Muller, Marcia - [10] The Shape of Dread (v1.0) (html) (54 page)

There were five messages on my answering machine, four of them
personal and one from the contractor, reminding me supplies were due to
be delivered that afternoon so he could start work on the back porch
the next morning. I swore softly, readjusting my mental schedule to
make time for that. Watney waited for me in the kitchen, howling
indignantly about my protracted absence. When I fed him, he turned up
his nose at his favorite chicken-and-liver; I sent him outside, telling
him to catch some mice, if he thought they were so much better.

For my meeting with a genuine Hollywood personage (and with the idea
in the back of my mind that it might be novel for George to see me in a
grownup person's outfit for a change), I put on a black knit
skirt-and-tunic outfit and tied a colorful silk scarf around my neck.
As I spiffed my hair, I examined the gray streak that had been in it
since my teens, wondering if I ought to start dying it. Once it had
looked exotic among the black, but I was old enough now that it merely
seemed as if it was supposed to be there. Then I thought, Why should I
dye it? Men consider their gray hair distinguished; I think mine is,
too. Cheered by the thought, I went off to the airport.

Jane Stein was a pleasant surprise. With the typical snobbery of
northern Californians for Tinseltown, I'd been anticipating someone
flashy, a trifle tacky, perhaps loud. The dark-haired, conservatively
dressed woman seated at a window table in the airport bar was none of
those. Her manner was reserved, her firm handshake and low voice were
quietly confident, and she was even sipping coffee rather than the
wicked dark drink that I'd imagined. She invited me to sit down and
dispatched the waitress for my iced tea with a minimum of fuss, then
leaned forward, regarding me with keen brown eyes.

"It's a pleasure to meet a real private investigator, rather than
those cinematic horrors we're always creating down south," she said.

"I'm glad you feel the way I do. I can't watch those shows or films.
I like most mystery novels, but the way we've been portrayed on the
screen…"

Stein leaned back in her chair, seeming satisfied with the rapport
we'd established. "Well now," she said, "tell me what this is about
Tracy Kostakos being alive."

I outlined my case to date, leaving out the sleazier side of Tracy's
behavior. Stein listened thoughtfully. When I concluded, she said,
"It's quite bizarre, but I've seen enough things in this business that
nothing truly surprises me. I assume it's the same for you."

I nodded, moving my arm so the waitress could set down my tea.

"You know, I wonder…" Stein paused, her gaze on the other side of
the room. "Let me tell you about my last meeting with Tracy."

"When was that?"

"Monday, two weeks before she died… disappeared, whatever. We were
here in this very bar. I frequently meet with my San Francisco clients
at the airport when I'm on my way to New York. There's enough time
between connections for a couple of conferences, and it saves me an
extra trip north." She smiled. "Most of my clients up here aren't at
the point in their careers yet that they can easily afford to fly down
to see me. Anyway, I'd met Tracy only twice before— once when I caught
her act at Café Comedie, and again when she and Jay made a trip to
L.A."

"You knew they were lovers?"

"Oh yes. Jay made that clear; he was proud of it, you see. He's had
his rough times in recent years: his career waning, substantial
financial losses. He needed a pretty young woman like Tracy in his life
as much as she needed him." She shook her head. "What he didn't need
was to lose her the way he did."

"Why did you meet with Tracy that last time?"

"She'd called me, said she needed to talk. It seemed she wanted to
get away from San Francisco and hoped I could book her into a club in
L.A. I had the impression things were going badly in her personal life.
Perhaps she'd tired of Jay, or there was someone else, and she wanted
to break it off. At any rate, she said she needed a change. I pointed
out that she'd just signed a very lucrative contract with Jay; I
doubted he
would let her out of it, and I didn't feel it would be ethical to try
to break it."

"How did she react to that?"

"Petulantly—but I'm used to that in my clients. We also talked about
the possibility of film or TV work. I felt she wasn't ready for either
yet and counseled her to be patient. She showed me a new approach she'd
been working on for her routines, and I felt that with some more
development and practice she might have a good thing there."

"What was it?"

