“Looks like a profitable night,” Beth said, adding several chocolate bars to their collection.
The boy on the right, the tallest of the buccaneers, held out an envelope. “Is this yours? It was lying right here on the mat.”
Beth took the envelope from his hand. She noticed her name neatly typed on the front and felt the tightness of a frown at the corners of her mouth. “Straight home now, guys. I’ll watch you from the window to make sure you’re okay.”
“’Night,” they chorused.
Beth peered through the slats in her living room shutters until the boys rounded the corner at Bay Street, then returned to her place on the carpet.
“Guess I spoke too soon, Gin,” she said, setting the envelope down on the Scrabble board.
“Left it on your porch?” Ginny said, incredulous. “While we were sitting here, not fifteen feet away? Guy’s got balls of iron. Want me to open it?”
Beth shook her head, inhaled deeply and tore open the envelope. “No,” she whispered, feeling a sob catch in her throat.
Ginny took the paper from her. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”
It was a drawing, done in pen and ink, showing a detailed aerial view of a woman, lying naked and bound to something rectangular. The woman had long dark hair. Her mouth was open wide in a silent scream, her eyes reflecting terror as she looked down at a vertical slash that split her body between the breasts. The entire page was covered with spiky concentric circles, joined by other lines radiating outward.
A spider’s web.
42
Father Daniel Fortescue’s phone call, coming as it did on the heels of Stefanie Gorman’s visit was more than any homicide lieutenant could hope for. The priest also promised to fax Kearns a copy of a yearbook photo. As Kearns sped along Van Ness, he offered a silent thank you for this latest twist of fate and impeccable timing. Finally, a break. He wished he could thank God for the gift of a logical brain or hyper-intuition that had given him his first important connection to the killer, but it was timing. No more, no less, and he couldn’t take the credit.
He didn’t like to imagine the what-ifs, like what if Stefanie Gorman hadn’t read today’s Chronicle, or what if Father Daniel had gone against his instincts and not called.
Outside Phillip Rossner’s house on Russian Hill, a handful of disappointed trick-or-treaters were shouting obscenities at whoever wasn’t coming to the door. The ground floor of the palatial home was cloaked in darkness, though a pale yellow lamplight glowed from a second-storey window.
Kearns parked the car, turned his wheels toward the curb and applied the emergency brake. Knowing that ringing the bell would get him nowhere, Kearns pulled his phone book from beneath the passenger seat, activated his car phone, and punched in Rossner’s number. He wondered if the influential moneyman was home. Kearns recalled the many news articles he’d read about Rossner’s workaholism and decided he’d probably be out. Kearns hadn’t time to prepare his approach, what strategy he would use to acquire the information he needed from Nora, but he knew Rossner’s presence would alter the tone of the discussion. The last thing he needed was Nora telling a pocketful of lies to preserve an image in front of her fiancé.
Nora answered on the fourth ring. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Prescott? This is Lieutenant Jim Kearns.” He thought he heard a brief gasp, but he couldn’t be sure. “Homicide,” he added for extra measure. “I’m parked outside your house —” She’d like the sound of that, Kearns thought, having already sized up Nora’s type from the haughty, triumphant look she wore in the engagement photo. “— and I know you’re not answering your door. On a crazy night like this, I don’t blame you, but I have a few questions to ask you.”
The woman sounded flustered. “What’s this about, Sergeant — Kearns was it?”
He winced at the incorrect title. “I’d rather discuss this in person, if you don’t mind.”
If Nora minded she didn’t say, because Kearns didn’t give her a chance. He’d already hung up.
Quickly, he strode across the street, his presence breaking up the gang of youths and silencing their limited vocabulary. A light came on in Rossner’s ground-floor foyer.
The home’s front door, a carved oaken masterpiece with bevelled glass, had been soaped and egged, bits of crumbled shell still sticking to the goo. Serves ’em right, Kearns thought, wondering why the well-to-do couldn’t be bothered to cough up a couple of Snickers bars for some fun-loving kids once a year.
