"We're flirting, both of us. And flirting's against my principles."
"Mercy!" he says.
"This is fun, but I gotta go." I stand. "Please let me pay my share."
"Absolutely not. And I'm very sorry you're leaving—just as we were starting to get on."
I wait while he takes care of the check, then permit him to escort me up the hill. Hyde Street is steep between Bay and Chestnut. By the time we reach the top of crooked Lombard, we're both slightly out of breath.
He makes his move just inside the front alcove of my building. As we kiss, I feel like a college girl getting smooched in the doorway of her dorm. He tastes good. Must be the Irish coffee. Then I hear myself sigh. He presses upon me. I feel his hardness . . . and then myself becoming wet. He presses harder until I'm flat against the granite portal wall, brings his mouth to my ear, licks it, whispers, "I want to make love to you, Kay."
I move my hands so that they embrace his butt, pull him closer. "I'd like that too," I whisper dreamily.
The night passes quickly. Sasha is tender. I relinquish my aggressive manner, lie back, yield, let him fill me, have his way. I'd have thought he'd be a selfish lover. He surprises me. Unlike a prototypal ladies' man, he's caring, solicitous, attentive to my every pleasure and need.
I love his dark silken skin, the fine texture of it, its taste. I ravish him with my mouth, lick him everywhere. Then he licks me and I explode. Sweet explosion!
Always with a new lover I pray that colors will show themselves, little splinters, sparks, showering off the fireworks of my rapture. Tonight they come, not the colors the rest of the world sees so easily, but colors of my imagination, colors of singers, painters, poets: cinnabar, wine-dark vermilion, carnelian, aerugo, chrome primrose, bistre, jonquil, jouvence, piccolopasso, tartrazine, solferino, roccellin. The colors of Veronese, Matisse, Vincent van Gogh (who may have been dyschromatopsic). The colors of the passionate unfurling flower of my labia. The colors of orgasm. The colors of love. All the secret colors of my inner penetrated self . . . for though we are all born color blind, we each have within us the ability to someday see the hues.
He leaves me shortly after three-thirty a.m. He must, he tells me, get back to his room at the hospital, for he is on call beginning at four. After he dresses, he leans over me, then kneels to kiss my breasts.
"Wonderful to be with you, Kay. I hope this isn't going to be a one-off like you said."
I look up at him. "I don't understand you, Sasha. You're Don Juan. One-offs are your stock and trade."
He laughs. "How sorely you've misjudged me!"
"I did have fun," I admit.
"Can I see you again tonight?"
I groan. "Let's wait a couple days. But don't worry, I doubt my ardor will cool."
I awaken late. The sun's burning in. I put on shades, go to the window, wave naked to the goggle-eyed house-painter working on the building across the street. I think of something the artist Willem de Kooning once said: that he dreamed of creating a painting that would contain all the colors of the world. Such too is a dream of mine: to partake of an act of love so vivid with colors I will never afterward miss them in my daily life.
In the bathroom I inspect my body. My bruises are fading. The smudges are fainter. If I could see colors, I would note that they're turning from blue to beige. This morning there are new marks on me, strawberry-shaped love bites. They decorate the front of one shoulder, and there are two big ones on my collarbone.
I stretch, feel luxurious, tensions relieved. Sex is great and I've forsworn it too long. Last night I relearned something I seemed to have forgotten along the way—that there are other men besides the Judge who can make my body sing.
I take a shower, put on my robe, sit down to read the papers I got from Hilly. The Internal Affairs Division report on the Robbie Sipple attack echoes every smear I found in back issues of the Chronicle and the Examiner.
Dad was right: clearly the report was leaked. Inept, incompetent—the only pejoratives lacking are the ad hominems: dummies, dunces, dolts, chumps, buffoons. But the report is all the more scathing for the absence of insults, calling into question the professionalism of the officers involved. Sergeant Lucius Waincroft takes particular abuse for "the shocking breakdown in the command structure that led to this debacle." And patrolman Jack Farrow, as the officer first on the scene, is held accountable for his "abysmal failure to collect and preserve vital evidence which, even at cursory viewing, was clearly relevant to a widely known ongoing investigation of a series of capital crimes."
