Every Wickedness

by Cathy Vasas-Brown

  Since Kearns’s last visit, the Irish pub had undergone a minor facelift. Gleaming brass sconces and deep green-black textured wallpaper gave the place an aura of gentlemanly sophistication. The three-man band had just finished a set and were stepping down from the stage. The bar was as well stocked as ever, and Kearns was glad they hadn’t done away with the row of wooden booths that lined one wall. He slid into the one nearest the bar and gave his order to a redheaded waitress who had Killarney written all over her.

  He unzipped his windbreaker and remembered all the times he had sat here, as though being among the convivial Irish and listening to some toe-tapping tunes could somehow lift the shroud of depression.

  Kearns glanced at his watch, punched in Fuentes’s home number on his cellular phone, apologized to a sleepy Rosa, then called the Night Investigations Unit. Fuentes was still at work.

  “Manny,” he said when he got hold of him, “tonight I met the mother of the devil himself, and I wish I could say I was exaggerating.”

  “Well, I hope she told you where Satan’s lair is, because CLETS has turned up zip on William Prescott.”

  Kearns had pinned little hope on the California Law Enforcement Tracking System.

  “All I’ve got for my trouble is a stiff neck and eyes that feel like they’ve been through a sandstorm,” Fuentes complained.

  “He changed his name, Manny.”

  “To what?”

  “She doesn’t know.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not. And if our man’s got a driver’s license or passport, they’re bogus. That’s why CLETS isn’t picking up a new name in the query.”

  “Dammit,” Fuentes said. “Didn’t that woman give you anything we can use?”

  Kearns shook his head. “Next to Nora Prescott, Rita Bailey is Mother of the Year.” He told Fuentes about his discussion with Nora.

  “All I got was one shitty yearbook photograph, courtesy of Father Daniel Fortescue. Ninth grade. Bastard’s standing in the back row, his head half hidden by the guy in front of him. Don’t suppose the Prescott woman had anything more recent?”

  “Nope. Nora Prescott isn’t what you’d call the sentimental type. No childhood photos, no old report cards. Hell, it’s like she never had a son. I bet none of the poor saps she married had a clue about William’s existence. The invisible kid. He’s sure making a name for himself now.” Kearns signalled for the waitress. “And all those times Nora’s dropped money off somewhere, she’s never clapped eyes on her son, though she felt he must have been watching her. Big help, huh? At least I got the brooch back.” Kearns pointed to his empty glass, and the redhead nodded, returning quickly with another drink.

  “Recover any other trophies?”

  “You bet. First thing tomorrow, I send Anscombe and Bauer back to the families to identify the belongings.”

  “So,” Fuentes said, “let me get this straight. Prescott’s our man, except he isn’t Prescott anymore. He could be anybody, living anywhere.”

  “You’re just trying to cheer me up.”

  “Speaking of which, it hasn’t been all dull compu-biz here tonight. Your friend Beth Wells’s secret adversary’s been picked up.”

  Kearns listened as Fuentes gave him the lowdown on Rex McKenna. “Thank Christ,” Kearns said when he was done. “Beth’s too nice to be a victim of that kind of bullshit.”

  The musicians returned and immediately launched into “Black Velvet Band.” Drunker patrons sang along.

  “Hey,” Fuentes said, “are you where I think you are?”

  “Sí.”

  “Jimmy, there’d better be soda water in your glass.”

  Close enough, Kearns thought as he put the cell phone back in his pocket. The waitress brought a third ginger ale. Kearns glanced at the bottles of Glenlivet, Johnny Walker, and a ten-year-old Glenfiddich lined up behind the bar like Broadway hookers waiting for a customer. Trays full of draught sailed by. Kearns could have easily grabbed a frosted mug of Smithwicks, but he didn’t. He felt like shit, deserved a drink, for the love of Mike, but instead, he had walked headlong into his personal nest of vipers and ordered ginger ale instead. As if he was strong enough to be put to any kind of test right now, he thought, then realized he had passed with honours. Still, he was too pissed off and too exhausted to congratulate himself.

