The Shape of Dread

by Marcia Muller

  “No. We discussed a few other things-contractual matters-and then it was time for my New York flight.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “Except for one thing that didn’t strike me until today. She asked me if she could have my copy of the Times. Given what you’ve told me, I can’t help but wonder if it wasn’t something she saw in the paper that frightened her. Something that has bearing on her disappearance.”

  “Did you notice which section she was looking at?”

  “Sorry, no.”

  “But it was definitely that morning’s paper?”

  “Yes. Monday, February…whatever it was that year.”

  “And it was the edition for L.A. proper?”

  She nodded.

  I sipped iced tea and looked out at the runway where an L1011 was landing. What Stein had told me could mean a great deal-or absolutely nothing. Her recollections of the meeting were nearly two years old, and her perceptions were bound to have been colored by the intervening events.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  “I’m glad you told me about it. I’ll check that issue of the Times.” I rested my forearms on the table, toying with my cocktail napkin as I phrased my next question. “Ms. Stein, would you mind giving me your personal impression of Tracy Kostakos?”

  “I’ll be glad to.” She paused, considering. “She was…a type we frequently see in the business. Narcissistic in the extreme.”

  She was beginning to sound like George. Was everyone a psychologist these days? “Would you explain that?”

  “Tracy had an overdeveloped ego. Naturally in show business a healthy ego is a necessity; there’s no way to survive without one. But Tracy’s wasn’t healthy; she was a bundle of contradictions. On the one hand, she was very insecure and needed constant praise and reassurance; on the other, she felt superior and entitled to special treatment. She felt the rules simply didn’t apply to her, and she was very insensitive to other people’s feelings.”

  “No one’s pointed out her insecurity before.”

  Stein smiled. “She did her best to hide it, but that sort of thing quickly becomes apparent to an agent. She was by no means the most poorly adjusted client I’ve had. I was willing to put up with her shortcomings because she was extremely gifted. She lived for her work. When she denied other people their rights or disregarded their feelings, it was usually because they came between her and her art.”

  Perhaps Stein was right, I thought, but she had viewed Tracy from a purely professional standpoint. There was another component of her character that had gradually communicated itself to me as I’d watched the videotape earlier. The way she moved, spoke, and interacted with the audience told me Tracy was a total sensualist, and not just in the sexual interpretation of the term. As Rob Soriano had commented, she wanted every experience, to taste the whole flavor of life. Her art gave her the opportunity to indulge her fascination with the inner workings of other people’s lives, and so long as she’d only observed and recorded she’d been fine. But eventually she’d overstepped the boundary between observation and actual participation in life-styles that were foreign to her own: the woman who slept with black men, the lesbian. It was then-when her behavior had exceeded what was acceptable not only in the upper-class world where she’d been raised, but also in the subculture of the comedy clubs-that she’d gotten into trouble.

  Actual participation in other people’s lives. I was beginning to have an idea….

  Stein was watching me with interest. “Will you let me know what you find out?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “My evaluation of Tracy may have sounded pretty damning, but I really did like her. She was talented and dedicated; that combination is harder to find than you’d expect.” She broke off, her gaze moving to the bar’s entrance. “My client,” she said.

  I stood up. “Thank you for your time.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Already she was on her feet, attention turning from the lost promise of Tracy Kostakos to the future prospects of the curly-haired young man who approached the table.

  I went to the bank of pay phones in the ticket lobby and placed a credit-card call to Detective Gurski. He’d told me earlier that he’d sent a man down to the city for McIntyre’s dental records and that he was pushing coroner’s office to have the results of the comparison to him by noon. It took a long time for him to come on the line, but when he did, his tone was warmer than on the previous occasions we’d spoken.

  “Your suggestion was a good one, Ms. McCone,” he said. “We have a positive identification.”

  “The bones were Lisa McIntyre’s.”

  “Yes. I guess you realize what this means. The new focus of our investigation will be very distressing to the Kostakos girl’s family.”

