Every Wickedness (25 page)

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.

“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.

F
ather 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.”