  He checked his watch again. Ten after midnight, but he knew that if Beth had the kind of night Fuentes had described, she would still be wide awake. At least there was some good news, and Kearns wanted a piece of it. He reactivated his phone and punched in Beth’s number.

  She answered on the second ring. Kearns could hear her telling her cat to get off the desk.

  “Can’t sleep either, huh?” he said. “I’m not surprised. I heard about your adventure tonight.”

  “Too bad you missed the action. You’d have loved it.”

  He was glad to hear the note of amusement in her voice. “You must be relieved.”

  “I still cringe at how it must have looked, Jim — a bunch of costumed idiots chasing Elvis down the street. To be honest, I’m more confused than relieved. What was Rex thinking, scaring me like that?”

  “He resented your success, for one thing,” Kearns told her. “The two guys who brought him in said he spilled his guts for hours. They felt like Dr. Joyce Brothers.”

  “What does my success have to do with him?”

  “McKenna’s lived in the city all his life, spent years cold calling, pounding the pavement and taking people to lunch, schmoozing for clients. You sail in from Quaintsville, Arkansas, build a clientele through word-of-mouth, now your customers come to you —”

  “Hey, wait a minute. It wasn’t that simple.”

  “You and I know that, but that’s not how McKenna sees it.”

  “Jim, there are plenty of successful entrepreneurs in this city. Why was I the lucky one?”

  “Because you were in his face. See? From his upstairs window, McKenna watched people flock to your store all day long. He paid you rent. You’re almost half his age, a pretty clear reminder of what he could never be. He’s declaring bankruptcy, you know.”

  “So he tormented me with hate mail and put spiders in my house? Jim —”

  He read her mind. “No, he’s not the Spiderman. God, I hate that name. The guys third-degreed him until he nearly passed out, but McKenna’s not our guy. He had alibis up the you-know-what. Wife keeps him on a pretty short leash. McKenna’s got lots of the symptoms of a killer, but not the disease.”

  “Symptoms? What do you mean?”

  “He’s a bona fide misogynist, just like our killer. Heavily into violent porn. Helluva fantasy life. Plus, get this. He’s a battered husband.”

  “Rex? Battered? Jim, have you seen his wife?”

  “No, but let me guess. Barely scrapes five feet.”

  “Rex towers over Ida. It can’t be.”

  “Beth, it’s typical. Lots of these little gals take a frying pan to their husband’s kneecaps. The men never retaliate, first out of fear that they’ll kill their wives because of the sheer size difference. Later, they’re too embarrassed to do anything about it. Who’s McKenna gonna tell?”

  “So that’s why he has a limp? Unbelievable.”

  “Listen, Beth. At least this is off your plate now. You can relax.”

  After he hung up, Kearns felt only a kernel of relief. Beth would sleep better now, even if he didn’t.

  He still had the rest of the women in the city to worry about.

  48

  Friday morning’s sky was battleship grey, and the weather report promised a weekend of pouring rain. Beth clicked off her car radio. The threat of rain would not ruin her anticipation of tomorrow night’s date with Jordan. As she drove through Pacific Heights toward Sacramento Street, she mentally reviewed her schedule for the next day. It would be tight. Her part-timer, Lorna, was leaving today on a junket to Vegas, her first weekend off in six months. Tomorrow Beth would be running the store alone,
as she had done the first two years she’d owned it. She would barely have time to hurry home and get ready. Jordan was picking her up at 7:00.

  She still didn’t know what he had planned, but he told her to wear something sexy. If the meteorologists were right about the rain, Beth would wear her hair up. Her velvet dress was back from the cleaners, and she’d bought a black lace teddy from Victoria’s Secret.

  Dammit, she muttered, looking at her wrist. She wasn’t wearing her Medic-Alert bracelet. This was the second time this week she’d forgotten it. Beth glanced at her watch, knowing full well that she was already running late. In her mind, she could see the bracelet clearly, sitting by the soap dish on her bathroom counter.

  The day ran smoothly at Personal Touch. The Stantons called to say the sectional sofa Beth helped them select had just been delivered, and they were now happily ensconced in their new Tiburon condo, admiring their view of the Bay in comfort.

