Riptide (20 page)

It was assumed that Mary Ellison had been the victim of a mugging gone bad; when the assailant realized he’d killed her, he panicked and fled. Elizabeth Custer’s death was obviously intentional. Given the people she associated with—junkies, prostitutes, johns—the most likely explanation was that someone in her circle of acquaintances had turned violent.

That was how the LAPD saw it. They might be right. But if Richard were roaming the streets and choosing victims at random, based on an opportunity to strike, these were the kinds of victims he would select. Women, alone, unprotected, at night.

The third homicide was the Diaz case. Jennifer knew about that one. She didn’t think it was part of any pattern. The threat message argued for a killer who knew the victim, someone who lived or worked near her. And the body could not have been moved without a vehicle. Richard had no car.

Besides the murders, there were assaults and disappearances. Most of the assault victims were male. Jennifer thought she could rule them out, at least for now. Edward Hare had killed only women, as had the Devil’s Henchman, and she was guessing that Richard—if he was guilty—would do the same.

Of the assaults on women, only one could conceivably fit the pattern she was looking for. A year ago, around midnight, Ann Powell let her terrier outside in the fenced backyard of her duplex. When the dog didn’t come in, she tried switching on the flood light, but it didn’t work. Later it was established that the bulb had been unscrewed. She went out to check on the dog and found the rear gate open. That was when she sensed someone behind her in the dark. A fist struck a glancing blow to her head. She staggered inside and called the police. By the time they arrived, the assailant was gone. The dog turned up unharmed an hour later.

The incident could be meaningless; there was no shortage of crazies roaming Venice at night. Or it could have been an attempt to duplicate the Ellison killing, this time without the benefit of a blunt instrument.

That brought Sandra to the disappearances. Two of the vics were male; they could be ignored for now. One of the women had been having marital problems; her husband was an unofficial suspect, according to Sandra’s inside info. That case could be set aside also.

Then there was Chatty Cathy.

That was the name by which she was known in the pocket park where she lived. Her worldly goods were stashed in a shopping cart. She talked loudly to herself day and night. Even the other homeless people kept their distance.

One night three months ago she disappeared. Her cart was still there, but she was gone. It seemed unlikely she would leave without the collection of junk she prized. But her body never turned up, and there were no signs of foul play.

“Would the body have to be transported by car?” Jennifer asked.

“Not necessarily. There’s a big old dump bin in the alley right across from the park. A body wrapped in trash bags could be tossed in there, and if the sanitation crew wasn’t paying attention—and why would they?—it could be dumped into the garbage truck without anybody noticing. By now, Chatty Cathy could be in a landfill.”

All the crimes had occurred within the last year and a half. Jennifer asked if the cutoff date was arbitrary.

“No, it really seems like more bad things than usual started happening around eighteen months ago. Not all at once, mind you. But that’s when the cream started to curdle.”

“Any idea why?”

“Pacific Area lost two detectives around that time. Reassigned downtown. Not replaced. Less manpower means lower solve rates. That’s why I say they need to prioritize this district. Allocate the personnel.” She produced one of her heavy sighs. “Hell, you know how the song goes by now. I’ve been singing it long enough.”

“You sing it well.”

“A little off-key, but at least you can make out the words.”

“Are there any leads in the cases that interest me?”

“Not really. There was a sighting of a person unknown, probably a vagrant, near the spot where Elizabeth Custer was killed. No description, except the guy was hooded. Might’ve been the killer. Might’ve been nobody. Witnesses heard a noise the night Chatty Cathy went missing. A woman’s cry, from the park. Was it her? Did it mean anything? Who knows?”

“So basically all those cases are dead ends.”

“Unless you’ve got a new angle. Do you?”

“I’m not sure. I need to see if I can find a pattern.”

“Your buddies in the department are treating each case as a standalone. They’re probably right.”

“Probably,” Jennifer said, hoping it was true.

“This suspect of yours—”

“Possible suspect.”

“Whatever. This guy—I’m assuming it’s a guy—does he live in Dogtown?”

“Yes.”

“Got any priors?”

“No.”

“Why put a spotlight on him, then?”

“He’s mentally ill.”

“Violent?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

Sandra was unimpressed. “Lots of head cases in Venice, and not just in Dogtown. Lots of violent, antisocial males. Gangbangers, sociopaths. Druggies who’d kill you for the dollar in your pocket or the sneakers on your feet. No shortage of suspects. Or
possible
suspects, if you prefer.”

“So you think I’m imagining things?”

“That’s the way I’d bet.”

“I’d be happy to find out I’m being paranoid.”

“Of course, if you
are
wrong, those cases will continue to be unsolved.”

“That’s the downside.”

“On the other hand, there could be an even bigger downside to being right.”

“Which is?”

“If the bad guy knows you’re on to him—you could be next in line.”

Jennifer thought of the note on her windshield. “That’s a chance I’ll have to take.”

“See, that’s what I mean. You’ve got spunk.”

“And you hate spunk.”

“No, that was Mr. Grant. Me, I like spunk. As long as it doesn’t get you killed, honey.”

The words lingered in Jennifer’s mind as she picked up the tab and said goodbye. Before leaving the restaurant, she took a chance on using the ladies’ room. It was surprisingly clean.