Poor Dad! But there are ambiguities in the report which escaped the newspapers, hints and phrases that make me take notice. The possibility, for instance, of a conspiracy among the incompetents, dismissed as being improbable, yet considered nonetheless:
". . . despite these conclusions, the Division Committee cannot wholly exclude several other potential explanations of the debacle: (a) one or more officers sought to conceal the mishandling of evidence by themselves and/or their colleagues, by deliberately destroying and/or mislaying the discovered materials; (b) one or more of the officers returned to the crime scene after it was clear, and deliberately removed the discovered materials for reasons of their own."
Translation: A screwup and then a cover-up, or worse, the evidence was deliberately lost because it implicated someone inside S.F.P.D.
Another ambiguity concerns the behavior of Inspector Jonathan Topper Hale in his meeting with the patrolmen and sergeant prior to the assignment of the matter to I.A.D.:
". . . Hale's abuse intimidated the officers, leaving them with little choice but to remain silent lest their careers in the Department be further jeopardized. In accordance with good management practice, Hale should have cajoled these officers into remembering clearly what transpired, rather than berating them for compromising his own opportunities to solve the case. In this matter, at least, Hale appears to have overstepped, showing more concern for personal aggrandizement than the recovery of the missing evidence. The Committee points out that this is just the sort of abuse of command authority that can occur when an investigator becomes too closely identified with a high-profile case. . . ."
Translation: Hale scared the shit out of everyone, making them disinclined to help lest in return they be hung out to dry.
I also note the committee's confidential personal evaluations of the officers:
"Waincroft: out of his depth, has no business holding a supervisory position. Recommend immediate demotion with incentives to retire.
"Hayes: less than middling officer long past his prime. Retirement to be actively encouraged.
"Puccio: sloppiest of the bunch, apparently ignorant of police norms and procedures. Recommend dismissal.
"Vasquez: sharp, helpful, contrite, the officer we deem least likely to have been responsible. Recommend mild punishment. This officer should be allowed a future with the Department.
"Farrow: a decent, experienced officer who, perhaps by chance, has had a less than stellar career. Since Waincroft was in command, we remain mystified by his insistence on taking responsibility for the loss. Because he seems less than fully committed to police work, retirement to be actively encouraged."
I walk down the slope to Polk, purchase a micro tape recorder and cartridges at Radio Shack, then stop at a gourmet store to buy a variety of organic fruits and vegetables and a loaf of City Stone Ground bread. I carry my bag of groceries back up to the walkway on the Larkin side of Sterling Park, ostentatiously leave it on the same bench where I left the beribboned Styrofoam box two days ago. As before I pirouette, knowing my savior, Drake, is watching from somewhere in the bush.
At home I eat an apple, then go to work, taking down every print, clipping, appointment slip and note pinned to my cork office wall. With the cork clean, I proceed to pin up photographs relevant to Tim's death, seeking some sort of order that will clarify the complexities by which I'm feeling overwhelmed.
A cluster of pictures of Tim go up first, casu
al shots I took of him on the Gulch, plus the nude of him doing the handstand, and my favorite, the glamour shot on Angel Island.
Following these I lay out my two main sequences, the one on Willow Alley where his head and limbs were found, the other the ground in Wildcat Canyon.
Above and below these sequences I place several of the police crime-scene photos Hilly supplied, and at the end of the row, a shot I took on the boat when we let Tim's ashes go.
I stand back for an overview. There he is, I think, in all the startling beauty and vitality of his life, and savage uncomeliness and stillness of his death.
On a separate section of cork I arrange a sequence that profiles the Gulch, street shots and portraits of several of the regulars—Crawf, Slick, Remo, Alyson, Doreen, a few others, and the one of Knob and his acolytes I took in The Werewolf. Above them I post shots I surreptitiously took of various unidentified prowling johns, and, connected to these but in a cluster all its own, the sequence of Marcus Crane at the gate of his and Sarah Lashaw's home.
