“You’re saying Roy is violent?” It seemed impossible. Yet she remembered the surprise of his touch as he pulled her in and pressed his lips to hers. A romantic impulse, she’d thought. Or was it? A move like that could be seen as controlling, even aggressive.
“It’s not the first time the issue has come up,” Casey said. “When he was working patrol, there were excess force complaints. Of course, anybody can throw a brutality charge. Doesn’t necessarily mean anything. But sometimes where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”
“Why haven’t I heard about this before?”
“His personnel records are confidential. And the girlfriend didn’t press charges. The officers had the impression she was afraid of Draper. Of course, him being a fellow cop, they weren’t too keen on bringing him up on charges anyway, so they probably didn’t push very hard.” He paused, then added with a note of finality, “She and Draper broke up right after that.”
“I find this pretty hard to believe.”
“Why? Because Draper’s never hit you? You’re not his girlfriend.”
“He just doesn’t come across...”
“As a guy who’d beat up a woman? Can’t always tell about people. You know that. You deal with enough threat messages from guys who seem normal.”
“Yes. I do.” She was thinking of the quiet schoolmaster, Edward Hare.
“Anyway, just wanted to give you a heads-up. Draper’s a good guy and all, for the most part, but maybe not the best person to get close to.”
“I haven’t gotten close to him. It’s none of your business, anyway.”
“Okay, okay, don’t get your undies in a knot. I’m just looking out for you.”
“Well, quit it.” She was tired of being told who she could talk to. “I can look out for myself.”
“Right. You don’t need me. You don’t need anybody. I got it.”
He started down the sidewalk, then glanced back. “Oh, by the way, it’s probably not the greatest idea to leave the backyard gate open in this neighborhood. Not that you need my advice.”
He got into his car—his civilian car, a Mustang—and drove off, the engine burring angrily.
She didn’t know what that last crack had been about. She always kept the gate shut and locked. But when she checked, she found the gate hanging ajar, creaking softly in the breeze.
The lock had been forced. Someone had inserted a screwdriver or similar tool into the keyhole and jimmied it open.
She entered the yard, passing the lawn mower, which sat amid clumps of tall grass in need of trimming. She saw no signs of intrusion at the back door and the rear window, but on the steps to the deck she found a clump of damp earth from the garden.
The intruder had climbed the steps. Had been on the deck, directly outside her bedroom.
Last night he must have tried entering the house from the rear, but finding no windows unlocked, he’d gone around to the side. There he’d found the one window with the broken latch.
It changed nothing. She’d already known he had been in the house. But somehow the thought of him on the deck, so near to her bed...
She thought of Marilyn Diaz, surprised in her bedroom. Marilyn, who’d kept her problems from the police, who’d been so sure she could handle things by herself.
Marilyn, plucked from the surf with a plastic bag pasted over her unseeing eyes.
twenty-five
At nine-thirty she met Maura in the lobby of Richard’s building. “Manager’s waiting for us upstairs,” Maura said. “He gave me all kinds of grief about opening up. I wasn’t impressed.” She stabbed the elevator button.
“I always take the stairs,” Jennifer said.
“Stairs are for losers. This is the twenty-first century.”
“This elevator isn’t the most reliable—”
“If it breaks down, I’ll climb out the trapdoor in the ceiling and shimmy up the cable. I’ve always wanted to do that.”
The elevator rose slowly with a good deal of rattling that did not inspire confidence. Maura didn’t seem to notice. She flashed a rather tacky bracelet at Jennifer, a band of copper studded with turquoise. “Like my newest trinket? Josh gave it to me.”
“Who’s Josh?”
“My surfing busboy. Come on, girl, try to keep up.”
“You just met him last night, and already he’s buying you presents?”
“He didn’t exactly buy it. A former girlfriend left it at his place. But he did give it to me.”
“How sweet,” Jennifer said dubiously.
“I thought so. It’s amazing how a little thing like a blow job can bring out the romance in a man.”
Despite Jennifer’s misgivings, they reached the third floor without incident. The manager was standing by Richard’s door, a heavy set of keys jingling in his hand. “I shouldn’t do this,” he said.
“Of course you should,” Maura countered. “This is the guy’s sister. And I’m a big wheel in the neighborhood. You should do whatever we say.”
The man thought about contesting the matter, then seemed to decide he didn’t give a shit. With a shrug he unlocked the door.
Jennifer entered first. “Richard?”
“He ain’t here.” The manager made a phlegmatic noise. “Ain’t been around since the last time you saw him. If he abandons the place, I’m entitled to sell his stuff.”
“You’re not selling anything,” Maura warned.
“He don’t come back, I can rent out his unit. That’s all I’m saying. He still owes me for this month’s rent.”
Jennifer pulled out her wallet and found a blank check. “I’ll pay it.” She plucked a pen from his shirt pocket and filled it out. “There. Satisfied?”
“That covers March, but what about next month?”
“We’ll cross that bridge if we have to.”
The manager blew out a wheezy sigh. “My luck, he’ll show up again. Just when I thought I was rid of that freak.”
Maura’s face was hard. “Get the hell out of here.”
“I should stay with you while you—”
“Go.”
