Текст книги "Riptide"

Автор книги: Michael Prescott

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

twenty-five

At nine-thirty she met Maura in the lobby of Richard’s building. “Manager’s waiting for us upstairs,” Maura said. “He gave me all kinds of grief about opening up. I wasn’t impressed.” She stabbed the elevator button.

“I always take the stairs,” Jennifer said.

“Stairs are for losers. This is the twenty-first century.”

“This elevator isn’t the most reliable—”

“If it breaks down, I’ll climb out the trapdoor in the ceiling and shimmy up the cable. I’ve always wanted to do that.”

The elevator rose slowly with a good deal of rattling that did not inspire confidence. Maura didn’t seem to notice. She flashed a rather tacky bracelet at Jennifer, a band of copper studded with turquoise. “Like my newest trinket? Josh gave it to me.”

“Who’s Josh?”

“My surfing busboy. Come on, girl, try to keep up.”

“You just met him last night, and already he’s buying you presents?”

“He didn’t exactly buy it. A former girlfriend left it at his place. But he did give it to me.”

“How sweet,” Jennifer said dubiously.

“I thought so. It’s amazing how a little thing like a blow job can bring out the romance in a man.”

Despite Jennifer’s misgivings, they reached the third floor without incident. The manager was standing by Richard’s door, a heavy set of keys jingling in his hand. “I shouldn’t do this,” he said.

“Of course you should,” Maura countered. “This is the guy’s sister. And I’m a big wheel in the neighborhood. You should do whatever we say.”

The man thought about contesting the matter, then seemed to decide he didn’t give a shit. With a shrug he unlocked the door.

Jennifer entered first. “Richard?”

“He ain’t here.” The manager made a phlegmatic noise. “Ain’t been around since the last time you saw him. If he abandons the place, I’m entitled to sell his stuff.”

“You’re not selling anything,” Maura warned.

“He don’t come back, I can rent out his unit. That’s all I’m saying. He still owes me for this month’s rent.”

Jennifer pulled out her wallet and found a blank check. “I’ll pay it.” She plucked a pen from his shirt pocket and filled it out. “There. Satisfied?”

“That covers March, but what about next month?”

“We’ll cross that bridge if we have to.”

The manager blew out a wheezy sigh. “My luck, he’ll show up again. Just when I thought I was rid of that freak.”

Maura’s face was hard. “Get the hell out of here.”

“I should stay with you while you—”

“Go.”

He went. Maura closed the door after him. When she turned back, Jennifer caught her expression, the shocked sadness in her eyes. This was the first time she had seen the way Richard lived now.

“Pretty bad, huh?” Jennifer said.

Maura dropped her gaze. “Yeah. Pretty bad.” Her voice was small. “Is he...happy? I mean, ordinarily?”

“I don’t think he’s ever happy. I don’t think he can be.” She picked up a book from a disorderly pile, glancing at the cover. Something about government conspiracies. “Schizophrenia tends to dull the affect. Cancels out the pleasure center in the brain. The patient feels fear, rage—negative emotions. But not happiness. It’s called anhedonia.”

The book was from the Santa Monica Public Library—the main branch, some distance away. He really was more mobile than she’d thought.

“So where are these papers we’re looking for?” Maura asked.

“No idea. I’m just assuming he keeps them here. I don’t know where else they could be.”

Jennifer opened drawers in the living room and kitchen, finding nothing. From the bedroom Maura called, “File cabinet in here.”

The bedroom was neater than the living room, but the musty smell was worse. And there was another odor, one Jennifer couldn’t identify.

The file cabinet stood in a corner. Maura was tugging on the handle of the top drawer. “Locked.”

“That’s got to be where he stashed them. We just need the key.”

A thorough search turned up no keys in the apartment. “How about this?” Maura lifted a butter knife from the kitchen sink.

“What good does that do us?”

“It gives us leverage. Give me a lever long enough and a place to stand, yadda yadda.”

Maura inserted the blade between the cabinet drawer and the frame. She pushed up, straining. Jennifer thought of the lock on her gate, the tool inserted into the keyhole.

