The same words Abberline had used when bargaining to see the diary.
She couldn’t imagine why those words had forced their way into her nightmare. But there had to be a reason. The unconscious mind, she knew, did nothing by chance.
Downstairs, she booted up her laptop and reread the log file of the instant message dialogue. She found the statement she remembered, shimmering on the LCD screen.
I’ll return the favor.
An Englishman would spell it favour.
She reviewed the conversation and found other Americanisms. Center should have been spelled centre, and William should have been abbreviated Wm, with no period at the end. Abberline made the same mistake in his comment on the message board, referring to “Mr. Edward Hare.” British usage eschewed a period in both instances.
Abberline wasn’t British. Which meant he probably wasn’t located in London. Probably wasn’t a harmless retiree combing through archives. He could be anyone, anywhere.
He could be Richard.
Richard, using a public computer or a cell phone. Playing games.
When he spoke to her on the phone, she’d known he was calling from outdoors. Maybe he had been using a cell, not a pay phone. The same cell he used to send the text messages.
It was possible. She hadn’t thought he owned a cell, but she was starting to realize how little she knew about him.
She read the dialogue more carefully, evaluating it the way she would evaluate any threatening correspondence. She saw hostility toward women disguised as sexual innuendo, finally coming out into the open with the word whore. He talked about Jack the Ripper as Inspector Abberline’s doppelganger. Was this an unconscious admission that he himself was a killer?
If Richard knew about Edward Hare from the papers he inherited, he could have developed a secret interest in Jack the Ripper. Could have participated in online discussions for years, at Ripperwalk and other sites.
His phone call had come only minutes after she ended her online talk with Abberline. had he phoned to keep the dialogue going?
That was all speculation. Richard might have nothing to do with it. Abberline could be anybody. All she knew about him was that he was on to Hare and was desperate for information.
Desperate...like Harrison Sirk. He’d pressed her for details just as Abberline had. He’d spoken of what “Americans” would say, as if he weren’t one of them; he might feel comfortable impersonating a Brit. He was a crime historian. Perhaps he’d come across Hare’s name in his research.
Or Abberline might be someone else entirely. He could be thousands of miles away—or right down the street. He was one of millions of electronic ciphers who could assume any identity with no fear of being caught.
Yet there was a way to catch them. She’d done it before, when analyzing threats received by e-mail or instant messaging.
She spent a few minutes laying the trap. Once it was set, all she could do was hope he took the bait.
There was no possibility of going back to sleep. The sun was just breaking the horizon. She went for a walk on the beach.
At the edge of the sand she kicked off her shoes, then made her way to the shoreline, where seagulls and sanderlings pecked at clumps of kelp. A homeless camp lay to the south. She avoided the campsite and the Venice Pier, where Marilyn was found. Instead she walked north toward the Santa Monica Pier, the spokes of the Ferris wheel standing out against the pale pink sky. On her way back, she collected a fragment of sea glass, cornflower blue. Blue pieces were rare. She wondered what shipwreck had released this treasure from its hold.
As the homeless camp again came into view, she slowed her steps, asking herself if Richard could be there.
She didn’t think he was living in his apartment these days. He had to be finding shelter someplace. And he was familiar with this stretch of beach.
Cautiously she approached the camp. It was a tent city, the tents made of plastic trash bags taped together. She tried counting the tents but gave up after two dozen.
Not everyone had a tent. Some lay in sleeping bags or under blankets. Others slept without any cover.
She circled the perimeter, looking at each sleeping figure. Nearly all were men, most sporting the matted beards of Biblical prophets. The rare women, leathery and sandblasted, probably weren’t any older than Jennifer herself. She saw no children.
It was hard to tell one person from another. Their bodies had a shapeless look, the result of wearing layers of clothing. The only way to hang on to their clothes was to wear all of them at all times. The prostitutes of Jack the Ripper’s day had done the same thing.
Suddenly Whitechapel didn’t seem so far away.
She completed her circuit of the camp’s boundary. Richard might be deeper inside. Nearly everyone inside the camp was asleep. She would risk a quick look.
She threaded her way among the tents and prostrate human forms. Someone stirred inside a tent; she caught suspicious eyes watching her. Not Richard’s eyes. A man with long stringy hair was coming awake beside a shopping cart. His head snapped up when he spotted her. He bared his canines, growling.
Imitation of animal behavior was a symptom of schizophrenia. She looked away, avoiding eye contact.
Someone else was staring at her. A young beardless man with a hungry look.
This wasn’t good. She’d been noticed. She headed toward an area where the tents were more sparsely distributed.
In her path a man stood up, blinking, not overtly hostile, but not stepping aside to let her pass.
She detoured around another row of tents. A man picking at his toes with a dirty thumbnail glared up at her with red-rimmed eyes.
She was nearly out of the camp when three men stepped forward, blocking her path. She glanced behind her and saw two more men at her back.
She was supposed to be an expert in communication. It was time to communicate.
“Sorry to disturb you.” She hoped she sounded calm. “I’m looking for my brother.”
None of the men spoke.
