"We're not in a position to say yet who these people are or what they were doing," Halloran said. "The faces of both victims were burned away."
The house, according to county records, is owned by Mr. Vincent Callistro of 1492 Laverne. When called for comment, Mr. Callistro stated that the house has been rented for the last four years through the Lee-Hopkins Agency in Van Buren Heights.
A person answering the phone at Lee-Hopkins said the agency, due to privacy concerns, would provide no information on the names of the tenants, however, he did confirm that the house was rented and that it was fully insured.
A source close to the County Sheriff's Department, told The Times-Dispatch that there is preliminary evidence that the victims may have been tortured prior to the fire. This same source affirmed that the cause of the fire was arson, that empty gasoline cans were found behind the house, and also that there were items of a ‘sordid nature’ found at the site. The source refused to describe these items or speculate further about the fire and apparent homicides.
The librarian approaches to tell me I must leave. I insert a dime into the built-in photocopier, print out the article, then walk back to the Townsend to wait for Pam, due in on the late afternoon flight from New York.
* * * * *
Entering Waldo's. I spot her right away deep in conversation with Tony. She looks good tonight, blond hair gleaming, eyes and face aglow, the confident flush of a winner.
"There he is!" She beckons. "Please, Tony, a margarita for the gentleman."
Tony grins, starts making me a drink. I kiss Pam on the lips, then perch on the bar stool to her right.
"I get the feeling, don't ask me why, that things worked out well for you today."
She shows me her warmest smile. "Oh, they did." She lowers her voice. "CNN's tripling my salary, I'll be based in L.A., and, best part, I'm going to have my own show, an afternoon interview show, The L.A. Report with Pam Wells."
"Congratulations! We should order champagne."
Tony's delighted to make us a pair of champagne cocktails.
Pam fills me in. Monday morning Fox offered her great money for a political reporting job in the Washington bureau. She was tempted until this morning when CNN counteroffered with an even better package plus the concept for the new show.
"It'll be soft content mostly — celebrity interviews, West Coast lifestyle pieces. But I don't mind. A talking heads show's how you make your name."
She tells me she'll stay in Calista till there's a verdict, then relocate to L.A.. It'll take her a couple of months to set the show up. She hopes to be on the air by Thanksgiving.
As we click glasses, I notice Deval, sitting beneath Waldo's portrait, speaking into a cell phone. I turn to Tony.
"Isn't that where Waldo used to sit?"
Tony raises an eyebrow. "He thinks he's Waldo reincarnated."
"How did he come to inherit the column?" Pam asks.
"He was Waldo's gofer, so it was a natural promotion."
"He's definitely got that gofer look," she says.
Tony grins. "Waldo used to call him ‘lickspittle’ behind his back. When he wanted Spence to feel good about himself, he'd call him ‘my Man Friday.’
"How ‘bout that phony British accent?"
"Is that what it's supposed to be?" Tony conjures an ultra-haughty expression. "‘How you doin’ old boy, old boy, old boy?’"
We laugh. "Very good, Tony!" Pam tells him. "Excellent impersonation."
"He's not that hard to imitate," Tony says, moving away.
"Listen," Pam says, draining her glass, "I'm starved. Can we go to that Sicilian place? I feel like pasta. I think I need a carbohydrate fix."
* * * * *
As we drive over to Torrance Hill, I check my rearview mirror. In night traffic, I can't tell whether anyone's following or not.
En route I tell Pam about the extraordinary experiences I've had over the few days she's been away — the ambush on Riverwalk, my encounters with the Fulraine brothers, my meeting with a retired dominatrix, and last night's drawing session with Jürgen Hoff and Dove Hanks.
"I've got a new suspect, too," I tell her. "A sleazy ex-cop named Walter Maritz. Seems he and Waldo Channing had a little blackmail business going. Also, at the time of Flamingo, he was working as a private investigator for Andrew Fulraine, tracking Barbara to find evidence Andrew could use against her in their custody battle. But according to Jürgen, the story Maritz told the cops about not informing on Barbara because he liked her was a pack of lies. Seems a couple years before Flamingo, Maritz, playing on Barbara's obsession about her daughter, conned her out of a lot of money. When Barbara took up with Cody, the first thing Cody did was have Maritz beaten up. I'm talking multiple broken bones. So it's occurred to me that Maritz, on Barbara's trail, despising both her and Cody, could have decided to kill her to avenge the beating. He'd know Cody would suffer, too, when he found out his girlfriend was killed in a motel room with another lover. Maritz might even have counted on Cody becoming the prime suspect... which, in fact, he was."
