“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.
15
Tabby answered the door and waved Frost inside Duane’s condominium, which smelled like a farmers’ market spice shop. The window ledges were thick with herbs and green plants. A song by Christina Perri played softly in the background. “Jar of Hearts.” That was Tabby’s music, not Duane’s.
The apartment was located in the Marina District a block from the bay. It wasn’t big, but its prime location made it expensive even by the insane standards of San Francisco real estate. For the small number of hours Duane actually spent here, it made no sense to have such a high-priced indulgence, but a place in the Marina had been Duane’s benchmark for success since he’d been a boy. Frost could trace most of Duane’s life simply by glancing around the condo. He saw the street sign for Duane’s first restaurant hung on the wall, lit up in neon. He saw a Pacific watercolor that Duane had purchased on a brothers vacation to Mendocino with Frost five years earlier. He saw family photographs in frames. Their parents. Duane and Frost together. Their sister, Katie, with her sunny blond hair.