by E. E. Giorgi
“Conclusion?” I impatiently chimed.
“Sixteen matching points.” Little white boxes numbered one through sixteen made their appearance on the screen, each pointing to the location of the match on the two images.
“So you were right,” Satish admitted. “The person who left the note at the Tarantino crime scene had mailed the letter with Gaya White’s funeral note inside.”
“That person was Jennifer Huxley,” I said.
“Well, that seems obvious, at this point. Can we prove it, though?”
“Of course we can.” Agavi beamed. “After your call this morning, I pulled up her prints from the autopsy and ran the same algorithm. It’s a match.”
“How about the other task I asked you?”
Agavi got up from the computer station, walked to his desk and came back with a detailed printout.
“What’s that?” Satish asked.
“A gas chromatography-mass spectrometry analysis,” Agavi elucidated. “Ran on a sliver of paper from the first commandment note.”
I skimmed through the technicalities of the report he handed me and jumped down to the very bottom. “Traces of sodium hydroxide, sodium sulfide—”
“Those are from the chemical pulping. All paper has that kind of stuff,” Agavi interrupted. “Go to the next line.”
I read on. “Hydrogen sulfide, carbon dioxide, methane, cadaverine, ammonia. And perlite.”
Agavi nodded. “And those have nothing to do with chemical pulping of paper.”
“I know,” I said. “They have to do with cadavers.” No wonder the first commandment note smelled foul to my nose.
CHAPTER 22
____________
Friday, October 17
“So Huxley was dead when she left her fingerprints on the first commandment note.”
We were back in the car, northbound on the One-Oh-One.
“Correct. Which means, somebody else drove her car to Benedict Canyon last Saturday night and killed the Tarantinos.”
“And wanted us to think Huxley did it.”
“Once you have a stiff you might as well use it.”
Satish cocked his head to the side. “I don’t know, Track. I’m old fashioned. If I had a stiff, I’d dump it into a river with a stone tied to its foot. Far west style.”
“There are no rivers in this part of the state,” I reminded him. “We dried them up so we could have green lawns and ten-thousand-gallon swimming pools.”
Satish shook his head. “To think I have neither. I feel so incomplete.”
The day was hazy and traffic steady, all vehicles flowing at exactly five miles over the speed limit, save a few thugs who used aggressive driving as an indicator of high-testosterone levels. We got off the freeway on Santa Monica and entered the tree-lined streets of a Hollywood residential neighborhood. Hemmed in by green strips of lawn, the sidewalks displayed blissful people jogging, walking their groomed dogs, or riding their bikes. Tall palm trees and hedges trimmed to perfection disguised white houses with red shingle roofs.
No wonder Southern Californians are so happy. Where else would you wanna live?
“Still no news on the DNA from Huxley’s car,” I said. I’d inquired about it on our way out of the Forensic Center, when I sneaked into the Serology lab to dump the beer can I had acquired the night before. The beer can made me feel deceitful and baffled at the same time, as if I’d just found Pandora’s box and left it in the lab for somebody else to open.
Diane didn’t smell weird this morning at Chromo. Or did she?
Satish shrugged. “You know how slow these things are.” He made a right on a private driveway, a narrow street shaded by large oaks. It wound uphill and ended into a wide parking lot overlooking Laurel Canyon Park. Haze shrouded the valley with overlapping layers of azure and periwinkle. Satish carelessly parked his modest Ford between a Jaguar and a Mercedes SLK, unimpressed by either beauty at our sides. Across from the parking lot, banana trees and birds-of-paradise flowers followed the perimeter of a wide one-story building, its tall windows draped by green awnings. The canopy above the entrance read, “Hollywood Golden Racket Tennis Club.”
I climbed out of the car and slid on my sunglasses, dazed by the glare of the shiny red Jaguar.
Satish said, “The lab technician’s death brought Chromo back in the headlines. Our Chief is going to have to sit down with Gomez and Mirkovic and have a long chat. I’m sure things will speed up with all the pressure mounting.”
I sighed. “So now what?”
Satish smiled, dropped his chin, and slid his brown polka dot tie through his fingers. “Now we go meet Hannah.”
* * *
“Do you have a membership, gentlemen?”
“No, just a shiny tin from the LAPD. You like it?” I replied, flashing the badge right before his nose.
“Oh, absolutely, sir.”
“It was a rhetorical question.”
Satish elbowed me and took over, not trusting my diplomatic gift. “We’re here to meet Ms. Hannah Kelson,” he said. The information didn’t stir a single muscle on the lad’s face. Black suit, spearmint-smelling breath, sleek swept-back hair, and distinguished affectation, the man bobbed his head. “She’s outside in the lounge. I will take you gentlemen right over.”
It either takes money or an LAPD tin to be called gentleman.
The place—one of L.A.’s most exclusive tennis clubs—exuded luxury from every corner. Waxed wood panels covered the walls of the hall of fame, from where the club’s most famous visitors beamed down on us, framed in forever-young smiles. Hushed laughs and ice clinking in fancy glasses welcomed us in the lounge, together with expensive perfumes and high society perspiration—which smells just like any other kind of perspiration, it’s only disguised better. A bald barman brandished a cocktail shaker, while a husky client barfed a list of tennis competitions he’d won in his leaner years. A mellow jazz tune played in the background. The lights were dim and washed over the display of rum and liquor bottles.