Pam shakes her head. "Jesus, what a maze!"
* * * * *
Torrance Hill is the oldest Italian section of the city, also geographically one of the city's highest points. Southern Italians, who came to Calista with the great waves of immigrants early in the twentieth century, clustered here, built houses, churches, stores, and restaurants. And as in other ‘Little Italys," along with the carpenters, masons, culinary, and construction artisans, there arrived a small number of underworld characters.
Calistians loved hearing tales about these men, soon dubbed "The Torrance Hill Mob," tales that romanticized their influence and power. When I was a kid, I was excited to dine at restaurants where mobsters allegedly hung out, characters with monikers like Tony ‘Machete’ deCapo, Johnny ‘The Priest’ Romano, and Jimmy ‘Big Lips’ Franchetti.
Enrico's, the restaurant Pam likes, was one of these hangouts. And though the ambience here is the same as when my parents took me, the food's now a good deal more sophisticated. Instead of gross platters of veal parmigiana accompanied by meatballs and spaghetti, Enrico's now serves genuine Sicilian specialities, Pasta alla Norma and Pasta col Nero delle Seppie.
After we order, Pam turns to me with a question.
"You said Waldo and this ex-cop Maritz had a blackmail racket. Why would Waldo get involved in a thing like that? I thought he had lots of money."
"Jürgen thinks Waldo went into it for sport. He liked to play games, mess with peoples' heads."
I tell her all I know about Waldo, his career and also his decline, how he lost most of his influence near the end.
"How do you know all this?" Pam asks.
"For years I've been an out-of-town subscriber to The Times-Dispatch."
She shakes her head. "Just couldn't let it go, could you?"
"I guess not. Also I kept hoping I'd open the paper one day and read that they'd solved Flamingo. It was years before I realized that if that's what I wanted, I'd have to come back and make it happen myself."
* * * * *
As we drive back downtown from Torrance Hill, I again check my rearview mirror. There are a lot of cars, it's difficult to tell, but one set of headlights seems to be sticking with us.
"Hold on tight," I tell Pam. "I'm going to make some moves."
"What's going on?"
"I think we're being followed."
I swerve into the right lane of Thurston, do a hard turn onto Lester, make another right onto Fairlane, then do a quick U-turn, pull in front of a paint store, and cut my headlights.
"Hey! Is this a joke?"
"the guy who was asking about me over at the Flamingo — I'm pretty sure he's been in my room poking through my drawings."
"I can't believe—"
"Shhhh. Here he comes. Slide down in your seat."
As the car, a dark, nondescript sedan, sails toward us, I can't decide whether its headlights show the same signature. As it passes, I try to get a
look at the driver, but I can't make out anything except the silhouette of a hated figure hunched over the wheel. After he's gone, I try to make out his license plate, but by then he's too far away.
"Shit! I guess I should follow him, get his plate at least."
"Sure, go for it, David! This is fun!"
I make another U-turn, then speed up, hoping to catch him at the next stop sign. But the car, which should be ahead of me, isn't there.
"Where is he? Do you see him?"
Pam twist in her seat. "Could be him," she says, indicating a car parked in the opposite direction across the street.
"Jesus! He did the same maneuver!"
"Well, you got him now. Make another U and pull up behind."
But I keep driving. I don't like the neighborhood, it's dark and lonely, and I don't feel like playing games.
"You're sure that was him?"
"I'm not sure, no."
"Do you think I was cowardly not to double back?"
"I think you played it smart. But if he was following you, now he knows you're onto him."
"I wish I knew how long this has been going on. He could've been tracking me for weeks. If the folks at Flamingo hadn't told me, I never would have noticed."
