At home she found her mind still racing. Samson was clearly annoyed that his owner wasn’t ready to settle into the bedroom chaise for their nightly cuddle. The cat raised its head in a haughty display of disgust and padded from the bedroom in search of serenity. Though Beth had performed her usual ritual — face scrubbed clean of makeup, long hair tied back, work clothes swapped for leggings and a sweatshirt — she still couldn’t relax. Her lunch meeting with Jim Kearns had left her on edge.
Beth set her mug of tea on the English tray table beside her chaise. The tea was stone cold anyway. With determined steps, she walked across the hall to the guest bedroom.
The room appeared exactly as it had when Anne occupied it. A large Nova Scotia pine dresser stood against one wall, a Bull’s Eye coal oil lamp on top of it. Cherry Windsor chair against another wall. Round skirted table beside the pullout loveseat. Inside the armoire, a 24 “Toshiba television, VCR, a CD player. All Beth’s. Well, what did she expect? The killer wouldn’t have marched in here to claim a trophy. If one of Anne’s possessions were missing, the Spiderman would have removed it from her purse. Or her body.
Beth struggled to recall her last brief conversation with Anne. What had they talked about? Anne was leaving for Amsterdam, a city Beth loved. They spoke of canals and bridges, flower markets, the Van Gogh Museum. Antique shops in the Singel. And diamonds. Anne planned to tour a diamond factory, and Beth had given her a blank cheque. “If you have time,” she’d said, “I’d love a pair of diamond earrings.” Anne had agreed.
She didn’t want to think about Anne anymore. She needed a break from Jim Kearns, too. His obsession with the Spiderman was quickly becoming her obsession, fuelling her already turbo-charged anxiety. She hadn’t received any more creepy letters either, so there was no need to be in such close contact with Jim. Too, she didn’t like the direction their conversation had taken today.
He’d asked her about Anne’s boyfriends before, of course. She’d answered truthfully — she hadn’t known of any. Now, with the full knowledge that Jordan had dated Anne, Beth kept this information from Kearns. Why? What difference would it make telling Jim, after all? Jordan and Anne’s relationship had been brief, not even a relationship at all, really. Then Anne had met someone else.
How would that have made Jordan feel, a shy man who found dating so awkward, so difficult. Dejected? Jealous? Betrayed?
Consumed with rage?
As if sensing Beth required a response, Samson opened one eye and meowed.
“You’re absolutely right, Samson,” Beth said, scooping up the cat. “I’m being ridiculous. And I’ve got to relax before I drive us both crazy.”
In her bathroom, Beth placed Samson on his usual perch, the toilet seat. She filled her whirlpool bath, lit some candles, then sunk into the steamy water, hot jets pummeling the tight muscles in her neck.
She thought about Jim’s profile of the killer. Mobile. Charming. Kearns was no dummy. He knew Beth had attended his presentation at the Fairmont. Why repeat the speech?
And why did he want to know so much about Jordan, even to the point of asking how she and Jordan had met? He seemed oddly pleased that they had quarrelled and weren’t seeing each other.
Had that been Jim’s real intent, to quiz her about Jordan?
Patricia Mowatt’s body had been found on Friday.
And Jordan had arrived home from Europe on Thursday night.
The longer she stayed in the water, the worse her tension became. Now her shoulders ached, and she felt her scalp tighten. The overture of a monstrous headache.
The Christograms had done the damage — Kearns’s absurd little drawings on his omnipresent notepad, symbols that looked exactly like the one on the medallion Jordan wore around his neck. Towelling herself dry, Beth realized Jim’s doodling had been quite deliberate, meant to elicit some kind of reaction from her, and she’d sure given him one, vaulting from the café like a launched rocket.
How much did Jim know about Jordan and the parochial school?
What was there to know?
Right now, she had no answers, only more questions.
In her bedroom, Beth slipped into paisley silk pajamas, curled up in her chaise, and draped a mohair throw over her bare feet. She reached for her remote and clicked on the television, which Samson took as his cue to come aboard. In seconds, the cat had nestled snugly in Beth’s lap and was purring contentedly.
