“Well,” Beth said, “it looks like Ginny’s geared up for a great evening.”
Jordan slipped an arm around her waist. “Chin up,” he said. “Ours is just beginning. Let’s get some appetizers, then we can talk about all the things we’ll be doing to each other later.”
23
Three members of the Spiderman task force stood in a semi-circle in front of Kearns’s desk. Kearns pointed at Weems, the youngest and most nervous of the bunch. When stressed out, it was easy for Kearns to pick on the junior cop, whose smooth pink face always looked like it had just received its first shave.
“Anything come of your discussions with Mowatt’s admirers?”
Weems shook his head. “Seems lots of the guys at the fitness club had a thing for Mowatt. That includes one or two of the instructors, not just the members. But they all said the same thing, L.T. Mowatt was energetic, friendly, and helpful, but she never encouraged so much as a coffee date with any of ’em. One of the guys got the impression she was already seeing somebody.”
“Or so she said to brush him off. Of course, you asked each member of Mowatt’s fan club where he was on the twelfth.”
“Checked ’em all, L.T.,” Weems answered, his glance darting around Kearns’s office. “It’s all there in the notes.” His gaze came to rest on the file folder he’d set before Kearns. “They’re clean.”
“That’s not what I wanted to hear,” Kearns said, sending a disgusted look across the desk.
Erik Bauer, a glob of dried mustard still stuck to the corner of his mouth, looked apprehensive. “Mowatt’s roommate gave me a list of places where she likes to hang out. I’ve shown her picture at Starbucks, at the place where she buys her workout gear — I’ve even stopped a few joggers along Mowatt’s running route. No one’s seen her, L.T. Not her hairdresser, her doctor, her dry-cleaner. Nobody.”
“Well, Bauer,” Kearns said, fixing a stare at the cop whose wavy black hair needed cutting, “you tried. I just hope to hell when you spoke with Ellen Sims and all the others who knew and cared for Patricia Mowatt, you weren’t still wearing your supper on your face.”
“No, L.T.” The serviette Bauer scanned the room for didn’t appear, forcing him to improvise with a saliva-dampened fingertip.
True to form, Anscombe stepped in to mediate. “We want to find Patricia as badly as you, L.T. And we want the bastard who’s got her. But Mowatt’s roommate and her parents are in shock. We’ve got to respect their right to come to grips with what’s happening. We can’t very well camp out in their living rooms. Some of the other families, especially the Van Hornes, are starting to hate the sight of us. They need time to heal, to grieve in private. They need a break, L.T.”
“I’m sure they do,” Kearns replied, “and if our killer promised to leave everybody alone, I’d say let’s all take a break. But I don’t think that’s gonna happen. So unfortunately we’re back to the redundant, nasty business that’s called good police work. And if that means we have to camp out in someone’s living room to keep the trail hot, then that’s what we’ll do. Got it?”
Anscombe nodded. Bauer still seemed to think there was something on his face and continued to rub the corner of his mouth. Weems checked his fingernails, then looked at his shoes.
“And don’t ever imagine I’m not thinking about what the Mowatts or any of the others are going through,” Kearns added. “You oughta know better.”
He could have slapped their hands a little longer, but Anscombe muttered something about having to arrange a time to interview Carole Van Horne’s choreographer, and her awkward exit opened the door for Weems and Bauer to make their excuses and leave.
Good, Kearns thought. Message received.
Alone in his office, Kearns realized he’d been nit-picky, bugged not so much by his task force’s whining but by the interviews he’d conducted with the pilots earlier. The five who had attended Anne Spalding’s funeral had been brought back in for questioning. Although Anscombe had done so after Spalding’s death in August, Kearns wanted to talk to each one personally.
Brent Turnbull was happily married with three kids and living in a nice Tudor house in St. Francis Wood. Peter Samuelson was a newlywed, and Linc Gaudette lived in the Castro with a male partner. Martin DiMascio had been divorced for nine years and had dated nearly every flight attendant he’d come into contact with. Except Anne Spalding. Unremarkable biographies, Kearns thought, recalling the information he had accumulated. With a few case studies, some jargon and a little imagination, any psychologist could turn one of these guys into a slavering killer. But you couldn’t argue with airtight alibis, and each of the pilots had one. Kearns tried to shoot holes in the pilots’ stories; in the end, with some cross-checking and verification of their flight schedules, the four held up to scrutiny. They were off the hook.
