Anna inhaled again breathing in the opulent beauty of her surroundings. After living in a sea of neutrals, the wealth of color was overwhelming.
As she turned her gaze towards the sun, her eyes rested on the silhouette of a large motor yacht making its way toward the strait out of the bay; a long, low shadow that cut through the waves with power and speed on its journey through to the Pacific. As the sun alighted on the line where heavens and waters meet, the lights began to shimmer on deck and in the rooms on board, causing the yacht to become just another jewel to ornament that gate of paradise.
With the frigid bay now behind, the ferry finally pulled in next to the landing, and Anna felt the ending of her long journey from Shattuck to Sausalito far too abrupt. If she could only have another hour or two on that ferryboat, then her thoughts would be sorted out, and she would have answers to all the problems in the world. However, the passengers noisily milling about next to her and the call of the ferryman announcing their arrival meant that the world would just have to wait. It took all her effort to pull herself away from the side rails and follow the other passengers off the ferry onto the landing.
In her letter, Aunt Jane said that she would meet Anna at the end of the pier. Though her house was within walking distance, she offered to have her car available in case Anna needed to transport any luggage. Anna had written back, stating that there would be no need for the car.
The moment she stepped off the boat, it was easy for Anna to pick out Aunt Jane from among the throngs of people coming and going. Jane’s natural auburn hair had been so enhanced by dye that not only turned it a flaming red, but had also straightened her genetic Kelly curls into such a kinky frizz it was a wonder she ever got a comb through it. A green, wide brimmed hat embellished with pink and yellow felt roses effectively flattened the burning bush to a tolerable height. The long-sleeved kimono dress wrapped around her reedy frame was a badly tended garden of fuchsia roses and blue tulips on a black weedy background. Despite the garish dress and flagrant hair, Anna noticed that her make-up was remarkably simple, applied by a dexterous hand that knew that a little rouge goes a long way and the clean application of eyeliner above black lashes makes even average eyes enticing. Waving her white gloved hands wildly above her head causing the large gold bangles that adorned her wrists to jangle together in happy welcome, Jane Kelly ran forward to embrace her estranged, though beloved, niece.
“I knew it was you. You look so much like your father, same unruly hair, same chin, but your eyes and your coloring are your mother’s! Let me take your bag. Is this all you have? Really? Nothing else? Hm. Ah well, we will take care of that ASAP. Have you eaten? I can whip up something really quick when we get home. No? I am famous for my chicken a la king. Well, I am already bursting with news that I am just dying to share. I just received a call this morning from an old acquaintance of mine. Never really liked the man, but we attended several parties together before he married. Had a smashing time, and it’s always good to keep those kinds of connections. His name is Beltran. He works for Loew’s Incorporated as a film producer. He’s in town for the week with his wife, Eva Lorraine. You’ve heard of her. All the rage in films these days. They have chartered a yacht for the celebration of yet another successful film premiere and have been touring the coast up from Long Beach. Anyway, here is the best part: His regular secretary, who goes wherever Beltran goes, fell violently ill just a few days in and had to be dropped off in Monterey. Apparently he doesn’t do very well on boats. Isn’t that just murder? He needs a temporary assistant while he is in the bay area. You are all lined up to start work tomorrow! He’s going to love you. With your looks alone, I bet you could land a role in his next big film. By the way, you don’t get seasick do you?”
