Every Wickedness

by Cathy Vasas-Brown

  “Same crap we learned about other serial killers. That, in spite of wanting to be special, they’re ordinary, boring sons of bitches. Physical or emotional abuse — hell, my mother was no saint, but — hey, speaking of background info, what did Bailey’s pilot friends have to say?”

  “Thought you’d never ask. Jordan Bailey is a fine, upstanding citizen.”

  “Gee, Wally, where have we heard that before?”

  “Keep it up, Beav, and I won’t tell you anything.” Fuentes continued. “His alibis are solid for Spalding — the night she disappeared, the night she was killed — there’s no way he could have done her.”

  “Shit.”

  “Thought you’d feel that way. I’ve done my homework, Jimmy. What about your assignment? Amsterdam?”

  “Talked to the head of their homicide division. Seems there was a young Dutch miss who reported an attempt on her life in May, when our killer seemed to be away on holiday. Jordan Bailey was, in fact, in Amsterdam at that time. I checked with the airlines.”

  “And?”

  “And the girl is alive, probably because our man wasn’t on his home turf and wouldn’t be as prepared or as comfortable in strange territory. The girl, Klara deVries, reported meeting a man, an American, at a bar near the Leidesplein. They had a few drinks and went to her apartment for a few more. She claims, once there, the guy began acting strangely, asking her for a guided tour of her apartment, checking closets, looking out the windows. She thought he was casing the joint and planning to rob her. Just as she was about to ask him to leave, he turned shy, sat down and gave her some story about having not been with many women, blah, blah, blah. You know, the endearing routine.”

  “She didn’t buy it?”

  “Oh, she bought it all right. Thought he was really sweet. Then she started to feel dizzy and wished she hadn’t had so much to drink.”

  “Could be your ordinary Yankee tourist rapist, no?”

  “No. She’s woozy, sits down on the couch, and he sits beside her, real close. Things are heating up, and she’s finding him really sexy. Then he describes the things he’s going to do to her, and she hopes she doesn’t pass out and miss the whole thing. Now her eyes are crossing and she sees double, but she’s aware enough to notice he’s caressing her, not with his hands, but with a knife.”

  “Shit.”

  “Double shit. The knife had a white ceramic blade.”

  “And she’s alive to tell about it?”

  “She was smart enough to know that if she screamed, he could slice her throat open. She pretended to be turned on by the sight of the knife, claimed he was the type of guy who knew what women really wanted. She thinks this took him by surprise, and she picked the right moment to kick over a lamp. When he turned in the direction of the crash, she jumped up from the couch. There was a lot of commotion after that, but the authorities gather she just started flinging stuff all over the place, making as much noise as she could. Neighbours pounded on the door, and the guy bolted out.”

  “A white ceramic blade,” Fuentes repeated. “So our guy was in Amsterdam.”

  “Yeah,” Kearns said. “Only one problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The guy looks nothing like Jordan Bailey. Here,” Kearns said, “take a look for yourself.” He flipped open a red file folder and handed two pages to Fuentes. “Courtesy of our friends in the Netherlands.”

  Fuentes stared at the computer-manufactured image of Klara deVries’s description of her attacker. The accompanying page listed physical characteristics as deVries remembered them.

  “Not Bailey,” Fuentes said.

  “Not even close.”

  “So, unless Bailey is a master of disguise or is working with a partner, he’s off the hook.”

  “Maybe,” Kearns said. “Or maybe one ceramic knife on Dutch soil does not a conclusion make.”

  “Jimmy, this page states that Klara deVries was given doses of warfarin, both in her drinks at the Leidesplein bar and again at her apartment; the last drink was also laced with barbiturates. Lab tests confirmed it. DeVries met our man all right, and Bailey he ain’t. Need I remind you Anscombe couldn’t link him to knowing Patricia Mowatt?”

  “I don’t know, Manny. Those health clubs have dozens of instructors. Not everybody can see everything that goes on. And what if Bailey is a master of disguise?”

  The debate was interrupted by the jangle of the telephone. Kearns grabbed for it. “Make it good news,” he said. Then, “Send her up.”

  The last time Natalie Gorman’s younger sister had come to Kearns’s office, she’d worn a thin cotton dress, her gaunt body fragile as a stick of driftwood. Now an oversized wool sweater swallowed her up. The sleeves hung to her bony knuckles. Black tights accentuated skeletal legs.

