Death Notes

the floor by his feet and leaned forward. ‘You don’t think Les killed Match, do you? I mean, he’s got problems but he’d never do anything like that. None of us would. We were on the way up with Match. He was our ticket, man.’
    I grilled him some more about the dynamics of the band, how they related to Match and to each other, but none of his answers changed a thing. Match’s band might have had the means and the opportunity, but without the reason I’d hoped Hank would provide, I had to look someplace else.
    Walking back to our cars, Glen Faddis had the good grace not to laugh. In fact, he was downright understanding.
    ‘Some you win, some you lose,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t look like it’s anybody in the band, does it?’
    He handed me back my crowbar when we got to my car.
    ‘What about Sharon?’ he asked.
    ‘What about her?’
    ‘She’s gotten a lot out of Match’s demise, wouldn’t you
    say?’
    I had to agree. And the only time Sharon had seemed upset was the night Match died. Ever since, she’d been wheeling and dealing like a carnival barker.
    Faddis said, ‘The autopsy report proves she could have killed him. It took him a while to die. He could have been stabbed up there.’
    The yellow light from the street lamp down the street made him look sallow and tired. But his eyes danced with intelligence and curiosity.
    ‘We should take another look at her,’ he said.
    ‘We? ’
    He laughed. ‘Don’t you think I earned my street cred tonight?’
    ‘I’ll call you,’ I said, and started to get into my car.
    ‘Wait. I’ve got something.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘I’ve been sniffing around,’ he began.
    I waited, tired and impatient.
    ‘It’ll be better if I show you. I’ve got the stuff at my place.’
    ‘Good,’ I told him. ‘Bring it to the Baghdad Cafe. I’ll see you there in half an hour.’
     

51
     
    W hen Glen Faddis walked into the Bagdad Cafe, it was clear he hadn’t stopped to wash his face or comb his sparse, sandy hair. He had a thick accordion file under one arm and offered me a jaunty wave from the door with the other.
    ‘Hey,’ he said, slapping the heavy file down in front of me.
    I’d taken a table by the window where I could watch Market Street’s damp surface glisten in the butter-colored light from the street lamps above. I’d chugged down my first cup of coffee and the refill sat in front of me, going cold.
    I waited while Glen went up to the counter and brought back some coffee and a slice of cake.
    ‘Things have changed,’ he said, sounding excited.
    ‘What’s in here?’ I asked, indicating the folder between us.
    ‘My notes. But I’ve got something better. On the drive from my house to here, I started thinking. It’s better if you hear it from the horse’s mouth. Ah, speak of the horse!’
    He rose up out of his chair and I turned to see who he was beckoning over to the table. I didn’t recognize her at first with her face scrubbed clean and wearing jeans and a plain black hoodie over a Green Day tee shirt.
    ‘You remember Yvette Fields, don’t you?’
    Match’s illegitimate daughter. Glen pulled out a chair for her and she dropped into it with the sensuous grace of a dancer. ‘Thanks for coming, Yvette. I really appreciate it.’
    She mumbled something that made me think she hadn’t been given much of a choice. But after she sat, she offered me a small smile.
    No false bravado. Just a simple, pretty girl with something to say. I wondered what private demons had driven her to the Tenderloin to feed the inexorable appetites of men who saw nothing wrong with paying to use another person’s body.
    Glen Faddis pushed the coffee and cake in her direction. He showed her the same solicitude he had me, gracious and gentlemanly.
    ‘I remembered you like carrot cake,’ he said.
    She smiled at him then, and I saw courtesy in action. His calm respect for people brought out the best in them.
    Faddis waited until she’d taken a couple of bites, then said, ‘Tell Ronnie what you told me.’
    Her blue eyes seemed enormous without all the makeup and her skin shone with the glow you only see with youth.
    ‘It’s something my mom told me. About Match,’ she began. ‘Mom said Match was a fake.’
    I looked at Glen, then back at Yvette.
    ‘That’s the word she used? “Fake?”’
    Yvette nodded and took another bite.
    ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
    ‘She hated him. She didn’t want to marry him or anything, at least I don’t think