Pretty Corpse

by Linda Berry

  Who was Jack Monetti, really?

  Lauren was ashamed of losing control, giving in to impulse when she needed to be strong. She emptied the magazine of her Beretta into the chest of the cardboard dummy and the smell of gunpowder sharpened the air. While reloading, she replayed the call she made to Ann that morning, asking for asylum for Courtney. A flat-out admission of failure. She couldn’t provide a safe environment for her own daughter. Instead of the expected reprimand, Ann had graciously consented to take in her granddaughter for as much time as was needed, and she invited Lauren to stay for dinner when she brought Courtney over.

  Lauren took aim at her target and again emptied her magazine. The forehead of her dummy turned black with bullet holes. Her aim was now dead on. Expelling a deep breath, she took off her earmuffs and holstered her gun, feeling more in touch with the cop side of her nature. She had always trusted and relied on police procedure and her own sure-footed instincts. Right now, that was all she had to go on.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  LAUREN AND COURTNEY drove to the fashionable area of Pacific Heights on leafy streets lined with upscale restaurants, art galleries, and designer boutiques. Her mother’s neighborhood was a millionaire’s ghetto of well-tended mansions owned by the well-heeled elite. Lauren pulled up to the wrought-iron gate of the Travington estate and plugged six digits into the code box. The gates swung silently open.

  She followed the curved driveway to the front of a Mediterranean-style mansion surrounded by lush landscaping and old maples, featuring a stunning view of the bay. The polished front door opened before she knocked, and a distinguished middle-aged man in a dark suit ushered her and Courtney into the spacious marbled foyer. A dramatic stairway arched above the entryway as though ascending to heaven, forcing one’s eyes to confront the magnificent antique chandelier, sparkling with a thousand hand-cut crystal prisms.

  “Hello, Roy,” Lauren said to her mother’s butler.

  Roy nodded politely. “Ms. Starkley. Everyone’s in the library.”

  “Oh, there’s a cat in the car. Tango,” she said apologetically. “Also his litter box.”

  “And my computer,” Courtney added.

  Roy smiled warmly. “I’ll take care of it.”

  A chorus of cheerful voices greeted them as they entered the library, a room lined with floor to ceiling shelves stuffed with books, art pieces, pottery, and photos. A large, gilt-framed portrait of Ann hung above the fireplace, portraying her like a queen in her shimmering red evening dress and dangling ruby earrings. All she needed was a jewel-encrusted crown and a scepter, and she was ready for tea at Windsor. Gathered around the bar holding drinks, Lauren spotted Ann and Harry, Lauren’s younger sister, Allison, and her husband Tad. A handsome man Lauren didn’t know stood holding a martini in a chilled glass. Everyone wore stylish cocktail clothes. She and Courtney wore jeans and t-shirts. A hush fell over the group as they entered, then everyone spoke at once.

  “Ah, there you are. We held up dinner for you.” Ann rushed forward in a low-cut black dress that showed off her shapely figure and the diamond jewelry sparkling at her ears and throat.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Lauren said.

  “We wanted to.” Ann gave her a kiss and put an arm around Courtney’s shoulders. “How’re you holding up, dear?”

  “Fine,” Courtney said dully.

  The rest of the group flocked around them as they moved out of the library and across the great hall to the dining room. A fire blazed in the stone fireplace and wall sconces cast light on Ann’s eclectic collection of paintings from well-known local artists. The long table was covered with white linen, and candles flickered on heirloom crystal, china, and silver. A view of the manicured garden and bay were visible through three arched windows on the north wall.

  As directed by Ann, the stranger was seated next to Lauren and introduced as Jim McGowan, an architect from New York. Lauren resisted frowning. Ann never gave up.

