Good to the Last Kiss (23 page)

‘How about peanut sauce?’

‘No. Love it. And peanut butter.’

Gratelli sat at his desk. Opposite and butting against his own was McClellan’s desk, pretty much as it had been left. Any minute, it seemed, Mickey would plop his plump amorphous body down in the chair. The sudden whoosh of the cushion would be accompanied by random obscenities. Gratelli tried to concentrate on the folders – the ones that pertained to Bateman. While another stack, much larger and pertaining to the others rested on the upper left corner of the battered Formica.

The folders yielded little. There were no real suspects in the slaying of the girls. There were some remote possibilities with Bateman; but those didn’t make a great deal of sense with the others. Earl Falwell looked good for both Bateman and the others. But unless he was giving a Dustin Hoffman job of acting, it wasn’t likely that Earl could have avoided some sort of DNA trail. No blood. No hair. No semen. No fabric samples.

In the case of Bateman, most leads were dead ends. A couple of guys she testified against had concrete alibis. The guy from the laundromat had an unimpeachable alibi. Death. No alibi for Baskins, who may have resented her spying on him, if he knew. But the sexual aspect didn’t fit and he didn’t appear to be strong enough – even without a neck brace – to be that dominant. Then again, a flashlight to the head of the victim goes a long way in the domination department.

According to McClellan’s notes and the conversation they had after the interview, it was possible Ezra Blackburn could have done it; but how would he have known about the engraving? As a former insurance investigator, maybe Blackburn had some official connections somewhere. Any one of a number of cops who were first on the scene and could have taken a close enough look to describe the rose tattoo. The medical examiner’s office, maybe.

The silly charge that McClellan himself could have been involved should have been resolved quickly by getting the measurements of the skylight the intruder dropped through. McClellan’s girth would have been a pretty tight fit. This wouldn’t have been a McClellan choice for an entrance. He wasn’t exactly in shape for Olympic gymnastics.

Apparently some members of the task force implied that a cop would be smart enough to set up something like that. Pick the lock on the front door. Break the skylight to suggest that was the point of entry and avert suspicion. It still didn’t fit.

Who did that leave? Someone Julia Bateman knew? Seidman? He could easily have known about the engraving. They had a relationship, of sorts. He’d be smart enough to know how to destroy the evidence. He could have a real kinky side. A lot of people did.

Who else? Not Paul Chang. Surely.

Why? For what purpose? To take over the business? Murders have been done for less. Even so it didn’t work. On the other hand, judging by the photos Chang took, the books he owned and the clippings he saved, Paul wasn’t one hundred percent out of the running. Chang seemed like such a likable, wholesome guy. Maybe he was just an artist attempting to document our violent times. Sweet guy, right. On the other hand, Jeffrey Dahmer convinced a Milwaukee cop that a naked, fleeing, bleeding Cambodian youth was actually the other half of a mere, slight domestic quarrel. Ted Bundy was a genuine charmer. The Menendez kids didn’t look mean enough to blow their parents to smithereens. Not every mad dog looked and acted like Charlie Manson.

Gratelli picked up the phone. Called Paul Chang. He didn’t know what he would say. Maybe he would talk to him about the symbolism of engraving a flower on the inside of victims’ thighs. Maybe he’d have Paul Chang keep track of Earl Falwell. Mix it up.

As Gratelli prepared to leave a message after Chang’s recorded message advised of his inaccessibility, Gratelli flipped through the photos. He had pretty much avoided them before, especially the photographs of the killer’s etchings which were carved high on the victims’ inner thighs. It had seemed to him, even with all his years in the police force, to be a prurient thing for him to do, an invasion of privacy oddly more repulsive by the fact that all of them were dead. Except for Julia.

‘I want to talk to you about the Bateman case,’ Gratelli said after an impertinent beep on Chang’s recorder. ‘If you’re willing, I need you to help. Call me if you’re interested.’

All the marks looked alike and were in the same place, including Bateman’s. However, there was one small difference. Julia’s mark showed two small thorns on the stem of the rose. The others didn’t.

What did that mean? At first it seemed that this was evidence that the two weren’t connected at all. But, a moment later, it occurred to Gratelli that the added thorns might very well have meant a change in the killer’s attitude. Or, merely that with Julia, the victim had, for the first time, fought back. Was it an editorial comment?

