Muller, Marcia - [10] The Shape of Dread (v1.0) (html) (52 page)

"Do you realize how hard it is for me to find someone who also likes
that combination?" he asked. "We must be made for each other."

"I'll hold on to that thought."

When I replaced the receiver in its cradle, Jack was looking
quizzically at me. "Was that George Kostakos you were talking to?"

"… Yes."

"Sounds as if the two of you really hit it off."

"Yes, we did. He's an interesting man, and easy to get to know."

Jack's expression grew guarded; there was an element of concern in
his voice when he spoke again. "I hope you're not becoming emotionally
involved with… a principal figure in the investigation."

Good Lord, I thought irritably, he's given up on me as a possible
romantic interest, and now he wants to dispense advice, like Hank. "Why
would I do that?"

He shrugged. "I've met Kostakos. He's intelligent, good-looking,
personable, rich. I don't know why you wouldn't be attracted to him."

He meant well, but it really wasn't any of his business. I said,
"He's also married. Don't forget that."

Jack relaxed slightly. "Just so long as you don't," he said.

Amy Barbour's apartment building wasn't really on my way across town
to the Marina district, but I made an uphill detour so I could drive by
there. I told myself I wouldn't bother to stop unless I spotted a
convenient parking space; the police would have checked and rechecked
the apartment, so chances were slim that Barbour was at home. When I
reached the building, however, there was a vacant space almost in front
of it. Destiny, I thought as I steered the MG to the curb.

The windows of the second-story bedrooms were dark; a Mercedes
sports coupe stood in the driveway. The light in the vestibule showed
that the metal security gate had been propped open, the way it might be
if someone were carrying things in or out and didn't want to be
bothered with unlocking it on every trip. Was Barbour moving in with
Emmons tonight? If so, why hadn't the police located them here or at
his place?

I went through the gate and up the stairs. The door to the apartment
was slightly ajar, but I heard no voices, saw no lights. As I moved
forward, the flesh along my backbone rippled
slightly.

The interior was in shadow, but the draperies on the picture windows
hung open, the glow from the farflung city lights silvering the room.
It washed over the pale furniture and silhouetted the tall figure of a
man who stood in front of the glass, looking out. When I pushed the
door fully open and stepped over the threshold, he turned quickly,
steel-rimmed glasses glinting. I fumbled for the light switch; one of
the table lamps came on. The man was Rob Soriano, Larkey's partner.

In spite of his precise military bearing, Soriano seemed relaxed and
not at all surprised to see me, as if he'd expected that sooner or
later I'd turn up. He didn't speak, merely folded his arms across his
chest and studied me. I returned his stare.

Tonight Soriano wore a gray business suit, lighter gray shirt, and
muted striped tie. The monochromatic clothing, combined with the severe
glasses and conservative cut of his hair, lent him a faceless quality,
but even in flashier garb he would not be a man you would pick out of a
crowd. His square-jawed face looked tired, as if he'd spent the day in
wearisome negotiations; there were deep brackets from his nose to the
corners of his mouth, which in no way could be termed laugh lines.

When it appeared he was waiting for me to speak, I said, "How are
you, Mr. Soriano?"

"Fine, Ms. McCone. And you?"

"Fine also. May I ask what you're doing here?"

A small smile played around his thin lips. "I could ask you the
same."

"I'm looking for Amy Barbour and Marc Emmons."

"Then we have a common purpose."

"Why do you want them?"

"Actually, I'm only interested in Marc. Our chubby comedian has
failed to show up since Thursday night. Jay wants me to
drag him down there so he can give him the axe."

Larkey seemed to rely on both of the Sorianos to run errands for
him, I thought. But Rob didn't look or act like a gofer. "How did you
get in here?" I asked.

"Same way you did. Both doors were open; it looks as if someone's
been moving things out."

I glanced around the room. The furniture was undisturbed, but there
were empty spaces in the record cabinet and on a bookcase. A
half-packed box of kitchen equipment stood on the cluttered dining
table. I moved down the hall to the bedrooms. The door to Tracy's was
locked. Amy's bed had been stripped; the bureau drawers were empty, and
only a few items of clothing hung in the closet. The bathroom was
devoid of toiletries and towels.