* * * * *
It feels good to be back in Pam's arms, feel the warmth of her body, inhale her fresh sand-and-sun scent, run my fingers along her silken skin. It does my soul good to make love to this gorgeous woman, whom, I'm certain, is going straight to the top.
"How far is L.A. from San Francisco?" she asks, when we settle back.
"An hour by plane. Six by car."
"So you could visit me anytime."
"And you could visit me."
"But will either of us do it, that's the question?"
She goes silent. When she speaks again, it's in a different voice.
"I'd like this not to be over so soon," she says. "I'd like this not to be, you know, my ‘Calista affair’."
"Yeah, that could definitely sour it for you — thinking of me whenever Calista comes to mind."
"You really hate this place, don't you, David?"
"How could I? It's the Athens of the Midwest."
"This is where your early life came apart."
"Please, let's not talk about it. Let's talk about you and your brilliant future."
'I'd like it if you'd be part of it."
"God, that's so sweet—" The ironic pose I've been assuming dissolves in an instant. Tears spring to my eyes.
"I wish I could learn to love," I whisper to her.
"You already know how. It's just a matter of allowing yourself."
"I don't get it. You're supposed to be the hard-assed reporter and I the cool forensic artist. So now here we both are talking about not wanting this to end. Pretty funny, huh?"
"Maybe it is funny," she says, "but the thing I've discovered about out-of-town affairs is that you can't accurately evaluate them till you're back on your home turf. Then, back in the rhythm of your life, you either miss the person or you don't. Truth is I've never missed ‘the person’ very much, though I've always thought fondly of him if he happened to come to mind. But after just a few days in New York, I started missing you. That tells me something. And soon, when this stupid trial's over and you go back to San Francisco, it'll be your turn to discover how much you miss me... or not."
* * * * *
Early in the morning, when Pam goes up to the hotel gym, I borrow her tape recorder, take it down to my room, and listen to her full interview with Susan Pettibone.
The content is just as Pam described, as is Susan's emotional investment in memories of Tom. No question she loved the guy. I don't dare hope any of my old girlfriends will speak so kindly of me. What comes through most keenly is her regard for his personal integrity. "He had integrity to burn," she says.
Seeing Tom through her eyes, I shiver at the thought of him falling into that nest of Calista vipers — Barbara Fulraine, Jack Cody, Waldo Channing, and God-knows-who-else — a fall that cost him his life.
14
Wednesday
2:30 p.m.
I gesture to Harriet to follow me out of the courtroom, tell her I have an appointment, and ask her to cover for me. If anything extraordinary happens, I tell her, she's to call me on my cell phone. Then I'll execute drawings based on her reporting and get them to her in time for broadcast.
"Where do you go all the time?" she asks, annoyed.
"I'm not a journeyman sketch artist, Harriet. I can't sit here all day on the off chance something's going to happen."
"I understand, but—"
"Listen, am I mopping the floor with the competition?"
"You're definitely mopping the floor with them."
"So what more do you want?"
She waves her hands. "You're right! Go wherever you go, do whatever you have to do."
* * * * *
I meet Mace in the courthouse lobby and accompany him to his car in the Sheriff's Office parking lot.
"This is going to be interesting," Mace tells me. "Professor Bach has no idea we're coming."
As we drive over to Calista State, I tell him about Mr. Potato Head, the disordered drawings in my room, and my feeling that I've been followed.
He pulls the car over. "Let's have a look."
He smiles when I show him the drawing. "Hmm, you're right, could be anyone. Get me a plate number and I'll get you a name. Except I think you're girlfriend's probably right — now he knows you're onto him he'll stay a lot farther back."
* * * * *
Calista State's a sprawling urban campus, a jumble of old stonework academic buildings, Victorian houses, modern steel and glass additions, a magnificent granite library, and a fifteen-story tower housing labs, lecture halls, and offices. The dorms, such as they are, are renovated old apartment buildings in the neighborhood. Most students live off-campus, either at home or in roominghouses like the one on Ohio Street where Tom Jessup lived when he taught at Hayes.
