“Was she any good as a comedian?”
“Not really. Comedy is like any other branch of show business: you’ve got to have discipline, and Lisa lacked it. I wasn’t really surprised when she up and left town. Her kind are always looking for those fabled greener pastures.”
“And you say she had no close friends. What about lovers?”
“Lisa was a lesbian, but I never saw her with another woman.”
I thought of the videotape George had been watching in the early hours of the morning, and the lesbian waitress named Ginny whom Tracy had portrayed. Had Lisa been the inspiration for that character?
“What does Lisa look like?” I asked.
“Tall, thin, light brown hair worn longish and curly. Fairly attractive.”
“One more question, and I’ll let you go. Did you ever work on her teeth?”
Larkey hesitated. I assumed the question had surprised him. “As a matter of fact, I did.”
“And you still have her records?”
“Yes.” There was an inquiring note in his voice now.
“Then Napa County will probably be in touch with you about getting hold of them.”
“You think it was Lisa up there?”
“It’s worth checking out.”
“Hmm.” He hesitated. “Now that you mention it-this isn’t a hard-and-fast recollection; no dentist can be expected to remember the teeth of all his patients-but I think Lisa’s and Tracy’s may not have been all that dissimilar. Few cavities, no capping or irregularities. That would explain why, when I first started making the comparison, it seemed to be Tracy. There were slight differences, but not all that many.”
“I’ll call Napa and tell them to get in touch with you.” I thanked him and hung up quickly, before he could ask any time-consuming questions.
Jack had been listening to my end of the conversation closely; he made no comment as I called NCSD and asked for Stan Gurski. I wasn’t sure if the reasoning that I laid out for Gurski made a great deal of sense, but it didn’t take him long to say he’d request McIntyre’s records from Larkey and let me know what the medical examiner concluded.
It was now well after seven. George would be wondering what had happened to me. I called him and said I had to go home to feed the cat, but that I was on my way. He asked me what I liked on my pizza, and when I hesitantly admitted to a fondness for anchovies and Italian sausage, he laughed.
“Do you realize how hard it is for me to find someone who also likes that combination?” he asked. “We must be made for each other.”
“I’ll hold on to that thought.”
When I replaced the receiver in its cradle, Jack was looking quizzically at me. “Was that George Kostakos you were talking to?”
“…Yes.”
“Sounds as if the two of you really hit it off.”
“Yes, we did. He’s an interesting man, and easy to get to know.”
Jack’s expression grew guarded; there was an element of concern in his voice when he spoke again. “I hope you’re not becoming emotionally involved with…a principal figure in the investigation.”
Good Lord, I thought irritable, he’s given up on me as a possible romantic interest, and now he wants to dispense advice, like Hank. “Why would I do that?”
He shrugged. “I’ve met Kostakos. He’s intelligent, good-looking, personable, rich. I don’t know why you wouldn’t be attracted to him.”
He meant well, but it really wasn’t any of his business. I said, “He’s also married. Don’t forget that.”
Jack relaxed slightly. “Just so long as you don’t,” he said.
16
Amy Barbour’s apartment building wasn’t really on my way across town to the Marina district, but I made an uphill detour so I could drive by there. I told myself I wouldn’t bother to stop unless I spotted a convenient parking space; the police would have checked and rechecked the apartment, so chances were slim that Barbour was at home. When I reached the building, however, there was a vacant space almost in front of it. Destiny, I thought as I steered the MG to the curb.
The windows of the second-story bedrooms were dark; a Mercedes sports coupe stood in the driveway. The light in the vestibule showed that the metal security gate had been propped open, the way it might be if someone were carrying things in or out and didn’t want to be bothered with unlocking it on every trip. Was Barbour moving in with Emmons tonight? If so, why hadn’t the police located them here or at his place?
I went through the gate and up the stairs. The door to the apartment was slightly ajar, but I heard no voices, saw no lights. As I moved forward, the flesh along my backbone rippled slightly.
The interior was in shadow, but the draperies on the picture windows hung open, the glow from the farflung city lights silvering the room. It washed over the pale furniture and silhouetted the tall figure of a man who stood in front of the glass, looking out. When I pushed the door fully open and stepped over the threshold, he turned quickly, steel-rimmed glasses glinting. I fumbled for the light switch; one of the table lamps came on. The man was Rob Soriano, Larkey’s partner.
In spite of his precise military bearing, Soriano seemed relaxed and not at all surprised to see me, as if he’d expected that sooner or later I’d turn up. He didn’t speak, merely folded his arms across his chest and studied me. I returned his stare.
Tonight Soriano wore a gray business suit, lighter gray shirt, and muted striped tie. The monochromatic clothing, combined with the severe glasses and conservative cut of his hair, lent him a faceless quality, but even in flashier garb he would not be a man you would pick out of a crowd. His square-jawed face looked tired, as if he’d spent the day in wearisome negotiations; there were deep brackets from his nose to the corners of his mouth, which in no way could be termed laugh lines.
When it appeared he was waiting for me to speak, I said, “How are you, Mr. Soriano?”
