Death in the Haight by Ronald Tierney Page B

Vanderveer’s seat. It was empty. He looked around, couldn’t see him.
    An elderly black man edged into the seat Vanderveer was supposed to occupy. Lang went over.
    â€œI think you have the wrong seat, sir,” Lang said, trying very hard to take the edge out of his voice.
    â€œNo, sir,” the man said, “I don’t think I do.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out the ticket stub, looked at it, then, standing, looked at his seat. “It’s mine, all right.”
    â€œMay I see?”
    The man wouldn’t let him have it but held it so Lang could verify the seat number. The man was right.
    The stands were nearly filled, and more were piling in.
    Something was wrong, very wrong. He used his binoculars to scan the crowd. It was a daunting task. Rows and bleachers and people hidden behind people and many, many others hidden in the shade beneath the upper decks. The sky was pure blue still. The sun was strong. There was a rumbling of excitement. The huge video in the outfield distracted him. Stereo speakers, mounted overhead every few feet, blared, attempting to ratchet up the excitement. The loud, crowd-rousing music only added to Lang’s anxiety. He had missed something, and it was difficult to think about what it was.
    Rose called. “He’s here. He’s in his seat.”
    â€œHe can’t be. I’m staring right at it. Shit.” Lang cursed himself. How could he have been so stupid? “The kidnappers changed tickets,” Lang said. “Where are you?”
    With the binoculars he found Vanderveer, sitting in seats across the park, along the third base line.
    â€œDid he talk to anyone?” Lang asked Rose.
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œAnytime. While he was walking to his seat, while he was seated.”
    â€œI didn’t see anything,” Rose said, defensively. “He got his seat, then came up for a beer and went back to his seat.”
    â€œAnything exchanged besides money and beer?”
    â€œI don’t think so.”
    What if it was all over? What if the exchange had already been made? Why had Vanderveer’s seat changed? Did they know he’d checked on the ticket, or were they just extra tricky? Could there be some insider knowledge? Calm down, he told himself. The baseball game was about to begin. “Oh, say can you see” had been sung. There was excitement in the air. There were kidnappers, very clever kidnappers, here—among forty thousand strangers.
    â€œOkay, stay there. Stay on him.”
    â€œI know what I’m doing, Lang,” Rose said. It was a warning. The cops were being nice, but taking orders was something else.
    â€œThanks,” Lang said. No need to engage in a blame game at this point. He didn’t dare contact Vanderveer. He’d simply have to watch and wait.
    Lang kept the glasses on Vanderveer. The man looked out at the park, disinterested. The game had begun. He wasn’t watching it. He barely moved his head, frozen. He hadn’t yet taken a sip of beer. Beer. Another thought hit Lang. Vanderveer didn’t drink beer. At the bar, he told Lang he’d rather have nothing than a beer.
    There may have been a note with new instructions in with the new ticket.
    Lang went to the walkway that was lined with food concessions to get to the side of the field where Vanderveer sat. He called Rose on the way.
    â€œDo you know where Vanderveer bought his beer?”
    â€œThe Anchor Steam just above his section.”
    When he got to the top of Vanderveer’s section, he met Rose.
    â€œI was just thinking,” Rose said, “Vanderveer took off his jacket and put it on his chair. I thought it was to save his spot, but that doesn’t really make sense because the ticket says you own the seat. Maybe it was too hot. He put it back on when he got back. There’s a little chill in the shade.”
    â€œYou see anyone move near his jacket?” Lang asked.
    â€œI was