Every Wickedness (16 page)

“Quite a challenge you’ve got, Jim,” Janos Horvath said, clapping him on the back.

“In a crossword puzzle, I appreciate a challenge,
öreg ember,”
Kearns replied, using his limited
knowledge of Hungarian. “This I can do without. When did she die?” He knew Horvath couldn’t be specific — that happened only on television, but a ballpark figure was all Kearns needed. The ME would have already checked the body’s temperature, noted the onset or the absence of rigor, assessed the parade of insects.

“Killed last night. Sometime between the six o’clock news and Leno. Dumped here long after the neighbours over there were tucked in their beds.”

Enough time for the scene to become contaminated, Kearns thought.

A car door slammed, and Kearns saw Fuentes emerge from a black Taurus parked on Clay Street. He could hear his friend report to a patrol officer who was recording his name in a Crime Scenes log.

Then Fuentes was beside him. Instinctively, both men jammed their hands in their pockets for the initial walk-through, aware that cops could contaminate a scene as inadvertently as anybody. Kearns knew others would be in Mowatt’s company for the better part of the day, bagging evidence, measuring, taking pictures. Another downside? It looked like rain.

He took another look at Mowatt’s body, knowing the kabuki pallor of her skin would haunt him tonight. “Manny? This girl disappeared on October 12.”

“Right. Her roomie Ellen Sims said she went out after supper, remember? Never came back.”

“Did she have a regular jogging route?”

Fuentes nodded. “Usually made her way from their apartment on Russian Hill down to the bay, then she’d either cut east and hook up with the Embarcadero or go west along Marina Green and into the Presidio.”

“Ambitious girl,” Kearns remarked, wondering why anyone in her right mind would run anywhere if she didn’t have to. “Pretty breezy down by the bay on an autumn evening. Seems to me, if I remember that night correctly, it rained.”

“She’s wearing weather-resistant pants.”

He stared at the bright pink pants, mottled with muddy splash marks, then at Mowatt’s muscular bare arms. “So … where’s the jacket?”

I
nspector Bauer’s visit to Ellen Sims’s apartment on Leavenworth near the Art Institute confirmed what Kearns had already surmised — Patricia Mowatt did indeed own a pink water-resistant running suit. Though she couldn’t swear to it, Ellen was fairly certain Patricia had worn the jacket jogging the night she’d disappeared. Ellen remembered the drizzle that had fallen around the supper hour — she had just recovered from a cold herself and had intended to take a walk, but the rain made her change her mind. Patricia though, craved her evening run and would most likely have worn the pink jacket with the hood up. There was no sign of the jacket anywhere in the apartment, in Mowatt’s car, or at her parents’ place in Sausalito.

Natalie Gorman’s missing brooch was no fluke. It, along with Patricia Mowatt’s jacket, belonged to the Spiderman museum collection, the killer’s own Academy Award for outstanding performance in a role. To Kearns, though, the taking of trophies signalled the opposite. This guy was ordinary, not the first killer to remove possessions from the victim and not the last.

Perfect. This was his excuse for making a lunch date with Beth Wells. He could question her about
Anne Spalding’s possessions, not that she’d be able to tell him anything, but the conversation would segue nicely to Kearns’s real agenda.

When he’d last spoken to Beth on the phone, he suspected she was still too infatuated to hear him clearly. His reciting the killer’s profile had left her bored rather than wary. This time, he wouldn’t be quite so circumspect. Regardless of how she felt about him at the end of the conversation, Kearns had to let Beth know that the man she’d fallen for might be a murderer.

Ten days before Halloween, Nora Prescott turned fifty-five. So she wasn’t surprised when the Westminster chimes announced the arrival of an enormous bouquet of Stargazer lilies at noon. The flowers were accompanied by a card from Phillip, instructing her to remain home for the day; at one o’clock, a cashmere sweater in her favourite colour arrived, followed at two by a bottle of Cristal champagne. The three o’clock gift was her trademark perfume and a box of Godiva chocolates. So unlike Phillip to be this extravagant or this imaginative, then she remembered the creative session she’d treated him to in bed last night. Men were so grateful for sexual favours, and Phillip was endowed with as many brain cells between his legs as any other male. Later, she’d protest his spending so much money, then spank him for it.