Maura gave a final push, and the drawer clattered open. It was empty.

“Shit,” Maura murmured.

With the top drawer open, the bottom offered no resistance. She slid it forward. Nothing was inside.

“We’re coming up snake eyes, kiddo. But he had something in here.”

Jennifer saw wisps and shavings of paper scattered inside the drawer, and a few loose paperclips and bent staples. “He must have moved them.”

“Why would he do that?”

“We talked about the papers the other day. He was very paranoid about them. And last night, on the phone, he evaded my question when I asked about them.”

“You talked to him on the phone? Is he okay?”

“He’s never okay.” She looked around the bedroom, trying to imagine what Richard would have done with the documents. Her glance fell on a metal wastebasket used as a doorstop.

The bottom of the basket was dark with a coat of ash. Slivers of charred paper clung to the sides.

“He burned them.” The unidentifiable smell was the lingering odor of smoldering paper and scorched metal.

“All your family records? A whole file cabinet’s worth?”

“Looks that way.”

“Just because he was paranoid?”

“Or because he was covering something up.”

“Like what?”

Jennifer looked at her. “Crimes,” she said.

***

She sat with Maura in Richard’s living room, explaining it all. She left nothing out. She talked about the note on her windshield, the unsolved murders, Richard’s paranoia about the wanted posters. The contents of the diary, and the confirmation of the essential elements of Edward Hare’s tale by an online source. The family history, and how Richard’s illness and her father’s might be traceable to Edward Hare.

“So you’re telling me,” Maura said when she was through, “you’re Jack the Ripper’s great-granddaughter?”

Jennifer rubbed her forehead, fighting a headache. “I hadn’t thought of it exactly like that.”

“I don’t know, kiddo. Sounds like you’re reaching.”

“You didn’t read the diary.”

“The diary might not be what it’s cracked up to be. And you can’t be sure your ancestor wrote it.”

“The house goes back a long way in our family. I know my great-grandparents lived there.”

“Were they the original occupants?”

“I don’t know. The family papers might have told me. Why would Robert burn them unless there was something in them he needed to cover up?”

“He’s irrational. He could’ve torched the papers for any number of reasons. He could’ve done it just because you were asking about them.”

“So you think I’m overreacting?” She hoped so. She wanted to believe she was making too much of this.

But Maura disappointed her. “Given everything that’s happened—and especially that creepy note you found on your car—I’d say you might not be reacting enough.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means it’s time to call the cops.”

“No, I can’t do that.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because if I’m wrong, I’ll have exposed Richard to all kinds of trouble. Legal trouble. They could lock him up. If not for any crimes, then just for being a danger to himself and others.”

“Maybe he is a danger.”

“But we don’t know that. Not for certain. And there’s a chance he’d resist arrest. He’s not thinking clearly, he’s sure everyone’s out to get him. He could fight the police if they try to bring him in. He could be killed.”

“If he’s responsible for even one of those unsolved homicides, then you need to get him off the street before someone else is killed.”

“He’s my brother. I’m supposed to take care of him. I’ve always taken care of him.”

“It might be time you stopped.”

“That’s the second time you’ve said that today.”

“Yeah, and it didn’t go over so hot the first time, did it? Even so, loyalty to your bro only goes so far.”

Jennifer touched her left arm. “Not for me it doesn’t. For me it goes all the way.” She took a breath, knowing she had to ask the question she’d been dreading. “Why did you leave him?”

“He cheated on me. And he didn’t much care if I found out. Actually I think he wanted me to find out.”

“That’s crazy. Richard’s not like that.”

“Yeah, kiddo. He is. And it wasn’t a one-time thing. A few months later I ran into another gal who was with him before I came into the picture. Guess what? He cheated on her, too.”

“You’re saying it was a pattern?”

Maura nodded. “He wasn’t interested in a long-term relationship. In fact I’d say he was terrified of it. Didn’t you ever wonder why he went through so many girlfriends?”