Leaving the bathroom, she spotted Draper eating alone in the rear of the restaurant. From where he was seated, he had a decent view of the table she and Sandra had shared. She approached him, unsmiling.

“Spying on me?” she asked.

Draper dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “Just grabbing a bite.”

“And you just happened to pick this place?”

“It’s close to the high school. I assume that’s why
you
picked it.”

“So you
did
know I was here?”

“I saw you. Talking with Sandra Price. I didn’t realize the two of you were friends.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

“No doubt. It could be a problem, though.”

“Meaning what?”

“Sandra isn’t exactly in tight with the department. She’s regarded as a thorn in our side. If you’re associating with her, it might make it difficult to continue hiring you.”

“First you follow me here, now you’re threatening me.”

“I didn’t follow you. And I’m not threatening. But whatever you tell us as a consultant has to remain confidential. It can’t be shared with civilian outsiders. Especially a civilian whose racket is baiting the department.”

“I don’t think it’s a racket. She just wants these cases solved.”

“That’s what we all want. What were you two talking about, anyway?”

“None of your business.”

“It wasn’t a casual conversation. You were taking notes.”

“Maybe she was giving me recipes.”

Draper shook his head. “That’s not the kind of answer my supervisors would accept.”

“Are they going to know about this?”

“Should they? Why were you meeting with Sandra Price? Why the sudden interest in community activism?”

“Don’t interrogate me, Roy. I’m not one of your suspects.”

“No, you’re a colleague. And I need to be able to trust the people I work with. If I can’t trust you, I won’t be able to recommend your services anymore.”

“I’ll survive.”

“I’ve tried to help you out by bringing you in on my cases whenever possible.”

“Don’t do me any favors.”

“I guess I won’t, in the future. Unless you level with me about what’s going on.”

“I had an enchilada for dinner. Now I’m leaving. That’s what’s going on. And by the way, nice technique at the meeting tonight. Way to win friends and influence people.”

“I wasn’t trying to win friends.”

“Too bad. You could use some.”

She walked away, her eyes burning. She couldn’t believe she’d defended him to Sandra less than an hour before. Or that she’d considered putting the moves on him. There must be something wrong with her.

She was stalking angrily down the street when she heard Draper’s voice. “Hey, Jennifer. Wait a second.”

She spun around, not interested in more repartee. “I already said goodnight.”

Draper stepped up to her. “Actually, you didn’t.”

“Okay, well—goodnight.” She started to turn away.

“I trust you,” Draper said.

The words caught her in mid-turn. “What?”

“I know you wouldn’t betray a confidence. I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise.”

“You did more than
suggest
.”

“I’m only worried about how other people might look at it, if this gets back to them. The higher-ups. I don’t want to see you blackballed.”

“What difference does it make to you?”

“I think you know.”

She paused, registering this. “Do I?”

“You ought to,” Draper said, and he leaned in and kissed her, a hard, hot kiss like a branding iron. “If you didn’t,” he added, “you do now.”

With that, he turned and walked back inside the restaurant.

twenty

Three more comments were waiting on the Ripperwalk thread when Jennifer got home. The first two were dumb jokes left by idiots. The third was different.

Someone calling himself Abberline, whose avatar was a male face in silhouette, had written a single line.

If you’d like to discuss Mr. Edward Hare, please IM me.

An ICQ contact name was provided.

It could be another joke. If Abberline had anything serious to contribute, why not post it publicly? Still, she was intrigued. And she already had an ICQ account, though she hadn’t used it in a while. She couldn’t even remember her password, but she had it written down in a little spiral-bound notebook she kept in the top drawer of her file cabinet.

She found the notebook and was closing the drawer when she noticed something odd. The folders in the drawer seemed to be out of order.

They were filed alphabetically, or should have been. Now D came before C. She could have misfiled it, of course. She removed the folder and scanned its contents. Old cases for the LAPD and Santa Monica PD. All cleared now, of no interest to anyone.

Nothing of hers would interest anyone, except the diary.

But the word
diary
began with D, didn’t it? Someone looking for the diary might think to find a clue in this file.

Silly thought. No one had been in here. If anyone had come looking, the house would have been left in a state of disorder.

Unless she wasn’t supposed to know someone had searched.

She riffled through the rest of the folders and found two more out of sequence. R and H.

Ripper.

Hare.

Her archival boxes were stored inside a nearby cabinet. She looked them over and saw that two of the lids had been improperly replaced.

Someone had been here. Had looked through her files and the boxes.

In the pantry she pushed aside the row of household cleansers and found the hidden metal box. The diary was safely inside. The intruder hadn’t thought to look here.

Could it be Richard? He knew the old house, knew its weak points. The side window, the one that could never be properly latched. Or the back door, which lacked a dead bolt. Its latch could be slipped with a credit card or knife.

She checked the door first but saw no sign of tampering. The window was a different matter. It was open a crack, though she knew she’d shut it completely, and there was a scuff mark on the sill, left when the intruder climbed in or out.

She doubted he was still here. Most likely he wouldn’t have closed the window till he left. Even so, she explored the house room by room, turning on all the lights. She even opened the trapdoor and peered into the cellar with a flashlight.

She was alone. But someone
had
come earlier. It might have happened during the day, while she was visiting Harrison Sirk, but more likely the break-in occurred while she was at the rally, or afterward, when she talked to Sandra Price.