  “Lieutenant Kearns,” she spoke, her voice shaky. “Have you seen this evening’s paper?”

  “Kearns rose to his feet and rolled a swivel chair into position near Fuentes. “Please, Ms. Gorman, sit down. You remember Inspector Fuentes?”

  Stefanie nodded politely, though clearly she couldn’t recall their brief meeting. Kearns wheeled his own chair around from behind the desk, not wanting the barrier of furniture between them.

  This girl needs a pot roast dinner, Kearns thought. Extra gravy. How was it possible she’d gotten thinner? Her cheekbones jutted through parchment skin. Kearns knew he was witnessing a case of passive suicide. Stefanie Gorman was killing herself with grief.

  “What’s this about tonight’s paper?” Kearns asked, his voice gentle as if any amount of volume would shatter her.

  “Look,” she said. “Here.”

  Kearns shifted his gaze from Stefanie’s deep-set eyes to where she was pointing, at a grainy picture in the Chronicle. “I’ll be damned,” Kearns said. “So Phillip Rossner’s finally been reeled in. Remember him, Manny, from that magazine article about the city’s most eligible bachelors?” The photo showed a distinguished gentleman, proud head held high. A woman identified as Nora Prescott had her arm linked through his, her expression unreadable.

  “I remember. We teased you about not being in the article.”

  Kearns was taken aback by Stefanie’s audible sigh of frustration. He cleared his throat, shot Fuentes a warning look and said, “Sorry, Ms. Gorman. How is it we can help you?”

  “The picture,” she said, clearly exasperated. “Look. There.” She jabbed her index finger on Nora Prescott’s lapel. Fuentes leaned over for an upside-down look. “The brooch. The one I told you about. It’s Natalie’s.”

  Fuentes relaxed in his chair. Kearns knew what he was thinking. There’s almost no such thing as one-of-a-kind these days. Anything — jewellery, art, money — could be copied, the knock-offs getting better all the time. He told Stefanie so.

  “No,” she repeated, her annoyance plain. “You don’t understand. Our grandpa was a jeweller. He made the pin for our grandma Nettie. And this brooch,” she pointed again, “is Natalie’s. How’d this woman get it? Who is she?”

  Kearns slammed his fist on the desk. Stefanie Gorman gasped. Even Fuentes’s eyes widened. “Shit!” Kearns shouted. “Quadruple shit!” He sprang to his feet.

  Fuentes stood, and so did Stefanie. Kearns paused long enough to glance at the bewildered expressions on their faces, then said, “I apologize for being so abrupt, Ms. Gorman. If this is Natalie’s brooch, your family will have it back. Soon.”

  Fuentes cupped Stefanie’s elbow and began leading her away. She stopped, and turned to face Kearns again. “Lieutenant Kearns,” she said, “that man in the picture. Did he kill my sister?”

  “It’s too soon to speculate,” Kearns replied, trying too late to collect himself. “We’ll be in touch.”

  The two were scarcely three desk lengths away when Kearns lunged toward his filing cabinet. By the time Fuentes returned, Kearns had the phone book out and was scribbling frantically on a piece of paper.

  “What the hell was that all about?” Fuentes asked, coming around t
he desk.

  “I’ll bet you anything that this woman in the photo has been receiving gifts from our killer.”

  “Phillip Rossner’s the killer?”

  “Not bloody likely. But tonight’s a great night to pay a social call and offer my congratulations on the impending nuptials.”

  Kearns grabbed his topcoat just as the telephone rang. He was nearly out of his office when he heard Fuentes’s voice.

  “Jimmy? You ought to take this one. It’s Father Daniel Fortescue. From the School of the Good Shepherd.”

  41

  Ginny Rizzuto climbed up Beth’s front steps and rang the doorbell. Through the door’s grillwork, she could see Samson the tabby staring at her. Ginny checked her watch, tapped her foot, then rang the bell again. When that brought no results, she pounded on the door, sending the cat running for cover.

  “Come on, will ya, Beth?” she hollered. “Supper’s gonna get cold.”

  She pressed her ear to the door but heard nothing. She tried the bell again.