“He was popular—a good-looking guy, smart, a doctor—”

“Amen to all that. But he was also a guy who never had a relationship that lasted more than three or four months. Am I right?”

Jennifer thought about it. “Probably. I mean, it’s not as if I ever quizzed him on his love life.”

“I didn’t have to quiz him. I lived it. Here’s the deal, Jen. He sabotaged his relationships. When they started to get serious, he went out and found himself a new girl, and made sure it didn’t stay a secret. And as long as I’m being brutally honest, I’ll tell you something else. He enjoyed it.”

“Enjoyed...what?”

“Humiliating me. And the others. He got a kick out of it.”

“No way. He would never...”

“Your brother has issues with women, and they started long before he showed any symptoms of schizophrenia.”

There was that word again, the word Casey had used in discussing Draper. Issues.

But of course Richard had issues. How could it be otherwise? Growing up fatherless in the House of Silence, enduring constant run-ins with their mother, hiding in his room and nursing grudges...

Throughout his life he’d dated women who were slightly older. Mother figures. With each new relationship he was trying to heal the breach with his mother. And failing each time, because it was a breach that couldn’t be healed.

Then lashing out, finding a new lover and humiliating the one who’d disappointed him. A compulsive pattern.

She was trained in psychology. She should have seen it long ago. Only, she hadn’t wanted to see it.

When Richard’s illness began to change him, did his resentment of women metamorphose into rage? Into violence?

“I’m sorry I had to tell you,” Maura said. “I never wanted to. But with all that’s happening, maybe it’s for the best if you know.”

“Nothing about this is for the best.”

“You need to bring in the police.”

“Not yet.”

“If he’s dangerous, he could come after you.”

“He wouldn’t,” she said, thinking of the open gate, the shoe print on her windowsill, the misplaced files.

“You don’t know what he’s capable of. You don’t know him. You only know what you want him to be. Not what he is.”

Jennifer felt a sting of tears. “Stop.”

“Promise you’ll go to the cops.”

“Not until I’m sure.”

“By then it could be too late.”

“He won’t hurt me. He would never hurt me. He saved—he saved my—” She couldn’t talk about this. “He’s not a killer.”

Maura took her hand. “Kiddo, I hope you’re right.”

twenty-six

The TV studio was on the twelfth floor of a Sunset Boulevard high-rise. The receptionist cleared Jennifer and Maura, then directed them to a small makeup room, where Sirk was seated grandly in a barber’s chair, “enduring the ministrations of my cosmetician.” The cosmetician in question, a petite redhead, was dabbing liquid foundation on Sirk’s face. “She is a genius in her way,” Sirk added. “With her charms and spells this wee sorceress can almost conceal the ravages of my debauched life.”

The makeup artist showed a diplomatic smile, but her eyes were flat. Jennifer had the impression she didn’t like Sirk. Given his behavior yesterday, it was easy enough to guess why.

“Hi, Harrison,” Maura said cheerfully. She, at least, genuinely enjoyed his company.

“Good morning to you both. I hadn’t expected to be graced by your dual presence.”

Maura spread her hands. “You know me. Always up for an adventure.”

“Yes, you are the Marguerite Harrison of our day. Remarkable woman, Marguerite Harrison, and I don’t say that merely because we share a name in common. Have you heard of her? No? What about you, dear?”

The question was directed at the makeup artist, who shook her head and busied herself rubbing in the foundation, perhaps a bit more aggressively than necessary.

“Marguerite was an explorer who ventured into Kurdish territory, following a nomadic tribe’s migration. Before that, she served as a spy, an actual spy, twice imprisoned by the Russians, once nearly executed for her pains.”

“I doubt I can match her exploits,” Maura said, “though driving in L.A. is a little risky.”

Jennifer wasn’t interested in Sirk’s banter. “Maura says you found something.”

“Why, yes. I have news.” He pronounced the word as if he could taste it and liked the flavor. “What you told me—and even more so, what you declined to tell—put me on the scent of a good story. Another book, perhaps.”