  Across the table, Courtney sat between Ann and Allison. Matching bookends. Like Ann, Allison was thin, blond, pale, perfectly made up, elegant. She personified what Ann had wanted for Lauren. A pricey prep-school education, married to a wealthy businessman, a custom home in Sausalito. She drove a Jaguar, and her hobbies included golf, travel, and art collecting. Her art degree was purely ornamental. Like Ann, she did charitable work. Her husband Tad, from the Gellor family of bankers, displayed polished manners and a humorless, aloof personality. Allison, Lauren recalled, had been a shy, approval-seeking teenager who put up no defense against Ann’s smothering ambition. Sadly, her sister had been lost to Lauren years ago.

  Dinner started with arugula, pomegranate and goat cheese salad, followed by wild Texas antelope, green beans, and sweet potato flan. Conversation covered local cultural events, politics, and meals at pricey restaurants. Their version of San Francisco depicted a playground for the super-rich. Lauren’s mind drifted in and out of her own experience of the city—graffiti-fouled neighborhoods where people struggled to survive, drunks, gangbangers, hookers, conmen—many of whom she knew by name. She tuned in to the conversation and caught phrases like “the ice sculptures and caviar at the mayor’s black-and-white ball,” and “the fabulous truffles and foie gras at Le Papillion,” and “the lovely lavender delphinium centerpieces at the luncheon for battered women.”

  Lauren knew immediately that she and Tom McGowan were a complete mismatch. He spoke tirelessly of the “commanding aesthetics of his design style,” “his philosophy of Asian restraint,” and the many luxury hotels he’d refurbished in New York. He looked dismayed when Lauren confessed she was a cop and had never traveled to his fair city. After she showed no interest in refurbished hotels, his conversation was redirected to Allison and Ann. Lauren was relieved when the group finished their cognacs and dessert and she was free to see her daughter to bed.

  Upstairs, Courtney’s spacious guest room was a study in muted elegance—walls and furniture in shades of gray, taupe, and moss green, with sheer white linen falling softly to the floor from the bed canopy. Tango was curled on the sofa, but he jumped down to the floor and twined between Courtney’s legs until she scooped him up in her arms.

  “That was a dream dinner, and what a dessert,” Lauren said brightly, pointing out the positives. “Grandmom Ann and Aunt Allison dote on you. So does Harry.”

  Courtney shrugged. “They don’t talk about real life. What’s fwah gwah?”

  “Foie Gras. French, for goose liver pate.”

  “Yech.” Courtney made a face.

  “Think of your stay here as a lesson in anthropology.”

  “The study of an alien race?”

  Lauren smiled. “Something like that.”

  “I want to come home. I’m worried about you.”

  Lauren grabbed an ornate, silver-backed brush off the vanity, pulled Courtney next to her on the bed, and began brushing her lustrous strawberry blond hair. “It’s not your job to worry about me. It’s your job to be a teenager. Besides, there’s nothing to worry about.” Lauren spoke in a soothing tone. “We have to look at the obvious. Our suspect had a perfect opportunity to hurt me when he was alone with me in the house. But he didn’t. That’s not his intent.”

  “What is his intent?”

  “I don’t know. But he won’t come near me again. Captain Monetti has a unit posted right outside our house. I couldn’t be safer.” She kissed Courtney on the forehead. “And you’ll be safe here.”

  “Grandmom’s going to drive me to school from now on. She doesn’t want a cop car here at the house.”

  Lauren felt a quick stab of anger at her mother’s interference, and the negative message it sent about cops. But this was not the time to split hairs. Ann was providing protection for Courtney. That’s what mattered. And she was entitled to do it her way.

  ***

  An eerie quiet met Lauren back at the house. Pausing in Courtney’s doorway, she studied the ordered composition of her daughter’s world. She wanted to k
eep that world intact, but she could only do so much. She had to trust that Courtney’s inherent good sense would guide her through whatever perils life inflicted upon her.

  Entering her bedroom, Lauren saw that the bed was still stripped down to the mattress. Vivid, erotic memories of Jack flooded her senses. Here, in the privacy and silence of her room, she reveled in the afterglow of last night’s pleasure. Remembering the feel of Jack’s hands and mouth on her skin, the hardness of him inside her, made her shiver. She felt a powerful urge to call him. He’d be here in minutes. With effort, she pushed aside the warm, delicious thoughts crowding her mind. No more weakness.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  A CALL AWAKENED HER at nine a.m. “Yes?” she asked, drowsy.

