“Sean, if you don’t tell everyone what you were just doing, you’ll be getting two weeks of detention instead of one.”
“Okay, Sister. Everyone, I was smoking. Yes, smoking.”
“And what did we learn about smoking, Sean?”
“That it’s bad. That we’ll go to hell for it.”
“And why is smoking bad?”
“Because it gives us lung cancer. And because getting lung cancer hurts Jesus.”
“That’s right. Now, go to the principal’s office.”
I pretended I needed to use the restroom so that I could get out of class. I found Sean sitting on the bench outside Sister Carmen’s office, where I had sat after thumping Jeremy.
Sean was pale. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Sister Carmen called my father. He’s going to come and get me,” he said.
“Well, at least you get to go home early.”
“My father is going to kill me for stealing his cigarettes.”
“No, he’s not, Sean. He’s probably just going to ground you or make you clean up your room.”
“You don’t know my father, Fi. He’s going to beat the crap out of me.”
When his father arrived, Sean got up and I smelled shit emanating from his seat. But like a true friend, I pretended not to notice that he had messed his undies. Even back then, I understood people culture.
And I knew he was right about the beating awaiting him at home. No one craps his pants about suspended television and phone privileges.
Sean missed the next two days of school. Sister Maria marked him down as sick. When he returned to class, he had a note from his father which he showed me before giving it to Sister Maria.
Dear Sister,
Sean was sick for the last two days. My son had severe stomach pains, gas, and uncontrollable diarrhea. Please excuse him.
-Frank Deacon
Adding insult to injury. Frank was an asshole.
But Sean hadn’t asked me to come over the next day because he was afraid of getting another beating from his father—Frank was dead.
It sounded like Sean needed a major dose of good luck. He should have attended Don’s funeral with me.
CHAPTER
TWENTY
EVERYONE KNOWS THAT THE best lie is a half-truth. Because a lie flavored with a kernel of truth makes the lie taste more like the real thing.
So long as the person you’re lying to never finds out which half is which.
Unfortunately, sometimes you’re the person being told the half-truth, and you’re left wondering which half is which.
I buzzed Sean’s apartment around six in the evening the next day, itching with curiosity and excitement. From his sense of urgency over the phone, I expected Sean to answer the door immediately.
But he didn’t.
I buzzed him again, keeping my thumb on the little white button long enough to be rude.
No answer.
I called Sean on his cell phone. After a couple of rings, he finally picked up. “Hey Sean, I half expected you to greet me in your feather boa. But I think I’d settle for you just to buzz me in.”
“Are you at my apartment, Fi?”
“Yes. You asked me to drop by last night, remember?”
“Oh, yeah. I remember. Listen, Fi, I’m a little busy at the moment. Can we meet up tomorrow instead?”
I heard seagulls crying in the background and suspected Sean was somewhere near the wharf or harbor.
“Sean, where are you?”
Sean ignored my question, which I took as a sign not to ask any further about his current whereabouts. To drive the point home, he changed the topic.
“How did Don’s funeral go?”
“Not as lovely as Jack’s. Holy Christ, you should have seen how much food people brought.”
“People always bring too much food to wakes. Keeping their eyes on the cherry pie makes them feel less awkward.”
“Like me.” I laughed. “And it was key lime pie.”
“So when are you going on your next date?”
“Not for another year, courtesy of Don’s tragic and untimely demise.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, my father said custom is for the fiancée to mourn for a year. So no dating for me for 365 days.”
“The fiancee. That’s spectacular, Fi.”
“Sean, is everything okay?”
“I need to take care of some things. I’ll call you later.” Sean hung up. He didn’t even apologize for standing me up.
Part of me wanted to pry into whatever Sean was keeping back. Part of me wanted to utter the three magic words that allowed lawyers to be nosey-parkers and knowledge keepers without having to sleep with the fish.
“Attorney-client privilege. Anything you want to tell me, Sean?”