“Fine, Ms. McCone. And you?”
“Fine also. May I ask what you’re doing here?”
A small smile played around his thin lips. “I could ask you the same.”
“I’m looking for Amy Barbour and Marc Emmons.”
“Then we have a common purpose.”
“Why do you want them?”
“Actually, I’m only interested in Marc. Our chubby comedian has failed to show up since Thursday night. Jay wants me to drag him down there so he can give him the axe.”
Larkey seemed to rely on both of the Sorianos to run errands for him, I thought. But Rob didn’t look or act like a gofer. “How did you get in here?” I asked.
“Same way you did. Both doors were open; it looks as if someone’s been moving things out.”
I glanced around the room. The furniture was undisturbed, but there were empty spaces in the record cabinet and on a bookcase. A half-packed box of kitchen equipment stood on the cluttered dining table. I moved down the hall to the bedrooms. The door to Tracy’s was locked. Amy’s bed had been stripped; the bureau drawers were empty, and only a few items of clothing hung in the closet. The bathroom was devoid of toiletries and towels.
Rob Soriano was sitting on the white leather sofa when I returned to the living room. He took out a pack of cigarettes, offered one to me, and when I shook my head, lit one for himself. “Where do you suppose our plump little birds have flown to?” he asked.
I sat down at the other end of the couch. “Amy was planning to move in with Emmons.”
“Well, she must have gotten lost en route; there’s no one at his place, either.”
It occurred to me that the police might have picked them up in the last few hours; that would explain why Amy had interrupted her packing. I decided, however, to say nothing about that to Soriano. “How come you’re out tracking down Emmons?” I asked. “You said your wife is the one who takes the active role in Café Comedie.”
“Kathy’s hardly the one to haul a large, protesting young man down there.”
From what I’d seen of Kathy Soriano, I jud
ged her to be more than a match for most people, but I didn’t voice the opinion. “What about Larkey?”
“Jay’s busy overseeing the operation of the club. Besides, he has…difficulty dealing with Marc.
“Why is that?”
Soriano blew a smoke ring and watched as it wafted through the air, its shape gradually becoming distorted. “Marc was the Kostakos girl’s boyfriend,” he finally said.
“So?”
“Jay was also her boyfriend-although that’s not quite the term to apply to someone of his age.”
I was silent, assimilating this new information.
Soriano noted my surprise and added, “It’s a wonder no one’s told you about that. Everyone knew.”
“Larkey claims he was fond of Tracy as a father would be. And it never came out at the Foster trial.”
“Well, I’m sure that at this late date Jay doesn’t want to admit to being a middle-aged fool. And as for the trial, it simply wasn’t relevant. Also, the prosecution tried to paint little Ms. Kostakos as the girl next door. If her relationship with Jay had come out, other things would have, too.”
“Such as?”
“Tracy was a very busy girl. There was Marc, of course. I like to think of that as her last uncorrupt attachment. After Marc, there was Jay. She used him-to get an extended contract at the club, for an introduction to a talent agent, for spending money. Oddly enough, I think she genuinely cared for him; all the kids do, it’s hard for them not to. But she did use him, and her behavior on the side would have distressed him, if he’d known.”
“What do you mean by ‘behavior on the side’?”
Soriano smiled bleakly. “Ms. Kostakos had a nasty habit of worming her way into people’s lives, taking what she could, and using it in her routines. She’d become close to a person, cast herself in a role; she wanted the whole experience, the whole flavor. There was the Foster kid-”
“You know about that?”
Now it was his turn to look surprised. “Yes. How did you find out?”
“He told me.”
“Huh. I thought he’d never break his silence. Well, anyway, I don’t think she ever got to put that material to use, and she certainly didn’t in my case-”
“You?”
“No, I saw through her and put a stop to it. But in the case of Lisa McIntyre…”
“The lesbian waitress routine?”
“That’s right. Tracy’s portrayal of her had an undertone of viciousness. Lisa had no idea what her motives were when they had their brief…fling, and when she saw the routine, she was furious.”
“God.” All I could think of was George, how it would hurt him should all this come out. If it was humanly possible, I would make sure he never heard any of it. “Are you aware that I found what I thought was Tracy’s body at a cottage up at the Napa River yesterday?” I asked.
He nodded. “My wife told me.”
“Well, it turned out not to be hers.”
“Oh?”
“The sheriff’s department is comparing the remains with Lisa McIntyre’s dental records.”
He had been about to stub out his cigarette, but his hand stopped inches from the ashtray. For a moment he froze. “That’s a curious turn of events. It’s difficult not to draw a very distasteful conclusion.”
“Yes, it is.”
Soriano finished putting his cigarette out and stood, adjusting his suit jacket. His face was even more drawn now, and I thought I detected a trace of anger. “If the conclusion’s correct, it’ll put Jay through hell. He blames himself.”
“For what?”
He shook his head. “That’s his business. And frankly, I’m sick of sitting around here waiting for the Porky Pig of stand-up. That club has been nothing but a pain in the ass for me; from now on I’m confining myself to Atlas Development.”
