Nocturnal: A Novel

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.”