Текст книги "Riptide"

Автор книги: Michael Prescott

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

nineteen

The restaurant was a hole-in-the-wall Tex-Mex dive a few blocks from the high school. Sandra must have chosen it solely for its proximity. Certainly it wasn’t the atmosphere, which consisted of drunken men playing pool while mariachi music blared through tinny ceiling speakers.

Jennifer wasn’t complaining. She’d expected Sandra to beg off their meeting after the debacle in the gym. But the woman was resilient. She dismissed her disappointment with a shrug. “Some nights are asshole nights. Goes with the territory.”

It was her only comment about the evening until she and Jennifer were seated at a corner table, dipping blue corn chips into a bowl of salsa.

“What a piss-poor excuse for a rally,” Sandra said, contemplating the undipped chip in her hand as if it were a tarot card. “Piss-fucking-poor.”

“It might not have been so bad without the exhibitionist,” Jennifer offered.

“Hell, no. She saved the day. Served as a release valve for the tension. I’m honestly grateful to her.”

“You expected her to show up, I guess.”

“Yeah, she’s always there. I’ve probably seen her titties more times than her boyfriend has. They’re real, too.”

“How would you know?”

“I asked her once. She offered to let me cop a feel. What the hell, I took her up on it. There’s no silicone in those funbags.”

Jennifer laughed. Sandra reminded her of Maura, only in a socially conscious edition. Both women were brassy and loud and unconcerned with anyone’s opinion. They would probably hate each other’s guts. She remembered a passage in Sandra’s speech about gentrification as a symptom of capitalism run amok. Yes, she and Maura definitely would not see eye to eye.

“It’s too bad Draper got drowned out,” Jennifer said. “He could have connected with them, if they’d given him a chance.” She wasn’t so sure about Casey.

Sandra pursed her lips. “I don’t know. The cops were part of the problem, too.”

“How so?”

“They could have been more diplomatic. What was that crap about the crime rates going down in Venice?”

“Most crimes are down—”

“Not here, honey. If the statistics don’t show it, it’s because people just aren’t reporting all the bad stuff that goes on.”

“If they don’t report it, how can they expect the police to help?”

“Why should they report it when the police never help, anyway?”

“That’s a pretty fatalistic attitude.”

“It’s reality.” Sandra blew out a deep breath. From a distance she’d appeared to be Jennifer’s age, but up close she looked at least ten years older. “The cops don’t give a damn.”

“I’ve seen Draper at work. I consulted on one of those homicides he cleared. He put in a lot of hours, really knocked himself out. He cares.”

“None of them care about us. They care about the rich people in their upscale digs. Neighborhoods like Dogtown are just a sewer to them.”

“The case Draper solved was in Dogtown.”

“So you know all about Dogtown, do you? That where you live?”

“Well...no.”

“Didn’t think so. Bet you don’t even live in Venice. You’re over in Brentwood or West Hollywood.”

“I’ve lived in Venice all my life, except for college.” She regretted the qualifying phrase. It sounded snobbish.

“Canal district?” Sandra challenged.

Jennifer held her gaze, refusing to be guilt-tripped. “That’s right.”

“Not nearly the same thing as Oakwood or Dogtown. Those are the trouble spots. You don’t live there, and you don’t even know anybody who does live there. Right, honey?”

“My brother—” She stopped herself. She didn’t want to drag Richard into this, especially since she’d already said she suspected someone close to her of criminal acts. She tried another tack. “When I was a kid, the canal district hadn’t been gentrified. It was a mess, like every other part of Venice. Back then, every neighborhood was high-crime. Things are getting better.”

“Sure—in those neighborhoods. You know why? Because they’re moving all the poor people out. All the black people, all the Latino people, all the people who don’t fit in. Shipping them off to South-Central or East L.A., as far from the beach as possible. Wouldn’t want any undesirables spoiling the scenery for the tourists and the millionaires.”

No, Sandra and Maura definitely would not get along. “The district is changing,” Jennifer said. “So what?”

“It’s not just changing. It’s losing its soul.”

“If you’re so concerned about crime, you ought to be glad the gangbangers are moving out.”

“Gangbangers being a polite way of saying minority teenagers.”

