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The Gift of Death
  • Текст добавлен: 14 сентября 2016, 22:28

Текст книги "The Gift of Death"


Автор книги: Sam Ripley


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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 21 страниц)




10





Kate felt guilty as she pulled up to Cassie’s Venice Beach apartment. She thought of the amount of times Cassie had invited her over, the occasions when she had suggested meeting for a drink or something to eat, the unanswered calls, the unreturned messages.

Superficially at least, the two women had become friendly during the Gleason investigation. Kate admired her strength of spirit, her ability to fight back against all the odds. She liked her sense of humour and her ability to laugh at herself. She respected her for the work she did with the charity and the selflessness with which she dedicated herself to her cause. So why had she resisted Cassie’s invitations? Why, just as Cassie reached out to her to offer her the hand of friendship, had she refused to take it? She had maintained it was because her job was all consuming. She also had to retain a professional distance. She couldn’t afford to let herself be ruled by an emotional attachment with someone she had met through work; it was against all the regulations. All this was true, but now she had to concede that there had been something else at play, something she was not proud to admit to herself. If she was being honest she had to acknowledge that she had been worried that the blind woman might become something of a burden. She knew that Cassie had an independent life – an apartment of her own, a job – and a robust mind, but she had been fearful of the way Gleason’s violent attack could affect her in the future. Cassie might well be fine, but Kate hadn’t wanted to run the risk. After all, she encountered enough misery and pain in the course of her job as it was without having to volunteer to take on any more. And so, rightly or wrongly, she had stepped away.

And what about now? How had the delivery of that sinister package affected her? She was afraid of what she might find.

She told Naylor, one of the cops assigned to protect her, that her meeting in the apartment block would take thirty minutes or so. Naylor radioed to the cop sitting in the car on the opposite side of the street, who then rang up to Cassie to inform her she had a visitor, Kate Cramer. A moment later, she was buzzed in.

She chose the stairs over the elevator and walked up to the third floor, feeling anxious. How would she receive her? Earlier, on the phone, Cassie had been a little cool with her. And who could blame her? But both women knew they had to talk. She pressed the bell and waited. A moment later the door opened. Cassie’s face was still the same – she had pale, unlined skin, a pert nose, and a rosebud mouth – but she had changed her hair since the last time Kate had seen her. Her glossy black bob had been replaced by a short, slicked-back style.

‘Hello, Kate,’ she said. ‘Come on in.’ Her voice was cold, frosty.

She stepped inside the apartment and followed Cassie through into the lounge.

‘Would you like a drink? Coffee? Water?’

‘No, I’m fine, thanks,’ she said.

Tension seemed to pollute the air, and then both women started talking at once.

‘Sorry I –‘ said Kate

‘Look –‘ said Cassie.

They both started laughing, relieved that the uncomfortable silence had been broken.

‘But seriously, I’ve got to apologise,’ said Kate. ‘For not getting in touch. But what with the job, I just didn’t feel –‘

‘That’s all in the past,’ said Cassie, her voice softening now. ‘I don’t blame you.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

Kate sat next to her on the sofa and took hold of one of her hands. Her fingers felt cold. The thought of Cassie opening that horrific package made her feel nauseous. She felt an overwhelming urge to protect her.

‘Listen, I know I haven’t been a friend to you, but I want to make up for that.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I know how you must be feeling at the moment, and I want to do something to help.’

‘I’m fine, honestly, I really am,’ she said, as Moisie jumped up on to the sofa next to her. ‘I’ve got everything I need here.’

‘I know you say you are – but I just want to make sure. Which is why I want you to come and stay with me. At my mom’s place.’

‘That’s really kind, Kate, but I –‘

‘Look, I didn’t want to say anything before, but I – I was sent something too.’

‘What do you mean?’ she whispered, suddenly afraid.

‘It was two weeks ago. A dead baby girl. I found her floating in the sea outside my house.’

‘Oh my God.’

The two women went silent.

‘But why? What’s going on?’ asked Cassie.

‘I’m pregnant.’

Cassie didn’t know what to say. Congratulations seemed inappropriate somehow.

‘You don’t think that –‘

‘The two are connected in some way? I think we’ve got to assume that they are.’

Neither woman wanted to be the first to mention the name. They sat in silence as they tried to understand what was going on. But finally, Cassie started to speak.