  Lorna was sporting a short hairdo and a new outfit; she was so excited about her Vegas weekend that Beth let her leave a half hour early, wishing her luck at the roulette wheel.

  Beth was at the back of the store when she heard the door slam. She checked her watch. 4:55. Dammit. She had neglected to flip the sign in her window to CLOSED; now she’d have to deal with a last-minute browser. Horace Furwell often showed up on Fridays, the onset of a weekend sparking bordello memories. Well, if she could chase Rex McKenna down the street, she could easily deal with Horace Furwell.

  But her visitor wasn’t Furwell. Standing in the middle of her showroom was Brad Peterson.

  “Beth? I hope you haven’t forgotten our appointment. When I didn’t hear from you, I thought I’d better drop by.”

  Beth went to her desk and traced a finger down her day planner. “Brad, forgive me. There must be some misunderstanding. I don’t have you written down.”

  “Oh,” he said with a trace of embarrassment. “This is awkward. I was sure I saw you write it down, Beth.”

  Beth’s black shoulder bag was slung over the back of her desk chair. “Hang on a sec, Brad,” she said and pulled a small datebook from her purse. Brad’s name was faintly scribbled in pencil with no time shown. Then she remembered.

  “Brad, you’re right,” she said. “Your name’s in my other book, but I didn’t think we’d settled on anything definite. Actually, I thought you were just making polite conversation. You know, showing an interest in design because I was dating your friend.”

  “No, I was serious, Beth. I plan to go south over Christmas, so I thought if we started working up some ideas …? I’d reschedule, but Ingrid and I are leaving for Europe on Monday. She’s finishing her photo essay on bridges.”

  Beth remembered the photographs, and the sleekness of Brad’s home. Working with him would be a pleasant change. It had been awhile since she had done a contemporary design.

  “Have you got your floor plans with you?” she asked.

  “No, Beth. Sorry. They’re back at the house with a slew of magazines.”

  Beth glanced out at the window. The rain had already begun to fall, and she was bone-tired. The last thing she wanted was to drive to Muir Beach.

  “Brad, I know you must be eager, but tonight is just —”

  “We can both go in my car. All you have to do is sit back and listen to the stereo. We’ll spend an hour, two at the most, then I’ll bring you back.”

  “Brad, I can’t ask you to drive —”

  “No, listen. It’s not a problem. I’m coming back to the city later tonight anyway. I’ve got a nine o’clock date with my lady.”

  She smiled. Of course Brad had a date. And energy to spare. A quick mental calculation had her back at the store to pick up her car shortly after nine, showered and under the covers by ten. Samson had received an extra helping of dry food this morning, so the cat shouldn’t have anything to complain about. “You’ve got a deal, Brad,” she said. “I warn you, though. If you keep me later than eight-thirty, my price goes up.”

  She heard his warm laughter. “I can handle it,” he said.

  49

  “This,” Kearns said, holding up an enlarged copy of one of the Good Shepherd’s yearbook photos, “is the face of our killer.”

  A collective groan went up from the task force. They congregated around Kearns who was leaning against the door to his office. Some craned their necks for a better look.

  “Christ, L.T. How old is that thing?”

  “My grandmother can take a better picture than that, and she’s got Parkinson’s.”

  Kearns waited until the grumbling died down, then he continued. “And this is what he might look like now.” The department’s sketch artist had pulled out all the stops on her talent, working to produce an illustration of what the person in the photographs could resemble today. Kearns didn’t know how she did it, the photographs sent by Father Daniel being so poor, but there were all kinds of skills in the world, and he was grateful for Nancy’s. When Kearns compared the sketch artist’s version of Prescott with the computer image he had received from Amsterdam’s homicide unit showing Klara deVries’s attacker, there were definite similarities.

  The paper Kearns was now holding up for his task force showed a man with prominent cheekbones, a high forehead, and close-set eyes. The hair had been updated, Nancy having given the killer a short, spiky cut. “His name is, or should I say was, William Prescott. And maybe, just maybe, if we schlep these around to enough places, someone will recognize this guy. He’s gotta be somebody’s dentist or mechanic.”

