Free Death in the Haight by Ronald Tierney Page A

prison.”
    Â * * * 
    â€œI didn’t take you for a vegetarian,” Thanh said to Lang. Thanh wore flowing black silk—a little too chic and perhaps too feminine for such an unpretentious place. The two of them sat at the big round table at the rear of the tiny Chinese restaurant.
    â€œI’m not. But good food is good food. My treat.”
    â€œThis is probably the least expensive restaurant in the city,” Thanh said.
    â€œIt’s not always polite to be so observant,” Lang said.
    They were lucky to find a seat at lunchtime. Lucky Creation, as it was called, was in the heart of Chinatown and had only a few tables tucked into a tiny, narrow space. At the back, looking out over the dining room, was a five-foot Buddha surrounded by orchids. A plate of oranges occupied the space near Buddha’s right knee. Incense burned and sent a pleasantly foreign fragrance into the room that mixed with the scent of curry.
    The conversation was interrupted by bowls of walnut soup and plates of peanut sushi, turnip cakes, three-mushroom chow mein, and braised eggplant in bean sauce.
    â€œVanderveer thinks all this waiting and now the sudden demand to change cash into bonds is just a way to drive him nuts. Seems to be working.”
    â€œKeeps everyone off guard,” Thanh said as something heavily curried and steaming arrived in a clay pot. “Or could be that the kidnappers are figuring it out as they go.”
    â€œMaybe the kidnappers didn’t realize how much space a million dollars takes,” Lang said. “But why didn’t they just have the money transferred to some overseas account if that were the case? Could it be the kidnappers are not all that sophisticated?”
    â€œWiring the money might leave a trail. This way, nothing.” Thanh smiled. “Did anyone wonder why someone would kidnap a murderer?” Thanh continued, oblivious to the stares he received from the other customers.
    â€œMaybe the kidnappers are connected to the victim,” Lang said.
    â€œOr the pimp—one person or a firm—loses something of monetary value and decides to cover the loss,” Thanh said. “In fact, maybe it’s the pimp who is setting up the kid. The employer kills a difficult employee, blames a client, but first extracts some funds.”
    Â * * * 
    Lang wasn’t going to tell the Vanderveers, who were now three in number with the addition of James, about the various theories. After sending Brinkman home, Lang crossed California Street, went into the Huntington lobby, and called up to the Vanderveers. They were in.
    The suite was surprisingly unkempt. Beds were unmade. Clothes were strewn about. With the exception of James, naturally energetic, impatient, and seemingly adventurous, they weren’t going out. Food was brought up, and maids were excused after changing the towels. They didn’t want to miss that call. And they didn’t want to take a million dollars, either in cash or now in bearer bonds, with them or leave it home alone.
    â€œI’ve had a serious discussion with the homicide inspectors,” Lang told the three of them. “It’s pretty damning for Michael.”
    The senior Vanderveers sat in matching chairs. James stood by the window.
    â€œWhy is that?” James asked.
    â€œHis cash card was used to secure the transaction with the young lady and pay for the room,” Lang said. “His computer was used to connect to the website. She was found dead in his room.”
    â€œIf he was gay,” Mrs. Vanderveer ventured hesitantly—she said “gay” as if it were an offensive word and she didn’t want to offend—“why would he . . .”
    â€œHire a female prostitute?” Lang finished the question. He started to answer but decided he was interested in what the others might say.
    â€œMichael was a troubled young man,” Mr. Vanderveer said. “Who