‘Jesus!’ he said. The other cops looked at him.

‘Why don’t we go somewhere.’ It was David Seidman’s voice on the telephone. ‘Somewhere way away.’

‘I just got back,’ Julia said. She looked around her tiny room. So small compared to her home in Iowa.

‘I’ve had a lot of time to think, Julia.’

‘So have I.’

‘I want to show you another side of me,’ he said. ‘Before we head out in different directions. Let’s do something spontaneous. Let’s go to the airport and take the very next plane out of here.’

‘I don’t want to travel, David. Really.’

‘We won’t tell anyone. No one. Not even Paul.’

‘Paul would worry himself sick.’

‘This isn’t about Paul. It’s about us.’ The ‘us’ resonated. ‘We’re supposed to be together,’ Seidman said. ‘I know we are.’

‘Not now.’

‘I know what you’ve been through. I can protect you.’

‘David . . .’

‘There’s nothing more to say,’ he said. ‘Why do you do this to me?’

‘I don’t want to do anything to you,’ Julia said. What she had sensed before was now overt. Recognizable. ‘I don’t mean to. There’s nothing I can say either. I’m just very tired from the trip.’

‘I thought you’d want to see me.’

‘Not now.’

There was dead silence on the other end.

‘David?’ She asked in the quiet.

She heard the disconnect.

The distinct aroma of coconut, peanut and sesame blended with other spices as Paul and Julia toasted each other. She had a brown bottle of Singha beer. Paul had the Thai iced tea.

‘I missed you,’ she said. ‘I hate to say this, but you are the only person I missed. If I thought for one minute I could get you to Iowa City, I might not have come back.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Paul said.

‘Why?’

‘We can talk about that later. But not before I tell you how much I missed you. If only you were a guy.’

‘I think I’ll find a way to take that as a compliment.’

Neither of them had spoken of the attack. Not at the airport or on the ride home. Not on the long walk from her Hayes Street apartment to the restaurant on Folsom. He didn’t want to spoil her mood; but the longer he waited the more difficult it would be. Eventually the subject would become taboo. That wouldn’t be good, either.

‘You remember Inspector Gratelli?’ She looked puzzled. ‘Dark, hairy, sad-looking guy with big hands,’ he said to jog her memory. There was an awkward moment. ‘We don’t have to . . .’

‘I remember. Vaguely. I don’t remember much of it. Not much before, nothing during and not much after until Iowa. But yes, I can picture him.’

‘He’s sort of still on the case.’ He waited for some sign of approval, an OK to go on. He didn’t get it. Paul continued anyway. ‘I’m helping. Just thought you ought to know.’

‘Help him do what.’

‘Find out.’

‘Find out what?’ She recognized she was being coy. ‘I’m sorry. Please don’t. No need. Look, Paul. I’m going to need you as a friend, not as a vigilante. I don’t want you obsessed with this. You’ll draw me into it. I don’t want in. And . . . anyway . . . we have our own work, don’t we?’

‘You don’t care.’

‘I do care, Paul. I want to kill him. I could do grotesque things to him. I want to inflict pain . . . torture him. But I’m not going to chase my tail. If the police had anything, they would have called me. I can’t keep looking back. I don’t want you living back there either.’

She held out her bottle of Thai beer for a toast. ‘To the future,’ she said.

TWENTY-TWO

T
he call came at one a.m. Earl had been asleep, but not for long and not deeply. It had to be a wrong number or the guy from the other night, Earl thought as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. What few people he knew wouldn’t call him at all probably, except Grandma O. No one, including her, would call at midnight unless it was seriously bad news. He could find the phone in the darkness. This wouldn’t be good, he thought.

‘Hello,’ he said hesitantly.

‘Earl?’

Earl was pretty sure it was the guy, but not one hundred percent sure. It could be a doctor or someone.

‘Who is this?’

‘Now, Earl you have to listen for awhile. I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m not going to turn you in. I just want to tell you what I know and warn you.’

‘Warn me?’ Earl said reflexively.

‘I’ll get to that Earl. Will you listen to me?’