Atlas Development. Where had I…? Of course! “The car that was stolen off the club’s lot that night-the one that the prosecution claimed Foster used to kidnap Tracy-was registered to Atlas Development.”
“That’s right. It was the company car used by my executive assistant, Jim Fox. He’d dropped by the club for the first time that night, at my invitation. Met a lady and went home with her. When he went back for the Volvo, it was gone.”
“Exactly when did he report it stolen?”
“Not until early the next evening. The lady dropped him at work, and I drove him to the club after we’d finished for the day.”
So that was why the vehicle registration check that the highway patrol routinely makes when issuing citations hadn’t shown the Volvo as stolen.
Soriano seemed to have lost interest in our conversation. He glanced at his watch and said, “Now I really do have to be going. If you see Marc, please don’t tell him he’s about to be canned. I’d hate to spoil the pleasure Jay will take in the act.” Before I could reply, Soriano bowed curtly and left the apartment.
I remained where I was for a minute or so, digesting this latest information. The picture of Tracy that was emerging was an unsavory one, and my distaste created a sour sensation in my stomach. I’d never really regretted not having children, and now I was beginning to feel positively blessed. The pain these revelations would cause George-if I couldn’t somehow suppress them-was incalculable, and I was selfish enough not to want to be the one who caused them to be aired.
After a moment I shoved my musings aside and went down the hall to the linen closet, where I searched for the probe that opened the locked door of Tracy’s room. It wasn’t in evidence. I felt in my bag for a suitable implement and came up with a long nail-a piece of the detritus that accompanies a homeowner in the throes of renovating. It took some maneuvering, but in thirty seconds the lock snapped open and I stepped through the door.
A strangled cry came from the darkness in front of me.
I flattened against the wall, one hand groping for the light switch, the other going reflexively to the side pocket of my bag, even thought I wasn’t armed. When the overhead flared, I saw Laura Kostakos.
She crouched on her knees between the bed and the armoire by the window. Her blue lounging pajamas were crumpled and looked as if she hadn’t taken them off since I’d interviewed her the previous Thursday; her gray-blond hair was limp and disheveled. Her eyes worried me more than her grooming: they were wide with fright and curiously unfocused. She opened her mouth as if to cry out again, and I raised a hand in a calming gesture.
Laura slumped closer to the floor, her bowed head all but disappearing from my view. I hurried around the bed, murmuring soothing things, and grasped her arms to help her up. They were matchstick thin; the gardenia perfume smelled fetid, as of flowers that had fallen from the bush and rotted. Her body sagged against mine. I managed to prop her in the nearby rocker.
She leaned her head back, breathing raggedly. “…Frightened me.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were in here.”
“A man came into the apartment. Strange man. I locked the door and hid.”
“That was Jay Larkey’s business partner. He’s gone now.”
She nodded wearily, closing her eyes and beginning to rock.
I sat on the edge of the waterbed; waves rippled inside, sloshing softly. “Mrs. Kostakos…Laura,” I said, “what are you doing in here? It can’t be good for you to keep coming here, waiting, dwelling on the past.”
She continued to rock silently.
“If Tracy were to come back,” I added, “it wouldn’t be to this apartment. She probably doesn’t even know you’ve kept it.”
“She does.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Because she told me to come here when she called me. Both times.”
A chill touched my shoulder blades. “When was that?”
“New Year’s Eve, in the afternoon. And again today, around five.”
“Are you sure it was Tracy?”
“I know my own daughter’s voice.”
“Exactly what did she say?”
Or was never coming to begin with, I thought. Had it really been Tracy who had called, or someone perpetrating a cruel hoax? “Why do you think she would be frightened of Rob Soriano or me?”
No reply.
“Laura-why?”
She shook her head, rocking harder.
I watched her silently, taking my earlier line of reasoning to its inevitable conclusion. If Tracy had been involved-either directly or indirectly-in the killing at the Napa River, she would have good cause to fear being seen, particularly by Rob Soriano, who had known her. Had she given her mother any indication of what had happened that night, or in the intervening years? Or had she merely summoned her? And in either instance-why now? Because she had heard the case was being reopened? That presupposed her being in touch with someone who knew about my investigation.
“Laura,” I said, “were Tracy’s calls long distance?”
“…I don’t know where she was.”
“But did they sound like long distance?”
“…No. She couldn’t have been too far away, not if she planned to meet me here in the evening.”
I was silent again, assessing what she had told me. Tracy could really have called, or it could have been someone pretending to be her. Laura could be lying, or she could have imagined both episodes. I had no basis for determining which possibility was the truth.
Laura sat up straighter and opened her eyes, glaring defiantly at me. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “That I’m making it all up or hallucinating. You’re just like George. You don’t believe me.”
At the mention of his name I felt a stab of guilt. I had slept with her husband the night before, would probably sleep with him again tonight. And in the meantime, this woman sat in a dark room waiting for a daughter who might never come to her. A daughter who, in any event, would never again be the child she had raised and loved.
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