The last pilot he interviewed, however, turned Kearns’s litmus paper the wrong colour. Jordan Bailey not only intrigued Kearns but also disturbed him.
Bailey quickly admitted he was in San Francisco when each of the Spiderman’s victims was killed. His flight schedule confirmed this. No, he couldn’t remember what he was doing on most of those days, but on the night Anne Spalding was reported missing, Bailey was celebrating his birthday with a few friends at a restaurant downtown. The place didn’t take reservations, nor did it accept credit cards, but Bailey’s four friends, also pilots, vouched for his being there. He’d already given this information to Inspector Anscombe, he said, but he didn’t mind repeating it. Anything to help catch Anne’s killer. Bailey also had no problem telling Kearns he’d dated Spalding a few times, but that their relationship fizzled before they’d so much as held hands. The night that Anne died, Bailey was home entertaining some friends. He remembered them talking about Spalding, how they hoped she’d turn up safe. Bailey’s dinner guests backed him up, one going so far as to rave about the coq au vin.
Although Kearns reluctantly sent the pilot on his way, he couldn’t get him out of his head. Something about Bailey nagged his cop brain and wouldn’t let go. A few phone calls of his own and some old-fashioned legwork revealed enough about the man to set Kearns into high gear.
Bailey, according to the school officials Kearns had contacted, had lived with his single mother, Rita, a waitress, until he was nine years old. Rita managed to provide her son with a decent but simple life. They’d lived in a two bedroom no-frills apartment in Potrero Hill, a working-class area with the most agreeable climate in the city. Several cottages in the area still had Russian steambaths, or banyas, in the backyards. There were worse places to raise a child. The young Bailey achieved above-average grades in school, then, shortly after his ninth birthday, he was sent to a parochial school hundreds of miles away.
This banishment struck a chord. Kearns, after a lengthy phone conversation with the school’s retired principal, reported that Bailey had never been a behaviour problem, nor was there any record of him having seen the counsellor to discuss difficulties in his home life. Bailey’s relationship with his mother was solid; there were always letters and phone calls.
Until he turned thirteen. Then the letters stopped, and Jordan Bailey cut off all ties with his mother. Adolescence could be difficult for anyone, Kearns knew, especially for a boy growing up with only priests as role models. How many times had his own mother said she wished she’d given birth to all girls?
A little more digging revealed that Rita Bailey had changed her name to Sally Monroe, then Leigh Childs and that she was well known to the vice crew. Though she was in her fifties, the pilot’s estranged mother could still command a good buck as one of the city’s more experienced call girls. Prominent businessmen and habitual conventioneers appreciated Rita’s aristocratic looks, her articulate companionship at restaurants, not to mention her sexual expertise. At some point, Rita must have figured there’d be more money in turning tricks than waiting tables. When had Bailey discovered the truth about his mother? Could it have been around the time he turned thirteen?
Kearns’s
information about the pilot was coming together like the ingredients in a dimestore cologne, and Jordan Bailey was beginning to stink.
He dated Anne Spalding. And now, Anne Spalding was dead.
But the fact that made Kearns’s alarm bells ring loudest was this: Jordan Bailey’s alma mater was a strict parochial school, a school whose emblem was a Christogram, the Chi Rho symbol identical to the carvings made by the Spiderman on his victims’ wrists.
24
Beth replenished her drink and reminded herself to never attend another party. She disliked inane banter, didn’t appreciate strangers petitioning her for free decorating advice, and she was tired of explaining why her glass contained 7-UP and nothing stronger. People, it seemed, were interested neither in her artificial heart valve nor the hazards of mixing too much alcohol with her daily doses of warfarin. A lurid tale about being a recovering alcoholic would be a more gripping icebreaker. Jordan was apparently faring better on the chitchat circuit. For someone who had originally struck Beth as shy, Jordan was having no difficulty keeping three very attractive women riveted to him. Behind him, a line-dancing lesson was in progress on the deck. Beth sipped her drink and scanned the room.
