Every Wickedness (14 page)

“I haven’t got him,” Kearns replied, “but I can smell him.”

“You get me out of bed because of a smell? Son of a bitch.”

“Manny, you disappoint me. You usually show my bloodhound schnozz more respect.”

“At this hour, I’d blaspheme the pope. Go ahead, if it makes you feel better. I’m listening.”

Kearns reminded Fuentes about interviewing the pilots who’d attended Anne Spalding’s funeral, and, in particular, his suspicions about Jordan Bailey.

“Let me get this straight,” Fuentes said when Kearns was done. “One very mobile guy, single, late thirties. Whore for a mother equals troubled childhood, right? Spiderman’s mutilations match the symbol of the parochial school this guy attended. And he dated Spalding.”

“You got it.”

“Well, Jimmy, that’s something. Anything else?”

“Try this on for size. Bailey lives in Noe Valley.” He told Fuentes the address. “Think back to your days in Narcotics. Ring a bell?”

Fuentes thought for a moment, then it came to him. “Son of a bitch,” he said again. “Not that house. I know it inside out.” Fuentes remembered countless drug busts in the late seventies and early eighties. “Bailey lives in that dump?”

“Yeah. What do you remember about the basement?”

“Stepping over sleeping bags full of wasted would-be musicians.”

“Recording studio, remember?”

“Uh-huh.” Fuentes knew he was being nudged, but the lateness of the hour had made his mind fuzzy.

“Soundproof,” Kearns said. “So, if you had someone down there, and by some miracle, she broke free from her restraints, no one could possibly hear her screaming or pounding on the door …”

“I’ll admit there’s quite a stink here, but need I remind you a cop’s worst enemy —”

“Yeah, I know. Tunnel vision.”

“You got it. We can’t be so narrow-minded we zero in on this Bailey and ignore everything else.”

“Come on, Manny. Get on board. First thing tomorrow, I’m sending someone to check out the Bay Club on Greenwich. Patricia Mowatt, one of the club’s aerobics instructors, is still missing, and maybe our man Bailey has a membership at the club.”

Fuentes knew there would be no stopping Kearns now that he thought he was onto something, but a part of him was still worried. Bailey might fit the profile, but so did thousands of others. But the police and especially Kearns were being lambasted daily from all directions. Just this afternoon, the captain and the deputy chief had ridden Kearns to the stockade and back. He still claimed to have the spur marks in his side.

Maybe Kearns was right. Bailey was the only thing they had, and there was enough smell there to pick up a trail. Cases had been solved on hunches more far-fetched than this.

“Let’s go for it, Jimmy,” he said. “We can’t just wait for Mowatt to turn up. Right now, though, I’m going back upstairs, grab onto my wife, and make sure she doesn’t get away. If she’s still speaking to me, we may put the time to good use.”

“Say sorry to Rosalie,” Kearns said, a trace of sadness in his voice.

“One more thing,” Fuentes cut in. He was wide awake now, and a startling thought struck him. “Your friend Beth Wells.”

“What about her?”

“Her new boyfriend. Didn’t you say he was a pilot?”

T
he fog was velvet thick, settling on the car like a suffocating pillow. Beth squinted, her eyes straining to find the road’s centre white line, but ahead there was only grey, and more grey. She was certain that any minute now the Mazda would hit the loose gravel shoulder and spin into a ditch or off a cliff.

Although he drove slowly, Jordan appeared at ease, unfazed by the hazardous conditions. He steered left-handed, using his free hand to scan for an easy-listening radio station. That done, he reached across the console for Beth’s hand.

“Loosen up, Beth,” he said, unknotting her fingers. “I’ve flown 747s in worse than this. Haven’t lost a passenger yet.”

“Still, maybe you should keep your hands on the wheel,” she cautioned. “It’s not your driving I’m worried about. It’s the other guy’s.”

Jordan did as he was told, but his face registered disappointment. For a while, neither spoke. Occasionally, Jordan hummed along with the radio. Beth looked out her side of the car, blinking rapidly to resist the hypnotic effect of the fog.

Jordan’s hand brushed her knee. She gasped in surprise. He pulled his hand away.

“My God, Beth, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she replied, too quickly. “It’s the fog, I guess. I don’t like it. Pretty dumb for someone living in San Francisco, isn’t it?” She mustered a half laugh.

“Try to relax,” Jordan said.

