Innocent Monsters

by Doherty, Barbara

  “Very understanding. Where’s the catch?”

  He laughed. “There is no catch. I just like you Jessica, that’s all. So, deal?”

  “Deal, sure. What time on Thursday?”

  ”Should we say ten o’clock?”

  “Let’s do ten thirty if you don’t mind, then I definitely won’t have problems with the rush hour... William?”

  “Yes?”

  “Just one more thing,” how did you know it was me last night? “Last time I spoke to Roger... He told me the strangest thing... He has no idea who you are.”

  “Really?”

  A long silence followed, so long Jessica thought the line had dropped.

  “William, are you still there?”

  “Yes, sorry. I really don’t know what to tell you. I guess it makes me look like an idiot, doesn’t it? Maybe he was just trying to be funny... Or maybe he just doesn’t remember me... How embarrassing is that! I am that memorable. Christ.”

  “I wouldn’t take it too personally. Roger is not your stereotypical editor, is he? His mind doesn’t always seem as organised as it should be.” They shared a conspiratorial giggle. “Sorry I mentioned it. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. See you on Thursday, then?”

  “Definitely. I’ll be waiting.”

  Then he hung up.

  Done.

  Soon after the phone call, her anger evaporated, and Jessica took it as a good sign.

  She was ready for this. She was ready to move on and she decided to start organising the house that very evening.

  She took the garage keys from the hook by the door and walked down the stairs outside the front door.

  The houses in Prague Street were all nineteen twenties builds, all of them three or four bedrooms boxes, all of them dirty white, beige and cream. Sandwiched between its better looking neighbours, Jessica’s house looked as if a drunk wizard had wandered past one night with a magic wand and decided to shrink it, just for the hell of it. It was the smallest building in the road, and terracotta red. Jessica had liked it from the moment she’d set eyes on it; it seemed different, unloved and forgotten, an afterthought, much like herself. Its entrance was not at the front, like all the other houses, but perched above a long set of high steps along the side, which allowed for the whole of the ground floor to be taken up by a disproportionately large garage.

  This part of the house had been empty till the moment Kaitlyn had moved in. The office space Jessica had been meaning to create for the last three years now contained nothing but her sister’s belongings. Everything in here had laid undisturbed for the last five months and slipping the key in the garage door, Jessica felt slightly nauseous, unprepared.

  She pulled the string for the light bulb hanging by the shelves on her right and closed the top-sliding door behind her.

  A tall, single old-fashioned wardrobe stood against the left wall, opposite the shelves. Dark, proud, a small drawer at its bottom. Jessica remembered it from Kaitlyn’s hallway, wondered briefly if her coats and handbags were still inside it. Next to it stood a black chinese-style cabinet with red decorated doors. A friend had given it to Kaitlyn a couple of years ago as a thank you for helping her move. Above it, a cream tailor’s mannequin with dozens of necklaces still hanging around its neck, pearls, wooden shapes, cheap golden things, a little porcelain bird inside a cage, a rocking horse she remembered her wearing at their mother’s funeral. Four shoe boxes were piled up in twos were the mannequin’s feet should have been. When Jessica opened them, she found what seemed like hundreds of birthday cards and letters, some of them from friends, others from their mother; drawings, Lisa’s wedding invitation, certificates, concert stubs, movie stabs, the whole of her sister’s life documented through paper collected over the years. It was endearing and devastating at the same time.

  The further inside the garage she moved, the more she marveled at the stories in everything, moments shared with someone who wasn’t here anymore, forever interlaced with the history of these objects. She had walked in determined to get rid of everything, maybe drag some of the furniture and lamps out onto the drive so that they’d be gone by morning. But now she wasn’t sure she could part from anything at all and she knew the apartment in Nob Hill would definitely be too small to contain everything.

  Jessica stayed in the garage sorting, crying, smiling, laughing, creating piles and crying some more, through the night for hours until the sky started to brighten up again and she could hear the road outside slowly waking up.

  21 November 2000

  BROWN OPENED the door of the restaurant. The sign on the glass said it was still closed but he walked in anyway. A little bell rang over his head and he waited by the entrance for someone to surface from the kitchen.

  The place wasn’t particularly attractive, but it had a certain charisma. A mish-mash of chairs and tables were arranged around the dark room; a variety of pictures on the wall, all completely different from each other. An organised chaos turned this odd looking place into a cozy little restaurant.

  Why they had called it Gironda’s was beyond him: as far as he remembered, gironda wasn’t an Italian word and this was supposed to be an Italian restaurant. Then again, it had been years since he had spoken the language or been to the country, maybe he just couldn’t remember.

  Looking through Kaitlyn Lynch’s filofax, he had noticed four days at the beginning of September, one week apart, marked with the letters GIRONDA+R in very small writing. In the old days it would have taken him at least a couple of weeks of mind numbing research to decode this riddle. Thankfully nowadays the internet didn’t just aid sex molesters, fraudsters and pedophiles: a quick search had revealed that not only Gironda was the name of a professional bodybuilder from the Bronx —born in 1917, dead eighty years later in October— but also a café bar in Turkey and a Chicago style Italian restaurant in downtown San Francisco. Bingo.