“This is most unusual, I must say,” Nora announced when she opened the door. Kearns produced the necessary identification, which Nora made a grand show of examining. If she noticed the vandalism of the front door, she gave no indication.
Though it was nearly ten o’clock Nora still wore makeup, and her ash-blonde hair was twisted into a classic style that Kearns guessed must have taken at least a half hour in front of the mirror. Her lounging outfit was nicer than Mary’s best dress. Maybe this was how the rich lived, but to Kearns, this gal needed too much upkeep.
“I can’t imagine what you have to speak to me about,” Nora was in the midst of saying when Kearns brushed past her and entered the house.
Nora’s heels clicked on the marble floor behind him then grew silent as she stepped on dense, richly patterned carpet. Kearns would have given anything to turn around and catch the expression on her face. Instead, he eyed the room, scouting for a decent piece of furniture to sit on. He settled quickly on one of a pair of down-filled sofas, the sturdiest-looking seating in a room full of spindly antiques. Kearns had no use for rooms like this, such vast spaces that looked decorated but never lived in.
“Mr. Rossner not in this evening?”
“He’s dining with a client,” Nora replied as she perched on the edge of a fragile-looking needlepoint armchair.
Kearns tried to adopt what he hoped was a cheery expression, then said, “I saw your engagement photograph in the Chronicle. Congratulations are in order.”
“Why, thank you,” Nora responded. “Phillip is a wonderful man.”
“Actually, it’s about that newspaper photograph that I’m here.”
“But I don’t understand. You said you were involved with a homicide, Sergeant.”
“Lieutenant,” he corrected. Kearns produced a copy of the photograph from his pants pocket and pointed at Natalie Gorman’s brooch. “This article of jewellery,” he said. “Where did you get it?”
A crimson flush crept up from the neckline of Nora’s fancy outfit and spread across her cheeks. “Phillip bought it for me, of course,” she answered quickly. “Why do you ask?”
“Really? How long ago?”
“Oh my goodness, I don’t remember,” she said, shoving a wristwatch that seemed too big for her up her sleeve. “Phillip is always giving me gifts, and thoughtful man that he is, he doesn’t wait for special occasions. I honestly don’t recall when I received that pin.”
Kearns let the subject drop. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any coffee around here? It’s been a long day, and I could sure use some caffeine.”
For a moment, Kearns saw Nora’s lips purse in exasperation, but she recovered quickly and said, “I can make you some tea.”
“Tea would be nice,” he replied. He could hardly wait for her to leave. Like a common thief, he began a sweep of the room, carefully sliding open drawers, not sure what he was looking for, but feeling certain that somewhere in this house, along with Gorman’s brooch, were other trophies.
Seven steps put him in front of the fireplace, a massive stone structure with ornate carvings of fruit cascading from fluted urns. A small, tourist-quality Delft urn perched on the mantelpiece looked oddly out of sync with the decor of the room.
The autumn nights had been cool, but not cool enough to warrant the substantial pile of ash that had collected in the grate. Kearns guessed that Nora had used the fireplace for another reason. He crouched, picked up a brass poker, and slid it across the mess. Several swishes later, he had his answer
.
Too soon, Nora returned, carrying an antique silver service on a matching tray. “Great fireplace,” Kearns said, rising to his feet. He brushed his sooty hand on his dark socks and replaced the poker. “You don’t get workmanship like that these days.”
“You do, but it costs five times as much.” Nora said tightly, setting the tray on the cherry butler’s table in front of the sofa. “Do you like your tea strong?”
Kearns shook his head. “Hot water with a little colour. Better pour it now.” He sat down and used his fingers instead of the fancy silver tongs to drop two sugar cubes into his tea. “Much appreciated.”
The handle of his china teacup was so curlicued that Kearns couldn’t get his finger through it. He watched Nora, again seated opposite and managing hers nicely. He pinched his cup’s handle so tightly he thought he’d break it for sure. At length, he felt comfortable enough to raise the stupid thing to his mouth. The room was oppressively silent. Nora Prescott wasn’t going to mention the brooch again, that was for sure, nor was she pressing him for the reason for his visit. To Kearns, the red flags were flying.
