Michael was silent a moment, then he said, “Looks like we may have a new development in the Cindy Purcell homicide.”
“Great.” I twisted the lid off the jar of peanut butter. “What is it?”
“Ever hear of cybersex?”
“What-sex?”
“Electronic sex.”
I wasn’t sure I’d heard correctly. “Electronic?”
“As in via computer, not the plug-in variety.”
I knew very little about computers except that they cost a hunk of money, demanded more and more in the way of software, and turned ordinary, literate folk into Pod People who conversed in a language as alien to me as Martian. We had two computers at home, Libby’s and Michael’s. So far, I’d studiously avoided having anything to do with either of them. If sex figured into the picture, however, I might have to reconsider.
“How do you have sex with the computer?” I asked.
“You don’t, at least not in the customary sense. It’s conversational. Or more accurately, textual, although I understand that with some servers you can have graphical interface, too. First point of contact is usually a chat room, bulletin board, or Usenet newsgroup, but as bonds develop, people often move to one-on-one e-mail exchanges.”
One-on-one. Finally, a term I understood. “How does this relate to Cindy Purcell’s death?”
“I’m not sure. But she apparently participated in this stuff. It can get pretty lurid, since theoretically the whole thing is anonymous. People live out their fantasies, talk in ways they might not in real life. Most participants are out for a little fun, like Cindy. But these places attract some real oddballs, too.”
“I can imagine.”
“Anyway, we’re going to follow up on it. She might at some point have given out her real name and address, or even agreed to meet one of these guys.”
“That’s asking for trouble, isn’t it?”
Michael’s response was the verbal equivalent of a shrug. “She wouldn’t have been the first,” he said after a moment. “I suppose on some level it’s no different than building a relationship with a pen pal.”
A pen pal you’d met through Sex Is Us, maybe.
“I gather there are some heartwarming case histories. Couple connects over the Internet, hits it off, meets face to face, and falls in love. Next thing you know it’s wedding bells and pure bliss. Of course, for every one of those stories, there are probably ten of the other kind. The world is crawling with sadists, pedophiles, perverts of all types ready to prey on people’s loneliness and insecurities.”
“What does this do to the tie-in between the two murders? As I recall, Julie’s computer didn’t even have a modem.”
“Like I said the other day, I’m not convinced it was the same guy. But it could be. That doesn’t mean that he had to have met both girls the same way, however. There are a lot of permutations to this thing.” There was a voice in the background, muffled conversation. “I gotta run, Kate. Talk to you later.”
I went back to making Anna’s lunch, but my mind was on murder and mayhem rather than peanut butter and jelly. A lot of permutations, Michael had said. But when you got down to basics, there were really only three options.
Julie could have been a random victim, her death a tragic consequence of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But it might also have been more methodical than that. Suppose the killer had been after Julie in particular. Some guy she’d communicated with perhaps, if not through cyberspace then maybe someone who’d seen her around town, someone who’d befriended her in some way, even.
Or it might not have been a stranger at all.
Maybe it was the overlay of my dreams from the previous night, or maybe the weight of regret at not having done more when I could. Or maybe just the unsettled feeling I had that there was something unusual going on in Julie’s life.
In any case, I couldn’t shake the image of Dennis Shepherd from my mind.
As soon as I was finished teaching for the day, I drove through the Caldecott Tunnel and into Berkeley, a city of geographic as well as every other kind of diversity. At its eastern edge are the contours of forested hills and large, well-maintained homes. As you move west, toward the bay, the terrain flattens. The houses there are smaller, the neighborhoods less prosperous. Dennis Shepherd lived in the flatlands, far enough from the university that rundown conditions were no longer deemed colorful.
I found the address, then parked across the street and down a couple of houses. Ahead of me, there was a gas station on one corner, a liquor store on the other. Dennis’s place was a pink stucco bungalow with a front yard of glittering white rock and several large cacti. The drapes were pulled and the house was still. It was impossible to tell if anyone was home.
I wasn’t sure how to proceed, in any case. My curiosity about Dennis Shepherd had brought me this far, but without any hint about what came next. As I was mentally shuffling through the possibilities, I caught a flicker of movement in the rearview mirror. Turning, I saw a woman with shoulder-length red hair come down the front path from Dennis’s house. She was about my height and probably forty pounds heavier. I saw her face briefly as she crossed the street, but it was impossible to judge her age.
Without thinking, I climbed out of the car and followed. At the second cross street, she turned right. Her stride was quick and determined, if not particularly graceful. I followed her for another block, working up my nerve to approach. Near the corner, she paused to glance over her shoulder in my direction. The stoplight was green and the woman crossed. I picked up my pace in the hopes of reaching the intersection before the light changed, but I missed by about thirty seconds.
By the time the traffic had cleared, the woman was halfway down the next block, moving at a quick clip. With another glance over her shoulder, she suddenly veered to the curb and boarded the AC Transit bus that had pulled to a stop moments earlier. The bus took off again before I had a chance to react.
Had the woman been headed for the bus all along, or had she deliberately tried to elude me? And what if she had, I chided myself. Who wouldn’t be nervous at being followed by a stranger?