  “Hey, Rugby.”

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “I just got the lab report from The Strangler’s last victim.”

  Lauren sat up in bed. “Tina Duff?”

  “Yes.”

  “They found something?” she asked.

  “You bet. Tina’s DNA is a match to the panties found in the park.”

  “That makes no sense, Dad. Those panties were found days before Tina was assaulted.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Which means ….” Now she was wide awake. “He was cluing me in on his next victim.”

  “Right.”

  “A useless clue. Another of his little torments.” She was gripped by sudden dread. “How the hell did he get Tina’s panties?”

  “Good question.”

  “Oh, Dad, he was here in the house,” Lauren said, a tinge of fear in her voice. “He stole Courtney’s things. Her panties.”

  He gasped.

  Lauren filled him in, pausing intermittently to answer a pointed question. He cursed repeatedly.

  “We’re both safe now. Courtney’s staying with Mom. A detective is sitting outside my house around the clock.”

  She heard a relieved sigh.

  “Dad, I have to go. I need to see Peter Duff right away. I’ll call you back.” Lauren rushed into her office and rummaged through her desk until she found the card the reporter had given her a month before. She dialed his number. Voicemail picked up. She called the main number of The Daily and fought her way through a maze of recordings before reaching a live receptionist.

  “Mr. Duff is at City Hall,” the receptionist said. “He’s covering the mayor’s address to dignitaries from Japan. He’ll be there another thirty-five minutes.”

  Skipping a shower and breakfast, Lauren dressed quickly, ran out of the house, and crossed town in sluggish traffic until she reached Van Ness Boulevard. Crowned by its majestic gold dome, the classical beauty of city hall swung into view. It took five minutes to find parking, and another five to hike to the entrance. Once inside the cavernous rotunda, she craned her neck, taking in the diffused light streaming down from the spectacular dome, illuminating the gilt-tinted balconies and sculpted walls. She climbed the grand staircase to the second floor and hurried to the pressroom opposite the mayor’s office. The meeting was over, the room empty, except for two men dismantling video equipment. One was gray-haired, and dressed in dark trousers, a tweed blazer, and blue shirt. The other was dressed in jeans and sported a ponytail.

  “Damn.”

  The men turned, startled.

  “Sorry. I really needed to see Peter Duff.”

  “I’m Peter Duff,” the older man said. He met her eyes in an unflinching gaze.

  “I’m in no moods for pranks,” she said tartly.

  He frowned. “Neither am I. Who are you?”

  “Officer Lauren Starkley.”

  “Starkley?” He blinked. “You the cop that found Tina?”

  “Yes.”

  His expression instantly softened. “I’m sorry about your partner. Halloween was a tragic night for both of us.”

  This scenario made no sense. Lauren shook her head. “I met another man who said he was Peter Duff.”

  The frown returned, deepening as he pulled his wallet from his back pocket and handed her his driver’s license.

  His picture matched the stats. Holy Hell. Lauren reeled. Who was the stranger in the park? She pulled the image of the impostor back into her mind: six feet tall, thin face, bespectacled, early thirties, ball cap, dark pants, intense blue eyes. A keen look of curiosity on his face. Her thoughts crystallized around a sudden realization.

  “You okay?” Duff asked.

  She nodded, handing back his license.

  “What did you want to see me about?”

  “Can we talk in private?”

  Duff turned to his associate. “Excuse us for a minute, Jay.”

  “Sure.” Jay put down his equipment and left the room.

  “Off the record. Agreed?” Lauren said.

  Duff stuffed his hands into the pockets of his trousers, looking uncertain.

  “Do you want your daughter’s attacker found?”

  “Of course,” he said adamantly. “You got it. Off the record.”

  “The Strangler planted a pair of panties in Cypress Park a few days before Tina was abducted. Forensics just identified the DNA. It’s a match to Tina.”

