Nocturnal: A Novel

  WHAT KIND OF BODY DID YOU FIND THIS IN?

  “Caucasian male,” Pookie said. “A cop killer. Six-foot-one, two hundred and thirty pounds. Full beard.”

  WAS HE WEARING A COSTUME?

  “No,” Pookie said. He looked at Bryan. “But we think others who might have been working with him were.”

  Biz-Nass nodded, as if that was what he expected to hear.

  THIS V-CROSS IS THE SYMBOL OF THE SAVIORS. THERE SHOULD BE ANOTHER SYMBOL ON THE SHAFT … AN EYE WITH A DAGGER THROUGH IT.

  Bryan took the phone, flicked to the next photo — the arrow shaft — and set it on the table in front of Biz-Nass.

  The fortune-teller stared, then nodded.

  SAVIORS KILL MARIE’S CHILDREN. YOUR COP KILLER WAS IN THE CULT. THESE SYMBOLS ARE ON ALL OF THE ARROWHEADS. HE HAND CARVES THEM.

  “He?” Pookie said. “You know who makes these?”

  Biz-Nass nodded. IF I TELL YOU, PROMISE YOU WON’T COME BACK IN A FEW MONTHS AND BEAT ME SILLY?

  “Why would we do that?”

  The fortune-teller shrugged. THAT’S WHAT AMY ZOU DID. I TOLD YOU SHE ROUGHED ME UP. SHE CAME TO ME JUST LIKE DICKER PRICKER YOU GUYS ARE NOW. SHE WANTED INFO ON THE ARROWS, WANTED TO KNOW WHO MADE THEM. I TOLD HER. TWO YEARS LATER, SHE AND VERDE BEAT ME UP, TOLD ME IF I DIDN’T SHITTYBALLS! STOP WORKING ON THE FUCKLESNIFF! BOOK THEY WOULD KILL ME.

  Amy Zou had been tracking down an arrowhead. Had she been tracking the person who killed the Golden Gate Slasher? If so, why had she then come back and forced Biz-Nass into silence?

  “You have our word,” Pookie said. “We’re not going to lay a finger on you.”

  Biz-Nass held out a fist to Pookie. WORD IS BOND?

  Pookie bumped fists and nodded. “Word is bond.”

  The fortune-teller then held a fist out to Bryan. WORD IS BOND?

  Bryan rolled his eyes. “What are you, sixteen years old? I’m not bumping fists, for fuck’s sake.”

  Biz-Nass didn’t move his hand. Bryan looked to Pookie.

  “Just do it,” Pookie said.

  Bryan sighed, then bumped fists. “Word is bond.”

  Biz-Nass nodded and smiled. THE GUY’S NAME IS ALDER JESSUP.

  Pookie’s skin tingled. Now they really had something. “Biz, if Alder Jessup makes the arrows, who shoots them?”

  I NEVER FOUND OUT THAT PART, I SWEAR.

  Bryan reached out and gently took his phone. “That’s okay. Know where this Alder Jessup lives?”

  Biz leaned forward, waved his right hand over the blue crystal ball. I SEE SOMETHING IN YOUR FUTURE, OFFICER DICKER PRICKER FUCKER SUCKER. SOMETHING WE MYSTICS CALL A GOOGLE SEARCH.

  He looked up. THAT’S ALL I KNOW. GOOD LUCK.

  Bryan offered his hand. “Thank you.” Biz-Nass shook it, then raised his palm and extended it toward Pookie.

  UP HIGH, MY NIZZLE.

  Pookie gave Biz-Nass a high five, then followed Bryan out of the office.

  Pookie already had his cell phone in hand. “No coal for the choo-choo today, Bri-Bri. I’m calling Black Mister Burns and telling him to get anything he can on this Alder Jessup.”

  Bryan nodded. He seemed to be focusing on staying calm — as if he had to focus or he’d wind up kicking the holy hell out of the first person to cross his path.

  Alder Jessup

  For the first time in his career, Bryan hoped things would go bad. He hoped this Alder Jessup would start some shit, or maybe just turn tail and run. That would give Bryan an excuse to take him down. Someone had to pay, and if Jessup wanted to find out how bad Bryan could hurt someone, well, Bryan would be happy to oblige.