“Read your palm?”
Beth turned and looked over her shoulder. A scrawny blonde wearing an ankle-length cotton skirt and beaded suede vest smiled at her.
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s what I do,” the blonde said. “Read palms. No charge tonight.”
Beth wondered about the odd assemblage of guests at the party and whether Brad had any idea how many kooks were under his roof. “Sure,” she decided. “All in fun, right?”
The blonde, who introduced herself as Peggy from Mill Valley, seemed miffed. “Palmistry is a science,” she said with a trace of a pout. She led Beth to a relatively quiet seating area near the living room window. “If fingerprints reveal one’s individuality, just imagine what the lines on your hand indicate. Did you know people with Down’s Syndrome have only one horizontal line on their palm? Two horizontal lines of equal length might mean you’re predisposed to leukemia. Even serial killers have quite distinctive hands.”
“Covered in blood would be an obvious tipoff,” Beth said.
Peggy’s lower lip made another appearance, and Beth decided it was time for damage control. “Yours must be an interesting profession,” she said.
Peggy appeared pacified. “I have doctors and lawyers as clients. Even a few police officers.”
Peggy’s credentials established, Beth turned her palm upward. “What does my palm tell you about me?”
There was the usual jargon about the heart line, the life line, then Peggy looked up and frowned. “You’ve been hurt by a man, haven’t you?”
“Haven’t we all?”
“You’ve never gotten over his betrayal.”
Beth gulped, but said nothing.
“You trust people too easily.”
“I’ve been told that before.” Beth recalled Ginny’s admonishments about being too polite.
“You should be more cautious,” Peggy added. “You’re emotionally vulnerable right now.” She traced a line on Beth’s palm. “I see some health concerns too.”
Suddenly, Jordan hovered over them. “What does the future hold for us, Beth?”
Peggy smiled and excused herself.
“Nothing,” Beth replied, “unless you take me out of here. I’m afraid I’m not much for parties.”
Jordan nodded and looked at his watch. “Me, either. I’ll make our excuses to Brad, round up Ginny, and we’re gone.”
“Let’s synchronize our watches,” Beth whispered conspiratorially. “Ten minutes and we meet at the front door. Right now, I’m in search of the powder room.”
There were two washrooms beyond Brad’s corridor of photographs — the main one, with four women lined up and waiting, and another adjoining Brad’s bedroom where the line was shorter by one. Beth took her place behind Peggy and two of the women who had been speaking to Jordan earlier.
“I shoulda peed on the beach,” said a redhead standing in front of Peggy. She tapped her foot. “This is ridiculous.”
Beth looked around. So this was Brad Petersen’s bedroom, she thought, wondering what the walls would say if given the chance. A king-size bed dominated the room. It was piled high with trench coats, windbreakers, and umbrellas. A framed photograph of a stunning brunette graced the bedside table. The talented Ingrid, Beth thought. An absolute knockout.
A lacquered entertainment unit was angled into the corner nearest Beth, housing a large-screen television, VCR, and a sizeable collection of videos. Beth could make out a few of the titles: Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, Top Hat, Around the World in Eighty Days. Hardly the film library Beth expected him to have.
The bathroom door opened, and the line moved ahead. “Thank Christ,” the redhead moaned.
The pile of coats on the bed moved, just a little. The redhead noticed it, too. “Honestly, can’t they wait until they get home?”
Peggy rolled her eyes.
The redhead spoke. “I tell you, if I was in that bed, I’d want Brad Petersen in it with me. What a hunk. I’d go for him in a second.”
“He’s engaged, I hear,” Peggy said.
“Well, there’s engaged, and then there’s engaged, know what I mean?” The redhead turned and faced Beth. “You’re here with Jordan, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Beth replied.
“He’s a hunk too. Nice to see him back in circulation.”
