The Confession

DOMENIC STANSBERRY!

“Suspense . . . illicit passion . . . murder . . . Stansberry does it with originality, through the freshness of his imagery and the lyricism of his lament.”

—The New York Times

“Written in the tradition of Graham Greene . . . disquietingly black and totally absorbing.”

—Los Angeles Times

“An enviable achievement.”

—San Francisco Chronicle

“The real thing . . . Superb . . . Stansberry has done it again with this gut-wrenching tale . . . and he tells his story in the hard-edged prose it demands. Straight noir, no chaser.”

—Booklist

“There’s a lot in this bluntly articulate tale to like.”

—Publishers Weekly

“A story of obsession and jealousy . . . hot and heavy . . . you won’t be able to avert your eyes.”

—Mystery Book Line

“Intriguing . . . Stansberry blends his ingredients with definite panache.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Through a poetics of menace that at times takes on a positively hallucinatory beauty, Stansberry exposes the Manichaean heart of noir.”

—LA Weekly

“We’ve been meeting like this for a while now,” she said.

“Not so long. A few weeks.”

“It wasn’t what I had planned, you know. This kind of thing, with a married man. I have a boyfriend.”

“I know.”

“He wants to get serious with me.”

“You told me that, yes.”

“So what are we going to do?”

She was astride me now, and I reached up to touch her breasts. My tie hung over her neck, draped like a scarf.

“Your wife, Elizabeth, she knows, doesn’t she?”

“I don’t think so.”

“She will. Sooner or later.”

I said nothing.

“So, what are you going to do? About us?”

Maybe that was the trigger. Sara’s question.

I remember lying on my back, with Sara straddled over me. My grip was easy one instant, my hands gentle on her shoulders, then my grip tightened . . .

BY DOMENIC STANSBERRY:

CHASING THE DRAGON

THE LAST DAYS OF IL DUCE

MANIFESTO FOR THE DEAD

THE SPOILER

EXIT PARADISE

YOU WILL ENJOY:

GRIFTER’S GAME
by Lawrence Block

FADE TO BLONDE
by Max Phillips

TOP OF THE HEAP
by Erie Stanley Gardner

LITTLE GIRL LOST
by Richard Aleas

TWO FOR THE MONEYS
by Max Allan Collins

HOME IS THE SAILOR
by Day Keene*

KISS HER GOODBYE
by Allan Guthrie*

*coming soon

(HCC-006)

November 2004

Published by

Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

200 Madison Avenue

New York, NY 10016

in collaboration with Winterfall LLC

If you purchased this book without a cover; you should know that it is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book”

Copyright © 2004 by Domenic Stansberry

Cover painting copyright © 2004 by R. B. Farrell

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 0-8439-5354-3

The name “Hard Case Crime” and the Hard Case Crime logo are trademarks of Winterfall LLC. Hard Case Crime Books are selected and edited by Charles Ardai.

Printed in the United States of America

Visit us on the web at www.HardCaseCrime.com

Sometimes, I close my eyes and imagine myself at the top of Mt. Tamalpais, the jagged peak that overlooks Marin. The weather is temperate one moment, unruly and fog-driven the next. The wind blows through me as if I don’t exist. There are rumors about this mountain. Of spiritualists who transcend the material world while walking the high trails. Of cougars sleeping in the grass. Of coyotes who grab small children and disappear into the rocks.

The gray Pacific lies to the west and San Francisco Bay to the east, and the land in between is multitudinous. Hardscrabble beaches. Green pastures and black forests. Brown hills and canyons filled with yellow light. The roads spiderweb down the hills, over the old Indian graveyards, past the abandoned communes and the Zen retreats. They snake beneath the custom homes that gleam on the promontories, through the old towns, past squares lined with madrone and eucalyptus and oak. All-American towns really, each one bleeding into the next.

It is a place where people find their inner selves, this mountain. Where they separate from the world.

Myself, I float over it all. Over the redwoods and the scrub oak. Over the roads that follow the old creeks, flowing through the subdivisions into the mudflats. I see the cars siphoning into 101, that gray ribbon that winds along the bay.

I see it all, I tell myself. I see everything.

My old house, my old life.

Elizabeth—alone by the water.