  “I’m aware of that. May I have your permission to continue to work on the case, on behalf of Bobby Foster’s attorney?”

  “I’ve got no problem with that, so long as you report any developments to me.”

  I thanked him and hung up, then placed a second call to Rae at All Souls. “Anything on McIntyre yet?” I asked.

  “Not a thing. The manager of her apartment building hasn’t been there, and Kathy Soriano refuses to talk with me. I’ve just gotten started on the skip trace, and I suppose it’ll take a while for people to get back to me.”

  “I doubt they’ll have anything for you.” I told her about the coroner’s findings, then added, “I want you to keep going, though.”

  “Why, if the woman’s dead?”

  “Just an idea I have. I’ll explain later. One thing you might do is contact unions for service workers, such as waitresses. I don’t know how to reach any of them, or what you’d need to do to get information, but call Johnny’s Kansas City Barbecue-that’s that restaurant in the Fillmore that’s been there forever and just got ‘discovered’-and talk to Johnny Hart. He’s an old friend of mine and may be able to help you.”

  “All right,” Rae said, the dubious note in her voice telling me what she thought of the idea. “By the way,” she added, “George Kostakos called. Said he’d try later.”

  “Oh, good. When he does, ask him if he can meet me at my house around four. I have to be there to take delivery on some Sheetrock.”

  “Don’t mention Sheetrock to me.”

  “Sorry. Is the room finished?”

  “I’m still painting. I’ll probably be painting forever.”

  I wished her luck with it, then went to pay a king’s ransom to the airport parking authority. As I drove back toward the city, dark clouds were massing ominously along the barren slopes of San Bruno Mountain.

  19

  The rainstorm hit full force as I was walking across South Park to Café Comedie from the small restaurant where I’d stopped for a burger. I sprinted through the benches and playground equipment, my boot heels sinking into the damp ground, to the shelter of the red-white-and-blue striped canopy. The club was closed, but Larkey had said he would be there for our two-o’clock appointment. I pounded on the door until he looked out, his brown hair curling riotously from the humidity.

  “Good Christ,” he said, peering past me to where the water cascaded off the canvas. “It’s a fucking cloudburst. Did you get soaked?”

  “No, I’m more chilly than wet.” The interior of the club was almost as cold as outside. A maintenance man in a down jacket was vacuuming the carpet near the stage, and the bartender who had served me on Thursday night was unpacking a case of liquor with gloved hands.

  “Sorry it’s so cold in here,” Larkey said. “We’ve been having trouble with the furnace-gas leak, and PG&E can’t get it fixed right. Come on back to my office; I’ve got a space heater on. You want a drink?”

  “One would help, thanks.”

  “Mike, would you make us a couple of hot toddies and bring them back to the office?” he asked the bartender. Then he motioned for me to follow him through the door that said Yes.

  After the chill outside, the offi
ce seemed excessively warm, and even more disorderly than the first time I’d seen it. Several cardboard file boxes were stacked in the center of the floor, a wastebasket full of what looked to be receipts on top of them. Although Larkey was again clad in a sweat suit-a natty red and yellow one this time-he obviously hadn’t been using the exercise bike, since it was draped with a sport coat, a dress shirt, two ties, and a pair of pants. While I shed my trenchcoat, he looked around helplessly, then picked up a pile of newspapers and magazines from a chair and dumped them in a corner. I sat there, and he took his desk chair, propping his feet on the littered blotter.

  “So,” he said, “what’s happening?”

  “The Napa County coroner has made an ID on those bones. They’re definitely Lisa McIntyre’s.”

  He grimaced, as if experiencing sudden pain. “Poor kid. I’m sorry. What the hell was she doing up there, anyway?”

  “I’m not sure. Do you have a picture of her-in her personnel file, perhaps?”

  He started to shake his head, then took his feet off the desk and rummaged in a lower drawer. “The staff gave me a birthday party that year. Somebody took pictures. There might be…here’s one-Lisa at the bar with Tracy.”