  He and Pookie sat in the parked Buick, looking out at Alder Jessup’s residence — 1969 California Street. The place stood out like a road whore at a convent. The wall-to-wall line of houses on that street all wore colorful paint — white, yellows, pastels and terra-cotta brick. Nineteen sixty-nine, on the other hand, was gray — completely devoid of color. It looked like a haunted English mansion taken from some soggy countryside estate and jammed into the neighborhood like a fat man dropping his big ass onto an already packed bus bench.

  Half of an English mansion, that was. Just the left half. The right side of the house rose to a peak that just stopped. Below that peak was a half-arch that once might have been intended as an entryway for servants or horses. Where the mirror half of the gray mansion should have been sat a modern three-story brick apartment building trimmed in white.

  “Peppy,” Pookie said. “Martha Stewart doesn’t use dungeon-gray enough for my taste.”

  “Looks expensive,” Bryan said. “What do you think it’s worth, two million?”

  Pookie laughed. “You don’t get out much, buddy. This thing is fifteen mil if it’s a penny. And it’s not a penny, in case you suck at the multiple choice. Black Mister Burns said Alder Jessup has lived here for at least sixty years. That’s all we have for now.”

  Sixty years? Well, maybe Bryan would have to cool his jets. No matter how churned-up he felt inside, it wouldn’t be cool to beat the shit out of a senior citizen.

  “It’s enough to get started,” he said. “Ready?”

  Pookie scooped up his stack of manila folders. “Yep, let’s go.”

  They slid out of the Buick and crossed the five lanes of California Street. Four concrete steps led to an archway door that looked like it belonged in a church. An intentionally rusted gate made of crossed diagonal half-inch iron bars blocked the archway. Behind the gate, more stairs, at the top of which sat a fancier door into the house proper.

  The gate looked like a high-security rig, although you could reach right through the diagonal spaces between the rusted bars. In the middle of the gate was a small, cast-iron image of Sagittarius — the half-horse, half-man archer.

  Pookie gripped the iron bars and gave the gate a shake. “It would take a tank to get through this.”

  There was a buzzer to the right of the door. Bryan pressed it.

  Moments later, the interior door at the top of the internal stairs opened. The man that descended was not what Bryan expected to see greeting them at a multimillion-dollar Pacific Heights mansion. The man stopped behind the gate. He looked at Pookie, he looked at Bryan, then he sneered.

  “Who the fuck are you two ass-clowns?”

  He was in his early twenties, five-eight, about a buck-fifty. He wore a black KILLSWITCH ENGAGE concert T-shirt. A black belt with a silver skull buckle held up heavy black jeans. Black combat boots completed the ensemble. His short sleeves showed off intricate tattoos running up both arms. Silver bracelets decorated both wrists: some thin loops, some thick bands with detailed engravings. A dozen small, silver earrings pierced each ear. He also had a silver loop in each eyebrow, one through his lower lip, and a thick one dangling from his septum. His pitch-black, sculpted hair hung down over his left eye.

  “San Francisco Police,” Pookie said. “I’m Inspector Chang. This is Inspector Clauser. We’d like to talk to Alder Jessup.”

  “About what?”

  “About a murder.”

  The tattooed man sneered. “Got a warrant, bitch?”

  Bryan instantly disliked this kind of person, the type that hated cops for the intolerable sin of enforcing the law. Best to let Pookie handle this, or Bryan knew he’d want to rub the guy’s face against the concrete sidewalk.

  “We don’t have a warrant,” Pookie said. “But if we have to go get one, someone is going in the back of a marked car, in cuffs, in front of the whole neighborhood.”

  “You think I care if any of the zombies around here see me in a cop car?”

  “Are you Alder Jessup?”

  “No,” the tattooed man said. “I’m his grandson, Adam.”

  Pookie rolled his neck, like he was trying to loosen a deep kink. “Adam, no offense, but you look like the kind of guy who’s familiar with the back of a squad car. Am I right?”

  Adam nodded.

  “I’m guessing Grandpa Alder isn’t. Am I right about that one
, too?”

  Adam stared hatefully, then nodded again.

  “Fine,” Pookie said. “Now, unless you want me to come back here and haul Grampy Alder off in cuffs, stop busting our balls and let us come in.”

  Adam thought it over for a second, then he opened the metal gate. He led Pookie and Bryan up the steps, through an ornate oak door and into a foyer.

  “Wait right here,” Adam said. “I’ll go get Grampa.”