In still another area I pin up pictures of the detectives, Shanley and Hilly Lentz, as well as my new comrade-in-arms, Joel Glickman. Nearby I arrange a sequence on the original T case, centered around the photo I took of Dad in front of City Stone Ground, surrounded by pictures I photocopied off of library microfilm of the other Sipple cops, plus the excellent press photo of Inspector Jonathan Topper Hale leaving the Hall of Justice the day of his disgrace.
On the opposite wall I pin up parallel sequences of Tim's studio when Crawf and I first visited it, and its chaotic state when I later returned to pack up his stuff. Back near the idyllic portraits, I tack up one of David deGeoffroy, one of the facade of Tim's mail drop and also (the only nonphoto in my show) the unidentified key I found tucked in the molding of Tim's flat.
Above the shot of Dad, I place one I made of Mom when I was at the Art Institute and fist took up photography. Finally, for no reason I can think of, I add one of the detached self-portraits I shot of myself last week. Then I stand back again to see what I have wrought.
Things are connected, that much is clear, but no overarching pattern emerges, no theme that ties everything together.
Two torso cases fifteen years apart, similar in some respects, different in others: the recent victim (I'm trying to think of Tim objectively now) has a history in which cutting played a part.
I move closer to the wall, examine my before-and-after shots of his studio. I am, I realize, the only person with such pictures; except for me and Crawf, no one, including the cops, knows what the place looked like before it was tossed. I search the photos for crucial differences, objects which might have been removed. The big Angel Island print of Tim is gone; I noticed that before. Also, the curious sorting of the clothing. But where is his address book, assuming he had one—and what street hustler doesn't? Where are the personal things—family photos, letters, passport, birth certificate? Where, for that matter, are items I know he possessed, such as the decks of cards he used for his card tricks and the balls he carried in his backpack which he juggled on the ferry to Sausalito?
I don't see any of this stuff in either set of photos, but then such items would most likely have been stowed away. When Crawf and I were there we didn't make a search, and since, according to Shanley, such items didn't turn up, it seems safe to assume whoever tossed the place carried them off. But why?
There's something else that occurs to me as I study these photographs—the fact that the person who did the tossing entered with a key. So . . . someone had a key to Tim's studio, and, I note, my eyes falling upon the key I found, he had a key to someone else's flat as well.
Too great a leap? I don't think so. The key hidden in his molding didn't fit his door, but it matches his door key in design. A key to another apartment, perhaps one in the same building? The apparition I saw the day I moved his stuff—was that Ariane, having just left the building, heading off for a stroll?
I'm excited. Laying out my pictures, seeking visual connections, has led me to this fascinating thought. And, I realize, I would never have come up with it if I hadn't intercepted David's letter and heard his Magician's Tale.
I pull out a blank white sheet of processed photographic printing paper, one of several I use for focusing when I make a print. With a grease pencil I inscribe the word ARIANE, then pin the sheet up between my photos of David and of Tim. She, I decide, is the missing piece . . . and there are other pieces missing as well: the link between the two cases, if indeed there is one, and the links between Marcus Crane and Knob and Tim.
Sasha calls me from the hospital. In the background I hear the sounds of the E.R., including those implausibly placid public address announcements by which surgeons are summoned to patch up horrendous wounds.
"I'm thinking about you," Sasha says.
"Nice thoughts?"
"Better than nice." He lowers his voice. "Highly desiring."
"Yes, I hear you're quite the ladies' man," I tell him.
"I used to be. Not anymore."
"Is this a recent change, Sasha?"
"Since last night."
"You're sure it's not just lust?"
"Oh, Kay—why so cynical?"
"All right." I relent. "You can come over tonight. Truth is I'm highly desiring myself."
I walk over to Van Ness, but the sunlight's so brilliant I decide to take a bus down to Market. From there I walk to Tim's building on Mission, enter the lobby, inspect the names on the register:
Perkins; Nakamura; Pannella/Rosenfeld; Lovsey; Swink; Yaegger; Sowards; two blanks—a typical San Francisco mix. Deciding to bring the number of vacancies to three, I pry out the black plastic strip for Lovsey.