“I’m not interested in a book.”

“But I am. Books are my bread and butter, and”—he patted his ample lap—“I require considerable quantities of both. And so I investigated the early years of Abbot Kinney’s Venice for news accounts of missing women. Actually, I should not say that I investigated it. Grunt work of that sort is what archival researchers are for. I put two of them on the case, combing through microfilm copies of old newspapers.”

“What did they find?”

“There was a series of unexplained disappearances of young females during the appropriate time period. Of course, careful records were not kept back then, and police resources were limited. Few inquiries were made. It is quite likely that some of the women in question simply left town for one reason or another. Flighty creatures, women—Marguerite Harrison to the contrary notwithstanding. They are always getting it in their empty heads to run off somewhere.”

The makeup artist managed to brush some powder a little too close to Sirk’s eyes, producing momentary irritation. “Sorry,” she deadpanned.

“At any rate,” Sirk continued when he had wiped his eyes with a pocket square, “I can’t vouch for any criminal implications to these disappearances, but some of them could be deemed suspicious. You’ll see why when you read the reports.”

“You have them with you?” Jennifer asked.

“My researchers printed out the relevant pages and made copies. Said copies are in my attaché case. Unclasp it and you’ll find a manila envelope.”

Jennifer retrieved the envelope. It felt disappointingly light. There weren’t many pages inside.

“They didn’t find much,” Sirk said as if reading her thoughts. “The stories were not given much play. There was a great deal of crime in Venice and surrounding areas in those halcyon days, and only the juiciest tidbits made the headlines. A missing woman, who was inconsiderate enough not to leave behind any bloodstains or shredded undergarments for public titillation, was strictly small beer. Still, you’ll find names, locations, and dates. Take a look. And keep them in order, please. They are arranged chronologically.”

Jennifer pulled out the contents of the envelope. Eight pages in all. The articles, brief items from the inside pages of the newspapers, were circled in red ink on the photocopies. She read the first one.

The Los Angeles Examiner, January 16, 1908. Venice-of-America. Police authorities are making inquiries relative to the unexplained disappearance of Marianne Sorensen, a waitress presently employed at St. Mark’s Hotel. Miss Sorenson is described as twenty years of age, with dark brown hair, regular features, and a compact figure, standing slightly below medium height. She was last seen boarding a northbound electric car at about five o’clock Tuesday evening. The car was to have delivered her to the vicinity of Dimmick Avenue, where she had been staying with friends. She did not arrive, and has not been seen in subsequent days. It is conjectured that because she had a recent falling out with her boyfriend, she may have done herself harm....

“What the heck is an electric car?” Maura asked, reading over Jennifer’s shoulder

Sirk answered. “A trolley. They were the principal means of local transportation at the time.”

The second article was on a new subject.

The Los Angeles Express, August 7, 1908. Venice-of-America. Questions have been raised pertaining to the disappearance of Annette Thurmond, a young woman commonly known in the strand as the “flower girl,” because she customarily sells bouquets of flowers outside the Auditorium.... The supposition is that Miss Thurmond, who had often spoken of plying her trade in San Diego, may have departed for that city on a whim....

“It looks like nobody really gave a damn,” Maura said.

“Quite right,” Sirk agreed. “In a bustling young community there were higher priorities then a few disappearances. Even if crime had been suspected, it would hardly do to advertise the fact and possibly damage the tourist trade.”

The first two items have been dated 1908. The third was the following year.

The Los Angeles Daily Times, March 18, 1909. Venice-of-America. There is much speculation among the idly curious about the disappearances of three or four young ladies of dissolute character over the past two months. Wild rumors and exaggerated conjecture have been patiently addressed by the police authorities, who are of the mind that such women are habitually on the move, rarely sojourning in one community for very long. With the regrettable decline of the strand’s business activity in recent months, it is hardly surprising that some of the parasitic class who require a steady supply of tourists and sightseers would seek out more hospitable climes....

“Three or four women,” Jennifer said. “And that doesn’t include the victims in the first two reports.”