But I knew Sean too well. He would not have appreciated any insinuation that he needed to speak within the privilege.
Even with the privilege, most people lie to their attorneys. That’s where the half-truths come in. Mostly, they are afraid you won’t help them if they tell you everything. And they’re right.
“The first person to lie to you in a case will probably be your client,” said Dean Perry.
I started to walk home, but instead, I stepped out into the street and hailed a cab. That’s one fabulous thing about San Francisco. Cabs are everywhere so long as you are in a somewhat commercial area. And you can hail one with a wave of your arm.
“South Beach Harbor, please.”
I knew I had no right to poke my nose into Sean’s business. But everyone knows about Hello Kitties and curiosity. It was inevitable.
WHEN I ARRIVED AT South Beach Harbor, I walked over to Gate E. Because I didn’t have a gatekey, I couldn’t go down to where the boats were docked. I waited by the gate for a minute or so, but the docks were deserted. Not a soul in sight.
So I ran back up the steps to the walkway terrace overlooking the boats. From where I stood, I counted to the thirteenth slip where The Countess should be docked. The slip stood silent and empty.
My left lower eyelid started pulsating rapidly. A bad omen.
According to Chinese superstition, if your upper eyelid flutters, it means a large feast is coming your way. If your lower eyelid flutters, find an exit strategy. Fast. It means trouble your way comes.
“Mom, my eyelid is jumping,” I said, when it happened for the first time. I was in the third grade.
“Lower or upper lid?”
“Lower.”
“Go splash some water on it. And say ‘God forbid! God forbid! God forbid!’”
“What?”
“Fiona, just do as I say. Or something bad is going to happen.”
Okay.
But three days later, my father still lost his job. The water splashing didn’t kept the bad fortune at bay from our family.
That’s the thing with omens. Dousing the messenger with water or flames isn’t going to change what’s coming. Neither is asking God to forbid it. Rather than burying your head in the sand, better to stay on your toes and be on your guard. Nothing else really works, no matter what your mother tells you.
As I walked through the harbor parking lot, my eyelid continued to pulsate. A hot, beating nerve twitched under the skin, filling me with a sense of doom despite my rational mind telling me the contrary.
I returned to the office to finish my work for the evening, keeping my cell phone on my desk and email open on my desktop.
But no Sean.
Contrary to what he said, we didn’t meet up the next day, or the day after that. I waited for a phone call, text message, email— none of which came.
One good thing about being in Catholic school was that you had to account for all your absences. The Sisters of the Immaculate Conception didn’t just mark you down as absent. They called your house and demanded to know why you weren’t at school. Then on Monday mornings, you had to talk about what you did over the weekend in front of the whole class, unless you spent it blowing chunks or
crapping your pants. You couldn’t just disappear for days on end without a note or some kind of explanation.
No exceptions. Not even for Sean.
On Friday afternoon, I got a text message from Sean. Short, unobtrusive, and no need to be in front of the computer. For people on the go. I love text messages, even if ATT charges me ten cents for each one.
Going to Tahoe for weekend. To try my luck. Drinks when I return.
I didn’t reply as I felt a bit slighted that Sean didn’t invite me up to Tahoe with him. My father had no dates planned for me, and my own plans for the weekend consisted of working, trying to rack up billable hours to build a comfortable cushion. In case I got sick, had an emergency, or just wanted a day or two off that year from Doreen. Or in case Saks Fifth Avenue had a huge one day sale.
No big deal.
It wouldn’t hurt to show Doreen that I worked weekends. All lawyers are expected to work weekends. It’s one of those rules they forget to mention in law school.
But that weekend, San Francisco got a bout of earthquake weather. Another bad omen.
Earthquake weather. That’s what we call hot, humid, oppressive, cloudy conditions that occur in late September in the City by the Bay. Once upon a time, we enjoyed our Indian summers, especially after our chilly Julys and Augusts. But ever since the 1989 Loma Prieta quake, every time it gets hot in the city after Labor Day, we all get nervous. We stock up on bottled water, CLIF bars, Duracell batteries, first-aid kits. We get twitchy and paranoid, waiting for the next big one.