Exasperated, I turned and marched back the way I’d come. But now I was almost as curious about the woman as about Dennis.
As I neared the house again, I saw a man in a wheelchair coming down the driveway next door. He was in his late thirties or early forties, with broad shoulders and well-muscled arms. He reached the sidewalk just as I was passing by.
“Did she lead you where you thought she would?” he asked, with a gleam to his eye.
“Did she . . . ?” My face reddened as his meaning became clear. “What makes you think I was following her?”
He grinned. “Just a guess. Which you’ve now pretty much confirmed. You might simply have been trying to catch up with her, of course. But it didn’t look that way. More like you were keeping your distance. And you didn’t get out of the car until you saw her leave.”
Being a nosy neighbor myself, I shouldn’t have been surprised to discover that someone had been watching. Still, I hadn’t considered the possibility. “Do you know her?” I asked.
“Not by name. I’ve seen her around, though.”
“Does she live in the place next door?”
He shook his head. “There’s a guy lives there. He has a couple of women friends. She’s one of them. The gals all make themselves right at home, seems like. I’ve been waiting for the day when two of them show up at once. Somehow Denny doesn’t seem like the type to juggle more than one.”
Dennis Shepherd a ladies’ man? This was a side to him I’d never imagined. “How many women friends does he have?”
The man looked at me and his grin faded. “Shit, you’re not one of them, are you? Hey, I’m sorry if I let the cat out of the bag. You’re the best-looking by far, and that’s the gods’ truth.”
I could feel myself redden again, from a different sort of embarrassment. “I barely know Dennis, and there’s nothing romantic in th
e least about my interest.” Even giving voice to the thought caused an involuntary shudder.
The man grinned again. “I’m glad to hear it.” He held out a hand. “Luke Martin,” he said.
“I’m Kate.” His hands were strong and callused across the palms, but surprisingly smooth elsewhere.
“So, why were you following that gal?”
“To tell you the truth, I don’t know. I guess I thought she might be able to tell me about your neighbor.”
Luke raised an eyebrow.
“It’s a long and complicated story,” I told him.
“If you’re willing to tag along for a couple of blocks, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee. Sounds like the story might be a good one.”
I was tempted, but I had one more stop before I picked up Anna. “Maybe another time.”
He nodded. “Didn’t figure you’d say yes, but it never hurts to ask, right?”
I smiled, oddly flattered that he had. “Did you ever see your neighbor with a much younger woman? A girl really, about fifteen. Tall, with straight blond hair?”
Luke Martin started to shake his head, then stopped. “Now that you mention it, I might have. The other women he’s with are all of a type, you know. But the girl was different. She wasn’t a regular there, either. I think I only saw her maybe once or twice.”
“Do you remember when that was?”
He chewed on his bottom lip a minute. “Not really.”
So what that Julie had come to visit Dennis? He was family, after all. “Do you recall how long she stayed, whether the visit was friendly, that sort of thing?”
Martin didn’t answer. He looked at me for a moment, then spun his chair in a quick 360-degree turn. Just as quickly, he spun in the other direction and pulled the chair backward, like a kid doing wheelies. “I’ve become so proficient with this thing, I no longer think much about the fact that my legs don’t work. I can probably out swim you and out ski you. And believe it or not, I can hold my own on the tennis court.”
His voice was even and controlled. “I’m no shiftless cripple who sits by the window all day living vicariously through his neighbors. I’ve got better things to do with my days.”
For the third time in less than ten minutes, I felt my face grow warm. “I wasn’t implying that you were.”
He nodded and fixed his eyes on mine. “I just wanted to make sure you understood. I’m a writer. I work at home and my computer’s by the window so I see a lot of what goes on. And being a writer, I’m curious about people. But a lot of it’s idle observation. It doesn’t really register until there’s a need. I hardly know this guy Denny, in case you’re interested.”
“But you’ve met him?”
“I had him over for pizza once.”
“What do you think of him?”
Martin chuckled, turned his chair again so that he was headed down the sidewalk. “Look me up, I’m in the book. The coffee offer’s good any day of the week but Thursday evening.”
“What’s Thursday?”
“My AA meeting,” he said, propelling himself easily up the incline in the direction I’d come.
Luke Martin. I repeated the name silently to myself, and wondered if I dared take him up on his offer
Chapter 15
Dennis Shepherd struck me as a peculiar young man. My opinion was not, however, shared by Jim Gates of the Berkeley Homicide Division.
“I appreciate your concern,” he said, frowning at me over a thick stack of message slips. “But you could have saved yourself the trouble of coming in. Your friend Michael Stone faxed me a note about Shepherd the other day.”
I nodded. “But that was before I’d learned that he’s a shoe salesman.”
Gates had gone back to sorting through his stack of papers and didn’t respond. He was not a big man, but the thinning, closely cropped hair coupled with the steely gaze and perpetual scowl made him an imposing figure.
I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. “You heard what I said about Dennis and feet, didn’t you?”
He lifted his gaze. “You made your point quite clearly.”
“And coupled with the history of emotional problems,” I continued. “Or the possibility of a history of emotional problems ...”