Arms interlinked, Aunt Jane practically dragged Anna along as fast as she could talk, and Anna, unable to find any sign of ebbing in the steady torrent of words issuing from Jane’s throat, finally gave up any endeavor to answer any of her aunt’s questions as well as the hope of asking any of her own. She began to subconsciously filter through the streaming tide of information being poured into in her brain, catching enough bits of flotsam to maintain the appearance of active listening while leaving the rest of her mind free to wander adrift. Though thrilled with the opportunity to start work so soon after her arrival, Anna was honestly a little disappointed. She had hoped for, even counted on, a few days to get settled in and find her bearings. She’d already seen enough to know that the bay area did not lend itself to easy navigation. It would take quite a while for her to familiarize herself with her new surroundings. And then there was Aunt Jane. She had been looking forward to getting to know this shadowy relation. From what little Anna could discover from her parents (and the inexhaustible gossip of her female neighbors), Aunt Jane ran away with a Mr. Dallas in ’97. That would make her sixteen at the time. He had filled her mind with the golden riches of California and promised her fame and fortune on the stage. Jane’s dream of stardom as an actress went expressly against her grandparents’ staunch beliefs. The stage was right up there with murder, cards, and dancing. Jane saw this as her chance to not only make a name for herself, but throw off the restrictions she felt were so unjustly levied upon her. Of course, when she got to California, the grand stage in San Francisco turned out to be a small seedy dance hall in Sacramento. Dallas explained it away stating she had to start at the bottom in order to make it to the top. Apparently, Jane took one look at the place and took off. It was quite the scandalous affair, and for years, Grandpa and Grandma Kelly considered her excommunicated from the family. Different accounts detail what may or may not have happened over the next several years, but somehow she made her way down to Southern California and was seen fifteen years later playing bit parts in early Hollywood films. She never became a household name, but was said to have become a successful stage actress and singer until something went wrong with her voice. It was then that she moved to Sausalito to start her own business. Anna’s parents had quietly kept in touch with Jane through letters. Pa had even tried to convince her to come home early on, but Jane was determined to remain in California. The letters themselves were few and far between. Anna herself had never corresponded with Aunt Jane until she received her letter while she was away from home. Now that they had finally met, she was finding out she would be under her roof less than 24 hours before leaving on assignment.
After a few minutes privately speculating over her aunt’s history, Anna returned her full focus onto Jane’s present words for the rest of the journey. By the time the two reached Aunt Jane’s dark double-gabled Victorian, Anna had resigned herself to the new position laid before her, and with typical Anna enthusiasm, began to look forward to the chance of working on a grand motor yacht in such close proximity to Hollywood royalty. Even if it delayed the satisfaction of her curiosity.
8
Standard Operating Procedure
* * *
Forster woke up early the next morning in a shabby 3rd story apartment just off of Golden Gate Avenue. It was a temporary place of residence, haphazardly furnished with used, well–worn, out of fashion furniture, dry paint peeling from the walls and ceilings. When it became clearer how much longer he would be staying in this city, he would think of locating a place (and furniture) that was more in keeping with his modern tastes, and clean. But in the meantime this would have to do. Still, the powers that be could have provided something a little more comfortable. It wasn’t as if they were strapped for cash at the moment. At least (looking through the kitchen cabinets) they had provided the necessities: Gin, Whiskey, and Rum.
Despite having eked out an optimistic total of 4 hours sleep on the long 63 hour trip from Chicago, he was wide awake after just sleeping five. Apparently, his body was still ticking on Central Standard Time; 4:00AM Pacific Standard was sleeping in, considerably. He rose from the bed and slowly made his way across the room, walking through the darkness with stealth precision. Reaching the window, he looked into the blackness outs
ide. A few newly installed electric lamps dimly lit the surrounding mist at intervals before disappearing into the fog down the street. There was no trace of movement illuminated by those bleary lights below. Not a soul. Not an animal. Not a breath from the nearby sea.
He drew away from the window, making his way over to the two still-packed suitcases sitting by the door where he had left them. Upon arrival late last night, he went immediately to bed, finding comfort in a stationary mattress that was large enough for his 6 foot frame, instead of a small one that constantly rocked back and forth with heavy train wheels grinding against the rails beneath him. Needless to say, sleep had not been elusive.