It’s like waiting for the Second Coming. Seismologists have been promising the next Big One ever since 1906. That was the last big one. Then Loma Prieta hit. It wasn’t big enough because it failed to turn San Francisco into a new Pacific island. So we are still waiting.
For Jesus and the Big One.
But instead of repenting for sins, my father sent me to Safeway to get bottled water and Wonder bread.
“Get the large family size, Fiona.”
“I know, Dad.”
Sean called while I was standing in the middle of the beverage aisle, deciding between Alhambra and Arrowhead.
“You’re doing what, Fi?”
“Stocking up on water. This earthquake weather is making everyone uneasy.”
“Right. It’s been hot here.”
“In Tahoe?”
“Uh, no, I’m back in the city.”
“I thought you said you were going to be there for the whole weekend.”
“Change of plans.”
In the background, I heard the sounds of waves, seagulls, boats. Harbor music.
“Sean, where are you?”
“Oh, just out and about for an evening walk near my apartment.” Which was nowhere near South Beach Harbor. “Fi, you want to grab a drink later on?”
“Sure. Aren’t you tired after coming back from your trip?”
“What?”
“Aren’t you tired after Tahoe?”
“Oh, no, I’m good. I just went up there briefly, did a little hiking, but got bored and came back.”
“Hiking? Since when were you a nature lover?” I had trouble imagining Sean ruining his leather Italian loafers in the dirt and muck of Mother Nature.
Sean laughed. “Fi, have you ever been up there? Nice woods, great views. Lots of trails.”
“No, I haven’t. My cousins go for the skiing. And I’m not a skiier.”
“Too bad. You’d like the lake. It’s very clear and deep.”
“You said you were going up there to try your luck. I assume you did a little gambling?”
“A little. Guess I was wrong. Luck’s still with me. So you want to grab a drink or not, Fi?”
“Okay. Where?”
“Someplace in the Marina. How about the Matrix Fillmore? You know that place?”
“Oh yeah, lovely meat market with a giant fireplace in the middle. I doubt they’re going to have that going in this heat wave though.”
“‘Cuz we’re going for the décor.’”
Right.
I returned home with a case of Arrowhead water, three loaves of Wonder bread, a dozen cartons of Stouffer’s meals, and Sean’s half-truths. I knew he loved sailing, but he hated hiking ever since he learned about ticks in health class.
“You’re just asking to get lyme disease,” he said once.
Maybe Sean had changed his mind about ticks, about nature. Maybe he was up at Lake Tahoe in the woods. Maybe he wasn’t. All I did know was he had been away and near a body of water.
I told myself it didn’t really matter.
The oppressive, muggy heat—a sign of an impending quake— lifted two days later and San Franciscans breathed a huge sigh of relief. The wait for the Big One would continue.
On Monday afternoon, Caroline Derby’s bloated, fish-nibbled body washed up on the shores of San Francisco Bay.
Then everything mattered.
For the first time, Sean was wrong. His luck had begun to run out.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
SEAN HATED OVERSEXED WOMEN and bullies. That much I knew. But why he did what he did during his night outings, I could only guess. Maybe he wanted to make the world a better place. Maybe he did it for the thrill.
Like Brenda Spencer, who shot up a San Diego schoolyard because she just didn’t like Mondays.
So no one really knows. Not even FBI profilers. They just label such murders simply as thrill kills. Because most serial killers enjoy doing God’s work. And it’s fun, like torturing Jesus and blowing a wet raspberry at the police for being donut-eating, coffee-chugging dumbasses.
Problem is that you have to survive to keep doing God’s work. In order to be prolific like the Green River Killer, you have to be out and about in free society, mixing with your potential victims, not behind bars. Getting captured would be a career-ending move.