  Bryan watched Adam bound up a beautiful staircase, the railing of which was so lacquered and polished it could pass for wood-toned glass. The man’s piercings clinked as he ran.

  The foyer’s furniture, paintings and sculptures looked expensive. Bryan felt like he was standing in a museum wing. Everything, from the art to the marble floor to even the intricate wood trim on a velvet couch, exhibited some kind of archery theme: bows, arrows, arrowheads, archers.

  Moments later, Adam Jessup helped his grandfather down the stairs. Alder wore an immaculate brown three-piece suit. He walked with a long wooden cane topped by a silver wolf’s head. Most of his hair was long gone, leaving a mottled scalp and a ring of fine white around his temples.

  “Inspectors,” Alder said in a light, airy voice. “You need to speak with me?”

  Pookie introduced himself and Bryan again, then got to it. “We’re looking for information on an arrowhead that you may have made.”

  Bryan watched the Jessups carefully. Alder showed no reaction, but Adam’s eyes dilated a little — he was nervous.

  Pookie opened a manila folder and handed over a printout showing Bryan’s cell-phone picture of the arrowhead. Alder took the printout. Adam’s eyes went wide.

  The old man squinted, then reached into his breast pocket and pulled out silver-rimmed glasses. He put them on gently and looked again. “No, I’m afraid I don’t recognize this.”

  Alder was a cool customer. Bryan knew his kind well, the kind that could lie with confidence and ease. His grandson, however, didn’t have that skill.

  “But you do make arrows,” Bryan said. “And bows, and all kinds of custom archery stuff.”

  Alder smiled. “You’ve been looking into us. How flattering. We do make custom weaponry. Or rather, Adam here does.” Alder looked at his grandson and beamed with pride. “My hands and eyes aren’t what they used to be. Adam has the talent, though. His father, alas, does not. My son can barely do the dishes without chipping the china … bad hands, you see. Twitchy. Certain skills can skip a generation.”

  “I know what you mean,” Pookie said. “My father is a whiz at Mad Libs, but my vocabulary is a bit thin to say the least. A tragedy for me, but perhaps my future children will have the gift.”

  Alder sighed. “One can only hope, Inspector Chang.”

  Bryan, impatient, pointed to the printout. “You’re sure you guys didn’t make this?”

  “I would certainly know if we did,” Alder said.

  Pookie’s cell phone buzzed. He pulled it out, looked at a text. Bryan peeked at the screen — the text came from Black Mr. Burns.

  Bryan couldn’t wait for Pookie’s slow-play anymore. He wanted to shake these guys up. “Mister Jessup, is that the same story you told Amy Zou twenty-nine years ago? And what do you know about Marie’s Children?”

  Pookie looked up from his phone with an expression on his face that said what the hell are you doing?

  Alder took two cane-supported steps forward to stand face-to-face with Bryan.

  “Young man,” Alder said quietly, “whatever you think you know about Marie’s Children, you don’t want to know more. Just leave it alone.”

  Everything about the old man screamed wisdom and patience. He was the kind of person you listened to, even if you’d just met him. Too bad Bryan didn’t give a rat’s ass about listening to anyone.

  “I won’t leave it alone,” Bryan said. “And if you’re tied up in it, you’re going to find that out the hard way.”

  Alder seemed to sag, just a bit. He leaned heavily on his cane. Adam caught the old man, stopped him from falling.

  “Leave,” Adam said. “Don’t come back without a warrant.”

  Bryan wanted to punch them both. “The old guy gets tired bit? Give me a break.”

  “Bryan,” Pookie said, “we should go.”

  “But he—”

  “We’ve overstayed our welcome, Bryan,” Pookie said. “Let’s go.”

  Bryan ground his teeth. He took one more look at the Jessups, then turned and walked out the door.

  He needed to hit someone, and his partner was about one snide comment away from the nomination. Bryan slid into the Buick and slammed the door.

  “Hey,” Pookie said as he got in. “Easy on the merchandise.”

  “Nice fucking job having my back in there. You know those guys made that arrowhead, right?”

  Pookie started the car. “Yeah, I know. But there’s more to detective work than yelling at an old man.”

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  “Like that house,” Pookie said. “Black Mister Burns ran the property records. The Jessups don’t own it.”

  “Who does?”