Rob Soriano was sitting on the white leather sofa when I returned to
the living room. He took out a pack of cigarettes, offered one to me,
and when I shook my head, lit one for himself. "Where do you suppose
our plump little birds have flown to?" he asked.

I sat down at the other end of the couch. "Amy was planning to move
in with Emmons."

"Well, she must have gotten lost en route; there's no one at his
place, either."

It occurred to me that the police might have picked them up in the
last few hours; that would explain why Amy had interrupted her packing.
I decided, however, to say nothing about that to Soriano. "How come
you're out tracking down Emmons?" I asked. "You said your wife is the
one who takes the active role in Café Comedie."

"Kathy's hardly the one to haul a large, protesting young man down
there."

From what I'd seen of Kathy Soriano, I judged her to be more than a
match for most people, but I didn't voice the opinion.
"What about Larkey?"

"Jay's busy overseeing the operation of the club. Besides, he has…
difficulty dealing with Marc."

"Why is that?"

Soriano blew a smoke ring and watched as it wafted through the air,
its shape gradually becoming distorted. "Marc was the Kostakos girl's
boyfriend," he finally said.

"So?"

"Jay was also her boyfriend—although that's not quite the term to
apply to someone of his age."

I was silent, assimilating this new information.

Soriano noted my surprise and added, "It's a wonder no one's told
you about that. Everyone knew."

"Larkey claims he was fond of Tracy as a father would be. And it
never came out at the Foster trial."

"Well, I'm sure that at this late date Jay doesn't want to admit to
being a middle-aged fool. And as for the trial, it simply wasn't
relevant. Also, the prosecution tried to paint little Ms. Kostakos as
the girl next door. If her relationship with Jay had come out, other
things would have, too."

"Such as?"

"Tracy was a very busy girl. There was Marc, of course. I like to
think of that as her last uncorrupt attachment. After Marc, there was
Jay. She used him—to get an extended contract at the club, for an
introduction to a talent agent, for spending money. Oddly enough, I
think she genuinely cared for him; all the kids do, it's hard for them
not to. But she did use him, and her behavior on the side would have
distressed him, if he'd known."

"What do you mean by 'behavior on the side'?"

Soriano smiled bleakly. "Ms. Kostakos had a nasty habit of worming
her way into people's lives, taking what she could, and using it in her
routines. She'd become close to a person, cast herself in a role; she
wanted the whole experience, the
whole flavor. There was the Foster kid—"

"You know about that?"

Now it was his turn to look surprised. "Yes. How did you find out?"

"He told me."

"Huh. I thought he'd never break his silence. Well, anyway, I don't
think she ever got to put that material to use, and she certainly
didn't in my case—"

"You?"

"No, I saw through her and put a stop to it. But in the case of Lisa
Mclntyre . "

"The lesbian waitress routine?"

"That's right. Tracy's portrayal of her had an undertone of
viciousness. Lisa had no idea what her motives were when they had their
brief… fling, and when she saw the routine, she was furious."

"God." All I could think of was George, how it would hurt him should
all this come out. If it was humanly possible, I would make sure he
never heard any of it. "Are you aware that I found what I thought was
Tracy's body at a cottage up at the Napa River yesterday?" I asked.

He nodded. "My wife told me."

"Well, it turned out not to be hers."

"Oh?"

"The sheriff's department is comparing the remains with Lisa
Mclntyre's dental records."

He had been about to stub out his cigarette, but his hand stopped
inches from the ashtray. For a moment he froze. "That's a curious turn
of events. It's difficult not to draw a very distasteful conclusion."

"Yes, it is."

Soriano finished putting his cigarette out and stood, adjusting his
suit jacket. His face was even more drawn now and I thought I detected
a trace of anger. "If the conclusion's
correct, it'll put Jay through hell. He blames himself."

"For what?"

He shook his head. "That's his business. And frankly, I'm sick of
sitting around here waiting for the Porky Pig of stand-up. That club
has been nothing but a pain in the ass for me; from now on I'm
confining myself to Atlas Development."