“Don’t give me that crap. You saw the people who showed up at your meeting. Are you going to cry if some of them have to relocate?”

“You don’t see the real issues, because to you it’s all about other people. It’s not about you. You’re part of the problem, not part of the solution.”

“That’s the oldest cliché in left-wing politics.”

“Hey, honey, if the shoe fits...”

“So who am I, then? One of the tourists or the millionaires?”

“One of the white folks who’re glad their property values are going up. Glad the skin tones in this community are getting lighter.”

Jennifer took a breath. “Look, are you going to help me or not? Because I didn’t sign up for sensitivity training.”

To her surprise, Sandra laughed. “Sensitivity training. I like that. I like the way you redialed me after I blew you off, too. You ever see that episode of Mary Tyler Moore where Mr. Grant tells Mary she’s got spunk? That’s what you’ve got. You’re Mary Tyler Moore.”

Jennifer had trouble picturing Sandra Price settling in for a night of classic TV comedy. “Well...thanks. I guess.”

“Of course, you know what Mr. Grant says right after that. He goes, ‘I hate spunk.’”

Sandra laughed again, a hearty laugh, and Jennifer found herself smiling.

“I get a little emotional,” Sandra said. “Some of the stuff I say is just frustration talking. There’s a lot of frustration. A whole damn lot.” She lifted her shoulders and let them fall. “Okay. Unsolved crimes. Here we go.”

For the next half hour, while dining on an enchilada and refried beans, Jennifer filled her notepad with names, dates, and details. Sandra knew the cases intimately. She had studied them with obsessive thoroughness. She’d spoken to neighbors and relatives of victims and somehow obtained information that could only have come from the coroner’s office. She knew at least as much as any cop.

Her disquisition covered three unsolved homicides, six assaults, and four disappearances.

The first homicide victim, eighteen months ago, was Mary Ellison, a secretary who stayed late at the office, typing documents for a conference in the morning. After midnight she left the building and walked to her car. She made it halfway across the parking lot before her skull was crushed from behind by what might have been a brick or a cinder block. The weapon was never found. There was no postmortem mutilation, no sign of theft, and her clothing had not been removed or disarranged.

The second victim, seven months ago, was Elizabeth Custer, a teenage runaway living on Venice Beach. She was found strangled in an alley off Ocean Front Walk, Venice’s concrete boardwalk. Her time of death was estimated as two AM. Again, no mutilation or molestation, no theft—not that the ragged seventeen-year-old had owned anything worth stealing.

Jennifer listened, saying nothing. She was acutely aware that twelve years ago it could have been her own name in a police report, her body found beneath an underpass or in the utility room of a shopping mall.

The police had not connected the two murders. The M.O.’s were different—blunt force trauma, strangulation—as were the victim profiles and the neighborhoods in which the crimes occurred.

It was assumed that Mary Ellison had been the victim of a mugging gone bad; when the assailant realized he’d killed her, he panicked and fled. Elizabeth Custer’s death was obviously intentional. Given the people she associated with—junkies, prostitutes, johns—the most likely explanation was that someone in her circle of acquaintances had turned violent.

That was how the LAPD saw it. They might be right. But if Richard were roaming the streets and choosing victims at random, based on an opportunity to strike, these were the kinds of victims he would select. Women, alone, unprotected, at night.

The third homicide was the Diaz case. Jennifer knew about that one. She didn’t think it was part of any pattern. The threat message argued for a killer who knew the victim, someone who lived or worked near her. And the body could not have been moved without a vehicle. Richard had no car.

Besides the murders, there were assaults and disappearances. Most of the assault victims were male. Jennifer thought she could rule them out, at least for now. Edward Hare had killed only women, as had the Devil’s Henchman, and she was guessing that Richard—if he was guilty—would do the same.

Of the assaults on women, only one could conceivably fit the pattern she was looking for. A year ago, around midnight, Ann Powell let her terrier outside in the fenced backyard of her duplex. When the dog didn’t come in, she tried switching on the flood light, but it didn’t work. Later it was established that the bulb had been unscrewed. She went out to check on the dog and found the rear gate open. That was when she sensed someone behind her in the dark. A fist struck a glancing blow to her head. She staggered inside and called the police. By the time they arrived, the assailant was gone. The dog turned up unharmed an hour later.