‘Kate, he is dead, isn’t he?’

‘That’s exactly what went through my mind at first, but yes, he is.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘There is no doubt that Bobby Gleason died in San Quentin on the morning of July 7 2000. One of the guards walked into his cell to find the walls streaked with blood. He’d cut his wrists and neck with a razor blade that must have been smuggled into the prison. The prison medics tried to revive him, but he’d already lost too much blood. There was nothing they could do.’

‘I can’t believe they even tried to keep him alive after what he did.’

‘I know,’ said Kate.

Tears began to form in Cassie’s unseeing eyes.

‘It’s starting all over again,’ she said. ‘The feeling that I’m being shadowed, haunted. It’s like – like he’s still here.’

‘All the more reason why you should come and stay with me at mom’s place. Just for a few weeks until all this is over.’

As Cassie ran her hand over Moisie’s head the cat started to purr.

‘And you know you could always bring this big guy here,’ said Kate.

‘Seriously?’ She thought for a moment. ‘No, it wouldn’t be fair. But I guess at the moment I would feel safer with some people around. I could always ask Ron, the guy from across the hall. He’s always offering to look after him.’

‘Well, what are you waiting for? Why don’t you give him a call now?’

‘And you’re sure you wouldn’t mind – if I moved in for a while? And what about your mom?’

‘I can tell you now my mom is going to adore you. She always said she regretted having only one child. You can pretend to be the second daughter she never had.’













11





Jordan Weislander switched his foot onto the brake pad as traffic on the freeway slowed and then stopped. Approaching the interchange was always like this, especially on Friday nights as people tried to flee the city for the desert or the coast. He looked down from the freeway onto another stationary line of traffic, and then another in the distance, the brake lights of the cars a river of blood flowing through the darkness. He hit the first number on the speed-dial on his carphone and waited impatiently for Nic to pick up.

‘Hi there,’ she said.

‘Hi, honey.’

‘Where are you? Are you nearly home?’

‘Still sitting on the freeway. Did you get the things?’

‘Yeah, it’s all there in the icebox. Went to that new deli that’s just opened? The one I was telling you about?’

‘Great. Listen, can you ring Lakeland and – what’s she called?’

‘Caryn.’

‘And Caryn – and say I’m running behind schedule. Don’t blame the traffic – God, I hate it when people use that excuse on me – but just say I was late working on a case.’

‘Okay. I’ll call them now. Do you want me to help with anything? Any preparation?’

‘No, honey. That’s fine.’

‘Okay. The table is done and I’ve made the desert, sort of like a key lime pie but with grapefruit. I’ve got everything, I think, but I might just give Marcie a call to see if I can borrow that CD she mentioned.’

‘Well you know how she can talk. Hope you make it back in time for dinner.’

He listened to his wife’s smooth, honeyed laugh. ‘Tell me about it. Send out the rescue party if I’m not home.’

‘No problem. Cavalry is on stand by. See you later.’

He cut the connection and started to ease the car forwards. He wasn’t particularly looking forward to the evening, but at least it would take his mind off work. What was it Dr Malcolm, his therapist, had told him? That he was using his job as prosecutor in the district attorney’s office as a form of displacement? That he was in danger of giving his all to his calling to the detriment of his personal life? Sure, he had already fucked up one marriage and screwed with the heads of his two teenage children. He didn’t want to mess it up again. Not with Nic. But it was hard to maintain that work-life balance shit when he knew that kind of sick fucks were out there.

He took a deep breath as the car picked up speed. Tonight he would try to relax. Enjoy himself. Forget. So what if Nic wanted to invite her boss at the real estate office and his wife? He knew the conversation wouldn’t exactly light up the sky with sparks, but if chatting about the problems of the realtor business made Nic happy who could argue with that? When she had first told him that she had fixed herself a job selling, as she had phrased it, ‘properties at the high end of the market’ he had not exactly been thrilled. But she had wanted to feel useful, she said. And it was for only three mornings a week. ‘Well done, darling,’ he had said finally, kissing the baby blonde hair at the nape of her neck. ‘Well done.’