When the doorbell rang again at four o’clock,
she sprang from the sofa. At the front door she paused, wondering what the next package contained. She had seen a lovely antique silver dresser set last week. Perhaps Phillip had remembered her talking about it.

She flung open the front door. On the front verandah lay a parcel, beautifully wrapped in gold embossed paper with an elaborate red bow. Nora looked left and right along the street, searching for signs of a delivery truck or van, but there was none. Some fool had just kissed a substantial tip goodbye.

The box was too large to contain jewellery, too small for an evening gown or fur. She shook it. Lingerie?

She lifted the lid. It was some sort of windbreaker, the shiny material making Nora’s skin crawl. The colour, too, was a horrendous fluorescent pink, a shade she had never worn and never would. What could Phillip be thinking? Perhaps he wanted her to take up golf, wear one of those silly little plaid visors and horrible saddle shoes. Was he taking her somewhere for a golf vacation? Bermuda? Or perhaps the Caymans? She rummaged in the pockets for plane tickets.

On closer inspection, Nora saw that the jacket was used. There was a ballpoint pen mark near the right slash pocket, and when she lifted the garment to her face, she smelled perspiration and stale cologne.

She knew Phillip could be frugal, but not even he would stoop so low as to present Nora with a piece
of used clothing. Suddenly the presence of the ugly jacket in their beautiful living room filled her with revulsion.

When Phillip’s key turned in the lock, Nora hastily stuffed the jacket back into its box, crumpled the wrapping paper into a ball, and shoved everything under the skirted chesterfield.

“Darling!” Phillip trilled, sailing into the living room. “Miss me?”

It amazed her how this shrewd businessman, with his tremendous physical size and
basso profundo
voice could walk in the door, look at her, and metamorphose into a pussycat. An annoying pussycat.

She rose to her feet and opened her arms. “Of course I missed you, dearest,” she cooed as she glided toward him. She planted a kiss on his cheek. “And the lovely gifts, Phillip. Really, it’s too much.” She oohed and ahhed over them, displayed like priceless statues on the Hepplewhite sideboard. She didn’t mention the pink jacket. “You’ve made my birthday so special, darling. Now, enough about me. Make yourself comfortable on the sofa, I’ll pour you a sherry, and you can tell me about your day.”

And for a solid half hour, he did. Nora had long since mastered the art of appearing to hang on every word. She knew just when to nod, when to mutter “oh, dear, how dreadful” — or wonderful or shocking — and when to forsake the adjectives in favour of more physical cures for stress.

“My goodness,” he said finally, “I’ve been prattling.”

“Not at all, sweetheart.” Another cool cheek kiss.

“Nasty business at Alta Plaza. Did you see it on the news?”

Nora pursed her lips, allowed a small furrow to appear on her forehead. “You know I don’t watch the news, dear. Too depressing.”

“The police found that missing Mowatt girl. Remember the jogger? Didn’t live too far from here.”

“Oh dear. How dreadful.”

“Yes. Gave Warwick at the bank quite a turn. Thought at first it might be his daughter. Went white as a sheet when the news came over the radio.”

Nora remained focused on Phillip’s face and wondered why someone born and bred in San Francisco would pepper his vocabulary with British-isms.

“Seems Warwick’s daughter, a free-spirited type, had gone to Carmel to study art. She hadn’t called for a few weeks, so naturally Warwick was worried.”

Nora refilled Phillip’s sherry goblet and poured herself a generous Scotch. “Why would Warwick think the dead girl was his daughter?”

“It was the pink jogging pants,” Phillip explained. “Warwick’s girl had a pink jogging suit, so of course, when the body was discovered in …”

There was more, but Nora didn’t catch it. More important things commanded her attention — a cassette of Lloyd Webber show tunes and a manicure set. She’d read something a while ago about a dancer, gone missing after a rehearsal and an esthetician, a
young girl who removed hair with hot wax, gave facials, and applied nail polish for a living. There had been other girls, and other gifts. Suddenly, she knew the identity of her gift giver, and the realization wormed through her with a creeping dread.

Her mind was a maelstrom of activity. She’d have to dispose of the jacket immediately. Perhaps, in bed later tonight, if she was very good, she might convince Phillip to move up the wedding date, tell him how she’d been dreaming of a world cruise and could they leave immediately? She had not come this far, to this mansion and this life, to lose it all. Not for the sake of a goddamn jacket. And Phillip, with his influential friends and his spotless image, must never know.