As a sedative, the television proved no more effective than the bathtub, and soon Beth realized her hyperactivity had been nothing more than a frenzied attempt to prevent her from thinking. A press of the volume button rendered the bedroom silent, save for Samson’s purr and the ticking of the old-fashioned brass alarm clock on the bedside table.
Ten forty-five. Beth was wide awake. Jim needed a killer, wanted an arrest so badly anyone would do.
What better way to get Devereaux and her brood off his back than to announce he had someone in custody?
Jordan. The sacrificial lamb. Beth was certain that Kearns did suspect him. Jim had tried everything short of voodoo to steer her away from any kind of relationship with Jordan, hardly the behaviour one would expect from a friend.
What was it Kearns had said at the Fairmont? This particular type of killer loves to travel. A possible arrest for voyeurism. Jordan. A pilot. With a telescope in his bedroom.
She needed to know what Kearns knew. Then she could make up her own mind about Jordan, whether to fight for the survival of their relationship, or stay as far away from him as possible.
By the time Letterman delivered a mute monologue, Beth knew what she had to do.
32
Inspector Anscombe poked her head into Kearns’s office. Fuentes, seated across from Kearns’s desk, swivelled to look.
“Okay, Anscombe,” Kearns said, “let’s have it. The good news. Am I gonna get some sleep tonight?”
Sharon Anscombe shot Fuentes a quick look then took a step further into the room and leaned against the doorframe. “Bailey has a membership at the Bay Club.”
“Yes!” Kearns shouted, his fist raised in triumph. “I knew it!”
“But L.T., I’ve marched all over that club, talked to a good dozen of the staff, and no one can recall ever seeing Bailey with Mowatt.”
“Just because they didn’t see it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. What else did you get?”
“Talked to the club’s squash pro. Says Bailey’s a real stand-up guy. Good squash player. Good sport. Does a little weight training once in a while. But Mowatt taught step aerobics and a Pilates class. Mostly women. Squash pro says he can’t picture Bailey at one of those sessions.”
“Not even if the instructor was attractive?”
Anscombe shrugged and shot another look in Fuentes’s direction. “I suppose it’s possible, L.T. Quite a few guys wanted some action with Mowatt. Why should Bailey be immune?”
“No reason I can think of.”
“I’ve still got some people to talk to, L.T.,” Anscombe said, producing a notepad from the pocket of her navy slacks. “Couple of Bailey’s squash buddies have a game booked for 4:30. I figure I can catch them when they come off the court.”
Kearns knew Anscombe would be thorough, and if there was anything to get on Bailey, she’d find it. But her tone of voice told Kearns she just wasn’t into it, and when he spotted her parting glance at Fuentes, he knew she was going through the motions to appease him.
When she left, Fuentes swivelled back toward Kearns and said, “Good cop, that Anscombe.”
“First rate,” Kearns replied.
Fuentes polished off the last of a stuffed pepper from his brown-bag lunch and wiped his mouth with a quilted paper towel. Stray grains of rice littered Kearns’s desk. Kearns aimed and shot each one, crokinole style, in the direction of Fuentes’s lap.
Fuentes swept them onto the floor. “Your nose is really twitching for Bailey, huh?”
“You better believe it. He’s made to order.”
“I’ll
agree, he’s got a few pieces that fit quite nicely —”
“A few pieces? The list is as long as a gorilla’s arm. To add to it, Bailey got back from Europe on Thursday but didn’t see Beth. Translation? Maybe no alibi for Mowatt.”
“I was in town that night too, but that doesn’t mean I killed Mowatt.”
“I know. But Bailey and Beth haven’t spoken since Mowatt was killed. Why? Depressive phase. Mowatt’s death didn’t live up to Bailey’s fantasy. Nothing can. So he starts retreating into his own dark corner where he can plan his next kill.”
“Maybe Beth and Bailey just need some cooling-off time,” Fuentes said uncertainly. “Rosalie and I do, after we’ve had a whopper of a fight.”
“Manny, trust me. This isn’t tunnel vision. Bailey’s all wrong.” Kearns picked up a pencil and started tapping.