He had wondered how long she would last at the company. Nic, he knew, was a woman who liked her little luxuries – her treatments at the upscale spa attached to that swanky new Beverly Hills hotel, her membership of the exclusive sports club where she claimed to spot top models and celebrities (names which, in truth, meant little to him). But she had been in the job almost a year now and was already earning quite respectable bonuses – $10,000 three months ago and $15,000 last month. Lakeland must really rate her, he thought. Lakeland. The name made the muscles on the back of his neck tense up. What was it about the good-looking bastard that he didn’t like? There, he’d answered the question himself. Under that thousand dollar suit Lakeland had a muscular physique, toned by hours of gym work at the sports club. He still boasted a full head of hair. And he was ten years younger than Jordan.

He turned on the radio and tried to banish thoughts of Lakeland from his mind. The words of I Had Too Much To Dream Last Night seemed to mock him, with their taunts of being haunted by a love lost. He switched channels, but automatically jumped to the next preset when he was assaulted by some god-awful pop, the creation of one of those horrendous reality TV programmes. He stopped his search of the airwaves when he heard something from his college days, a track – what was it called? – The Golden Road by The Grateful Dead. That name reminded him of something, a phrase someone had said during a case. He ran through some of the cases he had worked on over the years. The college shooting in which ten students and two professors had been killed and another twenty left with horrific injuries; unusually the gunman, a twenty-year-old student did not turn the weapon upon himself, and later had tried to plead insanity, a defence that Jordan had effectively destroyed. Today the killer languished in some godforsaken prison on the outskirts of the desert. Then there was the kidnapping of a two-year-old girl by a middle-age woman who had given birth to twins, only to have both of them die in the first few days of life. In that instance, it was clear she had been suffering from some sort of psychiatric illness brought on by the loss of her babies and, instead of going to prison, the state had ordered her to be sent to a secure hospital.

The phrase came back to him, more clearly this time.

‘I always think the dead are grateful – it’s the ones left behind who suffer, those are the people I feel sorry for.’

It was a woman’s voice, he was sure of that. Was it one of the victims’ relatives? The mother of one of those students killed in the college massacre? A therapist or counsellor who had seen the devastating effects of murder on a family? Just then his cell buzzed. It was Nic.

‘How’s it going? Still in traffic?’

‘No, it’s clearing now. So should be back in fifteen.’

‘Okay. I’m just going over to Marcie’s. Call me when you get back.’

‘Okay, hon.’

‘Bye.’

He was hungry now and looked forward to the supper of Osso Buco and Risotto alla Milanese. He pressed down on the gas and overtook a couple of slow moving cars and a Winnebago. The 110 freeway seemed to lose its traffic, lights changed from red to green at his approach and he turned into the complex of tree-lined streets that led to his house in Pasadena in what seemed like record time. As he drew up outside his home – a newly-built, double-fronted house with four bedrooms and a hot tub out the back – he was about to call Nic on her cell to tell her that he had made it back earlier than expected, but then decided to surprise her. He would get on with the cooking, so when she returned she could step into a kitchen rich with the aromas of veal, white wine and Parmesan. He was looking forward to the weekend. He didn’t have to drive over to see his children in Sherman Oaks – his ex-wife, Veronica, had taken the kids to see her mother in Washington State – and although he would have to put in some hours in his study he wouldn’t have to go back to the office. Tonight, he could enjoy a couple of bottles of that Margaux he had ordered from his wine supplier. Saturday morning he and Nic could laze around in bed – usually that was when they made love – and then they could go for a drive in the hills or take a walk down Rodeo, where he could buy her something special.

The doors of the carport opened automatically – and a light came on overhead – as he steered the car into the neatly ordered space. He unlocked the door into the laundry room, the smell of freshly washed linen reminding him of his dead mother, and into the kitchen that opened out into an enormous living space. He hit the lights – a dozen or so small spotlights set into the ceiling – that illuminated the dining room table, which had been perfectly and elegantly set for four. In the centre was a vase of pink peonies.

Taking a fat glass tumbler from one of the cupboards in the kitchen he walked over to the drinks cabinet and quickly made himself a scotch and soda, without ice. He took off his tie and jacket, flinging them over the black leather sofa, and flicked on the CD player. He always liked to listen to rock or alt country when he cooked; he selected a compilation album from the Austin City Limits music festival. Jerusalem by Steve Earle rasped through the house. He took another swig of the drink and reached for a chopping knife. From the vegetable store he took out a couple of onions, a bulb of garlic and a heavy bunch of tomatoes still on the vine. Quickly and expertly he skinned one onion and then the next, and then started to slice. As he opened the icebox and took out the butter he noticed a lumpy package on the third shelf down from the top. Inside the old-fashioned waxy paper would be the four pieces of shin of veal he had asked Nic to buy for him. He’d have to go and have a look at the new deli Nic was raving about.