The incident could be meaningless; there was no shortage of crazies roaming Venice at night. Or it could have been an attempt to duplicate the Ellison killing, this time without the benefit of a blunt instrument.

That brought Sandra to the disappearances. Two of the vics were male; they could be ignored for now. One of the women had been having marital problems; her husband was an unofficial suspect, according to Sandra’s inside info. That case could be set aside also.

Then there was Chatty Cathy.

That was the name by which she was known in the pocket park where she lived. Her worldly goods were stashed in a shopping cart. She talked loudly to herself day and night. Even the other homeless people kept their distance.

One night three months ago she disappeared. Her cart was still there, but she was gone. It seemed unlikely she would leave without the collection of junk she prized. But her body never turned up, and there were no signs of foul play.

“Would the body have to be transported by car?” Jennifer asked.

“Not necessarily. There’s a big old dump bin in the alley right across from the park. A body wrapped in trash bags could be tossed in there, and if the sanitation crew wasn’t paying attention—and why would they?—it could be dumped into the garbage truck without anybody noticing. By now, Chatty Cathy could be in a landfill.”

All the crimes had occurred within the last year and a half. Jennifer asked if the cutoff date was arbitrary.

“No, it really seems like more bad things than usual started happening around eighteen months ago. Not all at once, mind you. But that’s when the cream started to curdle.”

“Any idea why?”

“Pacific Area lost two detectives around that time. Reassigned downtown. Not replaced. Less manpower means lower solve rates. That’s why I say they need to prioritize this district. Allocate the personnel.” She produced one of her heavy sighs. “Hell, you know how the song goes by now. I’ve been singing it long enough.”

“You sing it well.”

“A little off-key, but at least you can make out the words.”

“Are there any leads in the cases that interest me?”

“Not really. There was a sighting of a person unknown, probably a vagrant, near the spot where Elizabeth Custer was killed. No description, except the guy was hooded. Might’ve been the killer. Might’ve been nobody. Witnesses heard a noise the night Chatty Cathy went missing. A woman’s cry, from the park. Was it her? Did it mean anything? Who knows?”

“So basically all those cases are dead ends.”

“Unless you’ve got a new angle. Do you?”

“I’m not sure. I need to see if I can find a pattern.”

“Your buddies in the department are treating each case as a standalone. They’re probably right.”

“Probably,” Jennifer said, hoping it was true.

“This suspect of yours—”

“Possible suspect.”

“Whatever. This guy—I’m assuming it’s a guy—does he live in Dogtown?”

“Yes.”

“Got any priors?”

“No.”

“Why put a spotlight on him, then?”

“He’s mentally ill.”

“Violent?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

Sandra was unimpressed. “Lots of head cases in Venice, and not just in Dogtown. Lots of violent, antisocial males. Gangbangers, sociopaths. Druggies who’d kill you for the dollar in your pocket or the sneakers on your feet. No shortage of suspects. Or possible suspects, if you prefer.”

“So you think I’m imagining things?”

“That’s the way I’d bet.”

“I’d be happy to find out I’m being paranoid.”

“Of course, if you are wrong, those cases will continue to be unsolved.”

“That’s the downside.”

“On the other hand, there could be an even bigger downside to being right.”

“Which is?”

“If the bad guy knows you’re on to him—you could be next in line.”

Jennifer thought of the note on her windshield. “That’s a chance I’ll have to take.”

“See, that’s what I mean. You’ve got spunk.”

“And you hate spunk.”

“No, that was Mr. Grant. Me, I like spunk. As long as it doesn’t get you killed, honey.”

The words lingered in Jennifer’s mind as she picked up the tab and said goodbye. Before leaving the restaurant, she took a chance on using the ladies’ room. It was surprisingly clean.

Leaving the bathroom, she spotted Draper eating alone in the rear of the restaurant. From where he was seated, he had a decent view of the table she and Sandra had shared. She approached him, unsmiling.

“Spying on me?” she asked.

Draper dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “Just grabbing a bite.”

