Muller, Marcia - [10] The Shape of Dread (v1.0) (html) (22 page)

Actual participation in other people's lives. I was beginning to
have an idea…

Stein was watching me with interest. "Will you let me know what you
find out?"

"Yes, of course."

"My evaluation of Tracy may have sounded pretty damning, but I
really did like her. She was talented and dedicated; that combination
is harder to find than you'd expect." She broke off, her gaze moving to
the bar's entrance. "My client," she said.

I stood up. "Thank you for your time."

"Don't mention it." Already she was on her feet, attention turning
from the lost promise of Tracy Kostakos to the future prospects of the
curly-haired young man who approached the table.

I went to the bank of pay phones in the ticket lobby and placed a
credit-card call to Detective Gurski. He'd told me earlier that he'd
sent a man down to the city for Mclntyre's dental records and that he
was pushing the coroner's office to have the results of the comparison
to him by noon. It took a long time for him to come on the line, but
when he did, his tone was warmer than on the previous occasions we'd
spoken.

"Your suggestion was a good one, Ms. McCone," he said. "We have a
positive identification."

"The bones were Lisa Mclntyre's."

"Yes. I guess you realize what this means. The new focus of our
investigation will be very distressing to the Kostakos girl's family."

"I'm aware of that. May I have your permission to continue to work
on the case, on behalf of Bobby Foster's attorney?"

"I've got no problem with that, so long as you report any
developments to me."

I thanked him and hung up, then placed a second call to Rae at All
Souls. "Anything on Mclntyre yet?" I asked.

"Not a thing. The manager of her apartment building hasn't been
there, and Kathy Soriano refuses to talk with me. I've just gotten
started on the skip trace, and I suppose it'll take a while for people
to get back to me."

"I doubt they'll have anything for you." I told her about the
coroner's findings, then added, "I want you to keep going, though."

"Why, if the woman's dead?"

"Just an idea I have, I'll explain later. One thing you might do is
contact unions for service workers, such as waitresses. I don't know
how to reach any of them, or what you'd need to do to get information,
but call Johnny's Kansas City Barbecue—that's that restaurant in the
Fillmore that's been there forever and just got 'discovered'—and talk
to Johnny Hart. He's an old friend of mine and may be able to help you."

"All right," Rae said, the dubious note in her voice telling me what
she thought of the idea. "By the way," she added, "George Kostakos
called. Said he'd try later."

"Oh, good. When he does, ask him if he can meet me at my house
around four. I have to be there to take delivery on some Sheetrock."

"Don't mention Sheetrock to me."

"Sorry. Is the room finished?"

"I'm still painting. I'll probably be painting forever."

I wished her luck with it, then went to pay a king's ransom to the
airport parking authority. As I drove back toward the city, dark clouds
were massing ominously along the barren slopes of San Bruno Mountain.

The rainstorm hit full force as I was walking across South Park to
Café Comedie from the small restaurant where I'd stopped for a burger.
I sprinted through the benches and playground equipment, my boot heels
sinking into the damp ground, to the shelter of the red-white-and-blue
striped canopy. The club was closed, but Larkey had said he would be
there for our two-o'clock appointment. I pounded on the door until he
looked out, his brown hair curling riotously from the humidity.

"Good Christ," he said, peering past me to where the water cascaded
off the canvas. "It's a fucking cloudburst. Did you get soaked?"

"No, I'm more chilly than wet." The interior of the club was almost
as cold as outside. A maintenance man in a down jacket was vacuuming
the carpet near the stage, and the bartender who had served me on
Thursday night was unpacking a case of liquor with gloved hands.

"Sorry it's so cold in here," Larkey said. "We've been having
trouble with the furnace—gas leak, and PG&E can't get it fixed
right. Come on back to my office; I've got a space
heater on. You want a drink?"

"One would help, thanks."

"Mike, would you make us a couple of hot toddies and bring them back
to the office?" he asked the bartender. Then he motioned for me to
follow him through the door that said Yes.