He went. Maura closed the door after him. When she turned back, Jennifer caught her expression, the shocked sadness in her eyes. This was the first time she had seen the way Richard lived now.
“Pretty bad, huh?” Jennifer said.
Maura dropped her gaze. “Yeah. Pretty bad.” Her voice was small. “Is he...happy? I mean, ordinarily?”
“I don’t think he’s ever happy. I don’t think he can be.” She picked up a book from a disorderly pile, glancing at the cover. Something about government conspiracies. “Schizophrenia tends to dull the affect. Cancels out the pleasure center in the brain. The patient feels fear, rage—negative emotions. But not happiness. It’s called anhedonia.”
The book was from the Santa Monica Public Library—the main branch, some distance away. He really was more mobile than she’d thought.
“So where are these papers we’re looking for?” Maura asked.
“No idea. I’m just assuming he keeps them here. I don’t know where else they could be.”
Jennifer opened drawers in the living room and kitchen, finding nothing. From the bedroom Maura called, “File cabinet in here.”
The bedroom was neater than the living room, but the musty smell was worse. And there was another odor, one Jennifer couldn’t identify.
The file cabinet stood in a corner. Maura was tugging on the handle of the top drawer. “Locked.”
“That’s got to be where he stashed them. We just need the key.”
A thorough search turned up no keys in the apartment. “How about this?” Maura lifted a butter knife from the kitchen sink.
“What good does that do us?”
“It gives us leverage. Give me a lever long enough and a place to stand, yadda yadda.”
Maura inserted the blade between the cabinet drawer and the frame. She pushed up, straining. Jennifer thought of the lock on her gate, the tool inserted into the keyhole.
Maura gave a final push, and the drawer clattered open. It was empty.
“Shit,” Maura murmured.
With the top drawer open, the bottom offered no resistance. She slid it forward. Nothing was inside.
“We’re coming up snake eyes, kiddo. But he had something in here.”
Jennifer saw wisps and shavings of paper scattered inside the drawer, and a few loose paperclips and bent staples. “He must have moved them.”
“Why would he do that?”
“We talked about the papers the other day. He was very paranoid about them. And last night, on the phone, he evaded my question when I asked about them.”
“You talked to him on the phone? Is he okay?”
“He’s never okay.” She looked around the bedroom, trying to imagine what Richard would have done with the documents. Her glance fell on a metal wastebasket used as a doorstop.
The bottom of the basket was dark with a coat of ash. Slivers of charred paper clung to the sides.
“He burned them.” The unidentifiable smell was the lingering odor of smoldering paper and scorched metal.
“All your family records? A whole file cabinet’s worth?”
“Looks that way.”
“Just because he was paranoid?”
“Or because he was covering something up.”
“Like what?”
Jennifer looked at her. “Crimes,” she said.
***
She sat with Maura in Richard’s living room, explaining it all. She left nothing out. She talked about the note on her windshield, the unsolved murders, Richard’s paranoia about the wanted posters. The contents of the diary, and the confirmation of the essential elements of Edward Hare’s tale by an online source. The family history, and how Richard’s illness and her father’s might be traceable to Edward Hare.
“So you’re telling me,” Maura said when she was through, “you’re Jack the Ripper’s great-granddaughter?”
Jennifer rubbed her forehead, fighting a headache. “I hadn’t thought of it exactly like that.”
“I don’t know, kiddo. Sounds like you’re reaching.”
“You didn’t read the diary.”
“The diary might not be what it’s cracked up to be. And you can’t be sure your ancestor wrote it.”
“The house goes back a long way in our family. I know my great-grandparents lived there.”
“Were they the original occupants?”
“I don’t know. The family papers might have told me. Why would Robert burn them unless there was something in them he needed to cover up?”
“He’s irrational. He could’ve torched the papers for any number of reasons. He could’ve done it just because you were asking about them.”
“So you think I’m overreacting?” She hoped so. She wanted to believe she was making too much of this.
But Maura disappointed her. “Given everything that’s happened—and especially that creepy note you found on your car—I’d say you might not be reacting enough.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means it’s time to call the cops.”
“No, I can’t do that.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because if I’m wrong, I’ll have exposed Richard to all kinds of trouble. Legal trouble. They could lock him up. If not for any crimes, then just for being a danger to himself and others.”
“Maybe he is a danger.”
“But we don’t know that. Not for certain. And there’s a chance he’d resist arrest. He’s not thinking clearly, he’s sure everyone’s out to get him. He could fight the police if they try to bring him in. He could be killed.”
“If he’s responsible for even one of those unsolved homicides, then you need to get him off the street before someone else is killed.”
“He’s my brother. I’m supposed to take care of him. I’ve always taken care of him.”
“It might be time you stopped.”
“That’s the second time you’ve said that today.”
“Yeah, and it didn’t go over so hot the first time, did it? Even so, loyalty to your bro only goes so far.”
Jennifer touched her left arm. “Not for me it doesn’t. For me it goes all the way.” She took a breath, knowing she had to ask the question she’d been dreading. “Why did you leave him?”
“He cheated on me. And he didn’t much care if I found out. Actually I think he wanted me to find out.”
