The Crooked Street

29

The building that housed the San Francisco Chronicle was only a block away from Moscone Center, so Frost walked over there to find the investigative reporter named Khristeen Smith. The receptionist told him that she was expected back at the paper within the hour. It was late afternoon, and Frost hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast with Herb, so he left a message for Khristeen to meet him at the restaurant near the Pickwick Hotel across the street.

While he waited over a Greek meze platter, he booted up his MacBook and searched the newspaper’s online archives. He had to go back twenty-eight years to find what he wanted. It was an article by a Chronicle reporter named Stephen Post, and it was the story that had launched the Lombard myth.

Frost read the entire article, and the description of Lombard from nearly three decades earlier tracked precisely with everything that he’d discovered in the past several days. The only thing missing was a reference to red snakes marking each murder site. Stephen Post’s article clearly had stirred up a firestorm in the city, because the follow-up articles in the succeeding days reflected panicked attempts by the police chief to put the genie back in the bottle.

He read the headlines in the archives:

After that last article, Frost didn’t find another reference to the Lombard myth anywhere in the newspaper archives. It simply went away. Even so, the tone of Stephen Post’s final story suggested that he wasn’t convinced by the official denials. To the reporter, Lombard was real, and the myth was a cover-up.

Frost looked up from the computer as he heard a tapping on the window next to him. Khristeen Smith was on the street outside. He waved her in, and she hustled through the restaurant, dumped her backpack on one of the empty chairs at his table, and slid into a chair across from him. She downed a full glass of water and flagged a waiter for more.

“Hey, Frost, how are you?” Khristeen said, her words tumbling together. “I was surprised to get your message. You don’t usually knock on my door. Normally it’s the other way around.”

“This time I’m the one looking for information,” Frost told her.

“Well, color me intrigued. Where’s Shack? He’s not with you?”

“No, he’s at home today. I’m sure he’ll complain about it when I get back.”

“I love that cat,” she said. “One of these days I’m going to write a story about him, you know.”

Khristeen grabbed a menu and called out an order to a waiter passing the table. Her silver glasses slipped to the end of her nose, and she pushed them back. Her face had a sheen of sweat, as if she’d been running. She had limp dark hair parted in the middle without any particular style, and her face had no makeup. She wore a black nylon jacket zipped to her neck, blue jeans, and old sneakers.

She wasn’t even thirty years old, but in seven years with the Chronicle, she’d earned a reputation as the paper’s hardest-working reporter. Khristeen seemed to be everywhere in the city on every story. Frost didn’t know her well, but she’d written the front-page profile of him after the incident with Tabby the previous fall. He knew that she always did her research and had a good eye for details. Sometimes too good. As she asked him about Tabby, she’d seen something in his face that made her start digging into his relationship with her to a point that made him uncomfortable. He’d explained it away as a close friendship with his brother’s fiancée, but there was something in her smirk that made him think she didn’t entirely believe him.

Khristeen leaned across the table and lowered her voice. She had a fast, breathless way of talking that made her sound in a perpetual hurry. “So what’s going on, Frost? When the police come to me, it makes me think I must be missing something. Spill the beans, I want to know what you’re up to.”

“This whole conversation has to be off the record,” Frost said.

Khristeen stuck out her tongue at him. “Killjoy. Fine. But if you want something from me, I’m going to want something from you, too.”

“We can negotiate.”

“Yeah, yeah, go ahead. Off the record. What’s up?”

“What do you know about Zelyx Corporation?” Frost asked.

Khristeen’s eyebrows danced, and she rubbed her hands together. “Ooooh, I like this already. Well, I know pretty much everything there is to know about Zelyx. And about their CEO and founder, Martin Filko. I’ve been following this one for years. That’s my kind of story, baby.”

“Tell me about Filko,” he said.

The waiter brought a plate of falafel, and Khristeen dove in as if she hadn’t eaten for days. “Like what? He’s another wunderkind like Zuckerberg. Came up with some groundbreaking security protocol during a kegger at Northwestern. He’s like a year older than me, which is annoying. I haul my clothes to the laundromat, and this guy is the sultan of Brunei.”

“What about his personal life?”

“Oh, that’s a big yuck. Filko’s a frat boy. So are the execs around him. Zelyx gets a terrible rap for its culture. Their lawyers are constantly swatting down sexual harassment claims. You never see Filko out and about without some Victoria’s-Secret-model wannabe on his arm. It’s like the fantasy of every fourteen-year-old boy come true.”

“Have you heard any stories about the women he hangs out with?” Frost asked.

Khristeen studied him with squinted eyes across the table and clucked her tongue loudly against the roof of her mouth. “You realize this is the kind of conversation that gets a reporter horny, right? What the heck are you trying to find out?”