“I’d feel better if Ginny’d come back with us. I don’t like the thought of her catching a ride with some stranger.”

“Ginny’s a big girl. Besides, Brad’ll probably drive her home and Ginny would never forgive you for horning in on that golden opportunity.”

“But Brad’s engaged. Why would I want my friend getting in the middle of that?”

“I’m sure you don’t, but it’s Ginny’s choice. Hers and Brad’s.”

“I guess you’re right. Still …”

“Ginny will be fine,” Jordan said firmly.

The fog seemed to ease, but Beth’s anxiety did not. The atmosphere inside the car was strained, with Jordan trying to fill in the stretches of silence with light-hearted chatter about some of Brad’s guests. Several were squash and tennis players, and a debate had ensued about whose turn it was to host the next party. She vaguely heard Jordan say something about being glad he’d already taken his turn, but she could barely concentrate, and her responses were monosyllabic and lame.

Jordan and Anne
.

“Beth,” Jordan said at length, “this conversation is bizarre. We sound like two people trying to be
polite after a bad blind date. Tell me what’s bothering you.”

“Nothing. Really.”

“You’re lying,” Jordan said tightly, his gaze riveted on the road.

She tried to still the shudder rippling up her back. A slight tremor shook her shoulders. She gulped. “Pardon?”

“You’re lying,” he repeated and glanced at her, his face stern. “Something happened at the party tonight. Did Brad make a pass at you?”

The question took Beth by surprise. “Why would you think that?”

“Come on, Beth. Brad’s a good-looking guy, he’s gregarious, athletic. If something happened between you two —”

“Nothing happened. Brad was a gracious host. A perfect gentleman.”

“If it isn’t Brad, then … ah.” He snapped his fingers. “Let me spare you the speech. ‘Jordan, it’s not you. It’s me. This is moving too fast. I need more time, more space. Maybe in a month or two —’”

“I wasn’t going to say that! Nothing like it.”

“Let’s have it then, the reason for the deep freeze.”

Beth paused, tried to collect her thoughts between deep breaths. Her heart beat rapidly. She envisioned her little mechanical valve working overtime.

“Come on, Beth,” Jordan said, his impatience growing. “Don’t bother choosing your words. I’m already offended.”

They were still miles from the Golden Gate Bridge, too far from home. She had to think of something. “Green-eyed monster,” she blurted out, echoing Brad’s words. “I admit it, and I’m embarrassed.”

Shit. Could she pull this off? She had no choice.

“Someone at the party mentioned how nice it was to see you back in circulation,” she said, realizing how stupid and incomplete that sounded.

“So?”

Exactly. “So,” she continued, “is this some kind of rebound relationship?”

“I don’t believe it,” Jordan said, shaking his head. “You think you’re some kind of replacement, that I’m carrying the proverbial torch for the woman who got away?”

“It’s been known to happen.”

“I suppose it has, but not in this case. Have I made you feel like a replacement?”

“No, of course not. It’s just that — well, what was she like?”

“Nothing like you, Beth. She was a frightened rabbit. No confidence. Full of secrets. Her lid was screwed on pretty tight.”

At this moment, Beth thought, Anne sounds exactly like me.

“Then what attracted you to her?”

He gave her a weak smile. “I guess every guy wants a chance to be a rescuer of damsels, at least once in his life. She certainly brought that out in
me. My instinct to protect. Over the long haul, I’d have probably grown tired of her weakness.”

“Is that why the relationship ended?”

He shook his head. “It was hardly a relationship. Nothing more than a few drinks and a movie or two. Then she met someone else.”

“And now she’s happy?”

Jordan paused and shrugged.

“What was her name?”

“What difference does that make?” His voice filled the car’s interior. “Enough interrogation, Beth. We’ve gone through all the precautionary dating rituals. We’ve discussed our sexual histories, bought condoms together. I’ve been open about my experiences. I’m HIV negative. You’re HIV negative. That’s it. Names of women I’ve dated I do not owe you.”

“But Jordan —”

“Drop it, would you please? You’ve been acting strangely ever since we left Brad’s. Any explanation for that?” He waited, then said, “No. Didn’t think so.”

He increased the volume on the radio. Stevie Wonder’s bouncy “Part-Time Lover” echoed through the car.

Finally, they crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, fingers of fog playing along the six lanes of pavement. The nozzle shape of Coit Tower loomed atop Telegraph Hill. The Transamerica obelisk, the lights of Fisherman’s Wharf, all familiar landmarks of the city’s skyline, yet Beth felt as though she’d been transported to some alien world.