“And you just happened to pick this place?”

“It’s close to the high school. I assume that’s why you picked it.”

“So you did know I was here?”

“I saw you. Talking with Sandra Price. I didn’t realize the two of you were friends.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

“No doubt. It could be a problem, though.”

“Meaning what?”

“Sandra isn’t exactly in tight with the department. She’s regarded as a thorn in our side. If you’re associating with her, it might make it difficult to continue hiring you.”

“First you follow me here, now you’re threatening me.”

“I didn’t follow you. And I’m not threatening. But whatever you tell us as a consultant has to remain confidential. It can’t be shared with civilian outsiders. Especially a civilian whose racket is baiting the department.”

“I don’t think it’s a racket. She just wants these cases solved.”

“That’s what we all want. What were you two talking about, anyway?”

“None of your business.”

“It wasn’t a casual conversation. You were taking notes.”

“Maybe she was giving me recipes.”

Draper shook his head. “That’s not the kind of answer my supervisors would accept.”

“Are they going to know about this?”

“Should they? Why were you meeting with Sandra Price? Why the sudden interest in community activism?”

“Don’t interrogate me, Roy. I’m not one of your suspects.”

“No, you’re a colleague. And I need to be able to trust the people I work with. If I can’t trust you, I won’t be able to recommend your services anymore.”

“I’ll survive.”

“I’ve tried to help you out by bringing you in on my cases whenever possible.”

“Don’t do me any favors.”

“I guess I won’t, in the future. Unless you level with me about what’s going on.”

“I had an enchilada for dinner. Now I’m leaving. That’s what’s going on. And by the way, nice technique at the meeting tonight. Way to win friends and influence people.”

“I wasn’t trying to win friends.”

“Too bad. You could use some.”

She walked away, her eyes burning. She couldn’t believe she’d defended him to Sandra less than an hour before. Or that she’d considered putting the moves on him. There must be something wrong with her.

She was stalking angrily down the street when she heard Draper’s voice. “Hey, Jennifer. Wait a second.”

She spun around, not interested in more repartee. “I already said goodnight.”

Draper stepped up to her. “Actually, you didn’t.”

“Okay, well—goodnight.” She started to turn away.

“I trust you,” Draper said.

The words caught her in mid-turn. “What?”

“I know you wouldn’t betray a confidence. I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise.”

“You did more than suggest.”

“I’m only worried about how other people might look at it, if this gets back to them. The higher-ups. I don’t want to see you blackballed.”

“What difference does it make to you?”

“I think you know.”

She paused, registering this. “Do I?”

“You ought to,” Draper said, and he leaned in and kissed her, a hard, hot kiss like a branding iron. “If you didn’t,” he added, “you do now.”

With that, he turned and walked back inside the restaurant.

She stared after him, astonished.

twenty

Three more comments were waiting on the Ripperwalk thread when Jennifer got home. The first two were dumb jokes left by idiots. The third was different.

Someone calling himself Abberline, whose avatar was a male face in silhouette, had written a single line.

If you’d like to discuss Mr. Edward Hare, please IM me.

An ICQ contact name was provided.

It could be another joke. If Abberline had anything serious to contribute, why not post it publicly? Still, she was intrigued. And she already had an ICQ account, though she hadn’t used it in a while. She couldn’t even remember her password, but she had it written down in a little spiral-bound notebook she kept in the top drawer of her file cabinet.

She found the notebook and was closing the drawer when she noticed something odd. The folders in the drawer seemed to be out of order.

They were filed alphabetically, or should have been. Now D came before C. She could have misfiled it, of course. She removed the folder and scanned its contents. Old cases for the LAPD and Santa Monica PD. All cleared now, of no interest to anyone.

Nothing of hers would interest anyone, except the diary.

But the word diary began with D, didn’t it? Someone looking for the diary might think to find a clue in this file.

Silly thought. No one had been in here. If anyone had come looking, the house would have been left in a state of disorder.

Unless she wasn’t supposed to know someone had searched.

She riffled through the rest of the folders and found two more out of sequence. R and H.

Ripper.

Hare.