She took out her wallet and removed a photo of Richard, the last one taken before illness consumed his life. “This is him. Have any of you seen him?”
She held out the photo, waiting to see if anyone would come look.
One of the men in front of her shuffled his sneakers in the sand, then plodded forward. He studied the photo, shook his head, and stepped back, never saying a word.
“Anyone else? I really need to find him.”
“Let me see it.” The voice came from behind her.
She turned and gave the picture to one of the two men who’d approached her from the rear. He held the photo an inch from his face, blinking.
“Haven’t seen him,” he said.
His companion snorted. “You ain’t seen shit since you lost your glasses.”
He grabbed the photo and regarded it coolly. His expression was unreadable. A triangular port-wine stain discolored the left side of his face from his forehead to his chin.
“Yeah,” he said. “I know this guy.”
“Do you know where I can find him?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“I’m his sister. I’m trying to help him.”
The man gazed at her with empty eyes. “I had a sister. I fucking hated her.” He handed back the photo.
“You won’t help me?”
“I think you should get going, lady.”
“If you could just give me some idea —”
“Get lost.” His teeth flashed, yellow against his purple skin.
She wasn’t going to argue, not when she was surrounded by men with hate in their eyes.
“Thanks for your help,” she said bitterly. She turned away and walked directly toward the three men in front of her. This was the moment of maximum danger. If they refused to let her pass, she would be embroiled in a confrontation.
She was close enough to breathe the ripe tang of their body odor when they stepped aside. She kept walking, her heart pumping hard. She p
assed a few more tents and a shaky cardboard fort, and then she was in the clear. She kept going at a steady pace, afraid to run and perhaps draw pursuit. When she was a safe distance away, she glanced back and saw the same five men standing amid the tents, staring after her.
She’d taken a big chance. A stupid thing to do.
But she thought the man with the port-wine stain did know Richard, and maybe even knew where he was.
twenty-four
At home, she reviewed her notes from the interview with Sandra Price. She detached the pages from her notepad and spread them across the living room floor, organizing the cases by type: homicides, assaults, disappearances. The first homicide was eighteen months ago. That was around the time Richard stopped driving and sold his car. He had retreated into his apartment, or so she’d believed. But maybe not. Maybe even then he had started riding the bus or walking the streets.
But was it possible for someone without a car to carry out a series of attacks in different parts of town?
Of course it was. Edward Hare never had a car in London, and he’d done just fine. The Devil’s Henchman was believed to have traveled on foot, as well.
A man dripping with blood could hardly board an MTA bus. But these crimes weren’t bloody. Mary Ellison was dropped with a blow from a blunt instrument. Elizabeth Custer was strangled. Marilyn Diaz was asphyxiated by a plastic bag.
She still didn’t think the Diaz case was related. The other two were more worrisome, as were the assault on Ann Powell and the disappearance of Chatty Cathy.
It was possible that all four women were victimized by the same assailant. But nothing definite linked the cases. At times she almost thought she saw a pattern....
The phone shrilled. Richard could be calling again. She snatched the handset from the cradle on the second ring. “Hello?”
“Hey, kiddo.” Maura’s voice.
“Oh...it’s you.”
“You know, with greetings like that, a girl could get the feeling she’s not wanted.”
“Sorry. I’m kind of distracted.”
“Just messin’ with you. By the way, our surfer busboy hangs ten in the sack. And I mean that literally. I measured.”
Despite everything, Jennifer laughed.
“That’s it,” Maura said, “chortle at my love life.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call it love.”
“It’ll do till the real thing comes knocking. Look, I just got a call from Harrison. He would’ve called you, but he misplaced your number. Which is typical. He can remember every detail of the Hillside Strangler case, but not where he left his car keys.”
“Why did he want to reach me?” she asked warily.
“Why the note of suspicion?”
“It’s just—I’m not sure I want to see him again.”
“You’re kidding. He’s a hoot.”
“I think by the end of our interview he was trying to feel me up.”
“Oh, sure, he’s a lech. But harmless. Anyway, this wasn’t a booty call. Whatever you told him got his curiosity piqued. He did some research and found disappearances of local gals in the right time frame.”
“Really?”
“He’ll be at the TV studio from eleven to two, taping his show. Said you should stop by, and he’ll hand over the goods. Be warned, through. He’ll probably grill you for more info. He’s like a bloodhound on a scent.”
Or a shark in the water, Jennifer thought. “What studio does he work at?”
“Some independent facility at Sunset and Cahuenga. If you don’t mind, I’d like to tag along. I want to see what Harrison’s found.”
“Okay. I’ll head over. But there’s a stop I have to make first.”
“Anyplace exciting?”
“Richard’s apartment.”
“To check on him?”
“Not exactly. He’s...well, he’s run away. I think he’s living on the street.”
“Then why are you going to his place?”
“There’s something of his I need to look at. Family papers. I’m hoping he keeps them there.”
“You have a key to his apartment?”
“No, he’s too paranoid to share. But I can get the manager to open up. At least I hope I can.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“It’s not necessary.”