Why hadn’t Jordan told her Anne’s name? Because it was none of her damn business or because Jordan knew dating two roommates, one of whom was now dead, was too much of a coincidence for anyone to believe? She’d never know. She wouldn’t be seeing Jordan again.

Her need to have all cards on the table and his need not to reveal his hand had come between them. Beth had played poker and she’d come away empty.

Beth glanced at Jordan. His right hand rested loosely on top of the steering wheel, as though he couldn’t be bothered with the effort of driving. If Beth didn’t know better, she would swear he was bored. But it was his face that betrayed his true feelings.

His jaw appeared locked into position. He was furious.

Minutes later, Jordan pulled into Beth’s driveway, but instead of shutting off the engine, he let the car idle and stared up at Beth’s darkened bedroom windows.

He wouldn’t be inviting himself in, and she wouldn’t ask him. Yet in spite of her nagging suspicions, her raging paranoia, she was reluctant to leave the car. Something didn’t feel right.

“Jordan, I —”

“Goodnight, Beth,” he said, still staring at Beth’s upstairs window.

“Please. I didn’t mean —”

“Goodnight, Beth.”

She hadn’t even reached her garage door — ten walking steps ahead — and the car was already disappearing up Scott.

Fumbling in her purse for house keys, Beth knew it would be another sleepless night. She would wash up, find her cosiest nightgown, and curl up in bed. The television would provide background noise while she wrestled to discover who was to blame for this disaster — Jordan, with his obsessive need for privacy, the Spiderman, who was making every woman imagine ogres under her bed, or worst of all, and probably closest to the truth, herself.

B
eth’s reflection in the bathroom mirror at 8:00 a.m. on Sunday told her she couldn’t afford another night with less than two hours’ sleep. Her eyes were ringed with black, her complexion pasty. She stumbled back to bed for whatever extra minutes she could get, but Tim O’Malley, who it seemed never slept, had already started up some electrical tool next door.

After a shower, she didn’t feel much better, and her skin still looked rotten. She ran a comb through her hair, grateful there were still no signs of thinning, one of the hazards of anticoagulant use. By noon, she had already reached for the phone three times, the temptation to talk to Jordan overwhelming. She’d been an idiot, a suspicious paranoiac, and she wanted to tell him exactly that. There were reasons for her behaviour, though the more she thought about it, the less sense those reasons made.

Jordan’s dating Anne didn’t make him a killer. The look in his eyes when he’d said goodnight had nearly ripped her heart out. With a long lonely Sunday stretching ahead of her, she would do the sensible thing — curl up on the chaise in her bedroom and figure some way out of this miserable mess.

Beth pulled on leggings and an oversized football jersey, then applied a pinkish face mask, hoping to rejuvenate her tired skin. Samson, bemused at the sight, stared for a moment, then scooted under the bed.

The ring of the phone beside her made her jump. If it was Jordan, what would she say? She took a deep breath and forced herself to calm down. After the fourth ring, she still hadn’t gathered enough courage and decided to let voice mail get it.

When the red flashing light came on, Beth punched in her code and listened to her message. Ginny’s voice pealed from the other end. “S’me, Beth. Call me when you emerge from between the sheets. Any time before midnight, ’kay?”

Beth speed-dialed Ginny’s number.

“Hiya, kid!” Ginny’s voice was shrill at the other end. “Surprised to find you at home, though I bet you’re not alone.”

“Actually, Ginny, I am.” Samson crawled out from beneath the dust ruffle, reappraised Beth’s face, then jumped onto the chaise and curled up at her feet.

“Just called to thank you for taking me to the party last night. I had a blast.”

Well, Beth thought, that makes one of us. “Glad to hear it,” she replied. “Obviously you got home okay. I didn’t like the idea of leaving you there.”

“Are you kidding? Best idea I’ve ever engineered.
Brad
drove me home.”

Beth heard the innuendo loud and clear. “Is there a story here?”

“Well, I don’t want to brag, but …”

“You and Brad?” Beth felt her face mask crack. She raised a fingertip to her forehead. “Ginny, you hardly know him.”

Ginny hesitated, then said, “I do now. Besides, look who’s talking about whirlwind romances. You and Jordan are into what — your third week? When something’s right, it’s right. I could tell Brad wanted my body the second he laid eyes on me.”