An Unladylike Murder, page 13
part #1 of Jessica Sloan Mystery Series
“What do you know about him?”
“He’s a self-proclaimed homeless advocate who runs a one-man legal practice from his second-floor cubby hole above a tattoo parlor in the Tenderloin. He’s kind of an infamous do-gooder who stirs up problems by staging events.”
Cutter said, “I remember him now. He has a history of suing the SFPD for violations of his clients’ rights and for claiming police brutality.”
“Stop the tape.” Sloan pointed to the screen. “Do you know the guy standing between Ratner and the homeless looking guy?”
Stan nodded. “The man you’re pointing to is a street scam artist who calls himself King Rap. Tourists call the cops on him practically every day. You can usually find him working down at Pier 39 or another tourist trap.”
“How about the homeless guy? Do you know him?”
“Afraid not.”
“Can you print me a copy of his face?”
“That I can do.”
Five minutes later, Cutter put his hand on Stan’s shoulder. “Thanks Stan.”
Sloan grinned. “Yes, thanks to you Stan, we’ve got one, maybe two new people to interview. We should go find them.”
Cutter shook Stan’s hand. “As always, wonderful work. Thank you.”
Before they made it back to their car, Cutter’s phone buzzed. “Shit, I was just denied a warrant to have Twitter tell us who owns that account.”
Chapter 32
As they left the alley, Cutter said, “Why don’t we drive down to Pier 39 and see if King Rap’s working?”
“Why start with him?”
“He used to be an informant for me.”
“Why did you stop using him?”
“Whenever he heard something he knew I might want, instead of calling me first, he’d call around to other law enforcement agencies and give them a little of the info to see how much they’d pay him. Then he’d call me and tell me the price I had to beat. So, I dropped him.”
“This’ll be interesting.”
Pier 39 is part of the Fisherman’s Wharf area, a tourist favorite.
They parked in a designated Police Parking spot and walked over the pedestrian overpass into the two-story tourist attraction.
Sloan had brought her sister over to the Pier before to see the sea lions and enjoy the energy of the place.
The clouds had lifted. From the top of the overpass, Sloan paused to enjoy the unbeatable views of Alcatraz and Angel Island as well as the Golden Gate and Bay Bridges.
She could also see that Pier 39 was once again packed.
I wonder how many pick pockets and scammers are at work today.
The shops at the Pier are a mixture of restaurants and gift shops built around an old pier where sea lions like to sun themselves. In order to see them, you have to pass all the shops and restaurants first.
It’s a favorite spot for tourists because it’s supposedly free.
The restaurant’s fans blow the aromas of chowder in sour dough bread bowls out into the crowd as they pass by to arouse hunger.
The street entertainers who juggle and perform magic on a stage are a huge draw for youngsters who love watching them.
Sloan knew that the Pier’s security tried to keep the panhandlers who begged for money away from the average sightseeing citizen. She also knew that the hustlers like King Rap dressed nicer and used smiles to engage tourists into giving them money for their booze and drugs. They were harder to spot and the entire hustle was designed to be over in less than two minutes making it hard for security to spot them.
King Rap was nowhere to be found until Sloan saw an interestingly dressed young man probably around her age. “Cutter, is that your guy over on your right?”
Sloan was pointing at a slim, tall, black man in his twenties. King Rap was dressed all in black except for a red vest.
He had just found a mark and was reeling him in.
“You’re right, that’s King.”
They both stopped to watch him work.
The mark was part of a group of three males. From their accents, Sloan figured they were European, probably from one of the Scandinavian countries.
With a microphone in his hand, King Rap spoke only to his target, “Sir, are you visiting San Francisco for the first time?”
“I am.”
“Where are you from?”
“Sweden.”
“What’s your name?”
“Eric.”
With the information he needed and a microphone in his hand, King Rap morphed into a rap artist. “I’m King Rap and I’m about to make you the perfect souvenir of your visit to our beautiful city.”
He bent down and inserted a fresh cassette. Then King pushed a button on his antique dual tape deck stereo.
With one cassette playing background beats while the other recorded, he started to perform.
“Yo, yo
Ayo, Ayo, Eric
What’s up?
What’s up, Eric?
I'm rappin' to the sun
I'm here to ensure your fun
I know you from Sweden
But dis is da garden of Eden
I gonna’ get you in a San Francisco state of mind
If you’re looking for love, that’s what you’ll find
Alcatraz, Summer of Love, Sour dough bread
Do not fear, they all be here, enough said
I think of love when I'm in a San Francisco state of mind.
If you’re looking for love, that’s what you’ll find
I hope you’re loving and giving
'cause I work hard for my living
I got a sick child that costs lots of money
I hope you’re my friend and give me honey
Love is being in a San Francisco state of mind
If you’re looking for love, that’s what you’ll find
Rich, crazy, techie took my apartment
Now we sleeps in da doorway assortment
Eric, I'm rappin' to the sun
And I'm here for your fun
Yo, Yo
Eric, yaz in a San Francisco state of mind.”