After the chill outside, the office seemed excessively warm, and
even more disorderly than the first time I'd seen it. Several cardboard
file boxes were stacked in the center of the floor, a wastebasket full
of what looked to be receipts on top of them. Although Larkey was again
clad in a sweat suit—a natty red and yellow one this time—he obviously
hadn't been using the exercise bike, since it was draped with a sport
coat, a dress shirt, two ties, and a pair of pants. While I shed my
trenchcoat, he looked around helplessly, then picked up a pile of
newspapers and magazines from a chair and dumped them in a corner. I
sat there, and he took his desk chair, propping his feet on the
littered blotter.

"So," he said, "what's happening?"

"The Napa County coroner has made an ID on those bones. They're
definitely Lisa Mclntyre's."

He grimaced, as if experiencing sudden pain. "Poor kid. I'm sorry.
What the hell was she doing up there, anyway?"

"I'm not sure. Do you have a picture of her—in her personnel file,
perhaps?"

He started to shake his head, then took his feet off the desk and
rummaged in a lower drawer. "The staff gave me a birthday party that
year. Somebody took pictures. There might be… here's one—Lisa at the
bar with Tracy."

I got up and took it from his extended hand. They sat on stools,
half turned toward the camera. Tracy's expression was wary, perhaps
because she was anticipating the glare of the flashbulb. Lisa smiled
boldly. She had a heart-shaped face with a turned-up nose; her light
brown hair fell smoothly from a center part, then belled out in soft
curls that touched her
shoulders. The shrewd, knowing expression in her eyes was strangely
familiar; Tracy had caught it perfectly in her portrayal of Ginny the
waitress.

I wasn't sure why I'd wanted to see a picture of the dead woman;
perhaps I'd hoped to erase my mental image of that pitiful jumble of
bones by seeing her in the flesh. I surprised myself further by asking,
"Can I keep this?"

"Help yourself. I've got no use for it." As I tucked it in my bag,
he added, "What gave you the idea it might be Lisa up there?"

"Just the timing of her disappearance."

"I wonder how she got there, or even knew where it was. It's
isolated, and you've got to know which fork in the road to take—"
Abruptly he broke off, realizing what he'd implied.

"Tracy had taken you there, then?"

He made a motion, as if to erase my question.

"Jay, I know you were having an affair with her. Apparently everyone
knew at the time."

There was a knock at the door. Mike the bartender entered with our
toddies. Larkey waited until he handed them around and departed before
speaking. "Yeah, I guess everyone did know. I didn't bother to hide it."

"Why would you have reason to? Affairs between men in their prime
and women of Tracy's age aren't uncommon."

"Especially in this business. Maybe that's why I don't want to own
up to it now. It was such a trite situation. Older man clinging to the
fringes of the business and needing reassurance. Young woman on her way
up, thinking he can help her. An old, old story."

"I'm sure Tracy didn't see it that way. From what I hear, she
genuinely cared for you."

His mouth twitched, and he quickly drank some of his toddy. "No," he
said, "she didn't. But that's got nothing to do
with… anything."

"Can I ask you another personal question?"

"About Tracy?"

"Yes."

"Go ahead."

"Did you ever give her money?"

"You mean besides what I paid her to perform here? Yeah, I did."

"Why?"

"On my part that should be obvious. I thought if I gave her money I
wouldn't lose her. But it was more than that; the kid was needy." To my
surprised look he added, "Not in a monetary sense. Her family's rich.
But she was angry with her parents on a very deep level and badly
wanted to be independent."

"And she couldn't get by on what she earned? Jane Stein told me her
contract with you was 'lucrative.'"

"She could have gotten by if she hadn't been so… needy is the only
way I can describe it. Tracy had to buy things—clothes, possessions.
They filled an emotional gap. It was the same way with applause from
the audience. But when she got either, the applause or the things, it
was never enough. Fifteen minutes later, its affect would have dulled,
the way the affect of a fix does for a junkie. Then she'd start needing
all over again. There sure as hell must have been something missing in
her childhood, to make her that way."