  He was still working on the +R.

  He looked around trying to imagine people sitting at the tables, dishes steaming, cutlery tinkling. Where was Kaitlyn Lynch sitting when she was here? Did she have a favourite table? Did she like to sit by the window?

  The kitchen door swung open just as Brown had decided to move away from the entrance and have a walk around the floor, and a small Mexican man with a thick neck and short black hair came out drying his hands on a gingham tea towel.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  Brown was already holding out his badge. “Charles Brown. San Francisco Police. I need to speak to Jamie Rondello, I was told he would be in this morning.”

  The small Mexican man disappeared into the kitchen without a word and when the door opened again a tall blond young man walked towards him.

  “Jamie Rondello?”

  “Yes? That’s me. How can I help you?”

  Brown held out his hand, a big toothy smile on his tired, old face. “First of all, sorry to disturb you. I know you must be busy so I’ll try to keep this short. We spoke yesterday morning about one of your regular customers, remember?”

  The young man was standing a few feet away from Brown, obviously not knowing what to do with himself or where to put his arms. He folded them at first then decided to simply stuff his hands in his pocket. Brown recognised the signs: any man faced with a police officer acted guilty for no reason whatsoever. He had witnessed the shifty look, the ever so slight bounce from foot to foot many times before.

  “Yes, I remember you now.”

  “Very well.” Brown took out the photograph Jessica had given him, Kaitlyn smiled with full red lips at the camera. “Have you seen this woman before?”

  The young man looked at her for what seemed like not enough time then returned the photograph. “Yes, I did. She came here regularly for about... I would say for about a month but we haven’t really seen her for a while now.”

  �
��Are you sure? Please look at her again.” Brown pushed the photograph under his nose.

  “Yes, positive. It’s her. I’m very good with faces, especially pretty ones.”

  “Did she come here alone?”

  “Mostly, yes. For lunch, rarely for dinner. I’m pretty sure she told me she did some kind of work at the gallery a block away from here... Can’t really remember what it’s called.”

  “The Galleria?”

  “Yes. That’s the one.”

  “And when you say she was here mostly by herself, does it mean you have also seen her with someone else?”

  “A couple of times maybe. I couldn’t swear on it... Maybe two, three times? She was here with a guy.”

  “Would you be able to describe him to me?”

  “Uhm...” The young man thought hard, in a theatrical way that had most likely been rehearsed before. “...Tall man, dark eyes, dark hair... Big eyes... And big lips too. He had a big mouth for a man. Y’know?”

  Brown didn’t know, but nodded. The only mental image he could come up with was Mick Jagger; he was the only man he could think of with a big mouth and big lips. And he was pretty sure he was not the man he was looking for.

  “Can you remember if there was anything odd about him? Anything that stood out at all? Anything would be helpful.”

  “Not really, no. They looked like they had a good time.”

  “Like boyfriend and girlfriend? That kind of good time?”

  “Yep. That kind.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to remember his name, would you?”

  The young man pulled his hands out of his pockets and buried his fingers in his hair instead. “Christ, no! I’m good with faces, but names, forget about it. And it’s not like we were ever introduced.”

  “Do you keep a booking record here?”

  “You’d have to speak to our manager for that. He will be in later, at opening time.”

  Brown stood silent for a few seconds then started to walk through the restaurant, looking at some of the artwork on the walls, looking at the buildings opposite through the front windows. Then he turned around to look at the young man, still standing on the same spot, a baffled expression on his face.

  “How about till records?” Brown asked, “could I get hold of any kind of record of the intakes between middle of August and end of September? Credit card payments, slips, that kind of stuff?”

  “Again, you’d need to speak to our manager.”

  Brown looked at his watch pondering. “Could I wait here? How hot is that coffee machine back there?” He pointed behind he counter of the bar just left of the kitchen door.

  The young man smiled at him, finally relaxing. “Oh, that’s ready sir. We all have coffee first thing in the morning here. That puppy’s been ready since eight o’clock.”

  Brown smiled back and pulled one of the chairs by the window away from the table. “I’ll have a coffee then. When you’ve got a minute.”

  15 December 2000

  JESSICA TURNED the last screw to fix the new roller blind to the kitchen window’s frame.

  The room had completely changed since the first day she had set foot in as a tenant, the whole apartment had. It had only been a couple of weeks but the place felt more hers then the previous one had in the five years she had spent there. She had put so much time into it, it seemed a shame to even imagine looking for a property to buy.

  Incredible what could be achieved with too much time on one’s hand.

  It had taken her two weeks to get to Nob Hill after signing the contract and most of that time had been spent sorting out Kaitlyn’s things rather than her own. It had been a painful task, one she had done completely alone. She had kept some of her things but most of it had been given away, donated to the gallery and to charity, including her furniture, any profits made from her share of the Galleria, and whatever money Kaitlyn had left in her bank account. There would have been something not quite right about keeping it, like stealing jewelry from a corpse. Kaitlyn hadn’t left a will, she had never said she wanted Jessica to have her money if something happened to her and she just couldn’t bring herself to keep it. Clothes and furniture was one thing, money felt almost dirty.