Stein signaled for more coffee. "Very improvisational. She would
take the daily newspaper and open it at random to a feature article—or
ask a member of the audience to do so—then create a routine based on
the piece. It's nothing that hasn't been done before, but you have to
think extremely well on your feet to pull it off. I felt she had that
ability."

"She actually demonstrated it to you?"

"Yes. When I said I was wondering about something . . „ well, I'll
lay it out for you, and you tell me if you think it's relevant." Stein
waited until the waitress had poured her refill before continuing.

"I had that morning's L.A. Times with me. She turned to the feature
section and did a very funny sketch about a woman who had built a
twenty-thousand-dollar doghouse for her seven Dalmatians and was trying
to persuade her neighbors not to take her to court for zoning
violations. It was rough in spots, but I was quite impressed. Then an
odd thing happened."

I waited as Stein sipped coffee before going on.

"Let's see if I can get this as accurately as possible," she said.
"We talked some more, and I made some notes. While I was writing, Tracy
paged through the newspaper. I looked up a few minutes later and…
something wasn't right. Her face was very pale and—on later reflection,
I decided—a little frightened. I asked her what was wrong, but she
shrugged it
off, said nothing, that she'd just gotten an idea."

"And she wouldn't elaborate on it?"

"No. We discussed a few other things—contractual matters—and then it
was time for my New York flight."

"And that's it?"

"Except for one thing that didn't strike me until today. She asked
me if she could have my copy of the Times. Given what you've told me, I
can't help but wonder if it wasn't something she saw in the paper that
frightened her. Something that has bearing on her disappearance."

"Did you notice which section she was looking at?"

"Sorry, no."

"But it was definitely that morning's paper?"

"Yes. Monday, February… whatever it was that year."

"And it was the edition for L.A. proper?"

She nodded.

I sipped iced tea and looked out at the runway where an L1011 was
landing. What Stein had told me could mean a great deal—or absolutely
nothing. Her recollections of the meeting were nearly two years old,
and her perceptions were bound to have been colored by the intervening
events.

"What do you think?" she asked.

"I'm glad you told me about it. I'll check that issue of the Times."
I rested my forearms on the table, toying with my cocktail napkin as I
phrased my next question. "Ms. Stein, would you mind giving me your
personal impression of Tracy Kostakos?"

"I'll be glad to." She paused, considering. "She was… a type we
frequently see in the business. Narcissistic in the extreme."

She was beginning to sound like George. Was everyone a psychologist
these days? "Would you explain that?"

"Tracy had an overdeveloped ego. Naturally in show business a
healthy ego is a necessity; there's no way to survive
without one. But Tracy's wasn't healthy; she was a bundle of
contradictions. On the one hand, she was very insecure and needed
constant praise and reassurance; on the other, she felt superior and
entitled to special treatment. She felt the rules simply didn't apply
to her, and she was very insensitive to other people's feelings."

"No one's pointed out her insecurity before."

Stein smiled. "She did her best to hide it, but that sort of thing
quickly becomes apparent to an agent. She was by no means the most
poorly adjusted client I've had. I was willing to put up with her
shortcomings because she was extremely gifted. She lived for her work.
When she denied other people their rights or disregarded their
feelings, it was usually because they came between her and her art."

Perhaps Stein was right, I thought, but she had viewed Tracy from a
purely professional standpoint. There was another component of her
character that had gradually communicated itself to me as I'd watched
the videotape earlier. The way she moved, spoke, and interacted with
the audience told me Tracy was a total sensualist, and not just in the
sexual interpretation of the term. As Rob Soriano had commented, she
wanted every experience, to taste the whole flavor of life. Her art
gave her the opportunity to indulge her fascination with the inner
workings of other people's lives, and so long as she'd only observed
and recorded she'd been fine. But eventually she'd overstepped the
boundary between observation and actual participation in life-styles
that were foreign to her own: the woman who slept with black men, the
lesbian. It was then—when her behavior had exceeded what was acceptable
not only in the upper-class world where she'd been raised, but also in
the subculture of the comedy clubs—that she'd gotten into trouble.

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.