The Dark Room

by Jonathan Moore

  But none of these people would get the footage they really wanted. Dr. Levy had backed her morgue van up to the garage and loaded Castelli’s body bag directly into the back without ever taking him outside. There’d have been no way to see it from the street or from above.

  When Fischer had what she needed from Melissa Montgomery, they left. They stripped off their gloves and plastic boots, then crossed the tape line at the edge of the driveway and pushed through the waiting reporters to reach Fischer’s car.

  “They’re not following us, are they?” Cain asked.

  “They’d stick out if they did,” Fischer said. “Vans like that.”

  “Keep an eye out anyway.”

  Her eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, then went back to the front. She was driving down Geary, Cain sitting in the passenger seat.

  “Back there, you asked me what I thought,” Fischer said. She took her foot off the gas, let her sedan creep back to the speed limit. “I’ll tell you—what I really think. It’s got to be suicide, right?”

  “It looks like it.”

  She swerved around a meter maid’s double-parked trike, the rooftop yellow light flashing.

  “His hands tested positive for powder residue,” Fischer said. “The alarm log shows the rest.”

  “It’s compelling,” Cain said. “It makes a good picture.”

  “It’s more than that—unless you want to go off the deep end and say Petrovic altered the logs.”

  “He seemed more reasonable than that.”

  “He is more reasonable than that,” Fischer said. “So what do you think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  They passed Twenty-Second Avenue and he looked to his right. It was sunny up that way, closer to the park. Lucy would have started giving lessons at eight. This morning, before he ran out the front door, he could have taken the time to leave a note. It wouldn’t have made any difference to Castelli. What was two minutes, compared to disappearing in the middle of the night without saying where he’d gone?

  “You don’t know,” Fischer said.

  It had to be obvious he was holding back on her. At some point, he would have to bring her into the basement at 850 Bryant and show her the body he had. But he wanted to develop that a little further on his own first. He still couldn’t prove she was the girl in the pictures, that Castelli had anything to do with burying her alive.

  “I know I don’t like that second gunshot,” Cain said. “There’s that.”

  “You had an explanation—he didn’t know for sure the gun would fire. He pulls the trigger, waits a minute to get his nerve back up, and then pulls it again.”

  “I’d like to see what Dr. Levy has to say.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Fischer said. “I want to hear that too. I don’t want to close the book until we get to the end.”

  “Even if it’s a suicide, we still have questions.”

  “Sure we do,” Fischer said.

  “Who sent the note? Who’s the girl—and what happened to her? If Castelli shot himself, does it mean he was involved?”

  Fischer caught a red light at Park Presidio. The spot of blue sky Cain had seen a minute ago was gone. They were both still wet from standing in the Petrovics’ backyard, and Fischer twisted the heater knob to its limit.

  “Those reporters crawling everywhere—Even if Mona hasn’t called Alexa, she’s got to know by now,” Cain said.

  “Hell of a way to find out your dad died.”

  “You haven’t met Alexa yet.”

  They parked around the corner from Alexa’s school, the Academy of Art, and walked the block and a half to the address they’d gotten. She lived on New Montgomery, which happened to be across the street from her mother’s temporary home, the Palace Hotel. They were on the wrong side of the street and had to wait for a gap in the traffic before they could cross.

  He’d lived in an apartment the last three years he’d been in college, at San Francisco State. That was a third-floor walkup with bars on the windows. Eight hundred a month, with a roommate. He learned to sleep through sirens.

  Alexa’s building was a different story.

  There’d been a recent renovation, but outwardly it held on to its roots. It could have been mistaken for an Edwardian-era bank, but Cain knew it had actually been the headquarters of a newspaper, theSan Francisco Call. The building’s street number was displayed on a polished bronze cartouche above the oversize glass and wrought-iron door, each side flanked with an imperial crown. The lobby beyond the entrance was two floors high; behind the glass, a chandelier hung far above the floor, its lights glowing against the midafternoon gloom.

  The doorman, if there was one, was drying off inside. Out on the sidewalk, next to one of the gray stone columns, a young woman watched the street. Tired-looking and too thin, she hugged her coat against her ribs. Cain recognized her first. He pulled Fischer back from the curb.

  “Did Melissa Montgomery say she was meeting us here?” He pointed with a tilt of his head, then looked back into the Academy of Art so his face would be hidden.

  “She just gave me the address, and that’s it. I told her we needed it but didn’t say when we were coming.”

  “She must want to talk, face to face.”

  “Let’s go see what she’s got to say.”

  When the light changed on Market, there was a gap in the traffic and they crossed the street. Melissa saw them when they were halfway across and she came to the curb to meet them. Her hair was soaked from the rain. The drops were so small and it had been falling so lightly that she could only have gotten that wet by standing in it for hours.

  “How long have you been out here?” Cain asked her.

  “Since I heard—when I came to the office this morning, it was locked and there were cops. They wouldn’t let any of us in. They wouldn’t tell me—or they didn’t know. I finally saw something online at ten. I knew I’d find you here.”