Picking up the suitcase on the left and laying it on the bed, he clicked it open. He pulled out the three suits that were lying on top and hung them in the wardrobe. His underclothes and pressed shirts he placed in two of the six drawers available in the dresser, leaving out a set of clean underclothes and a crisp white button up shirt. Once his garments had been taken out of the case, he was able to pull out what he was really after: a straight razor and shaving brush. Still in the black obscurity of predawn hours, he went over to the bathroom sink and began the morning ritual that had been neglected for the last four days.
It was not uncommon for him to shave in the dark. He was comfortable in the dark. In the dark, he was anonymous. No face. No identity. A shadow amongst a myriad of other shadows in the room. There was only one time when he had cut himself, and the scar on the right side of his chin was a reminder to keep the blade sharp and the hand steady.
Shave complete, he reached for the clothes he had set out, pulled the undershirt over his head and strapped his socks to their garters. Then he walked over to the closet and reached for the charcoal suit that was always packed last and hung furthest to the right in any closet he occupied. He pulled on the slacks, reached into the side pocket, and drew out a pack of cigarettes along with a silver lighter monogrammed J. F. The lighter he placed on the dresser before pulling a single stick of tobacco from the deck placing it between his lips. He rarely lit up. The glow could expose you. Something he picked up in the war. But the feel of the paper and the smell of the weed was enough. Cigarette dangling from his mouth, he buttoned up the white shirt along with a gray vest. His dexterous fingers knotted a slim black tie around his neck and under his collar. Snatching the leather holster from the chair he hung it on last night, he slipped it around his shoulders before grabbing the Savage .45 from the bedside table.
A close fitting jacket finished his dress. He replaced the pack of cigarettes and the silver lighter to his pocket. It was exactly 32 minutes since he had first opened his eyes when he pulled on his overcoat and placed the fedora on his head. 33 when he locked the door and walked down the two flights of stairs to the street below with the unopened suitcase in hand. 34 when he disappeared into the fog, leaving behind the dark windows of a sleepy, unassuming apartment building, unaware that one less soul was slumbering beneath its eaves.
9
If the Eye Offends Thee . . .
* * *
The fog bit the skin like a thousand syringes filled with Novocain. Known for his hot blood equally as well as his cool temper, even Horace felt the prick that numbed to the bone. But it was not the fog that bristled his moustache, nor sent ice racing down his spine.
In the low light of dawn, he made his way down to the beach where four uniformed men stood in a closed circle, shoulders hunched, hands deep in coat pockets. As he approached, one of them turned and hailed him.
“Good Morning Inspector.”
“‘Mornin’ Pike. But don’t tell me it’s a good one.”
“Yes sir.” Pike turned back to the charred pile of bone and ash that scarred the white beach.
”Give me the run down,” Horace sighed.
“Fire was reported anonymously at two this morning. SFFD came out and thought they were putting out the bonfire of a hooch gathering. Broken bottles were found all around this area, along with gunny sacks. They reported to us as soon as it was out; didn’t notice the remains in the dark.”
“When did you get here?”
“Four. As soon as we noticed the usual signs we called you.”
“The usual signs . . .” Horace mumbled into his ‘stache. He raised his thumb and forefinger to his eyes, pushing them under his round spectacles in an effort to rub away the sleep and frustration. “Have you found them yet?”
“Bottle on the north end of the burn pile.” The lieutenant humbly stepped back to allow Horace space to walk the scene.
Horace cautiously approached the burned area. His eyes creased as he noted the upturned position of the charred skeleton. The blackened skull bent back so that the eye sockets faced north. Horace followed their gaze to a clear bottle set firmly in the sand. Two cloudy orbs floated in a clear liquid that he knew would be straight alcohol.
Hell.
He turned his eyes away from bottle and ash towards the water. Everything about this “bonefire” mirrored the others. Burlap sacks commonly used by rumrunners littered the beach, as did discarded bottles broken in transport and dumped by middle men when loads were being dropped and picked up.