  The door opened wide. “Give a girl a break, Gin,” Beth said, catching her breath. “I can’t run down the steps in these heels.”

  “Trick or treat!” Ginny hollered as she spun around. “It’s La Rizzuto. Best piece of tail in town!”

  Ginny stood on the porch, clad in a leopard costume. Beth rolled her eyes and hustled her friend inside.

  Ginny didn’t get trick or treaters at her apartment, so it had become tradition for her to help Beth shell out goodies to the children who paraded the Marina’s streets looking for a free sugar high. Beth put Ginny’s share of chocolate bars in a huge stainless steel bowl on the sideboard in the entry hall.

  “You look great, as always,” Ginny told her. “It’s just not fair.”

  Clad in a snug black dress, black stilettos, a crisp white apron and starched cap, Beth thought she had done a reasonable job with her upstairs maid outfit. “What’s in the bag?”

  Ginny was carrying a large, grease-spattered paper bag, stapled at the top. “Seafood. “Let’s chow down. It won’t be long before the little beggars are out in full force.”

  They entered the living room. Samson, perched on a stack of mail on Beth’s desk, stared quizzically at Ginny’s furry costume. “Now what do you suppose he’s looking at. Hey, new chair?”

  Beth nodded. “New old chair. Jordan refinished it and gave it to me the other night. Isn’t it gorgeous?”

  Ginny stepped closer for a full inspection of the oak pressback rocker. “Whew. He must be crazy about you. All these fiddly grooves and spindles would have driven me nuts. So you two are still hot and heavy?”

  “More like lukewarm,” Beth replied as she led Ginny into the kitchen. “We’ve agreed to take things a little slower. Big date Saturday night, though. Jordan says he’s got something special planned.”

  “Something special, huh? Sounds like a night of Hide the Genoa Salami.”

  Beth ignored the comment, set the cartons on the centre work island, and hoisted herself onto a stool, her black dress riding thigh high. Ginny’s idea of seafood consisted of two portions of battered cod and a soggy clump of French fries.

  “Hey Beth, we should’ve gone to the Exotic Erotic Ball,” Ginny announced. “We’d have had a blast.”

  “Forget it, Gin. Once was enough.”

  Four years ago, Beth had caved in to Ginny’s pleas and accompanied her to what was once known as the Hookers’ Ball. Ginny, in her leopard costume, assailed anyone who would listen with an endless stream of pussy jokes. Beth, clad as a Stone Age Wilma Flintstone, got several requests to get male revellers’ rocks off. Being housebound with Ginny was much safer.

  “Heard anything from Brad?” she asked Ginny.

  “Brad from the party? Uh-uh.”

  “You okay with that?”

  “Hell yes,” Ginny replied, her supper disappearing quickly. “Two warm bodies collided for a while and that was great, but the guy’s just not my type.” She shovelled in another mouthful. “Isn’t this fish the best?”

  Beth wondered where the Ginny she knew had disappeared to, the Ginny who would surrender every detail of her sexual escapades.

  With the arrival of dusk, the doorbell rang, and Beth and Ginny headed into the living room just as Samson made a hasty scramble up the stairs, scattering Beth’s mail on the carpet.

  After shelling out goodies to a dinosaur and a prisoner dragging a ball and chain, Beth and Ginny closed the door and surveyed the damage caused by the cat’s flight for peace and quiet. “Good,” Beth said, stooping to retrieve her mail. “Here’s my bank statement. Maybe now I’ll find out why I’m short of cash this month.”

  She ripped open the envelope. Fourth in the pile of cancelled cheques was one in the amount of $550, made out to the Van Moppes Diamant factory in Amsterdam. “What on earth?”

  “What’s wrong?” Ginny asked.

  “I asked Anne to check into some diamond earrings for me.”

  Ginny peered over Beth’s shoulder. “Did Anne stiff you?”

  “She wouldn’t. My guess is that I should be the owner of a pair of diamond studs.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Not so fast. I cleared out Anne’s things. Looked in every purse. There weren’t any earrings. So — where are they?”