We find the Women's Studies Department in a yellow-shingled cottage behind the Toland Engineering Building. There's no one in the reception area, though a half-eaten carry-out container of Asian noodles sits open upon the desk. Across the room, a bulletin board is covered with overlapping notices — meetings, lectures, readings — as well as sheets with tear-off tabs posted by people looking to find a roommate, rent a garage, give away a kitten, or sell a musical instrument.
"May I help you?" A young Asian woman, chopsticks in hand, approaches the noodle container on the desk.
"We're here to see Professor Bach," Mace tells her, handing her his card. "This is a homicide investigation so we'd appreciate it if she'd see us right away."
The woman rushes out of the room, chopsticks still in hand.
A minute later she returns.
"Dr. Bach will see you now."
We follow her through a rabbit-warren of cubicles occupied by busy young women, then up a flight of stairs to the doorway of an office where a thin woman in her fifties, gray hair cut short in the manner of a Roman senator, greets us with cool reserve.
"Shoshana Bach," she says extending her hand. Dr. Bach, I note, is all business and doesn't like to get close.
"Now, gentlemen," she asks, "what is this about?"
"The Flamingo murders," Mace says. "Okay if we sit down?"
She waves us to chairs. As soon as I sit, I bring out my small sketchpad and start to draw.
"I don't understand," she says. "It's been years."
Mace asks if she's the same Shoshana Bach who lived next door to Tom Jessup in a roominghouse on Ohio Street.
"I am. But surely you don't—"
"You weren't properly questioned back then so today we're going to do it right. That is if you're willing to cooperate?"
"Yes, of course." Shoshana stares at me. I smile back. "May I ask why the gentleman is drawing my picture?"
"The gentleman is a forensic sketch artist. Do you object to being sketched, Dr. Bach?"
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"No, of course not. This is so unexpected. I really don't understand..."
It takes her a while to loosen up, but once Mace gets her going, she seems eager to talk. As I draw her, I'm impressed by her sense of herself, the way she holds her head. This is a very dignified woman, I think.
"Back in those days, my grad school days, I was pretty much a mess," she says, showing a grim smile. "Then Tom Jessup moved in. I thought he was the most beautiful boy I'd ever seen. As I'm sure you can imagine, I was probably not the most beautiful girl he'd seen."
It's as if she's speaking of another person with whom she now feels only a tenuous connection.
"We liked each other, clung to one another the way two lost souls will do in a city like this. We were both new here, neither of us knew anybody, and Calista, though a lovely town, can be pretty inhospitable at times."
She says she realized soon enough that Tom wasn't romantically interested in her, but for whatever reason — her neediness, loneliness — she couldn't bring herself to stop trying to attract him. Thinking back on her feeble ploys, she tells us, she still feels a flush of shame.
"I'd press close to him whenever I got the chance, breathe into his ear, lick my lips, make sure he caught me in my underwear, stupid girlish tricks like that." She shakes her head. "I was such a mess! But back then some of us young women didn't understand ourselves very well. We paid lip service to feminism, but beneath the rhetoric all we really wanted was a boyfriend."
Shoshana smiles. "Pretty pathetic. But I'll say this for Tom, he was always a gentleman, never took advantage of me... and he could have. God, how I wanted him to!"
She tells us that Tom deflected her come-ons by telling her he was gay. She believed him, had no choice. She decided then that if she couldn't have him as a lover, he would be the loving older male sibling she'd always wished she'd had.
"We had fun together. We'd go to movies, eat at cheap restaurants, share gripes and confidences, talk about everything — literature, art, politics. On Saturdays we'd pile all our dirty clothes together into a wicker basket, then lug it Hansel-and-Gretel style down to the Laundromat at the bottom of Ohio Street. Some evenings I'd wander into his room in my pajamas, sprawl on his bed, and read, while he, in just a pair of gym shorts, would grade his students' papers at his desk. On Sundays he'd drive us out to Hayes, where we'd play tennis on the deserted school tennis courts. Other times we'd pack a picnic lunch, then go hiking in the hills. We'd find a shady spot, spread out a blanket, eat, then move the blanket into the sun, then just lie there side by side soaking up the rays..."
Dream of The Broken Horses, The Page 27