  “Why didn’t you call?” Cain asked. “You’ve got both our numbers.”

  She looked away.

  “Can we go into that Starbucks over there?” she asked. There was one directly adjacent to Alexa’s building. She’d probably been looking at it for hours, wanting to go in but afraid she’d miss Cain and Fischer when they arrived. “I’m freezing.”

  They took a table near the window, so Cain could watch the street. Mona Castelli was just next door, at the Palace Hotel. Officer Combs had texted him ten minutes ago to say she was checked in. Room 8064, if he wanted to see her. What he really wanted was to see if she’d come for Alexa. If she did, Cain wondered what they’d say to each other.

  “I was locked out of the office,” Melissa was saying. “But I could still get into the mailroom. I have an inbox there.”

  She held her paper cup with both hands, was leaning toward it to breathe in the coffee’s warmth.

  “What did you take?” Cain asked.

  “I just looked inside. I wanted to make sure I knew what it was.”

  She reached into her coat and brought out a nine-by-twelve clasped envelope. She set it on the small table between them. Out on the street, she’d been hugging herself, and now Cain understood why. She’d been holding the envelope to her chest, under her coat. Keeping it dry. Fischer looked at the front of the envelope but didn’t touch it.

  “Look at the address,” she said. “Same wording, same font. It’s postmarked yesterday, from North Beach.”

  “Who opened it?” Cain asked, turning to Melissa. “You?”

  “Not me. It was open when I found it.”

  “Then who?”

  “Harry did—this was on it.”

  She took a yellow sticky-note out of her jacket pocket. It had been folded in half, but when she opened it and set it on the table, he could see the words. The handwriting, in black ink, was a half-drunk scrawl.

  M.M.—

  Get Cain. He needs to know.

  —H.C.

  “That’s Harry’s handwriting?”

  Sh
e nodded, and Fischer asked a question.

  “What time did you leave City Hall last night?”

  “Right after you were done with me—seven thirty, eight. I went to see Harry, asked if he needed anything. Sometimes he just wants to sit and talk. Sometimes, there’s more.”

  “But not last night,” Cain said.

  “No—he wanted to be left alone.”

  “What were his exact words?”

  “Leave me alone,” she said. Something crossed her face. A memory, maybe, of Castelli. “You have to understand Harry. He’s not a complicated man.”

  “You checked your inbox before you left?”

  “Yes.”

  “So he put this in sometime after eight last night,” Cain said. “Is that right?”

  “Sometime before he went home.”

  Cain looked at the sticky-note. Get Cain. He needs to know. What the hell kind of suicide note was that?

  “You looked inside but didn’t take anything out?” Cain asked.

  “I didn’t need to take anything out. I saw the pictures, and I knew what it was.”

  “You got gloves?” Fischer asked him. “Mine are in the car.”

  “One set left.”

  He took them from his jacket pocket and stretched them over his hands, glancing around the shop to see if any of the customers were standing close enough to see. There were a dozen people in line. By the window, a college-aged kid was leaning against the standup counter. He was only an arm’s length away, but he was busy with his phone. Texting with one hand and holding coffee with the other. He had an art student’s shoulder bag, paintbrushes poking from the canvas pockets. He turned and saw Cain watching him. He finished his text without looking at his phone’s screen, set his coffee on the counter, and went out the door.

  Cain picked up the envelope.

  The address was a half-assed job—Mr. Mayor, City Hall, San Francisco, CA 94102—as if the sender wanted to make sure someone other than the mayor, some underling, opened the letter before him. But somehow Castelli had seen it first. It was sliced open along the end, too clean of a cut to be anything but a sharp knife. Cain nudged it open, eased out four glossy black-and-white photographs and a laser-printed note. He read the note first.

  Mayor Castelli:

  5 – 6 – 7 – 8!

  I said I’d give these to everyone, but guess what? I lied. They’re so embarrassing, I thought I’d give you one more chance. The rest are coming soon—if you don’t get them in the mail, don’t worry. Check the paper.

  Think how much easier it would be if you didn’t have to see any more, if you’re not around when they figure out what you did.

  BANG!

  —A friend

  He put the note on the table in front of Fischer, then looked through the four photographs. Each had a circled number in the lower right corner. And in each, the girl was still handcuffed to the bed. She was unconscious throughout the series. Maybe that was a good thing. Cain could see her face in each shot: eyes closed and mouth slack.

  The difference this time was that now she was completely nude. Her panties hung from the bed’s iron foot post. And there was someone else in the shot—a white man, tall and well muscled. Dark hair, neatly cut. But he never gave his face to the camera. It was just his naked backside as he lay on top of her, as he knelt between her thighs and held her ankles off to either side.

  “Jesus,” Cain said. He looked at Fischer. She was studying the first shot he’d handed her. Melissa was staring at the surface of her coffee, not looking at the pictures at all. Her lips were pressed together, her mouth a small, tight line.