The first bonfire was set a couple of years earlier just south of Monterey on the beaches at Stillwater Cove. The body had been burnt beyond recognition and beyond any identification. With the usual bottles and bags surrounding the area, police assumed it was connected to a turf war between local runners and, with no leads to pursue, put it to bed. But since then, there had been two similar cases reported in LA, one in Santa Cruz, up to five along the coasts of Washington and Oregon, and then those here at home. This was the third. Each had looked like a routine gin drop but for the funeral pyre. It was not until just recently that they had any leads as to who was behind them. Even then, they only had an ambiguous nickname.
He motioned to the lieutenant with a nod, and the latter came to join the former. “Looks like the Raven’s work. I’ll need you to go ahead and get the coroner over here.”
“Raven,” Pike grunted. “Sounds like something he coined off Poe.”
“Seems that way, doesn’t it? Inspires the necessary visions of darkness and fear, but I’m not so sure that’s where it came from. Ravens are known in folktales the world over for their cunning, as well as their connection with death. There could be any number of reasons why the name was chosen. For all we know, it might not have been a name he chose himself. Maybe his goons came up with it. He hasn’t exactly pushed his way into the public limelight. The murders alone may have made sensational news, yes, but if it weren’t for the rumrunner you brought in a few weeks ago, we would have no idea that Raven even existed. Hawkins was his name. You remember him?”
“Yeah, scraggily fellow. Struck me as not very bright.”
“You’re absolutely right. We knew he couldn’t pull off half of what he did without help. During interrogations he got all jittery and let it slip who he had been working for. When he realized what he’d done he went plum out of his mind. When we asked him who this Raven was, he refused to tell us. Kept rambling on how he didn’t want to be burnt. Didn’t want them to take his eyes.”
“Didn’t he commit suicide?”
“Possible. He was found hanging in his cell the next morning. The noose was made out of his own bedsheets. Let’s hope it was suicide.”
Pike looked down and kicked a bit of sand around with the toe of his boot. After a moment’s silence, he squinted back at Horace. “But why the eyes?”
“Hell if I know. Ravens often go for the eyes first when picking over a corpse. If Poe is his inspiration, it could be from one of his works. What was that story about plucking out the eyes, or was it just the one eye?”
“Tell-Tale Heart?”
“Could be that. Might also be a biblical reference, or even some obscure ancient ritual that we don’t know about. Hell, maybe he has a sick fetish. I do know one thing: it makes a hell of a deterrent for his minions to step out of line making damned hard
to get any information. Hopefully, something in this fire will tell us more than we already know, but I doubt it. I’m heading back to the office. Let me know what the coroner turns up.”
“Yes sir.”
10
Bacon, Butter, and Bitchin g for Breakfast
* * *
Two hours had already passed from the time Forster woke up in his third story flat and an hour since Horace and Pike met on the beach, when Anna opened her eyes to see the same thick fog obscuring the view outside her second story window. Fog? I thought California was supposed to be sunny. Looking back at the alarm clock, she read 5:59. Frantically, she reached for it, but was two seconds too late. The minute hand reached the 12 the instant the clock was in her hands. Instantly, the harsh metal bells began to sound with a nerve-jarring clang, causing her to jump and drop it to the floor. It bounced around an angry jig on the hardwood, threatening to wake up not only the household but the entire neighborhood as well with its violent tirade. Sweeping it up, she fumbled for the knob.
She had never liked the thing. Growing up, they always had a rooster to do the trick; a nice soothing crow from outside that did not resonate against the interior walls like a wild banshee. While away at college, she was introduced to the metal contraption by a well-meaning dorm parent after four consecutive days of missing breakfast. The first three mornings had been enough to ensure that her body would wake up in a tense sweat two minutes before the bells, just so she could turn it off before the hideous cacophony began. Back at home, she had no need to set the alarm, and on the train it was out of the question; she was not as fortunate as Forster, occupying an upper berth in an open car. But today was the start of a new position, and there was no way in Hades she was going to be late.
The Golden Gates Page 5