His attention remained elsewhere.
“I thought it was something you might want to look into,” I concluded, pulling myself straighter.
Gates shot a look in my direction.
“You know, so that you’ve covered all the bases.”
“No offense, Mrs. Austen, but this is what we do for a living. Day in and day out. We have a pretty good idea how to proceed.”
“It’s just that I wasn’t sure you knew about these particular pieces of information.”
His lips moved. I couldn’t tell if it was meant as a smile or a snarl. In either case, it signaled the end of our conversation, such as it had been. I stood, thanked him for his time, and found my own way out.
As I emerged into the cool, gray afternoon, a slender black woman approached, accompanied by a German shepherd on a short leash.
“Feeling better than you did the other day?” the woman asked, slowing her pace.
It took a moment before I recognized her. Celeste Tira, the policewoman from the afternoon at Tilden when I’d identified Julie’s body. “My stomach has settled down, if that’s what you mean. But I’m not sure the rest of me has.”
Without thinking, I reached out a hand to pet the dog. Officer Tira yanked on his leash with a fierce “No!” It wasn’t clear whether she was talking to me or the dog, but I pulled in my arm and stepped back.
“Sorry,” she said with an apologetic wave of her free hand. “I didn’t mean to startle you. But you really don’t want to go sticking your hand in the face of a police dog. It’s those quick, unexpected motions they’re trained to watch for.”
With a mumbled thanks, I brought my arm slowly from behind my back and slid it into my pocket.
“So what brings you here?” Tira asked.
“I stopped by to see Detective Gates.”
“Something to do with the Harmon case?”
I nodded and told her about my encounter with Dennis Shepherd in the shoe department of Macy’s. Somehow, with each retelling, the episode seemed less suspicious. “It’s not that I think you folks need help,” I said lamely.
“But you want to make sure nothing slips by.”
“Something like that.”
“Makes sense to me.” Her words were accompanied by the hint of a smile.
“Gates wasn’t exactly overjoyed to have my input.”
She smiled again, more broadly. “He wouldn’t let you know it, even if he was. Superficial evidence to the contrary, however, Jim Gates is a decent guy and a good cop. He runs a thorough investigation.”
I eased my hand out of my pocket to a more comfortable position at my side. “I guess patience isn’t my strong suit. I want the killer identified and behind bars.”
“We all do. But you have to remember, it’s only been a couple of days.”
“It feels much longer. Maybe because Julie was missing first. And then there’s the other murder out by the reservoir. It’s like there’s a dark fog that’s settled in and won’t lift.”
Tira nodded sympathetically.
“It’s frightening because you don’t know where the threat is, or who might be next.” A breeze stirred the leaves at our feet. I pulled my sweater tighter. “Do you think the same person is responsible for both deaths?”
“There are certainly a lot of similarities.”
I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. “It scares me to think there’s some guy walking around our neighborhoods, snatching women off the street and killing them for the fun of it.”
Tira nodded. “Unfortunately there’s no shortage of sickos. Never has been and I doubt it’s ever going to change.”
The sentiment was one that had often played in my own mind. For all our scientific and technological advances, humankin
d had not progressed much in other regards.
“But I’m not sure,” Tira continued, “that ‘snatch’ is quite the right word in this case.”
“What do you mean?”
She shifted her weight to the other foot. “We have a witness who says he saw a girl fitting Julie Harmon’s description on San Pablo Avenue about seven-thirty Friday night.”
“Here in Berkeley?”
She nodded. “Near the intersection of University Avenue. He picked out Julie’s photo from a collection of half a dozen.”
“He’s certain?”
“Says he is.”
“What was Julie doing in Berkeley?”
“That’s what we’d like to know. When our witness saw her, she was standing on a corner. That’s why he was able to remember what she looked like. He thought she was looking for some action.”
“Action? You mean . . . hooking?”
“That’s what our witness thought.”
I drew in a breath. “Was she?”
“You knew the girl,” Tira said gently. “You can probably answer that better than me.”
I felt a bubble of uneasiness in my chest. How well did I really know Julie? I had trouble imagining her as a woman of the streets. But if that wasn’t the reason she’d been in that part of town, what was?
During the drive home, I continued to mull over the question of what Julie was doing in Berkeley. As soon as Libby came through the door that afternoon, I pulled her into the kitchen and asked her about it. She was as baffled as I was.
“What would Julie be doing in that area at night?” Libby asked, throwing back to me more or less the same question I’d put to her. “Why that part of Berkeley at all? There’s nothing there.”
Nothing but pawn shops and bars and the assortment of struggling businesses that are attracted to a low-rent district. But Libby was right—it wasn’t an area of town that had much to offer a fifteen-year-old girl.
“Can I have one of these?” Libby asked, pointing to a plate of lemon bars Faye had baked that morning.
“Help yourself.” I grabbed one also and bit into it, thereby dusting my chest with powdered sugar. “You said last week that Julie was expecting a change with the situation at the Shepherds. Could going to Berkeley have had something to do with that?”
Murder Among Us (A Kate Austen Mystery) Page 11