“I can’t tell you that. Not yet. Have you seen Filko with women at any of his public events?”

“Some.”

Frost found a photo of LaHonda Duke. “What about her?”

“She looks like Filko’s type, but I don’t remember her specifically.”

He showed her Fawn’s picture next. “And this woman?”

“I’m pretty sure she’s been on his arm at least once. Who is she?”

Frost smiled and didn’t answer, but Khristeen got the message.

“She’s a pro? Come on, Frost, just a hint. Do you think Filko hangs out with escorts?”

“No comment. What do you know about his reputation in Illinois? Has he had any run-ins with the police?”

“Run-ins over what?” Khristeen asked. “Narrow it down for me.”

“Assault. Abuse.”

“Sexual assault?”

“Possibly,” Frost said.

“Well, I haven’t heard anything, but that doesn’t necessarily mean there’s nothing there. Filko has the money to fix things. I’m sure he knows how to make problems go away.”

“What was Filko’s relationship with Greg Howell?” Frost asked.

Khristeen looked disappointed that they weren’t talking about sex anymore. “Bad. Those two hated each other. Howell controlled the Mission Bay land that Filko and the mayor wanted for the Zelyx headquarters. Howell was trying to drag it out with litigation and jack up the price. Frankly, I think Howell just wanted to screw Filko, too. Howell was a classy guy, and he thought Filko was a turd.”

“What happened after Howell had his heart attack?”

“Howell’s sons settled. It was all quick and quiet. Filko got his building site.”

Frost tried to make his next question sound casual. “So when was Filko last in San Francisco? Do you know?”

Khristeen’s lips puckered into a self-satisfied smirk. “Yes, I do know.”

“And?”

“And this one is going to cost you, Frost. I think you have something very specific in mind about what Filko was doing, and you need me to confirm it for you.”

“Why do you say that?” Frost asked.

“One, I know how to read people, and I can read you. Two, do you think I somehow missed the story about a guy dying on your front doorstep last Friday? I smell a connection. If Martin Filko, CEO of Zelyx Corporation, has anything to do with a poisoned guy on Russian Hill, then I sure as hell want to know about it. I’m not saying another word until you give me something more.”

“You’re not the only reporter in town, Khristeen,” Frost said. “I can go elsewhere with my questions.”

“But you won’t, because you know I have the information you need.”

Frost frowned. “We’re still off the record.”

“For now.”

“The man who died at my house was named Denny Clark. He ran VIP charter tours on a yacht out of the marina. I want to know if Martin Filko was on his boat on Tuesday night.”

“Because?” Khristeen asked.

“No. That’s all you get for now.”

Khristeen took a large bite of falafel. “Okay. I don’t know anything about the boat, but yes, Martin Filko was in San Francisco on Tuesday.”

“What was he doing?” Frost asked.

“He toured the HQ building site, and then he spent the rest of the day with the mayor and his staff. Economic development, affordable housing, that kind of stuff. The relocation is a big deal, you know.”

“And in the evening?”

Khristeen winked. “Well, that is an excellent question, and I wish I knew the answer to it. But I don’t.”

“Why is that?”

“Because Filko and the mayor pulled a bait and switch on the press. The schedule said that the two of them were going to have dinner at the Fairmont. However, that turned out not to be true. They never showed. And they did a fake-out with the limo at city hall so no one was able to follow them. I have no idea where they went or who they were with or what they did.”

Frost felt the unmistakable electricity of getting closer to the truth. It shot up his spine with a combination of fear and excitement. “But Martin Filko was definitely with the mayor on Tuesday evening?” he asked.

“Definitely.”

He stood up, dug cash out of his wallet, and slapped it on the table. “This should cover everything. In fact, order something else if you want. Thank you, Khristeen. This was very helpful.”

“You’re welcome. And remember, Frost, I expect you to be very helpful to me in the near future.”

“Count on it,” he said. He picked up his laptop, and as he did, he thought about the archived articles he’d found about Lombard. “Oh, one other thing. Have you ever heard of a reporter named Stephen Post who used to work at the Chronicle? This would have been about three decades ago, so he was long before your time. I was just wondering if you’d heard the name.”

A strange, suspicious expression came over Khristeen’s face. “Stephen Post? Why are you interested in him?”

Frost shrugged. “He wrote some articles a long time ago that I just came across. If he was still in the Bay Area, I thought I might talk to him. You know me. I’m interested in history.”

Khristeen didn’t look convinced by his explanation. “Well, I do know about Stephen Post. All of us at the paper do. He’s a hero to journalists. Actually, there’s a portrait of him in the lobby with a special plaque underneath it.”

Frost stared at her, confused. “Why is that?”

“It’s a memorial,” she told him. “Stephen Post was shot and killed while on assignment. The police never found out who did it, but everyone believes it was because of one of his stories.”