Her archival boxes were stored inside a nearby cabinet. She looked them over and saw that two of the lids had been improperly replaced.

Someone had been here. Had looked through her files and the boxes.

In the pantry she pushed aside the row of household cleansers and found the hidden metal box. The diary was safely inside. The intruder hadn’t thought to look here.

Could it be Richard? He knew the old house, knew its weak points. The side window, the one that could never be properly latched. Or the back door, which lacked a dead bolt. Its latch could be slipped with a credit card or knife.

She checked the door first but saw no sign of tampering. The window was a different matter. It was open a crack, though she knew she’d shut it completely, and there was a scuff mark on the sill, left when the intruder climbed in or out.

She doubted he was still here. Most likely he wouldn’t have closed the window till he left. Even so, she explored the house room by room, turning on all the lights. She even opened the trapdoor and peered into the cellar with a flashlight.

She was alone. But someone had come earlier. It might have happened during the day, while she was visiting Harrison Sirk, but more likely the break-in occurred while she was at the rally, or afterward, when she talked to Sandra Price.

It was a funny feeling, to know someone had been in her home, pawing through her things, looking at the photos on the walls, the clothes in her closet, the books on the shelves. And yet the traces left behind were subtle. She could never prove a B&E. A few misplaced files and a dirty windowsill would establish nothing to anybody else.

But she knew.

Richard had come—it had to be Richard—looking for the diary. He knew about it somehow. Knew about the Ripper...and Edward Hare.

She remembered Abberline’s comment. Returning to her office, she logged onto her ICQ account, entered his name into her contact list, and was told he was online. She sent him a message.

What can you tell me re: Edward Hare?—Jeneratrix.

In moments he responded. You’re the first person I’ve encountered who knows that name. How did you come across it?

It came up in an old document, she answered.

A document I’d like to see.

Prefer to keep it to myself for now.

As you wish, Jeneratrix. You’re female, I presume?

Last time I checked.

I might have to double check. :)

Even with the smiley face, this comment struck her as weird. But there were a lot of creeps on the Net.

American? he asked.

Yes.

What part of the States do you hail from?

California.

Rather far from the Ripper’s territory, isn’t it?

His legend is everywhere, she wrote, thinking that California might not be as far from Jack’s turf as Abberline thought.

Yes, it has even reached sunny California. You must have a lovely tan.

She didn’t know how to respond to that.

I hope there are nude beaches in your vicinity, he continued. A tan is never satisfactory unless it covers all of you.

She definitely needed to get the conversation on track. He’d referred to America as “the States.” It sounded like something a Brit would say.

Are you in England? she asked.

London.

There was an eight-hour time difference between London and L.A. She typed, Must be nearly 5 a.m. there.

I’m an early riser. The curse of old age.

Been investigating Jack long?

I’m a veteran Ripperologist. No longer having to earn a livelihood, I pass my days studying archival files. Perhaps you found your document in an archive?

Not exactly.

Where, then?

I came across it by accident.

That is less than informative.

I thought you were the one offering info.

Very well. It would never do to disappoint a lady. Not that I ever have, in any way that counts.

She didn’t like interacting with this man. She could picture him, hunched over his computer, smiling as he squeezed out another sexual innuendo.

Edward Bateman Hare. Born 1860, Bournemouth. No photos extant. An only child. Family of modest means. Mother died in childbirth.

Jennifer thought of Hare’s dreams of blood. His mother must have bled out during delivery. Throughout his life, he would have been obsessed by guilt, which he projected outward, blaming his mother for abandoning him. Blood and birth, sex and rage, and an irrational animus toward women would have coalesced in his mind.

Attended New College, Oxford. Became asst. schoolmaster at Wm. Winton’s boarding school for boys in Blackheath. Lodged at school during term.

William Winton must have been the man known in the diary as Wisp.

Taught Eng. comp. & lit. appreciation. Never married. Just possibly descended from Wm. Hare, Burke’s partner.

The body snatcher? Jennifer asked.

And murderer. Wm. Hare, pardoned for testifying against Burke, left Scotland for parts unknown. If he alighted in England, his grandson could have been EH.

She typed, But no proof ?

None I’ve found. And believe me, I’ve looked, Jeneratrix. Does Jen stand for Jennifer?