We followed our escort through glass sliding doors. Garden screens covered in creeping bougainvillea embraced the outside patio. Tall hedges hid the view of the tennis courts, their presence given away by the occasional shout, a burst of laughter, the thumps of the rackets hitting the ball. Our chaperone pointed to one of the tables outside, shaded by a blue umbrella.
Disguised by a white sunhat and large sunglasses, Hannah Kelson—Jerry White’s ex wife—sat frozen in an ethereal pose, as if she deemed anything around her frivolous and inconsequential. Elbow propped on the table, chin softly rested on the heel of her hand, she sucked on a Virginia Slim nestled between her index and middle fingers. She took a nervous puff, then turned away and blew it all out in one long billow.
I don’t generally like women who smoke, yet for a moment I found myself dangling from her red lips like that white cigarette, kissed by a puckered ring of lipstick.
She startled when she saw us approach her table. Even with our pancake holsters hidden away in our waistbands, as we sauntered around the bistro tables in our dark suits and polished dress shoes, we were as distinctive as an Elton John posing in a crowd of Japanese tourists.
Kelson abruptly crushed the Virginia Slim on a blue ashtray. “I’m sorry,” she muttered as Satish introduced us. “I quit years ago, after we decided to have a child. When I lost her, though—” Her creamy complexion blushed and her voice trailed off mid-sentence. “How do you do?” she said, letting us shake her limp hand. My eyes wandered over the artificially red lips, the straight nose with small and round nostrils, and the butterfly glasses I had already seen the day before, half hidden behind a pillar.
“Did you know the Tarantinos well?” I asked, pulling a chair over. “You were at their funeral yesterday, Ms. Kelson.”
Her smooth forehead creased. She brought a white hand to her face and took off her sunglasses. Her eyes were sharp blue, intense yet clouded. They grazed my face like blind fingers searching for a familiar feature to grasp.
She took her time taking in the details of my appearance, her gaze fumbling with the lapels of my jacket, creeping into the hem of my shirt. And I breathed in her scent, extremely pleasant, I confess, despite the slight aftertaste of nicotine. It was delicate, not exuberant, and yet persistent.
I knew from the reports I’d read that Kelson was now in her late forties, yet the woman in front of me looked no older than thirty-two.
“Jerry and I met Dr. Tarantino in 1996,” she said. “We stayed in touch, exchanged holiday cards over Christmas.” Her accent was American, yet her British origins surfaced in little details: her quiet voice, polite yet chilly, always retreating to an invisible barrier saying, “Private. Do not enter.”
“Especially after Gaya’s birth?” Satish asked.
I hadn’t expected the smile that followed. She brushed a finger along the condensation on her glass, her eyes dreamingly looking away, chasing memories. “Especially after Gaya’s birth. We wanted to do everything right, Detective. I grew up taking care of my younger sister affected by Down syndrome. Jerry’s aunt has cystic fibrosis, a recessive genetic disease, and then the new case came out—you remember the parents who sued for malpractice claiming a flu shot had caused their child to develop autism?”
“Gregory and Melissa Garrison,” Satish confirmed.
“That’s right. Greg is Jerry’s brother. Jerry took his mother’s maiden name when he started directing. We really wanted a child, but between my age and the risk of both autism and cystic fibrosis in Jerry’s family, we were scared.”
We wanted to do everything right. What is the meaning of “right” when it comes to human life?
Hannah let out a sigh. “So we did the genetic testing, and from the results we were told that both Jerry and I carried the gene for cystic fibrosis. It’s a recessive gene, so neither of us is affected, but if we had a child, there was a one-in-four chance that she was going to have it. It’s a horrible disease, affects the lungs, skin, everything.”
“And Chromo helped?” I asked. “How?”
“Genetic counseling. Our Gaya was conceived in vitro.”
An overdressed waiter with an attitude materialized by our side ready to fulfill our requests even if we didn’t have any. I ordered a double shot espresso and wondered if it came with a price tag that could be reasonably filed under “incidentals” in our expense report.
Gaya Nicole was an exceptionally brilliant child. Kelson laid it out plainly, without a note of pride. To her, it was a fact. “Two grades ahead of her age, she played the violin and excelled in any activity she undertook. Even after the leukemia was diagnosed, she still proved herself extraordinary. I can’t tell you how many times Jerry and I felt overwhelmed by the doctors’ visits, the chemo and radiation therapies, the nausea, the sense of death creeping into our lives.” Kelson sighed and averted her eyes. Her fingers went looking for something, a cigarette, most likely, then changed their mind and rested again on the glass in front of her.
“Throughout her ordeal, Gaya was the bravest of us three. Completely bald, she felt like a tiny sparrow in my arms. And yet, she’d hug me tight and say, It’ll be ok, Mum. Even if I have to go to heaven, it’ll be ok.” A tear rolled down her face. “My baby is in heaven, now,” she whispered, dabbing her cheek with the tip of her finger.