Atlas Development. Where had I… ? Of course! "The car that was
stolen off the club's lot that night—the one that the prosecution
claimed Foster used to kidnap Tracy—was registered to Atlas
Development."

"That's right. It was the company car used by my executive
assistant, Jim Fox. He'd dropped by the club for the first time that
night, at my invitation. Met a lady and went home with her. When he
went back for the Volvo, it was gone."

"Exactly when did he report it stolen?"

"Not until early the next evening. The lady dropped him at work, and
I drove him to the club after we'd finished for the day."

So that was why the vehicle registration check that the highway
patrol routinely makes when issuing citations hadn't shown the Volvo as
stolen.

Soriano seemed to have lost interest in our conversation. He glanced
at his watch and said, "Now I really do have to be going. If you see
Marc, please don't tell him he's about to be canned. I'd hate to spoil
the pleasure Jay will take in the act." Before I could reply, Soriano
bowed curtly and left the apartment.

I remained where I was for a minute or so, digesting this latest
information. The picture of Tracy that was emerging was an unsavory
one, and my distaste created a sour sensation in my stomach. I'd never
really regretted not having children, and now I was beginning to feel
positively
blessed. The pain these revelations would cause George—if I couldn't
somehow suppress them—was incalculable, and I was selfish enough not to
want to be the one who caused them to be aired.

After a moment I shoved my musings aside and went down the hall to
the linen closet, where I searched for the probe that opened the locked
door of Tracy's room. It wasn't in evidence. I felt in my bag for a
suitable implement and came up with a long nail—a piece of the detritus
that accompanies a homeowner in the throes of renovating. It took some
maneuvering, but in thirty seconds the lock snapped open and I stepped
through the door.

A strangled cry came from the darkness in front of me.

I flattened against the wall, one hand groping for the light switch,
the other going reflexively to the side pocket of my bag, even though I
wasn't armed. When the overhead flared, I saw Laura Kostakos.

She crouched on her knees between the bed and the armoire by the
window. Her blue lounging pajamas were crumpled and looked as if she
hadn't taken them off since I'd interviewed her the previous Thursday;
her gray-blond hair was limp and disheveled. Her eyes worried me more
than her grooming: they were wide with fright and curiously unfocused.
She opened her mouth as if to cry out again, and I raised a hand in a
calming gesture.

Laura slumped closer to the floor, her bowed head all but
disappearing from my view. I hurried around the bed, murmuring soothing
things, and grasped her arms to help her up. They were matchstick thin;
the gardenia perfume smelled fetid, as of flowers that had fallen from
the bush and rotted. Her body sagged against mine. I managed to prop
her in the nearby rocker.

She leaned her head back, breathing raggedly. "… Frightened me."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know you were in here."

"A man came into the apartment. Strange man. I locked the door and
hid."

"That was Jay Larkey's business partner. He's gone now."

She nodded wearily, closing her eyes and beginning to rock.

I sat on the edge of the waterbed; waves rippled inside, sloshing
softly. "Mrs. Kostakos… Laura," I said, "what are you doing in here? It
can't be good for you to keep coming here, waiting, dwelling on the
past."

She continued to rock silently.

"If Tracy were to come back," I added, "it wouldn't be to this
apartment. She probably doesn't even know you've kept it."

"She does."

"Why do you think so?"

"Because she told me to come here when she called me. Both times."

A chill touched my shoulder blades. "When was that?"

"New Year's Eve, in the afternoon. And again today, around five."

"Are you sure it was Tracy?"

"I know my own daughter's voice."

"Exactly what did she say?"

"The first time, just to come to the apartment, she'd meet me here.
I waited all night, but she never arrived. Today she apologized, said
she'd been detained, but that tonight she'd be here for sure. But then
that man came, and now you. She's probably been frightened away."

Or was never coming to begin with, I thought. Had it really been
Tracy who had called, or someone perpetrating a cruel hoax? "Why do you
think she would be frightened of Rob Soriano or me?"