The Night Bird (Frost Easton #1)(60)

“Because of me,” Frost said. “He knows I’m the one investigating the case, and he seems to be making it personal.”

Herb put Shack on the ground, and the cat sprawled on the sidewalk between them. “How can I help?”

Frost took his phone out of his pocket and clicked over to his photos. “This is a photo of Lucy,” he said, showing the picture to Herb. “This guy had to get her from her apartment to wherever he’s hiding. Maybe someone saw them.”

“You want me to put the word out to my network?” Herb asked.

“Exactly.”

Herb had fingers in nearly every corner of San Francisco, thanks to his years on the city council. Five years earlier, he’d also pioneered a nonprofit initiative to get donated smartphones in the hands of every homeless person in San Francisco. The phones had become a lifeline for jobs, housing opportunities, food, and city services—and they’d also become ground zero for a social media network that could get news around the Bay Area almost instantaneously. Among Herb’s twenty-seven thousand Twitter followers were more than five thousand homeless people who were 24-7 eyewitnesses to city life. They didn’t always trust the police, but they trusted Herb.

“What would you like me to tell them?”

“I’ll text you Lucy’s photo,” Frost said. “I’ll send photos of the other three women, too. I’m hoping someone spotted them going in or out of this guy’s hiding place.”

“Consider it done. I’ll get something out immediately.”

“There’s one other thing. A song. ‘Nightingale’ by Carole King. Do you know it?”

“Of course,” Herb said. “Carole cowrote it with David Palmer. He was lead singer for a few of the songs on Steely Dan’s first album. That’s your music trivia for the day.”

Frost smiled. There was very little trivia from the ’60s and ’70s that Herb didn’t know. He’d grown up in San Francisco during the days of flower power and the Summer of Love.

“‘Nightingale’ was used as a trigger with the women who died. This isn’t a Taylor Swift song that gets played thousands of times a day. If anybody heard that song recently, I’d like to know where.”

“I’ll put out the word, but once I do, the press is likely to get hold of the story. They follow whatever I post on Twitter, and I get calls. Is that okay?”

“That’s fine. Jess wants to make it all public. The Night Bird. The song. If anybody calls, send them my way.”

“The song’s an odd choice, isn’t it?”

“It is, which makes me think ‘Nightingale’ has some kind of special meaning for him. If we get the news out there about it, maybe someone will make a connection.” Frost bent down and scooped Shack off the ground. “I have to go.”

“If I hear anything, I’ll be in touch,” Herb said. “What does Dr. Stein say about all this?”

“She’s not saying much. I think she’s hiding something.”

“What’s your take on her? You know I’m not much of a fan after the Darren Newman episode.”

Frost hesitated. “She’s a tough one to read. She’s smart, obviously. And attractive in a keep-your-distance sort of way. She comes across as a loner, like me.”

“Well, be careful with her,” Herb told him.

“Why is that?”

His friend smiled. “You know what they say about psychiatrists, Frost. They only go into the business to find someone crazier than they are.”





31


Darren Newman’s business address led Frankie to the industrial piers butting up to the bay in the southeastern part of the city. She parked next to an unmarked warehouse within sight of the water. Beyond the barbed wire fence at the end of the road, she could see gantry cranes hoisting dozens of rust-red containers off a Chinese freighter.

When she got out of her car, she was alone. She heard the thunder of metal tonnage lifted and dropped, but she didn’t see another human being. Smog clung to the horizon like a brown cloud, obscuring the hills of the East Bay. Dirt blew off the concrete. She walked to the eight-foot fence and peered through the mesh. Above the security booth, she saw a list of shipping companies that operated here.

The fourth company listed was Newman Imports.

She studied the flat, open concrete around her. To her left, the road ended in a gravel lot filled with unhooked truck trailers. On her right was a beige two-story office building. It was late afternoon underneath the haze. Most of the businesses had already shut down for the day, and the workers had gone home.

Frankie headed for the office building. She climbed the steps to the glass doors and let herself inside. No one was there to greet her. A corridor stretched to the back of the building, and she walked the length of the corridor and found a door with Darren Newman’s name on it, but the door was closed and locked.

“Can I help you?”

She turned around and found herself face-to-face with a young woman in a gray business suit. They were the same height. The woman’s canary-yellow hair covered her head in short, gelled spikes. Her narrowed eyes were cold. She had her arms folded across her chest.

“I was looking for Darren Newman,” Frankie said.

“I haven’t seen Darren today,” the woman replied, “and I’m about to lock up the building for the night. Do you have an appointment?”