Read Online Death in North Beach by Ronald Tierney - Free Book Online

with?’
    â€˜Thank you for your time,’ Carly said.
    He stood for a moment, obviously waiting for her to depart. Instead she went back to the photographs. Reed gave up and disappeared into the hallway.
    Carly stopped by the desk.
    â€˜I just got done talking with Mr Reed,’ she said, misleading them with the truth, ‘do you have a phone number or address for Frank Wiley?’
    â€˜Sure,’ the blonde said. Her fingers tapped on the keyboard and when they stopped, she said, ‘I’ll write this down for you.’
    Carly Paladino departed the gallery with the information on a Post-it note. She had a sudden thought and came back in.
    â€˜Do you have anything on an artist, Lili D. Young?’
    The blonde looked at her then to her right where Mr Reed stood, more serious than one might think possible.
    Carly smiled, waved. Noah Lang was rubbing off on her.
    Lang stopped by the office. Carly arrived at the same time and they both took the stairs. The elevator was slow. A snail could make it up the steps faster than the clanging, groaning and notoriously unreliable lift. There, sitting in the reception area, was Thanh. He wore a blue blazer, a white shirt and Palomino-colored pants, all custom-made. The clothing was loosely draped and elegant. His hair was combed back, a touch of silver around the temples. There was an air of sophistication in the way he looked up at Carly, who was stunned for a moment.
    â€˜How is Carly Paladino today?’ Thanh asked, barely suppressing a grin.
    â€˜You are a chameleon aren’t you?’ Carly asked.
    He was an Asian version of William Blake, looking a little younger, a little slimmer, but catching that smooth, sleepy-eyed charmer completely.
    Carly looked at Lang, who shrugged.
    â€˜You should see his Audrey Hepburn,’ Lang said.
    Carly thought that she shouldn’t have been surprised at this act of impersonation. She’d seen Thanh in action before – as a glimmering goddess and then, of course, yesterday, when he looked like a slippery pimp from the tropics.
    â€˜Any calls?’ Carly asked.
    â€˜One, but I just got here,’ Thanh said, voice reverting to normal. ‘You can ask Brinkman. He got here at seven this morning, said it was easier to sleep at the office.’ He looked down at Carly’s footwear. ‘Jimmy Choo, cool.’
    â€˜Who’s Jimmy Choo?’ Lang asked as he headed for his office.
    â€˜Don’t worry your pretty little head about Jimmy Choo,’ Thanh said, smiling.
    â€˜That’s a relief,’ Lang said. ‘I needed that room in my brain to figure out the meaning of life. Good to have the pressure off. And the call you took?’
    â€˜Marshall Hawkes,’ Thanh said.
    Lang stopped, turned back.
    â€˜He can see you today at noon.’
    Lang looked at his watch. ‘That makes it pretty much now,’ he said.
    It was a short walk to the address Lang was given for Hawkes. Even so, he was greeted with the usual South of Market population, ranging from the down and out and the up and coming. The architecture reflected the same arc of abandonment and resurrection. Empty, trashed buildings existed side by side with creatively remodeled spaces and shiny, new condominiums.
    Inside one of those condo buildings, the artist, Marshall Hawkes, wore a silk kimono. The pinks and burgundy dominated an intricate abstract pattern in the silk that seemed more garish than it was because of Marshall’s flaming red hair. The man was thin, sharp-featured, eyes narrow-set and a crisp, heartless blue.
    Hawkes welcomed Noah with a thin smile and a dramatic gesture. The living room was very Japanese, very minimal. There wasn’t the scent of oil or turpentine, just Marshall Hawkes’s cologne. Off the living room was a terrace that overlooked the street.
    â€˜Yes,’ Hawkes said, perching himself like a skinny bird on the edge of one of the two sofas, both upholstered in a