“Tell me, Nora,” he said, deliberately emphasizing her name, “do you donate any used clothing to charities?”
“Why Sergeant,” she stammered, “what an odd question. Why do you ask?”
“Because I wondered why, instead of allowing someone else the benefit of your unwanted possessions, you chose instead to burn an article of clothing in that lovely fireplace over there.”
“I beg your pardon? What on earth —”
But it was no use. Kearns pulled the remnants of a pink zipper from his pocket and set it on the silver tray. He looked first at her eyes, the pupils dilated, then at Nora’s teacup, which she quickly set in its saucer to stop it from shaking.
Gotcha.
She swallowed. “You found that in my fireplace?”
“I did indeed. And I suspect that when I take it to our forensic team, they’ll be able to match it with the late Patricia Mowatt’s track pants. Now perhaps you’ll tell me when you received a pink jacket.”
“Jacket? I don’t know anything about a jacket. Nor do I have any idea how that got into our fireplace.” She pointed at the zipper as though it were a dead rodent, her gesture exaggerated, her tone of voice beyond flabbergasted.
She was a shitty actress. Beneath the pompous façade she was squirming, and Kearns had to admit he was enjoying it. If he had the luxury of time, he would have dragged this out.
Instead, he sprang to his feet and increased both momentum and volume. “Your fiancé did not buy you that brooch and you do know how that zipper got into that fireplace. The brooch was sent to you, along with a pink jogger’s jacket and several other items. That vase, for instance.” Kearns motioned toward the mantel. “It looks out of place in this room. And I suspect that wristwatch that doesn’t quite fit you. How long have you known, Mrs. Prescott? How long were you planning to keep this to yourself?”
“I don’t understand,” she said weakly.
“Look,” Kearns said, taking a step closer to her, “I’m not gonna play this ping-pong game with you. You’re gonna tell me all about your son, William Prescott, and I strongly suggest you get right to it.” He dropped his voice to a hiss. “You probably want this discussion concluded and me outta here by the time your meal ticket comes home.”
43
“Damn,” Beth said, setting the phone down. “Jim isn’t home, and he’s not at work either.” She closed her address book and returned it to the centre desk drawer. “I hate bothering him. He’s got so much on his plate, but he’d want to know about this note. And this one is so much worse than the others.” She took another look at the drawing and shuddered. “It’s like she’s watching her own autopsy.”
“Could be worse, Beth. At least the artist gave you a nice set of boobs.”
“Go ahead, make light of this, Gin. I’d like to hear your snappy lines if that envelope were addressed to you.” Beth paused to allow the words to sink in.
“You’re right,” Ginny replied, somewhat chastened. “It is creepy. Is Kearns sure the Spiderman’s not the one sending these notes?”
Beth nodded. “Says it’s not the killer’s M.O.”
“M.O.? I love cop talk.”
Beth groaned. “This guy, whoever he is, is just playing on everyone’s fear of the Spiderman, hoping to shake me up. And he’s doing a great job.”
“I’ve got the willies myself. Tell you what,” Ginny said, patting the carpet, “let’s finish this game. Looks like I might finally win one. You can try Kearns’s number in half an hour. Nothing we can do in the meantime.”
Beth settled onto the carpet. Samson reappeared and draped himself across Beth’s feet. Two turns later, Beth reversed Ginny’s luck and jumped ahead thirty points.
“Did you hear that?” Ginny whispered.
“Not again, Ginny. Cut it out.”
“Musician’s ears are never wrong. There was a creak, then metal against metal. Is your front door locked?”
“Yes, and the alarm’s set. Stop worrying. You’ll drive us both crazy.” She checked her watch. “I’m going to try Jim’s number again.”
“And I’m going to see about that noise. I know what I heard.” Ginny grunted as she stood up. “Damn. My foot’s asleep. Come on, Samson. Let’s investigate.”
Ginny headed toward the front door, with Samson, to Beth’s amazement, in pursuit. Beth had just located Jim Kearns’s home number for the second time when she heard Ginny cry out.
“Oh shit! Beth, quick!”
