Read Online Death in the Haight by Ronald Tierney - Free Book Online

halfway across the world?
    A little after six, light began to seep in through the living room window. Lang took a deep breath and stood. He walked from the sofa into the dining room. He walked back and forth because of impatience, not purpose. Stern was still out. He’d had at least three hours sleep, Lang thought. Maybe more. He didn’t know when the inspector had passed out. No earlier than midnight, because he was still standing outside Lang’s office shortly before the bewitching hour.
    Instead of shaking him awake, Lang turned off the television, went into the kitchen, and found what was necessary to brew a pot of coffee. If Stern’s drinking was a regular pattern, Lang thought, then Stern would have to show up by eight or nine at Homicide, which would mean he would likely wake up in the next hour or so, sooner if the rattling in the kitchen woke him—an unaccustomed noise for the single man.
    There was nothing in the refrigerator except a bottle of catsup, a jar of mayonnaise, and another of mustard. No eggs. No milk. No lunch meat. A couple of wilted stalks of celery occupied a corner of the vegetable bin. There were three boxes of sausage and pepperoni pizzas in the freezer. There was no cereal in the cabinets. There was a box of Ritz crackers and cups of ramen noodles enclosed in cellophane beside a bottle of vinegar. However, the trash was overflowing with various takeout containers, revealing a man with unsophisticated but certainly international tastes in food.
    Here was a man, Lang thought, who didn’t really sleep at his house or have a home-cooked meal. There were no books or magazines, just a pile of newspapers. He had no computer. Dry cleaning, still in its clear plastic, hung on hangers that were hooked over the back of the open door between kitchen and dining room.
    Back in the living room Lang found his victim, still firmly bound, staring at him.
    â€œWhy didn’t you take me out?” Stern asked, surprisingly without anger. It was a sane voice.
    â€œDon’t like shooting monkeys in a barrel.”
    â€œThat’s fish in a barrel, numb nuts.”
    â€œWell, you’re more like a big dumb ape,” Lang said. “And what makes you think I can’t still take you out?”
    â€œYou thought about it, right?”
    â€œNot past tense.”
    Stern laughed. “Gloves?” His laugh evolved into a cough that went on for minutes. Finally in control, he said, “Smart. Hey, I would have done it. No balls, Lang.”
    â€œA couple of hours ago, I realized I could take the cap from the whiskey bottle and shove it down your throat. You would have choked to death.”
    â€œA drunken accident. You’d have gotten away with it, probably.”
    â€œCould have set fire to your chair. A careless cigarette. Or your revolver, over there.” Lang pointed to the .38 now on top of a stack of newspapers. “I could have put it in your limp hand and put the barrel right up under your chin and fired right into your brain.” Lang mimed, putting his finger under his chin. “Or here,” Lang said, putting his finger in his mouth. “You exhibit every symptom of a man who wants to destroy himself.”
    â€œYou been talking to Gratelli?” Stern asked.
    â€œTell me, Stern,” Lang said, looking around, “do you have a real life somewhere that nobody knows about?”
    â€œI got nothing and nothing to lose.”
    â€œLook, the last thing I want to do is kill you. You seem to be doing a good job all by yourself. But I want to make sure you know that I will if I need to. I can’t be looking over my shoulder to find out if this crazy cop will jump out of the shadows and beat me up or maybe put a bullet through my head. I promise you, I will kill you first.”
    â€œLike you killed that woman in Sea Cliff?”
    â€œI didn’t. The Russian set me up. He killed her or had her killed. And if I didn’t work