Muller, Marcia - [10] The Shape of Dread (v1.0) (html) (15 page)

After a time he moved back, smiled at me, smoothed my hair,
straightened my collar. He said, "I've wanted you since you made me
open up about Tracy. You touched me in a primal way that no one's come
close to in a very long time. And because you made me remember her as
she really was, rather than the idealized version I'd manufactured out
of my grief, in a sense you gave my daughter back to me. Gave me hope."

"And then took her away again. Took away the hope."

"No, at a gut level I've always known she was dead. And the hope was
for myself, for a life beyond all of this."

I tried to read what was in his eyes, to confirm that he really
believed what he'd said, but they were like shiny pebbles in the
reflected light. I couldn't help but wonder if in some way he didn't
blame—

"No," he said, "I don't feel any resentment against you for bringing
me the news. I don't, and I never will."

Promises, I thought. If only we could always keep our promises.

"We'll go to the house now," he said.

"Yes."

"The psychologist in me warns that this is a predictable and banal
reaction to a death. The man in me doesn't give a damn."

The investigator in me warned the same thing. But the woman in me
didn't give a damn, either.

The master bedroom was all antlers and moosehide, just as George had
described it. Somehow the tasteless decor didn't matter. As I'd so
coyly speculated on the occasion of our meeting, he was a man who gave
himself wholeheartedly and in our lovemaking we managed to leave death
and tragedy behind.
But dreams are another thing entirely…

The first time I awoke, George was thrashing about in the throes of
a nightmare. I shook him awake and held him for a while; then he slept
more peacefully. Later my own sleep was disturbed by visions of rain
and wind and darkness. The rain's sound was persistent, and I woke to
realize it was pelting the roof. I reached for George, but he wasn't
there. When I sat up, I saw him standing naked by the window, staring
out through the water-streaked glass. I went to stand beside him, and
he drew me into the circle of his arms, fitting my body to his.

A pair of security floodlights were mounted on the wall of the house
beyond the back fence. They silvered the rain. The black bushes and
trees were whipped about by the wind. I could imagine what George was
envisioning: the lonely stretch of riverbank and rotting hulk of a boat
where she'd lain through the damp and cold of many such rains; through
fragrant spring days that promised life to everything and everyone but
her; through the relentless heat of two long summers; through the
dying, swiftly cooling days of two autumns.

As if he realized I understood his thoughts, he said, "Nearly two
years. Such a long time for her to lie there."

"I know."

"I thought I'd done all my grieving. Now it starts again."

"I'm sorry I ever went up there."

"Don't be." He released me, then cupped my face in his hands. "I had
to know. And now I have you to help me through it."

"I'll do whatever I can."

"Then do this for me—find out what happened."

"I'll try."

That seemed to satisfy him. I led him back to bed, and we made love
again. Then he slept deeply, while I lay awake and thought
about the death of his daughter.

I dozed off at some point and woke before dawn to find him gone
again. I slipped out of bed, the moosehide of the throw rug rough
against my bare feet. There was a robe hanging from a bad-taste clothes
rack fashioned from a set of antlers; I put it on and went out onto the
gallery.

Sound came from the living room—the TV tuned low. A woman's voice,
then laughter. George hunched in one of the uncomfortable chairs,
watching the screen intently. I went over there, stood behind him with
my hands on his shoulders, and watched, too.

I'd seen photographs of Tracy in the newspapers, but they didn't
begin to do justice to the living, moving young woman on the videotape.
Blond-haired like her mother, strong-featured like her father, tall and
spare, she moved expressively while delivering her lines in a deadpan
fashion, never once spoiling them by laughing at her own humor. As she
slipped effortlessly from character to character—from a single mother
named Gloria to a bewildered feminist named Fran—she became immersed in
each new persona, portraying her so convincingly that I could forget
momentarily that this was Tracy Kostakos, the daughter George mourned,
the subject of my investigation. I found myself laughing at the
feminist's dilemma, which ended in the punchline: "If God had meant for
us to have hairy armpits, would She have given us Nair?" It was the
line Kathy Soriano had quoted on Thursday night, and the triviality of
the problem made it ring true.