“But he was otherwise occupied the night Anne Spalding disappeared, remember?”
“So his friends say. Could be that pilots, like cops, protect their own. I repeat, Bailey’s all wrong.”
“Sure he is. He’s taller than you, makes more money than you, and he’s got the girl you want.”
“Knock it off, Manny. But listen, there are a coupla things bothering me about our killer’s time clock.”
“Shoot.”
“Carole Van Horne was killed in April, Monica Turner in June, Lydia Price in July.”
“And Anne Spalding in August, Natalie Gorman in September —”
“Now we’ve got Patricia Mowatt, our man’s Miss October.”
“Point being?”
“Why no murder in May?”
“Van Horne was his first, so he was able to live off that fantasy fortwo months.”
“Or?”
“Or he was fighting his urge to kill again. Or he got the flu. Or relatives were visiting from out of town.”
“No other ideas?”
“Maybe this asshole’s like the rest of us. Needs a holiday once in awhile.”
Kearns nodded. “I hear Amsterdam’s nice in the spring. All those colourful tulips.”
“Amsterdam?”
“Bailey flew the San Francisco to Amsterdam run in May. I’m waiting for a call from the head of Amsterdam’s homicide unit. Worth checking to see if some poor Dutch girl has met our man.”
“Well, Jimmy, you’re making good sense.”
For a brief moment, Kearns thought he and Fuentes were thinking in tandem the way they used to, then he took a look at his friend’s expression. “Now what’s going on in that fine Latino head of yours?”
“Something you said. The killer’s depressive phase. Funny you should mention that.”
“Why? Nothing new there.”
“No, I mean it’s funny coming from you.” Fuentes got up and shut the door then sat back down and nailed him with a steady stare.
Kearns heaved a sigh. “How long have you known?”
“Forever.”
“Guess I haven’t always been easy to get along with. Us depressed folks are good at driving people away.”
“You’ve been a shit. Been treating me like some lackey.”
“Hey, wait a minute, amigo. Cut me some slack.”
“Be glad to, if you’ll promise to cut the Spanish bullshit.”
“I didn’t mean —”
“It’s annoying as hell.”
Kearns felt his face go hot. He could count on the fingers of one hand the number of arguments he and Fuentes had had over the years. They communicated better than most married couples, knew each other better, too. Or at least they used to.
“I deserve better, that’s all,” Fuentes said.
Kearns waited, allowing the sentence to hang in the air like a bad smell. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact day he and Fuentes had stopped being a team, when their thoughts, instead of meshing, had driven them in opposite directions. They had become like the Kilkenny cats. The Irish rhyme came to him from some faraway place.
There once were two cats of Kilkenny,
Each thought there was one cat too many,
So they fought and they fit,
And they scratched and they bit,
Till, excepting their nails,
And the tips of their tails,
Instead of two cats, there weren’t any.
All couples need a cooling-off period. He and Fuentes clearly needed one now, the air thick with animosity.
Fuentes seemed to sense it, too. He stood and headed toward the coffee machine, an aging Norelco that another cop had nabbed as part of his divorce settlement.
Kearns was dimly aware of the bustle around him. There were phones ringing and file drawers slamming, yet it was as though someone had placed a glass cube over him — he could observe, he could listen, but he couldn’t participate. The numbness was familiar. He and Mary had countless cooling-off periods during the final years of their marriage. In the end, there had been only ice.
Fuentes returned with two cups of coffee, an improvised peace offering. He sat down again.
Kearns spoke. “Bailey’s no damn good, and we’re gonna prove it. I’m going to learn everything I can about our parochial school alumnus, so that by the time we bring him in, I’ll know him better than he knows himself.”
“I’ll talk to Bailey’s pilot friends again,” Fuentes offered. “See if his alibi for Spalding still holds up. But I’ll have my kid gloves on. If Bailey turns out to be the doer, the last thing we need is for him to vamoose because we’re breathing down his neck.”
Fuentes stood, then paused. “You said there were two things bothering you about the Spiderman’s time clock. What was the second one?”
“It’s almost Halloween, Manny. Hormones being what they are, our man is already planning his November murder, trolling for another victim. I don’t want to unroll any more yellow tape. Time to get our asses in gear.”