  “Jesus.” Duff walked away from her, one hand over his mouth. He stood that way for a long while, shoulders stiff, and when he returned, he looked a little shell-shocked.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Duff, I know this is difficult, but I need to ask a couple questions.”

  He nodded, his tone low and sad. “Shoot.”

  “Were there any signs of a break-in at your house prior to the assault?”

  “Break-in?” He thought for a long moment. “I wouldn’t know. We have two other kids. Between school projects, sports activities, and my wife’s fundraisers, we wouldn’t notice anything missing unless it was something big.”

  Lauren shared her own experience of her two home invasions by The Strangler and the clothing he stole from Courtney’s hamper.

  “He’s targeting your daughter now?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Lauren let out a ragged breath. “I had to move her out of my house. Somewhere safe.”

  “I’m sorry.” The look of understanding on Duff’s face touched her deeply.

  “How’s Tina doing?”

  “Not good. She’s afraid to be alone. Doesn’t trust anyone.” His shoulders slumped, and his face looked as worn as one of Detective Valona’s suits. “Looks at every guy like he might be her attacker. It’s affecting the whole family. Is there anything else you can tell me? Are you getting close to catching this pervert?”

  “You just helped me get a break in the case. I now know what The Strangler looks like.”

  His eyes widened. For a moment he stood quite still. “So the guy impersonating me was The Strangler?”

  “I believe so. I’m going straight to the station to give his description to a sketch artist. It’ll get released to the media today. I promise, as soon as he’s caught, I’ll contact you and give you an exclusive.”

  She put out her hand and he grasped it warmly with both hands.

  ***

  As Lauren described the suspect in detail, she watched his likeness materialize on the pad beneath the artist’s skilled hand. With the sketch completed, she met with Lt. Hardy and Sgt. Birenski in a cramped conference room to give her report. The florescent lights cast a hard yellow glare across the scarred oak table and white-washed walls, which were adorned with sepia prints of historical San Francisco. Lauren made small talk with her two superiors and was on her second cup of station coffee when Jack Monetti arrived. He entered unceremoniously but was a definite force in the room. Everyone exchanged courtesies, and then Jack seated himself across the table from Lauren and met her gaze. “You okay?”

  “Yes.” She felt the heat rise to her cheeks.

  He flipped opened a pad of yellow legal paper and poised a ballpoint pen over it. “Let’s hear the whole story, Lauren. Take it slow.”

  Her recollections of The Strangler in Cypress Park flew through her mind in random p
ieces of memory. She sat forward in her chair, carefully reciting details, arranging them chronologically.

  Part way through, Jack held up his hand. “The suspect pulled off his cap and ran a hand through his hair?”

  “That’s right. He had blond hair, just long enough to curl around his ears.” She narrowed her eyes, conjuring his image. “Now that I think about it, Jack, it’s like he wanted me to see his hair.” Lauren looked from one solemn face to the next. “He knew eventually I’d find out he wasn’t Duff. He could’ve been in disguise. Wearing a wig, glasses. I remember the thick lenses made his eyes look small, distorting his appearance.”

  “Without the hair and glasses, he fits the description of the man dressed in black who planted Tina’s panties just minutes later,” Jack said. “He already had on a ball cap and dark pants. Could’ve been wearing a black shirt under the tan jacket.”

  “Right.” Birenski rubbed his chin. “We were searching for a man dressed all in black, wearing a ball cap. He probably took off the cap, put the glasses and tan jacket back on, making it easy to elude us.”

  Jack scribbled on the pad, then looked up at Lauren. “What else did he say?”

  “That we were on the same side. He said he wanted to help catch the assailant, to protect his daughter, Tina.”

  Jack fixed her with a hard stare. “In actuality, he was already stalking Tina.”

  “Right. He also said he was going to do all he could to get the sick bastard off the street.”

  “He called himself a sick bastard?” Hardy asked, leaning back in his seat.

  “Yes.”

  “Arrogant prick,” Hardy said.

  “He pulled his wallet from his back pocket,” Lauren continued. “And took out Duff’s business card and handed it to me.”

  “He was prepared,” Jack said.