Beth hurried to where Ginny stood in the entry hall, flattened against a wall, and followed the direction of Ginny’s frightened stare.
Crawling across Beth’s mint green broadloom were at least a dozen huge, brown spiders.
“Do something, Beth!” Ginny wailed. “I hate those things!”
Beth glanced at her stocking feet, then reached for the nearest weapon. She flung the remaining chocolate bars from the stainless steel bowl, then brought the bowl down on the carpet. Each swing was accompanied by a sickening crunch.
When she was done, Beth counted. “Fourteen spiders. My God.”
“Correction,” Ginny said, still rooted to the spot. “Fifteen. Look.”
Samson had one of the creatures in his mouth.
“Ginny — rubber gloves and a plastic bag.”
Ginny raced into the kitchen.
Samson, quite pleased with himself, dropped his treasure at Beth’s feet. It was still alive. One more crash of the bowl killed the spider and sent the cat scurrying upstairs.
“Must have been your mail slot,” Ginny said, returning with gloves, bags, plus paper towels and a bottle of club soda. “The noise I heard. That’s where they got in.”
“Thanks,” Beth said as she cleaned spider guts from the rug. “You’ve been a big help.”
“I’ll show you help. Come on. Grab a jacket. Wanna bet that whoever did this is still out there? Probably laughed his ass off when we started screaming.”
Minutes later, the two were outside, looking in either direction along Scott Street, though neither knew what or who they were looking for. A block away, on the corner of Scott and Beach, half a dozen teenagers were leaving a house party. They stood in a circle on the sidewalk, and as Beth and Ginny drew closer, they could see a seventh person in the middle.
“Hang back, Gin,” Beth said, grabbing her friend by the arm. “I’ve had enough excitement for one night. Breaking up a swarming isn’t on my agenda.”
“No, Beth, they’re joking. Listen.”
“Thank you, thank you very much,” one of the youths said.
“Please let me be your teddy bear,” sang another.
Everyone laughed.
Beth broke into a run, Ginny following.
“Hey, you!” Ginny hollered. “Elvis Aron Presley!”
Hearing the voice, the man looked over the shoulder of one of the teenagers. When he saw the two women bearing down u
pon him, he broke through the group and sprinted toward the Bay.
Beth noticed he had a limp and knew they’d catch him.
“Beth, what’s going on?”
Bobby Chandler was one of the teens, dressed as a clown.
“Bobby,” Beth cried out, racing past, “help us get this guy!”
The boy kicked off gargantuan red plastic shoes and joined in the chase. Even in sock feet, Bobby soon overtook Ginny, then Beth, and was closing in quickly on Elvis.
At Marina Boulevard, the man turned left and headed toward the Yacht Harbor. Beth watched as Bobby Chandler made a flying leap at his target. The man thudded to the pavement.
“Get off me, you little bastard!”
Beth and Ginny helped Bobby with the struggle and, between the three of them, managed to get the man to turn over. The rest of the teens had now reached the scene, eager to witness the action.
Beth squeezed between two teens. “I’ll be damned.”
“That’s him!” Bobby shrieked. “That’s the guy! Hey Beth, why are we chasing your boyfriend?”
“My boyfriend? What are you talking about?”
“This is the older guy I was asking about. He’s been around your house a lot these past few weeks. Didn’t think he was your type, but Tim O’Malley told me to mind my own business.”
Rex McKenna spat blood. He’d bitten his tongue when he hit the ground. “Shut up, you little twerp.” He peeled off fake sideburns.
One of the teenagers used her cell phone to call 911.
Beth stared at Rex, her feelings a mixture of revulsion and relief. “The notes and the spiders were from you? Why?”
Rex McKenna spat again and answered simply, “Fuck off, bitch.”
44
Whatever pricey cosmetics Nora Prescott had so skillfully applied seemed to crack along with her veneer of gentility at the mention of her son’s name. She slumped in the delicate chair, then, as if realizing how uncomfortable it was, she moved to the sofa opposite Kearns, her tiny frame cocooned by the down-filled cushions.
Every Wickedness Page 20