  “Magnin’s is still open,” said Bauer, pointing to the clock. “I’ve got time to get over there and see if Lydia Price’s co-workers have seen this guy.”

  Kearns nodded, handed Bauer copies of both the photo and the sketch and watched him head out the door.

  Anscombe spoke next. “Why don’t I go back to the Bay Club? Maybe this Prescott creep met Mowatt there. Besides, I don’t mind being around sweaty male bodies pumping iron on a Friday night.” She flashed a broad grin, but Kearns knew Anscombe was all business.

  For several minutes, the room buzzed with who would go where, then the place emptied. Kearns was left to observe Fuentes, drumming his fingers on the back of Weems’s chair. “You think they’ll come up empty, don’t you, Jimmy.”

  Kearns shrugged his shoulders. “We’ve got to do something. If we could only find out where this bastard meets the women.”

  “I don’t know what we’ve missed,” Fuentes said, his fingers picking up speed. “These women didn’t hang out at the same restaurants and clubs. They had different hobbies, different hairdressers, different doctors. They didn’t vacation in the same places.”

  “Yeah, I know. We’ve done all this before. We may know who he is, but we don’t have a clue where to look. Say, Manny? Can you knock off the Gene Krupa routine? It’s driving me bats.”

  Fuentes stopped drumming and reached into the pocket of his sports jacket. After unwrapping a stick of Trident and popping it into his mouth, he said, “I tell you, this guy’s no spider. He’s a chameleon. It’s like he can adapt to any place, any woman, and be anything he wants.”

  “But why would someone like Anne Spalding hook up with him? That’s what I can’t figure out. Beth said Anne was on the run, that her ex-husband beat the crap out of her. Wouldn’t she be wary of men?”

  “Jimmy, you and I have seen enough domestic blow-ups to know that certain folks just keep going back to the kind of person who’ll do them the most harm. Maybe Spalding was one of those. Or maybe she just liked having a man in her life, for better or worse, as they say.”

  “I’d agree with you,” Kearns answered, “only I think Anne’s wounds were too fresh. According to Beth, Anne went nowhere. So where in hell would she be so relaxed that she’d forget all that had happened to her?”

  “After a drink or two, you know what can happen to both memories and inhibitions.”

  “I don’t picture this woman propped on a barstool somewhere, allowing some gu
y to pick her up. It just doesn’t fit what Beth’s told me about her.”

  “Newly single, renting a room in a house — maybe our killer flashed some cash around Spalding. That could appeal to someone trying to make ends meet.”

  Kearns considered that and tried to conjure an image of a shy Anne Spalding being smooth-talked into a situation that eventually cost her her life. “Possible, I guess. Yet somehow —”

  “Look, Jimmy. We could drive ourselves nuts speculating like this. Anne Spalding isn’t here to explain, so we’d better hope some of our fine young inspectors turn up something with that picture. I’ll go show the updated photo to Nora Prescott. Maybe she can help us figure out if it’s accurate.”

  “Why not? Like I said, we’ve got to do something.” He turned toward his office.

  Scarce minutes later, Kearns looked up from his desk to see Fuentes standing in his office doorway, chomping his Trident like mad. “You’re not gonna believe this,” Fuentes said. “Nora Prescott is no longer residing on Russian Hill.”

  “What?”

  “I just spoke to Phillip Rossner. His precious fiancée has flown the coop.”

  “You’re not telling me —”

  “Of course I am. Rossner has no idea where Nora Prescott is.”

  Kearns’s heart sank to the soles of his shoes. “Great,” he said. “Not only do we not have the killer, now we don’t even have his mother. That’s just fucking great.”

  50

  Brad Petersen’s black BMW 750 clung to the curves of Route I as if magnetized to the slick pavement. Though he was exceeding the speed limit, he appeared confident and relaxed behind the wheel.

  Beth stifled a yawn and wondered why she had let Brad talk her into this drive. So what if he had to fly to Europe? She had worked under tighter deadlines before. Even if this meeting had waited another two weeks, she could have still designed a fantastic look in time for Christmas in the Caribbean. Had Brad not told her about his nine o’clock date, Beth wouldn’t have come at all. At least this way, she knew the appointment wouldn’t drag on.