“If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s making people cooperate. The manager will be happy to let you in when I’m through with him.”
Jennifer gave her the address, hearing a sad little sigh. Maura had recognized it as an address in Dogtown, of course, and if Richard was living there, it meant he had fallen farther than she’d feared.
“You know, kiddo, I understand your feelings and all, but you do spend a hell of a lot of time looking after your brother.”
“And you think I shouldn’t?”
“I’m just saying family loyalty is not a suicide pact. At some point you have to live your life.”
Jennifer felt something inside her pull tight. “What do you know about loyalty? You abandoned Richard as soon as he started having problems.”
“Whoa, hold on.”
“I guess it wasn’t convenient for you to be with him anymore. His illness was cramping your style. What the hell, there are always more busboys to fuck.”
“Calm down, Jen. You don’t know what went on between your brother and me.”
“I know you walked out on him.”
“It’s not as if he didn’t give me a good reason.”
“What reason?”
“Look, I don’t want to talk about this over the phone.”
“Are you saying he abused you?” Until this moment the idea had never occurred to her.
“He never hit me, but...”
“But what?”
“There are other kinds of abuse.”
“What does that mean?”
“Why don’t we talk about it when we get together? That is, if you want to talk about it at all.”
The words lingered in Jennifer’s mind as she fixed breakfast, showered, and changed. She checked yesterday’s mail and found two business matters that required her urgent attention. She ignored them.
She was on her way out when the doorbell rang. Casey, in his street clothes.
“Hey.” She smiled, hoping his resentment had ebbed by now. “Shouldn’t you be at work? Or is this your day off?”
He didn’t return the smile. “I’m working the mid-PM watch. Ten to six-thirty.”
“Come on in.”
“No, thanks, Short Stuff. I don’t think I’m very welcome in your house.”
“Casey, I already apologized. And don’t call me Short Stuff.”
“I’m just here on business. Got two pieces of news. One good, one not so good.”
She felt awkward, talking to him on the porch. “Give me the not-so-good first.”
“The forensic anthropologist under contract with the county is away till tomorrow. Digging up Indian burial grounds or something.”
“I didn’t think you were allowed to do that.”
Casey shrugged, irritated. “I don’t know what the hell he’s digging up. I just know he’s out of town. Can you stand another night with a cellar full of bones?”
“Guess I’ll have to.”
“It won’t be so bad. You’d rather sleep with the skeletons than with me, right? Isn’t that how you put it?”
“I was joking.”
“Sure you were. Okay, the good news. We got a break in the Diaz case. And before you ask, yes, your document analysis, or whatever the hell it is you do, played a role. It got Draper looking at the people who worked in Diaz’s office complex.”
“Who’s the suspect?”
“Mortgage broker. He came on to Marilyn a few times and she blew him off. Her coworkers forgot about it till Draper started asking questions. Best guess is she assumed the note was from him and didn’t take it seriously. He’s a nerdy little guy, seems harmless. But here’s the thing. He was convicted in Phoenix
six years ago on a stalking charge. Another office situation.”
The suspect dovetailed with her analysis. He worked in a financial field and was rejected after making a romantic advance. “Has he been charged?”
“No, but we’re leaning on him. He says he’s being railroaded because of his prior. That’s what they always say.”
“So we don’t know for sure he’s the guy?”
“Draper thinks it’s a pretty safe bet.”
“I saw Draper last night. He didn’t mention any of this to me.”
“We were waiting for the guy’s records to come in from out of state.”
“He still could have said something.”
“Maybe he didn’t want to get your hopes up. Or maybe he wasn’t thrilled about you hanging out with Sandra Price. I saw you leave the gym with her. Two gal pals chatting it up.”
“I live in this community, Casey. I have a right to take an interest in local affairs.”
He produced a noncommittal grunt. “How’d you hook up with Draper, anyway?”
“We didn’t exactly hook up. I ran into him at the restaurant where Sandra and I were eating.” She didn’t say she thought Draper had followed them, spied on them. It sounded like something Richard would say.
Casey gave her a hard stare. “You two are getting pretty close, I guess.”
“I hardly know Sandra Price.”
“I meant you and Draper.”
“Oh. Close?” She thought of the impromptu kiss on the sidewalk. “No, I wouldn’t say that.”
Another grunt. “Well, my advice, you might want to keep your distance. Roy’s a good cop, but he has issues.”
“Everybody has issues.”
“His might be more serious than most. His girlfriend—well, maybe I shouldn’t be talking out of school.”
“If you have something to say, just say it.”
He snagged his thumbs in his belt loops. “Okay, it’s like this. When Draper broke up with his girlfriend a few months ago, he told everybody it was the usual story—he’s a workaholic, no time for her, blah blah. But I’ve got a friend in Devonshire who has a different take.”
“Why would a Valley cop know anything?”
“Because Draper’s girlfriend lives in the Valley. One night she calls nine-one-one, reports a domestic abuse incident. Responding unit finds her with a black eye and a bloody nose. Draper’d smacked the shit out of her.”
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