That includes the case of Tim Holley. Last year, Holley stepped off the curb on California Street across from Tadich Grill and was struck and killed by a hit-and-run driver. Holley was a stockbroker and whistleblower who had been planning to testify about insider trading schemes at three of the city’s largest banks. Now the SEC investigation has stalled.
An ordinary traffic accident? The police don’t think so. In fact, sources inside the police are sure they know who was behind the hit-and-run. “Lombard did it,” says one of the department’s homicide inspectors with knowledge of the case.
No one in the police or city hall would speak on the record about Lombard, but the picture they paint is of a ruthless criminal who operates at the behest of the powerful...
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:
Police Chief Calls Lombard “Fiction,” “Myth”
City Council Launches Review of Lombard Claims
Chief Steps Down Following Lombard Controversy
Mayor Says “No Evidence” That Lombard Exists
Months After Lombard Story, Doubts Linger
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?”