King Rap smiled then bowed to the small crowd that had gathered.
Cutter hated Rap music. “That was awful. What in hell was he talking about?”
“I have absolutely no idea. He must be smoking something.”
Eric and his friends applauded politely while others shook their heads, grabbed their children by the hand and walked away.
King ejected a cassette tape from his deck.
Cutter whispered to Sloan. “Here it comes.”
Handing the tape to Eric, King said, “Direct from King Rap. Here be your souvenir, Eric. I’m supporting a sick child at home. All donations are greatly appreciated.”
Eric glanced at his friends.
One of them said, “Give him something and let’s get out of here.”
Eric pulled out his wallet and handed King Rap a ten-dollar bill.
“Dat all you got Eric? You get me to create you a personalized souvenir reminder of the good time you’re having here in San Francisco and you insult my dying child with a shitty ten? What da fuck man? The blank tape cost more than that.”
King slid his left hand over the bottom of his vest then lifted up that side of his vest.
He was carrying a large hunting knife.
Cutter touched Sloan’s elbow. “Move in.”
Still twenty feet away from the group, Cutter yelled out, “King Rap, you remember me, Detective Cutter.”
Sloan could tell from the man’s eyes that he was about to run. He bent over to grab his stereo box.
Before he stood up, Sloan grabbed his free arm and bent it behind his back. “Don’t move.”
Cutter turned to the three tourists. “Move on and remember that nothing in San Francisco is free except for the views.”
All three turned in unison and walked away.
Cutter turned back to his former informant. “King, long time, no see.”
“What you want Cutter, I ain’t done nuttin’ wrong.”
“I just need some information from you. You cooperate, you can go.”
After five years on the force Sloan knew that no one ever admitted to being guilty and when most people spoke it was fiction, trying to spin lies as if they were the truth. Sloan gave King’s arm a little lift causing a bolt of pain into his shoulder.
“Sure, Cutter, what you want to know?”
“On Monday evening you were at a protest on Market Street, do you remember that?”
“No.”
Sloan tweaked his arm again.
“Watch it bitch… I guess I do.”
Sloan was about to respond, but she saw
Cutter gave his head a brief shake telling her to let the comment go.
Cutter said, “Good start. Why were you there?”
“You know me, Cutter, I’m just trying to earn a living.”
“Then why were you standing beside Simon Ratner creating a disturbance?”
“He’s a big funky lawyer. When people see me standing next to famous people like him, they think I’m somebody they should just pay and not mess with.”
“But, why was Ratner there?”
“I got no idea. I just saw Ratner, saw the bus coming and the crowd waiting for it, so I joined in. That’s all, big boss man.”
“Do you know if the protest was planned?”
“How would I know dat? Ratner likes to get his face and name in the news. He knows where the buses stop. Sometimes I follow him cause the techies tip me to leave them alone.”
“You mean they pay you not to intimidate and scam them.”
“Whatever you say, Cutter. I gave it up for you. Now let me go.”
“Let him go Sloan. He’s got nothing we need.”
Chapter 33
As they left Pier 39, Cutter used his phone. “Yes, this is Detective John Cutter. I just want to advise you that you have King Rap on your pier again today and he’s intimidating tourists again… You’re welcome.”
“Did you just turn him into Pier 39 Security?”
“I did my civic duty.”
Sloan said, “Talking to King Rap was a complete waste of our time.”
“I don’t agree with you. We stopped a tourist from getting into a knife fight and we found out that Ratner probably planned the protest. Why would a lawyer do that?”
“Probably because some rich bleeding hearts pay him to help the low-lifes so they can brag that they’re helping others. Does King really have a sick child?”
“Ha, ha. King sleeps alone, in the Homeless Shelter near fifth. He’s a scavenger looking for any easy score. All the street people say and do what they have to do to get by.”
“I wouldn’t want him as an informant.”
“I’ll let you in a secret. The bigger the train wreck the informant is, the better he is as an informant as he has more charges he wants to work off.”
“I’ve been told that before. I still didn’t like him.”
As they made their way back across the overpass, Sloan glanced back at the pier where she saw King Rap already talking to his next victim.
When they got to their Taurus, Sloan asked, “Are we going to see Simon Ratner next?”
“We sure are. So why don’t I drive while you go onto your iPad and see what you can find out about him.”
Cutter drove while Sloan had her nose in her iPad. “Sloan, do you know why the Tenderloin is called the Tenderloin?”
“No.”
“Well, it was once the soft underbelly of vice here in the city.”
“That’s nice. Hold on Cutter. I’m finding out stuff about Ratner.”
Five minutes later Sloan was ready to talk. “His web site claims that he provides pro bono representation at court for people facing imminent evictions, individuals with mental health disabilities and those with immigration documentation problems.”
“So, he’s a white knight do-gooder.”
Sloan was jaded but still liked underdogs. “Or you could say that he’s a man with a big heart.”