33
El Camino Real, literally The Royal Road, was California’s first freeway. It parallels the coastline for some 650 miles, connecting the twenty-one Franciscan missions erected in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The Mexican secularization of the missions resulted in the historic buildings falling into decay. It wasn’t until the end of the nineteenth century that a group of dedicated preservationists moved to save the crumbling edifices from destruction. The Church of the Good Shepherd, with its accompanying school, was built at the beginning of the twentieth century, a modern tribute to its historical counterparts.
Beth had done some reading on the plane, trying to get a feel for the area. By the time she landed in L.A., picked up a rental car, and made the drive to Ventura, she was more than a little curious about the place where Jordan had spent his childhood.
She had scheduled an appointment with a Father Daniel Fortescue for three o’clock, and though the priest had been pleasant on the phone and agreeable to their meeting, Beth detected a note of what — amusement? in the man’s voice. How must this look to an outsider? Here she was, on her day off, jumping on a plane solely for the purpose of checking into Jordan’s past, a past he had been reluctant to discuss. She pictured a kindly white-haired cleric who would listen patiently, then perhaps provide her with generalities about Jordan, information that could apply to any of thousands of students who had passed through the parochial system. Still, foolish though the excursion appeared, it was too late to cancel. The digital clock by the car radio read 2:45. She had to do this. Jordan had secrets, and Beth had nowhere else to turn.
You were moving kind of fast with this guy. Kearns’s words. And true enough. Even Ginny had been surprised at how hard Beth had fallen. Beth thought about her feelings for Jordan. Away from the intimate dinners and dizzying sex, Beth wondered what truly drove her into the relationship.
She was intrigued by the mystery of Jordan, wanted to know everything about him. There was something about him that reminded Beth of a wounded animal, one who needed nurturing.
But there was so much more. Jordan brought out the best in her.
So why was
she here?
Because women were dying.
Because Kearns was a good cop.
And something wasn’t right.
The Church of the Good Shepherd was barely visible from the main highway. A rustic carved wooden sign and two white crosses at the foot of a long gravel drive were the only indicators that any building lay beyond the grove of immense redwoods. When the church finally came into view, Beth gasped. It was beautiful, remarkable in its simplicity — stark white stucco, with a red tiled roof. There was a scalloped gable and a three-tiered campanario, or bell tower. Beth imagined squeaky wooden kneelers, the cloying aroma of incense, votive candles flickering in the narthex. As if out of respect for the place, Beth shut off the car radio and slowed her speed. Drawing nearer, she noticed the single contrast to the church’s simple architecture — a pair of massive Moorish doors with huge iron ring handles.
A crushed stone pathway snaked in front and bisected a garden full of yuccas and lilies. The façade of the church had just received a fresh coat of paint. The scaffolding was still assembled at the northwest corner, but there wasn’t a painter in sight. In fact, there wasn’t a soul about anywhere, and almost immediately, the peaceful hush that Beth had found soothing became disturbing.
The school, when it came into view, wasn’t quite as white as the church, but it bore the same red-tiled roof. It stood three storeys tall, fronted by a magnificent garden of more yucca, cacti, and fronds of palm.
Beth recalled her own school days in Arkansas — children shrieking outdoors, the ones in the younger grades scrambling for swings and teeter-totters, sprinting for the baseball diamond as they grew older. The truly sophisticated ones, the eighth-graders, clustered around the doorways, exchanging gossip and phone numbers. But there was no one on these school grounds, and Beth doubted that she’d find any playground equipment behind the building.
Beth stepped out of the car and stretched, again overwhelmed by the stifling quiet of the place. What time did classes dismiss? At this moment, Beth would have been grateful for a rush of young bodies pouring out of doorways, racing each other toward some more cheerful destination. She tried to imagine Jordan, or any child, spending time in such an antiseptic place, and half-expected to see another calligraphied sign: No Frolicking Allowed. Vowing to adopt a more positive attitude by the time she met Father Daniel, Beth reached for her purse, locked the car, and made her way toward the school.
Every Wickedness Page 14