  I got up and took it from his extended hand. They sat on stools, half turned toward the camera. Tracy’s expression was wary, perhaps because she was anticipating the glare of the flashbulb. Lisa smiled boldly. She had a heart-shaped face with a turned-up nose; her light brown hair fell smoothly from a center part, then belled out in soft curls that touched her shoulders. The shrewd, knowing expression in her eyes was strangely familiar; Tracy had caught it perfectly in her portrayal of Ginny the waitress.

  I wasn’t sure why I’d wanted to see a picture of the dead woman; perhaps I’d hoped to erase my mental image of that pitiful jumble of bones by seeing her in the flesh. I surprised myself further by asking, “Can I keep this?”

  “Help yourself. I’ve got no use for it.” As I tucked it in my bag, he added, “What gave you the idea it might be Lisa up there?”

  “Just the timing of her disappearance.”

  “I wonder how she got there, or even knew where it was. It’s isolated, and you’ve got to know which fork in the road to take-” Abruptly he broke off, realizing what he’d implied.

  “Tracy had taken you there, then?”

  He made a motion, as if to erase my question.

  “Jay, I know you were having an affair with her. Apparently everyone knew at the time.”

  There was a knock at the door. Mike the bartender entered with our toddies. Larkey waited until he handed them around and departed before speaking. “Yeah, I guess everyone did know. I didn’t bother to hide it.”

  “Why would you have reason to? Affairs between men in their prime and women of Tracy’s age aren’t uncommon.”

  “Especially in this business. Maybe that’s why I don’t want to own up to it now. It was such a trite situation. Older man clinging to the fringes of the business and needing reassurance. Young woman on her way up, thinking he can help her. An old, old story.”

  “I’m sure Tracy didn’t see it that way. From what I hear, she genuinely cared for you.”

  His mouth twitched, and he quickly drank some of his toddy. “No,” he said, “she didn’t. But that’s got nothing to do with…anything.”

  “Can I ask you another personal question?”

  “About Tracy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Did you ever give her money?”

  “You mean besides what I paid her to perform here? Yeah, I did.”

  “Why?”

  “On my part that should be obvious. I thought if I gave her money I wouldn’t lose her. But it was more than that; the kid was needy.” To my surprised look he added, “Not in a monetary sense. Her family’s rich. But she was angry with her parents on a very deep level and badly wanted to be independent.”

  “And she couldn’t get by on what she earned? Jane Stein told me her contract with you was ‘lucrative.’”

  “She could have gotten by if she hadn’t been so…needy is the only way I can describe it. Tracy had to buy things-clothes, possessions. They filled an emotional gap. It was the same way with applause from the audience. But when she got either, the applause or the things, it was never enough. Fifteen minutes later, its affect would have dulled, the way the affect of a fix does for a junkie. Then she’d start needing all over again. There sure as hell must have been something missing in her childhood, to make her that way.”

  I thought of the first character in the sketchbook, whom I’d suspected might be Tracy herself. The mother had never hugged her; the father had barely seemed alive. And I thought of George’s description of all the years of Tracy’s upbringing-those gray years that he scarcely remembered. A desolate feeling welled under my breastbone: for Laura, who was incapable of expressing her love; for George, who hadn’t been able to feel; for Tracy, who had starved emotionally.

  Larkey was watching me curiously. I pushed the thoughts aside and asked, “Did she take you up to the river often?”

  “Only twice. It was someplace she liked to get away to, and her roommate let her use it whenever she wanted. I hated it; it was too rustic for me. But I went along…well, for the same reason I gave her money.”

  “Do you suppose she took other people there?”

  He ran his sharp little teeth over his lower lip. “Why do you ask that?”

  “As you pointed out, Lisa would have had to know how to find it. Unless she went with Tracy that night.”

  “There’s no way she would have,” he said flatly, shaking his head.