  There was nothing else tying her to Crocker Amazon now. Anything that was once important had either been disposed of or moved to Nob Hill with her.

  She hadn’t seen Lisa since the afternoon in her loft. She had not called and Jessica had made no attempts to meet her before the moving van had set off. In a way she knew it would be like this, she had known the second she had turned away, living Lisa clutching pop corn on that sofa and in truth, she didn’t care anymore, what she might. She had sent her a postcard with her new address and her phone number but nothing else. No apologies. No wish you were here. No regrets. It had been almost two weeks and she had not heard from her. In fact, the only person she had heard from had been Charles Brown. He had called her the day she had moved in wishing her well, told her he would have sent her a card if he didn’t think it was inappropriate. He had been following a lead, talked to people in a restaurant he knew Kaitlyn had frequented. Someone remembered her being with a guy. Did the letter R mean anything to her? Did Kaitlyn know anyone whose name started with it? She didn’t think so, couldn’t think, refused to think about it. Now she had left Crocker Amazon, all she wanted to do was move on from what had happened and it was going to be a lot easier if she stopped thinking about her sister’s death as a murder. She had cried enough, suffered enough. She couldn’t think of it anymore.

  Brown could snoop around on his own; it was his job and Kaitlyn’s case, for reasons she couldn’t understand, had obviously become very important to him. She had often wondered over the past few weeks if this could possibly be his last assignment before retirement, the last case he just had to crack. Go out with a bang and all that. It didn’t really matter, whichever his reasons, she was starting to believe Lisa had been right; perhaps opening an inquest on Kaitlyn’s death was nothing but a mistake. Brown might never find anything, anyone. But it didn’t have to be her problem. It wouldn’t bring her back.

  Jessica stood back to admire her handiwork and heard a knock on the door. She left the screwdriver by the stove and went to open it.

  Blaise stood three steps away from her smiling, his hands hidden behind his back. The last time she had seen him he had been standing more or less in this same position, clutching her front door keys.

  “Hey! What a lovely surprise! I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

  “I was just passing by and I thought I’d come and see how you’re doing.” He brought his hands forward revealing a couple of beer bottles, big red ribbons tied around both their necks. “Hope I’m not disturbing.”

  Jessica burst out laughing. It was the corniest thing she had ever seen. “Isn’t this sweet! Come on in.”

  She closed the door behind him and headed for the kitchen; her new table was still dissembled inside a cardboard box by the window, her new chairs aligned against the wall waiting for the table to appear in the middle of the room.

  “It’s still empty, I know,” she told him, “I’ve been too busy painting the...”

  “It’s yellow,” he interrupted her.

  They looked at each other.

  “I know. I painted the walls. I did ask you if it would be ok. Remember?”

  “Yes, I do, it’s just… “

  “I’m not an all-white person myself. Colour’s good for you.”

  He looked down at her: she was wearing a pair of turquoise track suit bottoms, a pink t-shirt with yellow and dark green dots of paint on both sleeves and shoulders, fading white letters across her chest read EAT SHIT AND DIE. “Yes,” he said smiling, “so I’ve heard.”

  She felt her cheeks blush and hated him for it, tried to hide her face untying the
ponytail on top of her head. He looked at her hair, caressed it almost with his eyes.

  “So where does the green come from?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The green.” He pointed a finger at one of the green dots of dried paint on her shoulder.

  “Oh, this green. It’s my study, well, the sitting room...” She pointed a finger beyond the kitchen entrance. “That room. Want to have a look?”

  He started moving without saying a word and she followed him.

  This was the room she was the most proud of. The wall opposite the windows, on the left hand side of the doorway, was completely covered with bookshelves, floor to ceiling just like she had imagined it, and it worked. A small sofa sat in front of the rows-after-rows of books and an armchair by one of its sides created a new corner. On the right hand side of the doorway stood a bare table —her desk. A big cardboard box sat underneath it. Any wall that had not been hidden by books had been painted in green.

  “I thought it would be relaxing, you know, green is supposed to help you to relax.”

  She explained. “And is it?”

  “I wouldn’t know, I haven’t spent much time in here so far.”

  They both laughed, but it really wasn’t funny. The apartment had been her only project for weeks, her Mac remained packed away in the box underneath the desk while she spent all her time painting the walls, organising bookshelves and various pieces of furniture to be delivered, ignoring the fact that what she was really supposed to do was start writing again, ignoring Roger’s phone calls, ignoring his concerns.

  “It works, I like it.” He said, and he sounded genuine. “Drink to your new study? They’re still cold.” He lifted one of the bottles and she took it from his hand.

  “Why not.”

  They walked back to the kitchen where Jessica fished a bottle opener out of one of the drawers while he sat on the floor by the chairs, his back against the wall, looking around, studying the room.