‘Don’t talk too long,’ Earl said. He knew that didn’t make much sense, but he was unsure of what he should do.

‘I won’t Earl. I’m on your side. Listen. Don’t hang up. I know about the girls. The ones you strangled. You didn’t really want to do it, did you?’

‘Fuck,’ Earl said. This was pretty lame. Social worker language. He’d heard it before. Here he was afraid of this wimp. ‘Get on with it fuckhead.’ Earl felt tough again.

‘Come on, Earl. You didn’t want to at first, did you?’

‘I ain’t sayin’ I did nothing. You keep talking and I’ll hang up when I get bored with this shit. OK?’

‘OK, Earl.’ Now the voice got harder. ‘So you are a tough guy now. What are you going to do about the witness?’

‘What witness?’ Earl asked. He’d said it before he thought.

‘The witness. The one on the hill. Sutro, you know? You, your Camaro and that girl? The naked girl?’

‘So why haven’t the cops arrested me if they got somebody so sure I done it?’

‘Because she was scared. Now she isn’t. You’re not off the hook, you know that. The cops have talked to you, right?’

‘Who says you’re not a cop?’

‘I wouldn’t be giving you a chance to eliminate the only thing in this world that can convict you. When she’s gone, you’re home free.’

‘So, who is she?’

‘I’ll tell you when it’s time.’

‘Don’t jerk me around. Why do we have to wait?’

‘Because I want it done right, when the time is right, when we’re sure no one is watching you. I’ll let you go now.’

‘Who’s watching me?’

‘I don’t know if anybody is, Earl. You are a suspect. We both know you are. We just have to make sure the time is right.’

‘I didn’t say I did anything, you know?’

‘Right Earl. I know.’

‘Listen . . .’

‘What?’ the voice asked, sympathetically.

‘I don’t know.’

‘You want to talk for awhile?’

‘No. No I don’t.’

‘I understand these things. I really do.’

‘Bullshit,’ Earl said, but not with much authority.

‘You feel OK?’

‘I fuckin’ feel fine,’ Earl said belligerently. He hung up the phone. What made him angry was that the guy didn’t really want to know if he was all right. He was just digging in, trying to control him. The caller, in all his anonymity and his knowledge had the power. Earl slipped on a pair of jeans and a pair of Nikes, not bothering to lace them up. Why is it somebody else always had the power?

He went to the door.

Gratelli looked at the clock – 1:10 a.m. He wondered why he was awake. Then he remembered the dream. It was Mickey. The dream was a replay. Gratelli walked into the bathroom, and there was Mickey crawling out of the tub. The side of his head had been blown off. His white shirt was soaked scarlet. He cursed in much the same manner as he had when his bowl of noodles were cold or the traffic was snarled.

‘Fuck, can’t I do anything right?’

‘Damn,’ Gratelli said. Was there more to it? If there was, Gratelli didn’t want to know. It was clear to Gratelli that he’d been bothered by McClellan’s death more than he cared to admit. He’d been slacking, too. Coasting. All he really had to do these days, besides a few court appearances on previous busts, was Bateman. And he wasn’t sure where to go with what little he knew.

He rarely let things get to him. Something was getting to him now. It was some damned combination of Bateman and McClellan.

Once he got a new partner, Gratelli thought, the cases would begin to flow. He’d be back in the swing. Things would return to normal.

Paul had eventually given up on the tea and had three – or was it four – Singhas. A positive belief in the future – as required by their initial toast – needed a little reinforcement. It wasn’t clear that either was convinced.

He’d walked Julia back to her place, arriving there by ten, going immediately to this address on Stanyan. He had a photo of Earl Falwell, the person who lived there. The likeness showed pockmarks and dull eyes on an otherwise average Caucasian face. This was probably the ugliest picture of the kid ever taken. There was no such thing as a looker on a mug shot – unless you use your imagination.

The stake out on Falwell held little promise, Gratelli told him. It was true the killings had stopped while Earl Falwell was incarcerated. But it was also true Earl Falwell had been out long enough to renew his efforts if he were the one. Maybe the killer had long since moved to some other part of the country or the world and continued his nasty ritual where the connections wouldn’t be made. Maybe the killer was dead. Killed himself. Not an improbable end to this kind of thing.