  I studied his face, trying to gauge what he knew about Lisa and Tracy. Probably not the whole story, I thought. It was hardly something Tracy would have confided in him-nor Lisa, for that matter.

  After a moment he added, “Besides, the logistics aren’t right. Tracy left here right after her last performance-that was established at Foster’s trial. Lisa worked until closing at two. I can confirm that.”

  “So she drove up there after her shift ended-”

  “No. She didn’t own a car.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  He nodded. “A lot of times I drove her to her bus stop after work. That night it was raining, and normally I would have driven her, but I was…tied up here. So the Sorianos took her instead, drove her all the way home, since her apartment was on their way to the Golden Gate Bridge.”

  “You’re certain about that?”

  He nodded.

  “Lisa could have borrowed a car after she got home. Or the next day. The time of her death can’t be established.”

  He frowned, apparently realizing the direction in which my questions were leading. “You’re not implying that Tracy…?”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “I refuse to believe that!”

  “I don’t want to, myself. But I don’t know what else to think.”

  Larkey stood up and began to move restlessly around the office, snatching up the clothing from the exercise bike and wadding it together, then dropping it on the floor. He turned around, banged into the stack of file boxes. The wastebasket of receipts teetered; he grabbed for it, and it fell to the floor, scattering bits of paper like snow on the carpet.

  “Shit!” For a moment I thought he would get down on his knees and begin gathering them up, but instead he kicked furiously at them. “Goddamn things, what’s the use, anyway?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  He flung out a hand at the littered floor. “Stuff for a meeting with Rob and my tax man tomorrow afternoon. I don’t know why I even bother. The losses alone’ll save me from forking over.”

  “The club’s losing that much money?”

  “The club? Christ, no. It’s the fucking real estate business that’s killing me.”

  “Atlas Development? I talked with Rob Soriano and got the exact opposite impression.”

  “Ah, that’s just hype. Rob p
robably thinks you’ve got some bucks to invest. Truth is, we’re up to our asses in loans we can’t pay off; we’re stuck with property we can’t give away, much less rent. People are holding off on buying or renting in SoMa until the Planning Commission comes up with guidelines for its development. Rob and I are barely treading water these days.”

  “But he seems so confident-”

  “That’s just his way, but don’t let it fool you. He and Kath are up to the limits on all their credit cards, their house is triple-mortgaged, and the lenders are closing in on them. We’ve still got the club, but if he had his way, that’d be mortgaged up to the hilt, too. I’m not all that worried, though; Rob’s led a charmed life. He’s one of that kind that always land on their feet.”

  “You’ve known him a long time?”

  “Awhile. I met him when I was playing Vegas, on my way down. We hit it off, maybe because he didn’t give me the bullshit celebrity treatment. He knew I was on my way out, and he let me in on a couple of land deals he had going there. They worked out. He’d been a developer other places-Florida, Texas-and knew what he was doing. I cleared enough to buy this club.”

  “And he went into partnership with you?”

  Larkey shook his head, sitting down on the edge of the desk, one foot scuffing rhythmically at the scattered receipts. “For the first couple of years this place was my baby. But things weren’t going so good. This was a rougher neighborhood then, people didn’t want to come down here. I was about to lose everything when Rob showed up-with his new wife, the toothsome Kathy-and bailed me out again. When things got going here, we formed Atlas.”

  There was something about his tone when he spoke of Kathy….I thought of Tracy’s description of Soriano’s wife in the sketchbook, how she indulged in affairs as petty revenge against her husband. “You and Rob have had your ups and downs,” I said. “Are you close friends?”

  “Not friends, but-until recently-we did good business together.”

  “What about Kathy? Is she a friend?”

  He looked surprised, then flashed his foxy little grin. “You’re a nosy one, Ms. McCone. I suppose it goes with the territory. Yes, she’s a friend. He doesn’t care. I don’t care. And it makes the lady feel better. Now, I think that’s enough of personal questions.”