I thought of the first character in the sketchbook, whom I'd
suspected might be Tracy herself. The mother had never hugged her; the
father had barely seemed alive. And I thought of George's description
of all the years of Tracy's upbringing—those gray years that he
scarcely remembered. A desolate feeling welled under my breastbone: for
Laura, who was incapable of expressing her love; for George, who hadn't
been able to feel; for Tracy, who had starved emotionally.

Larkey was watching me curiously. I pushed the thoughts aside and
asked, "Did she take you up to the river often?"

"Only twice. It was someplace she liked to get away to, and her
roommate let her use it whenever she wanted. I hated it; it was too
rustic for me. But I went along… well, for the same reason I gave her
money."

"Do you suppose she took other people there?"

He ran his sharp little teeth over his lower lip. "Why do you ask
that?"

"As you pointed out, Lisa would have had to know how to find it.
Unless she went with Tracy that night."

"There's no way she would have," he said flatly, shaking his head.

I studied his face, trying to gauge what he knew about Lisa and
Tracy. Probably not the whole story, I thought. It was hardly something
Tracy would have confided in him—nor Lisa, for that matter.

After a moment he added, "Besides, the logistics aren't right. Tracy
left here right after her last performance—that was established at
Foster's trial. Lisa worked until closing at two. I can confirm that."

"So she drove up there after her shift ended—"

"No. She didn't own a car."

"Are you sure of that?"

He nodded. "A lot of times I drove her to her bus stop after work.
That night it was raining, and normally I would have driven her, but I
was… tied up here. So the Sorianos took her instead, drove her all the
way home, since her apartment was on their way to the Golden Gate
Bridge."

"You're certain about that?"

He nodded.

"Lisa could have borrowed a car after she got home. Or the next day.
The time of her death can't be established."

He frowned, apparently realizing the direction in which my questions
were leading. "You're not implying that Tracy… ?"

"It's a possibility."

"I refuse to believe that!"

"I don't want to, myself. But I don't know what else to think."

Larkey stood up and began to move restlessly around the office,
snatching up the clothing from the exercise bike and wadding it
together, then dropping it on the floor. He turned around, banged into
the stack of file boxes. The wastebasket of receipts teetered; he
grabbed for it, and it fell to the floor, scattering bits of paper like
snow on the carpet.

"Shit!" For a moment I thought he would get down on his knees and
begin gathering them up, but instead he kicked furiously at them.
"Goddamn things, what's the use, anyway?"

"I'm sorry?"

He flung out a hand at the littered floor. "Stuff for a meeting with
Rob and my tax man tomorrow afternoon. I don't know why I even bother.
The losses alone'll save me from forking over."

"The club's losing that much money?"

"The club? Christ, no. It's the fucking real estate business that's
killing me."

"Atlas Development? I talked with Rob Soriano and got the exact
opposite impression."

"Ah, that's just hype. Rob probably thinks you've got some bucks to
invest. Truth is, we're up to our asses in loans we can't pay off;
we're stuck with property we can't give away, much less rent. People
are holding off on buying or renting in SoMa until the Planning
Commission comes up with guidelines for its development. Rob and I are
barely treading water these days."

"But he seems so confident—"

"That's just his way, but don't let it fool you. He and Kath are up
to the limits on all their credit cards, their house is
triple-mortgaged, and the lenders are closing in on them. We've still
got the club, but if he had his way, that'd be mortgaged up to the
hilt, too. I'm not all that worried, though; Rob's led a charmed life.
He's one of that kind that always land on their feet."

"You've known him a long time?"

"Awhile. I met him when I was playing Vegas, on my way down. We hit
it off, maybe because he didn't give me the bullshit celebrity
treatment. He knew I was on my way out, and he let me in on a couple of
land deals he had going there. They worked out. He'd been a developer
other places— Florida, Texas—and knew what he was doing. I cleared
enough to buy this club."

"And he went into partnership with you?"

Larkey shook his head, sitting down on the edge of the desk, one
foot scuffing rhythmically at the scattered receipts. "For the first
couple of years this place was my baby. But things weren't going so
good. This was a rougher neighborhood then, people didn't want to come
down here. I was about to lose everything when Rob showed up—with his
new wife, the toothsome Kathy—and bailed me out again. When things got
going here, we formed Atlas."