Death in the Haight by Ronald Tierney

with its heights and hidden places. When Lang got to the office, he discovered Buddha was out on the fire escape with Brinkman. Brinkman smoked his cigar, and Buddha was entranced by the cloud of smoke Brinkman produced.
    â€œLet’s go, Buddha,” Lang said.
    â€œYou leaving the Vanderveers on their own?” Brinkman asked as Buddha slipped through the open window and stood at Lang’s feet.
    â€œI’m tired of them,” Lang said. He was tired of them. Vanderveer was more than twenty-one, he had a phone, and it was his kid and his dime.
    Â * * * 
    Buddha jumped off Lang’s shoulder once they were inside their home. The brown cat disappeared into the darkness, no doubt taking inventory of the space and the smells. Lang flicked on a few lamps as he sorted through the mail dropped in the slot in the door.
    The Louis Armstrong he’d ordered had arrived. West End Blues. Aside from the cover cut, there were some tunes from the ’20s he hadn’t heard—“Potato Head Blues,” “S.O.L. Blues,” “Cornet Chop Suey,” “Alligator Crawl,” and more. He opened the case and put the CD on the tray, pushed a button, and waited for Armstrong’s trumpet to fill the room. He pulled a bottle of tequila from the kitchen and poured himself a little more than was wise.
    Buddha reappeared and, with a nod, requested something to eat. Lang took care of food and water. The litter was fine.
    After a few cuts, Lang called Chastain B. West and filled him in on the Vanderveers and what he had learned from the police. “If we find the boy, you’re going to have to be prepared for the defense.”
    â€œThe Vanderveers will want a bigger gun than me,” West said. “What are you listening to?”
    â€œThe Hot Fives and the Hot Sevens.” Lang was testing West.
    â€œA white man and his blues. Good Lord, Noah. Next you’ll be making chitlins.”
    â€œNobody knows the trouble I’ve seen,” Lang said mawkishly.
    â€œNo, but I know what a pain you are.”
    â€œI rest my case.”
    â€œWhat do you think is going on?”
    â€œToo soon to say. But some things just don’t make sense.”
    â€œNo word from the kidnappers?”
    â€œThat’s part of what doesn’t make sense.”
    â€œSo what’s your plan?”
    â€œFind the people she worked for. I’ve got a website. Otherwise, the plan is the same as it was. We have to wait for someone to make a move. It’s not up to us.”
    Â * * * 
    Savannah Brown, in person, weighed more and was a few years older than she was portrayed, or rather airbrushed, on the website. Lang was disappointed that Ms. Brown had been around longer than he’d anticipated, not because he was ageist but because he wanted someone less worldly. They weren’t going to have sex anyway. The goal was to find out who was behind the website, essentially who owned the girls.
    The woman looked around, let her eyes glance up at the high ceiling and the loft that sat halfway up the high wall.
    â€œDon’t have to go up there, do I?”
    â€œNo,” Lang said. “Beer, wine, whiskey?”
    â€œWhiskey,” she said.
    â€œWhiskey? Sure,” Lang said, acknowledging to himself that this was going to be tougher than he thought. He had hoped she’d want a wine spritzer. Women who drank whiskey weren’t easy, at least not right away. “Have a seat.” He went into the small kitchen area. “Ice, water, soda?” he asked.
    â€œJust put it in a glass, sweetheart.”
    â€œDrinks her whiskey straight,” he mumbled to Buddha, who was giving his roommate the stink eye.
    â€œWho are you talking to?” she asked.
    â€œI talk to myself, but don’t worry, I never listen.” He handed her one of the two glasses he held in his hands.
    â€œSo, my dear, what’s on your mind?”
    Lang sat down beside