Brian Freeman - The Crooked Street

“Sorry to let myself in,” Herb told him without opening his eyes. “I needed a quiet space, and the gallery was a madhouse today.”

Frost slid to the floor, stretched out his legs, and leaned back against the sofa. “No problem. I’m getting used to people showing up unannounced around here. At least you’re not dropping dead or looking for snakes.”

This time, Herb opened one eye. “Snakes?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

Frost patted the carpet beside him, and Shack opened one bleary eye, too. The cat weighed the comfort of his current spot against the obligation to say hello to Frost, and he got up with a slight meow of annoyance and wandered over to stake out his usual place on Frost’s shoulder. His purring was like the loud rumble of a sports car’s engine.

Herb untangled himself from his yoga position with a crack of his knees. He stood up, squeezed his hip with a small grimace, and went to the kitchen, where he helped himself to a Sierra Nevada ale. He waved a second bottle in Frost’s direction with a silent question.

“Definitely,” Frost replied.

Herb brought two bottles to the living room and sank down onto the floor next to Frost. They drank their beers and sat in silence for several minutes. Neither one of them felt the need to fill empty spaces with small talk.

“So, Denny Clark,” Herb said finally. “That was a surprise.”

“It sure was.”

“He showed up completely out of the blue?”

“Completely.”

“I was never much of a fan of Mr. Clark,” Herb admitted.

“I know.”

“Still, it’s a tragedy. I’m sorry.”

“I am, too,” Frost agreed. “I don’t like unfinished business. I always assumed that one day Denny and I would find a way to put the past behind us. We didn’t leave things on good terms.”

“That was hardly your fault,” Herb pointed out.

Frost shrugged. Herb was right, but it didn’t change anything.

He’d known Herb since his college days at SF State, and Herb had been his friend throughout the beginning, middle, and end of his relationship with Denny and Carla. Frost didn’t open up to others easily, but he shared everything with Herb. The only other person in his life with whom he’d been that honest was his sister, Katie. After Katie was killed, he’d been lucky to have Herb as a confidant.

“Do you know what happened to Denny?” Herb went on.

“Not yet,” Frost said. “All I know is that this case keeps getting stranger and stranger.”

“Including snakes?”

“Including snakes.” Frost took out his phone and showed Herb the picture of the graffiti near Coolbrith Park. “Have you ever seen something like this around town?”

Herb squinted through his black glasses. “I don’t think so.”

“Could you put out the word to your network?” Frost asked. “If someone has seen a snake like this, I’d like to know about it.”

“Of course.”

Among his many activities in the city, Herb had launched a program to put smartphones in the hands of the homeless to give them a link to jobs and shelters. It had grown into an online network with the nickname Street Twitter, and when Frost needed information, it was the fastest community of spies in San Francisco. The people on the street trusted Herb.

“Can you tell me what this is all about?” Herb asked.

“I met a private detective named Dick Coyle. He has this theory that a serial killer has been at work in the city for years, and no one has figured it out. The snakes are this guy’s talisman. When he kills somebody, he leaves a snake behind. Coyle just found another snake in Berkeley this afternoon.”

Herb’s eyebrows rose. “That sounds like a rather wild idea. Do you believe him?”

“Normally, I wouldn’t, but Denny gave me a message before he died that makes me think Coyle isn’t crazy. It was the only thing he said to me. Just one word. Lombard. ”

Herb studied the photo of the snake again and spotted the significance immediately. “I see what you mean. The resemblance to the street can’t be an accident.”

“No.”

“All right, I’ll see if the name Lombard rings any bells with my network, too,” Herb said with a slight frown on his face, as if something had flitted in and out of his memory. He paused and then added, “It’s hard to believe this could be happening without the police having some knowledge of it.”

Frost took a swallow of Torpedo ale. “You’re right. That is hard to believe. What bothers me is that I have the sense there are people at headquarters who already know all about this. And they’re not saying anything.”

Herb smoothed his colorful robe. “Well, you know I love your mysteries, Frost. Anyway, thank you for the meditation space and the feline assistance. I’m having dinner at Cha Cha Cha with some of the students at the gallery. Do you want to join me?”

“I would if I could,” Frost said, “but Duane asked me to come to the food truck tonight.”

Herb gave him a pointed stare. “And?”

“And yes, Tabby will be there, too.”

Herb shook his head. He was the only one who knew the truth about Frost’s feelings for Tabby. “I’m trying to think of a way this ends well, Frost, but I can’t see it.”

“Neither can I.”

“You know I love you, my friend, but you’re going to have to find a way to get past your feelings for this girl. Or else the situation is going to explode for all of you.”

“I know that.”

Frost had been telling himself the same thing for months, but he’d found no answers.

Herb pushed himself to his feet, and Frost did the same. Outside, through the bay window, it was almost dark. The city lights were coming on down the hillside. Shack spotted a white moth that had crept in through the open door, and he galloped to the glass to bat at it.

“I’ll keep you posted on my herpetological research,” Herb said. “If there are snakes to be found in the city, I’ll locate them.”

“Thanks. Oh, I have one other question, too.” Frost took his phone and called up the photo of Denny Clark and Greg Howell on the Roughing It , with the mystery blond woman between them. “Have you ever seen this woman before? Do you know who she is?”

Herb shoved his glasses to the end of his nose and bent closer to the phone screen. “Ah, you’re playing in the big leagues with this one, Frost.”

“You know her?” he asked.

“Oh yes. She runs her own public relations company. It’s really more like an executive matchmaker service. When one powerful person needs to connect with another, she’s the intermediary who makes it happen.”

Frost tapped the photo. “Powerful people like Greg Howell?”

“Definitely.”

“What’s her name?” Frost asked.

“Belinda Drake.”

“How do I find her?”

Herb shook his head. “That’s a problem. Typically, you don’t find her. If you have something she needs, she finds you.”

“Has she ever found you for anything?” Frost asked.

“Once, yes. It was when my three-dimensional paintings were starting to make the news. She arranged to fly me on a private jet to an estate somewhere in the South Pacific. I have no idea exactly where or whose estate it was. My job was to paint a mural, and I did. I spent two weeks there, alone, with no one else around except a butler and a cook. When I was done, I was flown home. And the commission is what enabled me to buy my gallery in the Haight. It was very lucrative.”

“I can’t believe you never told me about this,” Frost said.

“I was under a nondisclosure agreement, which is actually still in force. We should keep this discussion between us.”

“I still need to talk to her,” Frost said.