George was laughing, too. "Jesus, she could be funny," he said. "I
don't even like stand-up comedy much, but I could watch her for hours."

"Do you have a lot of tapes of her?"

"Dozens, of practically every character she ever performed. They
were in her apartment, and I brought them home,
thinking I'd watch them. But I never had the heart to, and when I left
Laura, she didn't want them. She said she didn't need the tapes to
remember Tracy because she would be back soon. So I brought them up
here with me. I've never watched any of them until now."

I glanced back at the TV. Fran the feminist had metamorphosed into a
lesbian waitress named Ginny. "I wonder." I said.

"Wonder what?"

"Those tapes—there could be something in them."

"You mean something that would explain what happened to her?"

"Maybe… no, it's probably a stupid idea. Besides, I can't see myself
watching dozens of them—not when there are more promising leads I could
pursue."

"You might want to look at the ones that were made close to the time
she died. Everything I have is dated."

"Maybe I'll do that." I glanced at the clock on the VCR. It was
almost six, still dark outside. "Right now," I added, "why don't we
brew some of that fancy coffee? There are a couple of people I want to
catch off guard, before their morning shots of caffeine have time to
take effect."

When I arrived at Amy Barbour's building at a little after seven, a
man in a sweat suit was leaving. I caught the iron gate before it swung
shut, and he started to say something Then he shrugged and turned
downhill on the sidewalk. I climbed the stairs and pounded on Amy's
door.

For about thirty seconds nothing happened. Then Amy's voice shouted
for me to hang on, she was coming. The lock turned, a chain rattled,
and Amy's face peered through the crack; she was pasty complexioned and
bleary eyed, and her dark red hair stood up in little tufts. I wondered
if she always looked this bad in the morning or if her appearance was a
consequence of too much New Year's celebrating.

"What the hell are you doing here at this hour?" she said.

From her manner I gathered she hadn't heard about me finding Tracy's
body yet. I'd told Detective Gurski about the probable connection
between the cottage and the victim's roommate and had given him Amy's
address and phone number, but there were a variety of reasons he might
not have spoken to her yet.

I said, "There's been a new development, and I need to talk with
you."

Her mouth twitched irritably, but she stepped back, removed the
chain, and let me inside. The apartment was dark and frigid. Amy
shivered inside her long white terrycloth robe, then turned away from
me and fiddled with the thermostat of the electric heater. "It's just
as well you came by, I guess," she said. "I've got something to show
you."

It surprised me that she didn't ask about the new development, but
maybe she hadn't fully comprehended what I'd said. "What is it?"

She moved away, flicking on lights and heading for the kitchen. When
she caught sight of herself in the mirrored wall of the dining area,
she grimaced. "There, on the table. Shit, I feel terrible. I've got to
make some coffee."

I looked at the table. It was covered with all manner of things:
dirty dishes, an ashtray, sections of newspaper, books, playing cards,
a basket of moldy-looking fruit. "Where on the table?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake!" She strode over, picked up one of the
books, and thrust it at me.

It was a red and black paperback titled You Can Create a New
Identity, by an individual described as a "world-famous private eye."
I'd never heard of him. The book looked well thumbed, and a great
number of its pages were dog-eared. I turned to one, captioned "How to
Establish a Mail Drop," and saw various phrases had been underlined in
blue ink. In the margin was the notation "Los Angeles?" The handwriting
looked to be Tracy's.

I said, "Where did you find this?"

Amy dumped coffee into a paper filter before she spoke. "In Tracy's
room."

"When?"

"Yesterday."

"What were you doing in there?"

"Just looking around."

"I thought you were afraid Mrs. Kostakos might catch you and throw
you out of here."

She shrugged. "I'm not anymore. I talked my boyfriend into letting
me move in with him. I'm sick of Mrs. K and her weirdness."

"Has she done something since we last talked?"

