bars. You know how it works, Easton. You keep the little fish on the hook and see who comes to eat them.”

“Did you land any high-profile dealers that way? Anyone who might want revenge against Denny for ratting them out?”

“No, I didn’t. I stopped leaning on him because the word came down from my lieutenant to lay off Denny Clark.”

“Why?” Frost asked.

“Obviously, Denny had some powerful political friends.”

“Any idea who?”

“No. My lieutenant told me to drop it, so I did. End of story.”

“So why the phone call three weeks ago?”

Gorham shrugged. “I found a dead dealer in the Mission District. I wanted to know if Denny had heard anything about who took him down. He hadn’t. That’s all it was.”

Frost tried to read Gorham’s poker face across the station. “What about your friend in vice? The one who was killed. Alan Detlowe. Did he know Denny?”

“Alan? I don’t think so. Why?”

“Snakes,” Frost said.

“Aw, come on. That again? You said you were dropping that.”

“Alan was a vice cop, and there was a red snake painted near his body. I found the same kind of snake where Denny was killed, and now you’re telling me that Denny was on your radar screen at vice. That sounds like a connection.”

Across the room, Gorham shrugged. “Alan didn’t know Denny. Denny was my source, not his. Are we done, Easton?”

“You’re still holding out on me, Trent. You were over in Berkeley yesterday asking about Carla Steiff’s suicide. You want to explain that?”

Gorham took his time replying. He dug in the drawer of his desk for a stick of gum, and he unwrapped it and began chewing as he stared at Frost. Always delay when you’re formulating a lie.

“Carla committed suicide on the same day as Denny’s murder,” Gorham said. “We both know that’s suspicious. I decided to check it out for myself, but I didn’t find anything.”

“How did you know Carla?”

“I already told you, I was targeting Denny at vice, at least until the word came down to lay off him. If you’re looking to leverage somebody, you find out everything you can about them. Carla was his ex-wife. I knew they still worked together. I interviewed her to see what she could tell me. That’s all.”

“How did you hear about her suicide?”

“When I found out about Denny’s murder, I made a call to see if Carla knew anything about it. I talked to her roommate, and he told me what happened.”

“And you didn’t think it was worth mentioning this to the lead inspector on the case?” Frost asked. “I’ve been sitting here all afternoon, Trent. You couldn’t get up and connect the dots for me?”

“We’re talking about it now.”

“We’re only talking about it because I found out. Did you know that there was a snake painted near Carla’s apartment?”

“Another snake. No kidding.”

“Yeah. No kidding.”

Gorham chewed his gum. “You’re getting as paranoid as Coyle. I don’t know anything about snakes. As far as I’m concerned, they still don’t mean a thing. I knew Denny and Carla. I was trying to be helpful, but I turned up squat, so there was nothing to tell you. That’s all.”

They stared at each other in silence, not blinking. The rest of the room was loud with voices. Gorham began to hang up his phone, but Frost interrupted him.

“Wait. I’ve got another name for you.”

Gorham looked impatient now. “Who?”

“Fawn,” Frost said. “Denny called her last Sunday. I think she may be an escort. Do you know her from vice?”

The other detective was slow to reply again. His face was a mask of hostility. “Yeah, I know Fawn. And yeah, she’s an escort. Very high-end.”

“I assume Fawn is an alias. What’s her real name? Where can I find her?”

“Her real name is Zara Anand. I think she shares a place with her sister in Presidio Heights.”

“What’s her connection to Denny Clark? Why would he call her?”

“I have no idea.”

Frost clenched the phone hard. “Give me one reason I shouldn’t march your ass to an interview room and interrogate you about everything you know.”

Gorham deliberately angled his head toward Captain Hayden’s office. Frost followed the signal and stole a casual glance in the same direction. Cyril Timko stood in the doorway, watching Frost from behind his gray eyes.

“Because neither one of us knows who to trust around here,” Gorham replied.

Just like that, the other detective hung up the phone and cut him off. Gorham got up, shrugged on a coat, and disappeared toward the elevators without glancing in Frost’s direction. Frost kept the phone at his ear, even though the connection was dead. He mouthed words but didn’t say anything out loud. For some reason, he didn’t want Cyril to realize that he’d been talking to Trent Gorham.

He remembered what he’d heard from Belinda Drake. And from Herb.

Trust no one.

Don’t talk to the cops.

When Cyril went back inside Hayden’s office and closed the door, Frost finally put the phone down. He went back to Denny’s call list and kept dialing numbers like a robot, because that’s what he’d been doing all afternoon. His mind was elsewhere. He didn’t think about the numbers as he punched them into his phone and left messages one after another.

He didn’t even recognize that the next number on Denny’s call list was a number he’d dialed many times himself.

Instead, he simply sat there in shocked silence when he heard the voice on the other end.

“Hey, Frost, what’s up?” Tabby said.