  Beth and Ginny returned to the kitchen, but Beth hardly touched her meal, this new connection to Anne deeply disturbing. She recognized her former roommate’s handwriting on the cheque, her distinctive backhand filling in the date and particulars. Beth caught Ginny’s look and cut into the cod. The inside of her fish was jiggly and grey, a closer resemblance to the human brain than anything she wanted to eat. She tried stabbing a french fry. Six others stuck to it. Beth pushed the carton aside. Grease smudged the countertop. Luckily Beth was spared the explanation regarding her lack of appetite. The doorbell rang again.

  This Halloween, Scott Street was evenly populated with adults and children, the grownups trying to get into the spirit of the festivities. A life-sized package of Marlboros and Elvis Presley waited on the sidewalk while Tweety Bird and a Ninja Turtle held out shopping bags. In spite of the costumes, this Halloween was different, the merriment contrived. No child was unaccompanied, not with the Spiderman still on the prowl.

  There was a brief lull at eight o’clock, and Ginny was hungry. “You make the popcorn,” she said, “and I’ll get the Scrabble board.”

  The air popper sent kernels flying everywhere. Beth tried to judge the trajectory of the popcorn, sliding the bowl along the countertop with each volley. Suddenly Ginny was in the kitchen, pulling the plug from its socket.

  “Ginny, what are you doing?”

  “I thought I heard something outside.”

  “Of course you did, Gin. It’s Halloween. Ther —”

  “No,” Ginny insisted. “Something weird. Come into the living room.”

  From the direction of Beth’s front door, came a low moan, then a scraping, like claws against wood. Beth flung the door wide.

  Before her loomed a monster, a hideous gargoyle, its pitted face lolling on top of stooped shoulders. Shreds of sinewy muscle hung from tattered clothing. A bony taloned hand reached toward her, grazing the side of her neck. She gasped.

  The creature laughed.

  “Tim O’Malley, are you out of your mind?” Beth swatted at his arm. A piece of torn muscle flopped onto the porch.

  “Wet pink Kleenex,” Tim said proudly. “Helps to have a friend who works for Warner Brothers. And that joke store on Chestnut has great masks.” He bent to retrieve the chunk of his arm. “Off to a party. Think I’ll win a prize?”

  “Oh, you’re a prizewinner, all right,” Beth said, feeling her heartbeat return to normal. “But don’t be surprised if your dance card doesn’t get filled up. Handsome you’re not.”

  “Say, you’re in costume,” Tim said, giving her legs an appraising stare, “how about coming with me? We’d make quite a pair.”

  “Threesome you mean,” Ginny
announced, emerging from her hiding place around the corner.

  “Sorry, Tim,” Beth said. “This cat’s in line ahead of you.”

  Tim shrugged his shoulders and limped, Quasimodo-style down Beth’s stairs toward his driveway.

  There were a few stragglers between eight-thirty and nine — a ballerina, two ghosts, and Mickey Mouse, and a young boy in his mother’s bathrobe and curlers. Beth and Ginny took turns answering the door, then went once more to the window.

  “Looks as though that will be the last of them,” Beth said and started to pull her wood shutters across the expanse of glass.

  “Wait,” Ginny said, grabbing her arm. “Look over there. That guy.”

  “So?”

  “It’s Elvis. What’s he doing out there?”

  “Waiting for his child, what else?”

  “I don’t think so. He was on the street earlier, don’t you remember? With the Tweety Bird gang.”

  Beth thought for a moment. “Standing with the package of cigarettes — you’re right. Oh, never mind. He’s leaving now.”

  The man clad as the king of rock-and-roll headed down the street toward the Bay.

  Tim O’Malley’s van was still parked next door. Odd he hadn’t left yet, then Beth reasoned he must have taken a cab. She closed the shutters, then walked to the entry hall and clicked off the light switch that operated the coach lanterns on either side of her garage door. She and Ginny traded in their costumes for more comfortable sweats, then settled cross-legged on the living room carpet. They were well into their second Scrabble game when the doorbell rang again.

  “Damn,” Beth said, struggled to her feet and shook off the cramp in her legs. “It’s almost ten o’clock. Don’t these kids know that no outside lights means it’s all over? Hang in there, Gin. I’ve got a triple word score in the works.”

  Three swashbuckling pirates stood on her porch, who, judging from their size, couldn’t have been more than eleven years old.

  “A bit late, isn’t it, guys?” Beth said when she opened the door.

  The middle boy grinned. “We just live up the block. We’re on our way home.” All three had pillowcases loaded with candy.