He hadn’t cooked Ossobuco for a few months and tonight he was looking forward to it. The memory of that rich mix of veal, white wine, butter, tomatoes, onion and garlic, garnished with parsley, lemon and yet more garlic, made his mouth water. He could almost taste it.

He cut a thick slice of butter and dropped it into a wide casserole pot set on the hob. As the butter started to bubble and melt he dropped the onion into the dish and gave it a good stir. He peeled three cloves garlic, chopped them into small pieces and added them to the pot. A heady aroma filled the room as he continued to stir the mixture.

When he finished his scotch he opened the icebox and took out a chilled bottle of Chablis, some of which he would add to the dish. He poured himself a glass. With a slotted spoon he scooped out the browned onion and garlic from the pot and set them aside in a white china bowl. He added more butter to the pot, but the heat was still a little high and the fat began to burn a little. He would need to stir it constantly to prevent it from blackening and so, with his left hand, he reached into the icebox for the veal. He felt for the waxy paper and brought the package out. It was generously plump, he thought; perhaps the deli had given Nic slightly larger pieces than they needed. It wouldn’t be a problem, as he could always mince anything that was left over and make them into veal burgers for lunch the next day.

With his left hand he undid the package, enjoying the feel of the smooth waxed paper on his skin. The veal looked thick, plump, and of good quality. He picked up one of the pieces of shin and added it to the sizzling pan. There was room for one more; he could fry them in two batches. But as he picked up the second shin of veal he noticed something underneath the third piece that seemed out of place, a slither of red meat amongst the white. He nudged the veal away, reeling back as he did so. Sitting on top of the last piece of meat was a tongue, its stump bloody and raw. For a moment he thought the deli must have given Nic a different piece by mistake; perhaps one of the counter staff had thrown it in for free with her order. He took a step nearer and looked closer, fear rising up inside him.

The tongue was not from a cow, pig or any other animal. It was unmistakably human.



12





Kate looked around her mother’s garden, at the jagged line of wire that ran along the top of the wall like a sinister garland. The house was protected by one of the best security companies in the city, and outside the gates Josh had stationed an unmarked police car. Yet still Kate did not feel safe.

‘You can stay here as long as you like, you know that,’ said Kate, catching her mother’s eye in the distance, as she looked up from one of her rose beds. Hope waved across the garden at the two women. ‘In fact, I think my mother has fallen in love with you already.’

‘Thank you, that’s so kind,’ said Cassie. ‘But there’s only a limited amount of time I can leave Moisie. Ron loves cats, but I miss him, you know?’

‘Like I said, he’s welcome here too.’

‘He’s so used to being a house cat that I think this -,’ she said, gesturing at the expanse of lawn and gardens, ‘would freak him out. Although I can’t see it I can tell it’s beautiful by the birdsong. That and the way your mother talks about it.’

‘To be honest I think it’s the only thing that has kept her going since my father died.’

‘I’m sorry. When did he – pass away?’

‘Two years ago now.’

‘That must have been hard.’

‘Yes, it was,’ said Kate, running her hand through her hair. ‘But it helped in other ways too. Made me do some serious thinking and helped me make some changes to my life.’

‘Such as what?’ asked Cassie gently.

Cassie felt Kate’s hesitation and immediately hoped she hadn’t offended her.

‘Kate, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. Really you don’t need to –‘

‘No, no. It’s fine, honestly.’ She took a deep breath. ‘After dad died I suppose I felt I had to take stock of my life. I wanted a child, desperately, and at the same time felt like I couldn’t carry on as a forensic artist. Putting face to death was just too much for me. I know it sounds silly, but sometimes when I sat there in my lab, late at night, moulding the face of a killer out of a piece of clay, I felt like I was giving birth to evil.’

She took a sip of her mint tea, suddenly self-conscious of the sound of her swallow.

‘Was it like that with Gleason?’

Kate nodded. ‘I’ll never forget the moment he came to me. I suppose it helped because you gave me such a detailed description, ten times more accurate than I would have got from a sighted person. The fact you felt the contours of his face meant that my job was so much easier.’