But even for the best of the best, “All good things must come to an end,” as the old English proverb says. You make a mistake. Someone sees you. You leave something behind. And it all ends. You get your bunk on Death Row, especially if you did God’s work in California.
Or your luck just runs out. Simple as that. Some beagle goes digging where it shouldn’t. Landslides regurgitate your skeletons onto the public sidewalk. Strong currents and waves sweep your secrets up from the bottom of the sea and cast them ashore. Then everyone knows.
For Sean, things began to unravel after the discovery of Caroline’s body.
CAROLINE DERBY. RICH, single, white, young. Now too pretty and too dead. She spent her last night alive bar hopping, hoping to meet her soulmate over a bellini or two. Instead, she met her Maker after leaving with an attractive white man who according to various inebriated eyewitnesses, looked a lot like Pierce Brosnan, Brad Pitt, and Benicio Del Toro.
Good luck with that description, SFPD.
But the media became fascinated by the dead girl with the lovely cheekbones and dirty blonde hair. Dead Barbie washing up like kelp was definitely newsworthy. So the media ran about a dozen stories warning young women about roofies and going out to bars alone.
Thanks to Caroline, the young women all stayed home.
Sean’s hunting trips at the ritzy bars were on hiatus, so instead we went for a long, evening drive through various parts of the City.
We drove to the Tenderloin, San Francisco’s red light district, and studied the ladies of the night in their vinyl mini skirts, fishnet stockings, platform stilettos, faux fur wraps, cheap makeup. All oozing sex appeal.
I double-checked that the passenger side door was locked properly, unlocking and locking the button on the armrest of Sean’s Mercedes.
“No worries, Fi. You’re fine,” Sean said without looking over.
Despite the sketchy neighborhood, a part of me never felt safer than when I was with Sean. Perhaps that was why I agreed to accompany him to the bars. And why I was with him in the car. No one would dare tickle me anywhere. Not with Sean around.
“Sean, let’s g
o and have a drink at the Big Four.”
“Big Four?”
“Old, rich geezer bar at the Huntington.”
“I know where it is, Fi. I was just surprised that you suggested that place.”
“It’s nice, quiet, and full of rich, white people. And safe.”
“Oh, you know you’re safe with me. I’ll take you home after you do your part.”
He was right. “My part?”
“Don’t piss your undies. You’re an amoeba, I know. I just want you to help me with the selection.”
“I see.”
Some serial killers kill to clean up the scourge of the earth. They get rid of vermin like drug dealers, pimps, child molesters. People whose depravity has already condemned them to early deaths.
More power to these self-appointed guardians of morality.
But Sean targeted prostitutes now because his supply of classy, snooty women dried up thanks to Caroline Derby.
“You don’t need me, Sean.”
“No, but it’s more fun this way. For both of us.”
Sean might be out of luck, but he was still right. It’s always more fun to do things with a friend.
I spotted a tall, black girl with Tina Turner hair wearing a red spandex top with a plunging sweetheart neckline. Silver spangled mini skirt. No stockings. For easy access. And red patent leather stilettos.
“This is my corner, ho! You get the hell off my corner,” she screamed at another girl who looked terrified. She started swinging her big purse at her competition. The other girl finally ran away.
“That one,” I said as we drove by her corner.
“Why?”
“You know why.” Because she is a big sex pot as well as a big bully.
Sean glanced over and nodded approvingly.
“Very good, Fi. Now pick another.”
“What?”
“A second one.”
“Sean, take it easy.”
“You’re no fun. Okay, home you go. It’s good you live so close.”
I do. I live in a large, comfortable Nob Hill flat with my parents for basically a fraction of the market rent, thanks to rent control.
Sean dropped me off and sped back to the Tenderloin. As I watched his red tail lights disappear into the dark night, my stomach knotted up with a bad feeling.
Hello Kitty Must Die Page 15