“That’s crazy. Richard’s not like that.”
“Yeah, kiddo. He is. And it wasn’t a one-time thing. A few months later I ran into another gal who was with him before I came into the picture. Guess what? He cheated on her, too.”
“You’re saying it was a pattern?”
Maura nodded. “He wasn’t interested in a long-term relationship. In fact I’d say he was terrified of it. Didn’t you ever wonder why he went through so many girlfriends?”
“He was popular—a good-looking guy, smart, a doctor—”
“Amen to all that. But he was also a guy who never had a relationship that lasted more than three or four months. Am I right?”
Jennifer thought about it. “Probably. I mean, it’s not as if I ever quizzed him on his love life.”
“I didn’t have to quiz him. I lived it. Here’s the deal, Jen. He sabotaged his relationships. When they started to get serious, he went out and found himself a new girl, and made sure it didn’t stay a secret. And as long as I’m being brutally honest, I’ll tell you something else. He enjoyed it.”
“Enjoyed...what?”
“Humiliating me. And the others. He got a kick out of it.”
“No way. He would never...”
“Your brother has issues with women, and they started long before he showed any symptoms of schizophrenia.”
There was that word again, the word Casey had used in discussing Draper. Issues.
But of course Richard had issues. How could it be otherwise? Growing up fatherless in the House of Silence, enduring constant run-ins with their mother, hiding in his room and nursing grudges...
Throughout his life he’d dated women who were slightly older. Mother figures. With each new relationship he was trying to heal the breach with his mother. And failing each time, because it was a breach that couldn’t be healed.
Then lashing out, finding a new lover and humiliating the one who’d disappointed him. A compulsive pattern.
She was trained in psychology. She should have seen it long ago. Only, she hadn’t wanted to see it.
When Richard’s illness began to change him, did his resentment of women metamorphose into rage? Into violence?
“I’m sorry I had to tell you,” Maura said. “I never wanted to. But with all that’s happening, maybe it’s for the best if you know.”
“Nothing about this is for the best.”
“You need to bring in the police.”
“Not yet.”
“If he’s dangerous, he could come after you.”
“He wouldn’t,” she said, thinking of the open gate, the shoe print on her windowsill, the misplaced files.
“You don’t know what he’s capable of. You don’t know him. You only know what you want him to be. Not what he is.”
Jennifer felt a sting of tears. “Stop.”
“Promise you’ll go to the cops.”
“Not until I’m sure.”
“By then it could be too late.”
“He won’t hurt me. He would never hurt me. He saved—he saved my—” She couldn’t talk about this. “He’s not a killer.”
Maura took her hand. “Kiddo, I hope you’re right.”
twenty-six
The TV studio was on the twelfth floor of a Sunset Boulevard high-rise. The receptionist cleared Jennifer and Maura, then directed them to a small makeup room, where Sirk was seated grandly in a barber’s chair, “enduring the ministrations of my cosmetician.” The cosmetician in question, a petite redhead, was dabbing liquid foundation on Sirk�
�s face. “She is a genius in her way,” Sirk added. “With her charms and spells this wee sorceress can almost conceal the ravages of my debauched life.”
The makeup artist showed a diplomatic smile, but her eyes were flat. Jennifer had the impression she didn’t like Sirk. Given his behavior yesterday, it was easy enough to guess why.
“Hi, Harrison,” Maura said cheerfully. She, at least, genuinely enjoyed his company.
“Good morning to you both. I hadn’t expected to be graced by your dual presence.”
Maura spread her hands. “You know me. Always up for an adventure.”
“Yes, you are the Marguerite Harrison of our day. Remarkable woman, Marguerite Harrison, and I don’t say that merely because we share a name in common. Have you heard of her? No? What about you, dear?”
The question was directed at the makeup artist, who shook her head and busied herself rubbing in the foundation, perhaps a bit more aggressively than necessary.
“Marguerite was an explorer who ventured into Kurdish territory, following a nomadic tribe’s migration. Before that, she served as a spy, an actual spy, twice imprisoned by the Russians, once nearly executed for her pains.”
“I doubt I can match her exploits,” Maura said, “though driving in L.A. is a little risky.”
Jennifer wasn’t interested in Sirk’s banter. “Maura says you found something.”
“Why, yes. I have news.” He pronounced the word as if he could taste it and liked the flavor. “What you told me—and even more so, what you declined to tell—put me on the scent of a good story. Another book, perhaps.”
“I’m not interested in a book.”
“But I am. Books are my bread and butter, and”—he patted his ample lap—“I require considerable quantities of both. And so I investigated the early years of Abbot Kinney’s Venice for news accounts of missing women. Actually, I should not say that I investigated it. Grunt work of that sort is what archival researchers are for. I put two of them on the case, combing through microfilm copies of old newspapers.”
“What did they find?”
“There was a series of unexplained disappearances of young females during the appropriate time period. Of course, careful records were not kept back then, and police resources were limited. Few inquiries were made. It is quite likely that some of the women in question simply left town for one reason or another. Flighty creatures, women—Marguerite Harrison to the contrary notwithstanding. They are always getting it in their empty heads to run off somewhere.”
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