The change of topic took her by surprise. Yes.

A most alluring name. You are young, I imagine. I most enjoy the company of youth.

This seemed to be her day for dealing with dirty old men. First Harrison Sirk, now this.

Her image of Abberline was uncomfortably vivid now. She saw gray stubble on his cheeks, thin pursed lips, glittering magpie eyes. He was all bones and taut skin, a fairy-tale miser, and he lived in a dusty place crowded with worthless flotsam he wouldn’t throw out.

Anything to tie Hare to the Ripper? she typed, resolutely pursuing the conversation.

He vanished shortly after Frances Coles’ murder. Never seen or heard from again.

Still, he wasn't an official suspect, she wrote.

The police couldn’t see a schoolmaster as a killer. EH was protected by his respectability. A real-life Dr. Jekyll—of whom history has found not Hyde nor Hare.

The play on words seemed disturbingly close to the diarist’s style of expression.

Do forgive the dreadful pun, he added.

She typed, Surprised no one else knows about him.

He’s terribly obscure. And by 1891 my namesake had retired, consequently no mention of EH in Insp. Abberline’s memoirs.

How did you find out about him?

It came up in an old document.

She recognized the sardonic echo of her own words. Abberline was no more willing to reveal his sources than she was.

She decided to test him, see how much he knew. Most people say Coles wasn’t a true Ripper murder.

That’s why police didn’t try harder to apprehend EH. They thought at worst he was the butcher of just one prostitute.

Do you have reason to suspect he killed others?

Not yet, but I continue to dig, dig, dig.

She was sure he did.

You’re a dogged investigator—living up to your screen name, she wrote. From skimming the Ripper books, she knew Frederick Abberline was the lead detective in the case.

Thank you. The inspector fascinates me. He was at the center of the Ripper case—yet there are no photos, portraits, likenesses. He is a man without a face.

Like Jack, she offered. And like the cyberspace Abberline’s avatar.

Abberline is Jack’s Doppelganger. Intimately familiar with the East End. Remembered for his activities in autumn ’88. Retired for no clear reason.

Maybe Abberline was the Ripper. ;) She added the winking smiley so he would know it was a joke.

I place my money on EH. This is why I persist in looking for clues. Who can say what other documents may turn up? Such as yours.

Mine isn’t very interesting.

I’d prefer to judge for myself. You will not let me see it? I’ll return the favor.

What do you mean?

A trade. Digital pix of my document in exchange for pix of yours.

I’ll think about it.

Our relationship cannot be one-way. I’ve helped you. I deserve assistance in return.

The material I have is difficult to put online.

Anything can be put online, Jeneratrix.

The truth is, the info is of a personal nature.

You have a personal connection to EH?

Possibly.

I really must know the details.

Not now.

You cannot keep it to yourself.

She didn’t like where this was headed. Have to go, she wrote.

You give me Hare’s name but no details. Is this fair?

I made no promises.

You play games, Jeneratrix. You’re nothing but a cocktease.

It was as if he’d hissed the word in her ear. I’m logging off, she typed.

Don’t run away you damn little whore

She signed off.

Whore, he’d called her. The Ripper’s word. Abberline had been spending too much time in the mind of a killer.

She returned to his comment on the Ripperwalk thread. Under his screen name was a running total of his posts, 327 to date. He’d been busy. Obsessive.

She checked the log of their conversation, taking notes on the salient points. Whatever his deficiencies as a pen pal, Abberline had sketched a portrait of Edward Hare. Born in 1860, he would have been twenty-eight when the Ripper went to work. That was late, but not impossibly so, for the onset of schizophrenia.

Richard was twenty-eight now. With traumas of his own in his past. And with a medical degree, as he never tired of reminding her.

And he was gone. The building manager hadn’t seen him. He could be anywhere, doing anything. Recreating the crimes of his ancestor, perhaps as Aldrich before him had done. Like father, like son, a hereditary madness like the blood curse of a Greek tragedy. First the House of Atreus. Now the House of Silence—

The phone rang, startling her. “Hello?”

“Hi, big sister.”

She froze.

“Richard,” she said.