All visions are illusions, someone told me. At a cocktail party, I think. A colleague of mine. All dreams are born in the darkness, he said, and there are times, even now, I feel that darkness within myself.

I open my eyes.

I am no longer on the mountain. I am far away. Another place, another time. My wife lies in the bed next to me.

Life is a circle, they say. We begin where we end. I no longer argue with such truisms. I close my eyes and find myself back where I started, on that dock there, on the far side of the mountain, clutching her necklace in my hand.

Some of you will remember this story. It was ten years ago, and I was employed then as a forensic psychologist in Marin County. Much of my work involved talking to criminals, then testifying as to their sanity in a court of law. On the afternoon this all began, for example—that afternoon when I blacked out in Sara Johnson’s apartment—I was scheduled to examine a man who’d been accused of strangling his wife.

Because of that incident, and all that has happened since, I know many people will be suspicious of anything I put down here. Jake Danser is not to be trusted, they will say. I have ulterior motives. I pretend to be whole-hearted, confessing minor flaws to hide a deeper evil.

I am not innocent of everything, I admit. I was thirty-seven years old then, vain in the way of men at that stage of life, wanting to own the world and feeling that I’d reached a pivot point, a time of reckoning. At the same time, I had my own predilections and my own past, and these things bound me in ways hard to escape. Maybe those old emotions, coming again to the surface, triggered the incident that day at Sara’s apartment. Or maybe the cause lay elsewhere. I don’t know. I can’t say for sure.

On that afternoon, I met with Sara Johnson at her apartment in Sausalito. Sara was an attorney, ten years younger than myself. She worked for the public defender’s office, and we knew each other on account of a case I had taken regarding an aging schizophrenic who refused to take his medication. My testimony had kept him out of the asylum, and Sara admired me for this. She was a wholesome girl, idealistic and straightforward—except for the fact she’d been meeting with me these past weeks, surreptitiously, in back offices, elevators, closets. Furtive encounters that had been building in intensity, so now we were together in her apartment, having stolen away for the afternoon.

I made a couple of drinks, preparing them carefully. Vodka for her, gin for me.

She sighed deeply and went into the kitchen. When she came back, her glass was empty.

“That was quick.”

“The Mori case, it’s all anyone’s talking about,” she said. “Did you see that spread in the paper?”

“I did.”

“Angela Mori was a beautiful woman,” Sara said, and there was something like envy in her voice. She and the dead woman were about the same age, from similar backgrounds, with high cheekbones and the look of privilege. “You knew her, didn’t you?”

“Let’s not talk about Angela.” I lowered my voice. There was a catch in it, the briefest stutter. “You’re a beautiful woman yourself, you know.”

“I’m alive, anyway. I have that going for me.”

She turned to look outside, down the hill through the jumble of telephone wires that looped over the gray streets toward the harbor. If you looked hard, you could see the sailboats small and white on the bay. It was a typical Marin County day, a little windy and blue with the sun shining hard off the water and cars glinting by on the road below.

“Jake,” she said. “What are we going to do?”

I circled behind her then and put my hand around her waist and placed my palm on her stomach, touching her white blouse. I kissed Sara’s neck and felt her back arch toward me, and had for a moment the sensation of something shifting within my head, the blood rushing. I caught a glimpse of us in the mirror. Sara’s blonde hair, her small breasts and long legs. My own blue eyes, my black hair: longish, just graying, pulled back in a pony. I put my hand down into her skirt, her eyes closed—and in that moment I thought about my wife.

“What are we going to do?” Sara asked again.

Though she was not a naive woman, it was a naive question. Her eyes were still closed. The look on her face said she was moving towards some secret place within. We fell onto the bed. There was a delicious coolness about her body, a tautness. My thoughts drifted. My wife again. Our beautiful house out at the point . . . our beautiful things . . .

Then I thought about Angela Mori, and the morgue photos I’d seen splayed across the desk of her husband’s attorney.

Sara and I had not undressed yet. She was in her office clothes, a skirt cut at the knees, a blouse that unbuttoned in the back. She ran her fingers on my collar, then down the length of my tie, touching my belt. Soon things between us grew feverish. I lifted her skirt. She clutched me tighter, excited. My tie was undone, and the end of it got tangled between us. I pulled the tie off and it snaked across her chest, and somehow it got wrapped around her wrist and my wrist, too.