Cutter frowned. “After we’ve talked to him I’ll ask you again.”
All the buildings on both sides of the street were long past attractive. The last attempts to freshen them up had been with spray painted graffiti.
Sloan knew they were in the underbelly.
No one in their right mind would park around here.
They found a red zone curb with its fading SFPD stencil. They pulled up and parked.
Cutter slapped the ‘San Francisco Police Official Business’ placard onto the dash.
As they stepped onto the sidewalk Sloan pointed at the bright orange specks that were scattered everywhere.
Cuter nodded. “I see ‘em.”
They both knew they were the plastic caps that belonged to the local heroin addict’s hypodermic needles.
A black metal bin sporting a Biohazard warning was set off to the side, next to a broken piece of sidewalk.
Sloan’s eyes were drawn to a scrawny female.
A male companion held a needle to her neck. She had her right thumb jammed in her mouth and her cheeks were puffed out. Sloan had seen other addicts make their veins visible by blowing like that. She pointed the pair out to Cutter.
“Typical. You give these addicts free heroin and needles and what do they do? They still just drop everything on the street instead of using a garbage can only a few feet away.” Cutter sounded pissed off. “I don’t understand why we allow do-gooders to hand out free needles to these ignorant assholes.”
Jessica agreed with the policy. “The free needles prevent them from having to reuse needles and spreading disease.”
“It doesn’t make any sense to me.”
“What doesn’t?”
“Making it easier for the homeless drug users to shoot up and continue their dance with death. The free shit even attracts drug users from other areas to come into the Tenderloin which only worsens the problem.”
“What would you do to solve the situation?”
“Arrest them. Lock them up. Make them wear pink underwear like the guy out in Arizona did. Make life harder for them, not easier.”
“What about civil liberties?”
“Who says scum of the earth litterbugs should get civil liberties? Besides, if we let them reuse their needles they’ll die faster, which’ll help clean up the streets.”
It’s best I bite my tongue.
They found the address. A man in a dirty sleeping bag was blocking the doorway.
Each stepped carefully so they didn’t disturb him.
They were rewarded with a steep wooden staircase built before even Cutter had been born.
Cutter muttered as he felt his knees ache as he went up. “I think making the streets safer is important. If not, what good are our laws?”
The hallway at the top was dark since only one light bulb was working.
At the top of the steps, they found the Advocate’s office.
‘Simon Ratner, Attorney at Law’ was written in gold with black shadows.
Sitting close by the door was a stack of protest signs. They said, ‘Leave SF Or Die.’
Jessica took a photo of them with her phone.
“What are you doing, Sloan?”
“Just in case this leads somewhere, I’ll have proof the signs are his.”
“Don’t bother. He’ll just claim someone dumped them there.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Ready, Sloan?”
She rapped on the office door.
Chapter 34
“Come in.”
Sloan led the way inside.
“And who might you two be?”
They switched on their recorders.
Simon Ratner was wearing a white shirt over jeans. A colorful tie lay on his desk.
It looks like he’s never worn it.
She thought the greasy look he’d had on camera might have been just for the event.
Nope. It’s his normal look.
Cutter and Sloan introduced themselves and flashed their badges.
The lawyer leaned back in his chair and looked over his paper laden desk. “How can I help you two fine detectives?”
Sloan said, “Did you hear about the tech CEO who was found dead on Monday night at the Orpheum Theatre?”
“I did.”
“We are talking to everyone who knew her, taking statements and we would appreciate your help in finding out what may have happened.”
“Sure, but I didn’t know her, never even met her. So thanks for dropping by. Don’t let the door hit ya on your way out.” He picked up a piece of paper and pretended to read it.
Any positive opinion Sloan may have had of the lawyer quickly dissipated. “Apparently her limo was stopped by a protest that you were leading as she made her way to the theatre. We’re here to talk to you about that.”
He lowered the paper slowly. “Always glad to help the police. What would you like to know?”
“What was the protest about?”
“The reason I love San Francisco is that it’s always been a safe haven for marginalized groups, freethinkers and other black sheep. City leaders wisely made it into a sanctuary city. They declared that it’s open to immigrants seeking a better life, the displaced homeless and the drug challenged. Now that shit bag high tech companies have moved in with two hundred thousand new employees, they want to remove them in the cause of safer and cleaner streets.”
Cutter was shocked. “I didn’t realize there were that many.”
“Well, I’m here to tell you that the city can’t have it both ways. You two are both city service workers. I’m surprised that you aren’t joining us on our protests.”
“And who were the protesters?”
“They’re the people who live or work in San Francisco area but don’t work for a well-funded startup or successful high tech company.”
Cutter uttered, “Ya mean the lazy druggies.”
“This isn’t about drugs, mental illness or lazy people. Like you, they’re the ones not benefiting from the sky-high prices for everything from rent to the price of food. We’re drowning in a technology bubble that’s screwing with our lives and we’re tired of it. Do you have any idea how many businesses have been destroyed and how many people are now unemployed or homeless because of it?”