The bathroom door opened again, and the redhead disappeared. Peggy seemed reluctant to talk, and Beth preferred it that way. She glanced at her watch. Five more minutes and she would be buckling her seat belt.
To Beth’s consternation, when she finally gained entry to the coveted washroom, there was no toilet paper and no extra roll on the back of the tank. Slacks bunched around her ankles, Beth searched the vanity under Brad’s sink and discovered not only toilet paper, but also a box of condoms, some aftershave, several economy-sized bottles of Pepto-Bismol, some sedatives, and a bottle of aspirin.
Brad Petersen, a Type-A worrywart? With his Colgate smile and wholesome good looks, Beth would have assumed Brad never had anything to worry about.
When Beth emerged from the bathroom, she noticed the pile of coats had stopped moving. The bedroom was empty.
At once, Brad appeared in the doorway. “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well, Beth. Migraines can be a bitch.”
“Migraine?”
Brad grinned. “Yeah, that’s the excuse Jordan made up for the two of you ducking out so soon. Your boyfriend’s a lousy liar. Listen, before you go, how’s this for a business proposition? My condo in St. Croix needs some refurbishing. Maybe we could put together some ideas, and you and Jordan can join Ingrid and me for a week in the sun.”
“If you can wait until November, you’re on. October’s almost booked solid.”
“November it is,” Brad smiled.
Beth fished in her purse for her datebook.
“Pencil me in. Here looks good,” he pointed. “We’ll get together, toss a few ideas around, and the four of us can ring in the New Year on the island.”
New Year’s Eve with Jordan. On St. Croix. What was there to think about? Beth nodded as she scribbled Brad’s name. “My part-time help is a whiz. She’ll love having me out of her hair after the Christmas rush.”
“Good. And Beth, you’re working wonders on Jordan. It’s nice to see him happy again.”
“Happy again? Why? Was he sad before?”
“Anne’s death shook him up pretty badly.”
“Anne?”
“Spalding. Maybe you don’t remember her name, but she was one of the women killed by the Spiderman. Anne was a flight attendant. Jordan dated her.”
A chill swept over her. Even the pristine whiteness of the walls threatened to close in on her.
“Beth? Are you all right? Relax. Don’t let any green-eyed monster come between you two. An
ne’s death was tragic, but it’s part of the past. When Jordan looks at you, it’s the real thing. Anyone can see that.”
From the kitchen came a loud crash, followed by an “oh, shit.”
Brad’s smile vanished. “Excuse me while I inspect the damages. We’ll talk condo soon, okay?”
When Brad released her, Beth felt sure she’d fall over. Jordan had known Anne. This fact alone shouldn’t have disturbed her. Jordan and Anne worked for the same airline. She should have put that together before.
But Anne had spoken about a new boyfriend, someone she thought she could really care about. And now Anne was dead. Had Jordan been that special person?
A whirlwind of information assaulted her. Jordan had seen her, followed her from the café to her store. His childhood had been unpleasant, so ugly he refused to discuss it in detail.
She remembered Kearns’s profile of the Spiderman, a madman who stalked his victims, mutilated their bodies …
No! It wasn’t possible. She couldn’t be so far wrong.
In spite of what Ginny said, Beth knew Jordan, knew him as well as she knew herself. The science of palmistry be damned, too. Trusting people was a positive quality, wasn’t it? Hadn’t she been raised to believe people were inherently good? Besides, if Jordan had wanted to harm her, he could have done so — he had had many opportunities.
She made her way back to the kitchen. Brad was on his knees, whisk broom and dustpan in hand, sweeping up the remains of a crystal goblet.
Strong arms gripped her waist from behind. “Good news,” Jordan whispered in her ear. “Ginny’s having too good a time to leave. Told me she’ll hitch back to the city later. So it’s just you and me.”
25
Manuel Fuentes did not appreciate the jangling of the telephone in his ear at 12:30 a.m. Beside him Rosalie rolled over and groaned. They both knew who it was.
“Make it good, Jimmy,” Fuentes whispered harshly into the receiver.
“Is that any way to talk to your best friend?”
Every Wickedness Page 10