  “An esteemed gentleman by the name of Jebediah Erickson. In fact, that house has been in the Erickson family for a hundred and fifty years. So has one other house in town, a house very close to here.”

  Why was Pookie chasing property records when the Jessups clearly had answers? “So someone else owns the house … why would that make you want to leave when they were about to give up the goods?”

  “Because Mister Burns found something else about Jebediah Erickson,” Pookie said. “Thirty-six years ago, Jeb won a gold medal at the Pan Am Games. Take a guess in what sport?”

  Bryan’s anger started to fade. “Archery?”

  Pookie smiled and nodded.

  “Wait a minute,” Bryan said. “Thirty-six years ago? So even if the guy was in his mid-twenties when he won, he’s at least sixty. Probably not a guy who can do the things you saw.”

  “Probably not. But we have a gold-medal archer who owns the house of a man who makes custom arrowheads. Think that merits a visit?”

  It sure as hell did. “Where is Erickson’s place again?”

  “Five blocks away,” Pookie said. “Let’s go see if he’s home.”

  Jebediah Erickson’s House

  There was something familiar about Erickson’s house, but Bryan couldn’t place it. He must have seen it before. It was on Franklin Street, a three-lane one-way that pumped traffic from downtown up to the Marina neighborhood. If you went north, you took Franklin. So sure, he’d probably seen the house in passing hundreds of times.

  Like the Jessups’ place, this house was fairly colorless — gray trim against slate-blue walls. The house faced east, toward Franklin. A small yard sat south of the house, with a driveway at the lot’s southernmost end.

  Where the Jessups’ place looked like an old English manor, this house was all San Francisco Victorian. A round, four-story, window-covered turret rose up from the house’s front-right corner, peaked cone-roof soaring high into the air. The entryway was a good fifteen feet above the sidewalk level, at the back of a ten-by-ten porch that itself was covered by a steeply peaked roof supported by ornate, gray-painted wood columns. The stairs started about ten feet to the left of the porch; seven weathered marble steps perpendicular to the street led to a small, square landing, then ten more steps running parallel with the front of the house.

  They walked up the steps. Bryan took in the intricate, waist-high railing that lined the porch. At the back of that porch sat beautiful double doors made of thickly lacquered oak.

  There was something familiar about the place all right, and more familiarity than he could know from just passing by. The place carried an aura, a disturbing feeling Bryan couldn’t nail down.

  The answers to everything were inside that house. He knew it, deep in his gut.

  “Look at this place,” Pookie said. “What an awesome set for an episode of Blue Balls.”


  “Not in the mood to talk cop shows, Pooks.”

  To the left of the double doors, Bryan saw an ornate brass doorbell fixture with a scratched black button in the center. He pressed it. The disturbed feeling grew stronger.

  As they waited, Pookie rocked back and forth on his toes and heels. “You weren’t a Negative Nancy about the show name this time. That mean you’re down with Blue Balls?”

  “No,” Bryan said. “It means I don’t want to talk about cop shows.”

  “If you don’t like my name, why don’t you propose one?”

  Bryan sighed, cleared his throat. Pookie was trying to be helpful, trying to lighten the mood.

  “Fine,” Bryan said. “How about Bryan and Pookie?”

  Pookie shook his head. “That sounds like a pedophiliac puppet show.”

  Bryan pressed the door buzzer again.

  They waited. Still no answer.

  “Come on,” Pookie said. “Give me another one, Mister I Know Show-Business.”

  “Fine. How about last names? Clauser and Chang? You know, with that curly ampersand thing?”

  Pookie shook his head. “No, won’t work. First of all, I’ll be the one nailing all the lonely wives of the murdering big-business guys. That means my name has to come first.”

  “Chang and Clauser?”

  Pookie shook his head again. “That could be a police drama, if the show was about two gay cops that moonlighted as interior decorators.”

  “I’d watch that,” Bryan said, forgoing the doorbell to pound four times on the oak door. “It would be like my favorite show of all time.”

  They stared at the door, but nothing happened.

  They turned and walked back down the steps. Bryan felt a sense of loss as he walked away, as if the mystery might vanish without him ever knowing the truth. “Pooks, I have to get in there. This house, Erickson, this is the key to everything.”

  “How do you know?”

  Bryan shrugged. “I just know.”

  “That’s not much to go on,” Pookie said.

  “Yeah, neither was a dream about some kid being killed at Meacham Place.”