  There was one identifying mark. The man had a tattoo across his right shoulder blade. It was hard to make out, except in the last shot. Cain finished looking at it and put it on the stack in front of Fischer.

  The man had been inked with three Greek letters.

  “Is that Harry Castelli?” Cain asked, tilting his head so he could catch Melissa’s downturned eyes.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’ve seen him naked?”

  “Inspector Cain—”

  “Have you or haven’t you?” Fischer said. “We’ll find out one way or another.”

  “Harry and I—we—it was just sometimes. Okay? And we’d stopped, more than a year ago.”

  “Is that him?”

  “If it is, they’re old pictures. This man’s young. But Harry’s—”

  She stopped and brought her coffee up. She took a careful sip and then put it back down.

  “But what?” Cain said. “You were about to say something else.”

  “He’s got a tattoo like that.”

  The room seemed to go quiet, but Cain knew it was just his mind pulling into focus. He looked from Fischer to Melissa Montgomery. They were both staring at the photographs on the table. He picked them up and slid them back into the envelope, along with the second letter.

  “Let me have that,” Cain said. “The note he wrote to you.”

  Melissa gave it to him.

  Last night, Castelli had wanted to see him again. Something had changed the mayor’s mind—the letter, and the photos? When he’d written this, there wasn’t much time left. He’d be dead at midnight. Had he known, because he planned it? This could be a half-finished confession. He needs to know, Castelli had said, but know what? Was he saying that he did it? Or had he wanted to meet Cain so that he could say something entirely different?

  “Where are you going to be?” Cain asked. “Tonight, all next week.”

  “At home.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Noe Valley.”

  She gave him an address on Cesar Chavez. A row house, broken up into apartments. She lived there with a roommate, a girlfriend from college. But she’d spent most of the last eight years in Castelli’s orbit.

  “Don’t go anywhere,” Cain said. “I’ll need you in town.”

  “Okay.”

  “He means that,” Fischer said. “We’ll be calling on you. When we do, we’ll need you right away.”

  “Where would I go?”

  She said that, and Cain watched her shrink into herself. She must understand that it was over. Not just her job, but her entire life up to that point. Everything she’d worked for, dead.

  18

  CAIN AND FISCHER stood at the security desk in Alexa’s lobby while the doorman, Bruno, scowled at their badges. An FBI shield, an SFPD gold star. They’d already explained they were here to see the mayor’s daughter on a family matter. Bruno should have rolled over right away; any other guard in the city would have. Instead, he’d asked to see a warrant, and then, when they admitted they didn’t have one, he told them to state their business or leave.

  “We already told you,” Fischer said.

  “What family matter?” the guard said. “I’ll ring up and tell her what it is. She’ll tell me if she wants to talk to you.”

  Cain leaned over the desk and touched the man’s computer screen.

  “Is this hooked up to the Internet?”

  “Yeah—so?”

  “Do a search for Castelli. See what comes up.”

  The guard’s frown said he wasn’t buying it. But he took the mouse and started clicking. He typed a word and entered it. Cain watched the screen’s reflection in his glasses, watched the man’s eyes flick back and forth as he read three lines of text. He didn’t need to finish the article.

  “Shit,” the guard said. “Oh, shit.”

  “A whole world of it,” Cain answered.

  “This is for real?”

  “Check another site if you don’t believe it.”

  “She’s on four—I haven’t seen her in or out today, so she’s probably in there. I’ll send you up. You need a card to work the elevator.”

  They heard music from behind Alexa Castelli’s door. A cello concerto—Vivaldi, if Cain had to guess. It wasn’t what he’d expected, didn’t fit his picture of Alexa, which tilted darker and edgier. But he remembered the blood-so
aked shelves in Castelli’s study, which had borne the weight of a thousand years of history. Those hadn’t fit in his model either. The Castellis weren’t as predictable as he’d like them to be.

  He knocked, and a few moments later the music switched off. The door opened as far as the chain would let it.

  “Miss Castelli,” Cain said.

  He could only see one side of her face, the sweep of her dark hair, and her right eye. The rest of her was behind the door.

  “Mr. Cain,” she answered. “I don’t know your friend.”

  “Are you dressed?”

  “More or less.”

  She closed the door enough to unlatch the chain, then opened it to let them in. She wore a clean white bedsheet like a sleeveless gown.

  “Come in,” she said.

  “This is Special Agent Fischer, with the FBI,” Cain said.

  They stepped into her apartment. To the left, there was a living room that doubled as the bedroom. A Murphy bed was folded down. A young woman sat on a stool behind a wooden easel. She was using a loose razor blade to sharpen a charcoal pencil over a wastepaper basket. She turned when they came in. Looking at her half-finished sketch, it was clear that until he’d knocked, Alexa had been on the bed, and she hadn’t been wearing the sheet.

  “You need to get something on,” Cain said. “And ask your friend—”

  “Patricia.”