“If they were victims,” Sirk observed.

The makeup artist powdered Sirk’s ears, then stepped away. Sirk untied the bib around his neck and inspected his countenance in the mirror.

“Excellent work, Helen. Whoever said the camera never lies must have been unfamiliar with your magic arts.”

Helen left the room without a word.

The next two stories were datelined Santa Monica and its southernmost neighborhood, Ocean Park.

The Los Angeles Herald, November 5, 1909. Santa Monica. The family of Mrs. John Wright are requesting the assistance of the public in determining her whereabouts. Mrs. Wright, known familiarly as Kathleen, was last seen at the fruit and vegetable market at the end of the Long Wharf, early on Wednesday morning. One witness says he saw her speaking with a dark-complected man of medium height, but as this witness is a vagrant known for his intimate familiarity with the bottle, the authorities are disinclined to credit his report....

 

The Santa Monica Outlook, May 17, 1910. Ocean Park. A woman’s screams were reported by residents of the 400 block of Pier Avenue last night at about 10 o’clock. Investigating officers found no signs of disturbance and believe the sounds in question may have been drunken laughter....

“That one could be nothing,” Maura said. Jennifer nodded. She flipped to the next pages.

The Los Angeles Sunday Times, October 16, 1910. Venice-of-America. A tourist from Cedar Rapids, Iowa, Mrs. Thomas Mayhew, has been reported missing by her husband. Authorities fear that Mrs. Mayhew, an inexpert swimmer, may have drowned in the heavy surf off Venice Beach. As yet, her body has not been found...

 

 

The Los Angeles Examiner, March 3, 1911. Venice-of-America. Employers of Miss Mary Hatton are concerned for her welfare after her repeated failure to report for her duties at the bathing pavilion, where she worked as a towel girl in the women’s changing rooms. Miss Hatton, described by her employers as “a little thing and rather delicate,” was well liked by the ladies who frequent the pavilion....

 

The Venice Vanguard, June 3, 1911. Venice-of-America. The police of this city are inquiring into the disappearance of Mrs. Ronald Paynter, wife of a businessman who recently purchased a home on Park Avenue after relocating from Glendale. Mrs. Paynter vanished more than a month ago, but her husband at first chose to retain a private investigator in hope of locating her. These efforts having failed, he has belatedly brought the matter to the attention of police. By now the trail is believed to be quite cold....

There were no other reports. The articles ran from the beginning of 1908 to the early summer of 1911. Viewed all at once, they suggested a rash of disappearances, but spread over three and a half years, in more than one community, and involving women of varying ages, backgrounds, and social positions, they would not have suggested an epidemic at the time—especially in an era when the very concept of a serial killer was barely understood.

It was doubtful that all these women had been Edward Hare’s victims. Perhaps the unfortunate Mrs. Mayhew really had drowned in the surf, and perhaps Mrs. Paynter had run away with another man—which would explain why her husband tried to keep the matter confidential. But it was a safe bet that some of the half-dozen skeletons in the cellar had been named in these newspaper accounts.

Marianne Sorensen...Annette Thurmond...Kathleen Wright... Mary Hatton.

Names for the moldering bones in the crypt. Names that made them people, not just relics.

Names...

“You see something,” Sirk said.

She glanced up and caught him watching her reflection in the mirror.

“No, not really.”

“You’re prevaricating, Jennifer. I saw it in your face—recognition. Of what?”

“Just an idea that occurred to me. I don’t know if it means anything.”

“Why not share it with the rest of the class?”

“I’m not sure it’s worth sharing.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

Abberline had said nearly the same thing to her. Perhaps Sirk really was the faceless man on the Internet. She wouldn’t put it past him.

“I’ll tell you when I’m ready.” She slipped the papers back into the envelope. “I appreciate your help, but this is something I need to handle on my own.”

“Oh, I hardly think that answer is satisfactory.” Sirk heaved himself out of the barber’s chair. “As Maura can attest, I never do anything out of the goodness of my heart. I believe I suffer from the same congenital malady as Dr. Seuss’s Grinch, who, as you may recall, was born with a heart two sizes too small. As with any good deed that emanates from my person, there is a quid pro quo. I’ve helped you, and now you are to help me.”