Kate watched as tears slid down Cassie’s pale cheeks.

‘You had only just woken up after surgery and you were still a bit groggy. The medics were set against it, they said you were too weak, but you were insistent, remember? And over the course of those two hours you managed to give me a perfect description. You were so determined, so brave. I brought a couple of lumps of clay and a bowl of water with me and you helped me sculpt his face. I had to lift your fingers you were so weak, but your mind was strong, so strong.

‘I went away and worked through the night. It was five or six in the morning when I suddenly got the sensation that I was looking into the face of a monster. I felt physically sick. In fact, I think I was, in the basin of the lab. It was as if I had created something unspeakable. I had to shower, get that feeling that I had been polluted off my skin. But no matter how hard I scrubbed that sense was still there, underneath me, inside me. Soon after, the nightmares started. I saw Gleason’s face staring out of the darkness at me. Felt the stickiness on my skin. Dreamt that he was pushing a tongue made of clay into my mouth. Night after night I woke up screaming. God knows it must have been hard for Josh. And it carried on like that until Gleason was sentenced and imprisoned.’

She suddenly became aware of herself. ‘Sorry, listen to me babbling on about myself. God, Cassie. I know it’s nothing compared to what you went through. I must sound so pathetic.’

‘There’s no need to apologise. It must have been hard for you. I never realised.’

‘And why should you have done? You were going through so much yourself. That was the last thing I wanted to burden you with.’

‘And what does Josh – sorry, Detective Harper – think? About what is happening now, I mean.’

‘He thinks it could be some psycho Gleason met in prison. Perhaps someone he helped. And in exchange his friend would act out some sort of sick plan at a later date.’

‘Jesus.’

‘But don’t worry. If that’s the case it’s only a matter of time before he’s caught. Harper and his staff will be working through a list of the inmates at the prison who were inside at the same time as Gleason and who have subsequently been released. There can’t be that many of them and all of them should be easily tracked down.’

The two women didn’t speak for a few moments. Cassie cleared her throat and shifted slightly in her seat, moving towards Kate.

‘You know you said you were pregnant. When did you find out?’

‘That’s the frightening thing. Whoever took and killed that baby knew about it before I did.’

‘What?’

‘I only did a test after I had found the child in the sea.’

‘And nobody else knew you were trying for a child?’

‘Well, only the people at the fertility clinic, and, of course, the father – Detective Harper. Josh. But by the way we’re no longer together.’

‘I see.’

Just then Kate’s cell rang. She looked at the caller I.D.

‘Sorry, Cassie. I better take this.’

She stood up and walked away from the table. Her mother looked up from her garden and smiled.

‘Hi, Kate. It’s Josh.’

‘Hello, Detective Harper.’

‘Look, we haven’t the luxury of playing that silly fucking game, Kate.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘Jordan Weislander – in the district attorney’s office -‘

‘I know who he is, Josh. I was there remember.’

‘Last night Weislander was at home cooking dinner for his wife and two friends when he opened his icebox and found a human tongue sandwiched between his choice cuts of veal.’

‘So it is to do with Gleason.’

‘Yep, sure looks like it. More or less at the same time a homeless guy was admitted to California Hospital Medical on Hope Street. He woke up after taking god knows what – booze, drugs or both – to find himself without a tongue. Apparently it had been cut out when he was unconscious.’

Kate was too shocked to speak.

‘Look, I know we’re going through our own problems now –‘

‘You could say that.’

‘But, Kate. Don’t take any risks. I know you – I’ve seen the way you work in the past. This is serious, dangerous. Whoever we’re dealing with here is clearly a psychopath with no regard for anyone.’

‘Do you have any leads yet?’

‘We should have some names soon. I’ve got the whole team working on it. I’ll let you know what happens.’

‘Okay.’

‘Also, I’ve just heard that the Times is leading on the story tomorrow – you and the kid, Cassie and the fingertips, Weislander and the tongue. God only knows how it got out – but if the journalist Cynthia Ross –‘

‘Not her again.’

‘Yeah. Anyway, if she calls you, do me a favour and say no comment, will you?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Sorry, I’ve got to go.’

‘Bye.’

Kate returned to the table. She told Cassie what Josh had said. The news left the two women even more fearful than before.







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