"You bet your ass she has. She showed up on Friday like usual, so I
thought I was rid of her for the week. Then she turned up on New Year's
Eve. My boyfriend and I came back from having dinner, all set for a
nice quiet evening, if you know what I mean. Then we smell the old
gardenias. Surprise! She's in there. Stayed there all night, too. We
didn't want to drive across town to his place—we'd been drinking, and
the sobriety checks, you know. So we stayed here and we couldn't… well,
do anything because of the walls being so thin. Anyway, I got mad and
said fuck it. As of tomorrow I'm out of here. I haven't paid my share
of the rent for this month, and I don't intend to. If Mrs. K wants, she
can. Then she can sit there all day every day for all I care."

I frowned, disturbed both by Laura Kostakos's actions on New Year's
Eve and by the book in my hand. This slim but colorful volume was not
something I would have overlooked in my search of Tracy's room; I was
certain it hadn't been there on Thursday night. "Exactly where did you
find this?" I asked.

"The bookcase, along with her stuff on comedy."

Then it definitely hadn't been there on Thursday; I'd examined those
books thoroughly. Someone had planted it—but who? Laura Kostakos? Or
was Amy lying? And if so, why? The only reason I could think of was
that she was trying to make it look as if Tracy had planned her own
disappearance well in advance. If that was the case, the identity of
the person who had killed Tracy was obvious.

My silence made Amy uncomfortable. She got coffee cups from one of
the cabinets, took out milk and sugar, then glared at
the teakettle on the stove, tapping her fingers on the counter. "Look,"
she finally said, "just take the book and go, will you? I've got to get
ready for work. Everybody else has a holiday, but do I? Hell, no."

She wanted me to leave immediately, but she'd taken out two cups.
"Is your boyfriend here, Amy?"

"What? No." She looked down at the cups. "All right— yes. Just go,
okay?"

She seemed excessively evasive for an emancipated young woman who
had just declared her intention of moving in with the man. I pulled out
a chair at the table and sat down.

"What're you doing? I told you to—"

"Don't you want to know about the new development in the case?"

"The new… oh, I thought that was just an excuse to get in here and
hassle me some more."

"It was no excuse. Tracy's body has turned up. At a cottage on the
Napa River, owned by people named Barbour."

What little color she'd had drained from her face. Her mouth went
slack, and she sagged against the counter.

"She's been dead the whole time, Amy. Hidden in that old fishing
boat on the riverbank. She's nothing but bones."

"No no no no!"

"All this time she's been there—and you knew, and you never told."

"I didn't! I—" Toward the front of the apartment, a door opened. Amy
swung horror-struck eyes in the direction and snouted, "No!"

"Amy, what the hell?" A man came through the living room in a rush:
a big, chubby, bathrobe-clad fellow with a clown's face. The wide mouth
turned down in dismay when he saw me.

I stood up. "Marc Emmons," I said. "I've been trying to reach you
for days."

"Who… ?" He looked at Amy. "This is her?"

She nodded.

Emmons quickly went to stand beside her, one arm thrown protectively
around her shoulders. Both their robes and their early-morning
unattractiveness were a perfect match.

"What have you been doing to her?" Emmons demanded.

"Relaying some news you should hear, too. Tracy Kostakos's body has
been found. She's probably been dead since the night she disappeared.
But perhaps you knew that, Marc. Amy did."

"I didn't! I swear I didn't!" Amy said.

Emmons barely reacted to the news—a tightening of his mouth, but
nothing more. He put his other arm around Amy, as if to shield her from
my accusation. "What makes you think that?" he asked.

"She was found near a cottage on the Napa River. I believe the
property belongs to Amy's family."

Emmons looked down at her. "The old summer place?"

She nodded, teeth chattering.

"So that's what happened," he said softly.

"You don't seem particularly upset by the news."

"I'm not a person who likes to show emotion in front of strangers.
Besides, Tracy's been gone a long time, and I've made a new life for
myself."

"Obviously."

"Look, let's sit down and have some coffee." He released his hold on
Amy. "Honey, get us some, huh?"

As if it understood his words, the kettle shrieked. Amy started and
turned toward the stove. Emmons motioned at the chair I'd been
occupying. "Please?"