“Help you how?”

“By telling me the rest of your story, of course.” He stepped closer, and Jennifer smelled alcohol on his breath. “No more secrecy, no more evasions. You and I are partners now.”

Maura waved a hand. “Hold on, Harrison. All I ever asked you to do was talk to my friend. I wasn’t trying to midwife some kind of business arrangement.”

“And yet you have done so, without even trying. Such is your skill as a businesswoman.”

Jennifer stood her ground. “I’m not going to tell you anything more.”

“I didn’t engage my research assistants in a full day of work for a rather hefty fee merely to get nothing in return.”

Maura snorted. “You don’t pay your research assistants a hefty fee. You pay them squat.”

“How can you possibly claim to know that?”

“Because I know you. You’re a cheap bastard.”

“And you are a purveyor of dirt. That’s all real estate is, ultimately. You’ve built your life on dirt.”

“You’ve built yours on blood,” Jennifer said, while Maura stepped back, speechless for once.

Sirk wheeled in her direction. “I would be careful, Miss Silence, about leveling such an accusation. Given your family history.”

“My family is none of your business.”

“Everything related to crime in our fair metropolis is my business. Including the Devil’s Henchman.” His eyes narrowed with malicious merriment. “You know, there is one detail about that case that never made the papers. I should have mentioned it yesterday, but I was hamstrung by discretion.”

“What detail?”

“Only this. The Devil’s Henchman abused his victims. I mean to say, he used them...sexually.”

She refused to let him see any reaction. “He raped them?”

“In a manner of speaking. They were already dead, you see, so the coitus was entirely postmortem.”

“And why are you telling me this?”

“I thought you deserved to know. You do have a rather pertinent interest in the case. I use the term interest in the dual sense of curiosity and of a personal stake in the outcome.”

“You’re just trying to hurt me.”

“Not at all. It’s not as if I said your father was a butchering pervert who had sex with corpses. For all I know, the dear man was altogether innocent.”

“Jesus, Harrison,” Maura mumbled, aghast.

“Is there a problem?” His eyes had not left Jennifer’s face. “I should think you would welcome any fresh data in your fearless quest for truth.”

She held his gaze. “Maybe you can tell me if the killer used the missionary position.”

“Actually, my understanding is that he took them from behind. Perhaps he preferred not to see their faces. Incidentally, Jack the Ripper throttled his victims from behind. Remarkable how many parallels one can draw between old Jack and the Devil’s Henchman, isn’t it?”

“Like you said”—her voice was even, betraying nothing—“there are only so many ways to disembowel a woman.”

“Yes, but consider. The Venice killer roamed the streets on foot—like Jack. Preyed on down-and-out females—like Jack. Eviscerated them—like Jack. Was thought to show the skills of a surgeon or a slaughterman—like Jack. Took his victims from behind—like Jack. Of course, Jack didn’t rape them, so the similarities end there.”

“And what’s the point of listing all these details?”

“Merely to suggest that you may have a more personal connection to the Ripper case than I had imagined.”

“My father was born several decades too late to have been Jack the Ripper.”

“But not too late to be descended from him.”

It required all her willpower to keep her gaze level. “That’s crazy.”

“Before yesterday, I would have thought so. Today I’m not so sure. Seeing your face right now, I’m even less sure.”

“Harrison,” Maura hissed, “you’re behaving like a total shit.”

“No, my dear, I’m behaving like a historian of crime whose sensitive proboscis is beginning to catch the scent of the biggest story he could possibly hope for. The kind of story that would crown a career.”

“There’s no story,” Jennifer said.

“My every instinct tells me otherwise. And my instincts are rarely mistaken. They have earned me a great deal of money and brought me a fair degree of fame.”

“But not enough?” she asked.

He smiled, a paper-thin smile that spoke of limitless appetites. “My child, it is never enough.”