On a hunch, I ring the buzzers opposite the blanks, apartments 303 and 500. No responses back. I climb the stairs, find the door to 303, knock, then try the key from Tim's molding. It slips into the keyhole but doesn't turn and is difficult to extract. But in the door to 500, at the very top of the stairs, the key turns easily and opens the lock.
I enter. Suddenly, I'm lost in a snowstorm. The apartment, with its dazzling white walls and gleaming white floor, is so harshly lit, such a stark container of blazing light, that the rods in my retinas are instantly saturated.
I shut my eyes lest I go blind, fumble for my darkest shades, put them on. Then, slowly, I open my eyes. But even with the shades I'm lost in a blizzard. I shut down again, feel my way to the windows, grope for the venetian blinds, pull them closed. This time, though the room's still treacherously alive, I can see enough to understand that it's not light from the windows that's been blinding me but from a skylight that tents the room. I spot a pair of hanging ropes secured to a cleat on the wall, go to the cleat, untie the ropes, haul as hard as I can. Slowly a large drape rises to cover the glass. When I'm finished, ropes again secured, the room, though still well lit, is bearable at last.
It's a fine space, bigger than Tim's and, with its high slanted ceiling and skylight, perfect for an artist. But it would be the worst possible studio for me. So much light would kill my vision.
I pace about. I'm impressed by the condition of the place, the way everything's freshly painted, kitchen appliances shiny and perfectly flush with counters and cabinets, and the new white tiles in the bathroom joined by immaculate white grout. Hard to believe I'm in the same grungy building, not in some new high-rise near Opera Plaza. Someone's renovated this flat, and I can't believe it's landlord Murray Paulus, so annoyed Tim didn't give him notice prior to being killed. Yes, someone spent a lot of money fixing this place up, someone who either is about to move in or has recently moved out.
The buzzer sounds. At first I'm nonplussed. I'm a trespasser, have no right to be here. But in fact, I realize, since the place is empty I can't be accused of being a robber. I can claim I was looking for an apartment, noted the vacancy on the lobby register, climbed the stairs and found the door unlocked.
Better, I decide, to answer than have someone come up and find me hiding. I go to the wall
, press the responder, then open the door a crack.
Footsteps in the stairwell. A woman's heeled shoes and gait. I've never found the stairwell so quiet, then recall that on other visits I heard operatic arias echoing down.
The steps approach. The person is one floor below. I tense as an attractive young woman comes into view. She's beautifully dressed in cashmere sweater and skirt, wears earrings and a necklace with a Celtic cross as pendant. She sees me too, approaches, smiles.
"Hi!" she says.
"Hi yourself."
"I was looking for. . ." Her voice falters.
"Yes?"
"For her, you know, but, like—hello!—I see she isn't here." She peers about, wide-eyed, taking in the emptiness. "Least not anymore," she adds.
I shrug to indicate I find the former resident's absence obvious.
"When was the last time you saw her?" I inquire.
"Oh, well, you know . . ." She smiles again, embarrassed. "Not too long ago, I guess." She ponders. "Maybe, four, five weeks, something like that."
She's young, nineteen or twenty, and her jewelry and Rolex tell me she's well-off. But there's something about her that belies the upper-middle-class suburban look. I check out her shoes. They're high-style fetishistic—black-and-chrome ankle-bondage straps, embedded steel tips and modified-for-daywear stiletto heels.
"How 'bout you?" she asks. "I mean—were you looking for her too?" I nod. "How long since you've seen her?"
I shrug again. "A while, I guess."
"Well. . ."
"Yes, well. . ."
She puts out her hand. "I'm Courtney Hill."
I put out mine. "Kay Farrow." We shake.
She squints at me. "Kay? Have I seen you around?"
"Maybe," I say. And then: "Since she's moved I guess there's no point standing here." I look at her. "Shall we escort each other down?"
I close the door. It clicks shut. When I try it again, it's locked.
"Looks like she really cleaned out," Courtney observes as we descend. She giggles. "Lock, stock, and barrel."
The Magician's Tale Page 16