“Darling!” Phillip’s voice boomed.

“Yes, dear?” Nora felt an embarrassed flush creep up her neck.

“You seemed so far away. And that outfit.”

Nora glanced down at her lounging ensemble, a navy raw silk tunic and matching slacks. “I thought you liked this outfit, darling.”

“You’ve forgotten, haven’t you?” Phillip’s expression reminded her of a child who was being denied an extra cookie. She had the urge to slap him.

Then she knew why Phillip was sulking. “Our engagement photograph. It’s tonight, isn’t it? What outfit had we decided on?”

“Your turquoise suit, dear. Does wonders for your eyes,” he said, looking deeply into them.
“Quick like a bunny upstairs to change. That photographer chap won’t be here for another half hour.”

As she planted another kiss on Phillip’s cheek, she gave the package under the chesterfield a reassuring nudge with the heel of her shoe. Tonight, she would smile for the birdie, then give the performance of a lifetime in the bedroom. Within a week, Mr. and Mrs. Phillip Rossner would set sail, and any future packages could pile up on the front verandah until they rotted, for all she cared.

Nora went upstairs, and so did the bottle of scotch.

B
y the time Kearns entered Beyond Expectations, it was 12:20. He’d circled Laurel Village twice before snagging a parking spot six blocks away from the café. Beth Wells, punctual to a fault, would be waiting.

Kearns grabbed an iced tea from the cooler at the front of the cafe and sidled by a ponytailed man leafing through a copy of
Poetry Flash
. As Kearns muttered “excuse me,” he wondered why anyone would consent to having one’s nose pierced not once, but twice. He paid for his drink at the counter and threaded his way to the rear of the café where Beth sat, drinking a cappuccino and reading
San Francisco Weekly
.

“Sorry I’m late,” Kearns said and pulled out the woven chair with chrome supports. “Breur’s chair, right?”

Beth smiled. “I’ll make a designer out of you yet, Jim. Maybe once this lunatic is caught, you’ll be ready for a career change.” When he sat down, she looked him straight in the eye. “I read about Patricia Mowatt. How awful for you.”

“Never mind me,” Kearns shrugged. “I’ll survive.” Still, he appreciated the empathy.

“Makes my horrid little letters seem ridiculous by comparison.”

“Not ridiculous, Beth. Just … different. You didn’t get another one, I hope?”

“No, thank heaven. I’m starting to believe in our theory — more immature than ominous. I think Bobby’s finally recognized the foolishness of his fantasy. Anyway, no more letters, and no Bobby hanging around lately either.”

“Still, you may have something there. More often than not, the people who do us the most harm are the ones right under our noses.”

Beth agreed. “It’s like what you said about the Spiderman. He’s somebody’s son, somebody’s neighbour—”

“Somebody’s boyfriend, for all we know. What better cover than to hide in a relationship? Trouble is, this guy’s not gonna have too many outward signs pointing to his deviance. Most of us can’t recognize a murderer until he pulls out a machete and chops our heads off. Oops, sorry.”

Beth shifted in her seat. “Jim, on the phone you said you needed my help. What is it?”

He took a long gulp of iced tea and cleared his throat. “It’s about Anne Spalding.”

“Oh, Jim,” Beth sighed, “there’s nothing more to tell. I knew next to nothing about Anne. Lousy as that sounds, it’s true.”

“Look, Beth, I’m not here to push your guilt buttons. Seems you do enough of that on your own. But sometimes, if enough time passes, memories surface. Think.”

He waited, but though he could read her expression and knew she was trying her best, nothing came.

“It’s no good, Jim,” Beth replied, sounding as frustrated as he felt. “Anne and I weren’t close. I know you think just because two women shared a house, we should have been having pajama parties, setting each other’s hair, and talking about men and sex until the wee hours, but we didn’t. I’m sorry.”

“Anne was a good-looking lady,” Kearns prodded. “She must have had some kind of social life. There had to have been a boyfriend. Surely some small talk, a casual comment —”

He caught it then, that look — the field mouse had spotted the hawk, but too late. Her eyes gave her away.

“I — I told you, Jim. Anne was very private. We both preferred it that way. No, that’s a lie.
I
preferred it that way.”

“No men coming to the house? Dates picking her up?”

Beth shook her head. “Nothing like that. Not even a phone call. When Anne was around, she watched television, read romance novels.”