Satish and I exchanged uncomfortable glances. Two killer cops, both armed, heavily trained, and look at us. Melting down like marshmallows on a stick. Satish murmured a barely audible “I’m sorry, Ms. Kelson,” while drumming his fingers on the table. I tipped my head looking for my million-dollar espresso.
“Did your relationship with Mr. White worsen during those months?” Satish asked.
Kelson shook her head, gently, and just as gently her perfume escaped and found its way to my nostrils. “No. It brought us back together. Definitely brought us together. Not as husband and wife. As parents of a dying child.”
The overdressed waiter came back with our orders, walking as if he had a broomstick stuck down his throat. By the time it touched the table my espresso was cold. I downed it in one gulp, then loosened the knot of my tie and took the chance to change the topic of the conversation. “How did your friendship with Professor Conrad start, Ms. Kelson?”
Her index finger froze along the rim of the glass. “Michael?” she said. “Michael was a child.” She smiled, her eyes sad in a different way this time. “He’d take me out to dinner, tell me how beautiful I was, and then monopolize the conversation with his ideas.”
“Ideas you agreed with?” Satish asked.
Kelson’s voice changed. “Did I agree with Michael’s claims on selective breeding? No, Detective. I didn’t. Do I blame him for making such claims? Same answer: no. Doctors and professors used to be revered. Nowadays, they’re nerds. TV, tabloids, reality shows, all imposing new role models: college drop-outs, wannabes, self-declared geniuses, and other failures seeking cheap and short-lasting fame. Next generation’s heroes. When you look around, Detective, and you see this kind of rubbish, how can you not agree with Conrad?”
I shifted in my chair. A tennis ball smacked in the distance. A blonde and tanned couple emerged from the tennis courts as if they’d just stepped out of a sport gear catalog.
Kelson shook her head. “Poor Michael. So smart, and yet so dumb.”
Satish and I winced at the remark. “Dumb, Ms. Kelson?”
She turned to me, a proud glare glimmering in her blue eyes. “Short-sighted,” she corrected. And then bit her lower lip until it became white. She was done with us. I read it in the impatience with which her pink fingernails tapped against the glass. I wasn’t, though. I had one more question.
“Have you ever heard of the name Proteus, Ms. Kelson? Anything that comes to mind, from conversations with Conrad, or back when you consulted Chromo the first time, or maybe at the Esperanza—”
“Proteus, you said?”
I nodded.
“I’m sorry, it doesn’t ring a bell,” her lips said. Not her eyes though. I’m lying, Detective, her eyes told me. Or did I just imagine it?
I leaned forward. “Hannah. Your ex-husband is a successful man with a brilliant career. Why would he ruin it all and kill a family friend on the whim of a moment?” Again, those blue irises sparkling in an eerie way, talking to me. Don’t go there. Alarmed, as if afraid to slip away.
I have to. It’s my job.
“He didn’t do it,” she said firmly.
“You really believe that?”
She didn’t reply. Satish sighed. “Ms. Kelson. If there’s anything we should know about what happened, anything that could help Mr. White—”
“No,” she cut him short. “Jerry didn’t do it. There’s nothing more to say on the matter.” She gazed at us, her lashes tingling on my skin. “Not all crimes are punishable, Detectives. Our world is very much imperfect. Justice, when and if it happens, is the exception, not the rule.”
I sank back in my chair, her statement as unexpected as a lazy eye in a pretty face. What was it supposed to mean? That whatever White was, a killer or a victim, she didn’t care? What about Conrad, did she care he’d died? Kelson unfolded the glasses she had left on the table, slid them back on, and then waved at the waiter. The show was over.
* * *
The air was cool when I stepped out of the Glass House. Dusk came quickly. The earlier haze melted away and thick clouds cluttered the sky. Up on the foothills, crickets smelled rain in the air and quieted down. Shadows grew longer and blurred into the landscape.
The best time to go hunting.
I merged into the ramp to the One-Oh-One wondering if Nelson and the others would be at Abbey’s already, getting intoxicated over the first round of schooners. One mile later I merged onto the One-Ten west (because it was Friday), then detoured on the Four-Oh-Five north (because I didn’t want it to be Friday), and finally exited on San Vicente (because the name was stuck in my head). I entered an anonymous parking lot crossed by a row of sickly shrubs—the illusion of a sha
dow to fight for on a hot summer day.
It should be around here…
As if answering my question, the streetlights flicked to life and a well of light bathed the walk-up ATM machine at the far corner of the lot, the name of the bank wavering in red and blue at the top of the stand. October 6, eight fifteen p.m.: Jennifer Huxley parks her Ford and walks to the ATM. She has little time, working one job during the daytime, and secretly fiddling with another project at night. Some additional data she was going to obtain. When? From whom? Yet that night she finds the time to come here and withdraw five hundred dollars in cash. She doesn’t go back to work, and it’s not until eleven p.m. that a neighbor hears her car pull into the garage.
Where did you go from here, Jen?
The sound of bells chiming made me startle. It’s a recording, I realized, scanning the modern design of the building across the lot and noticing it lacked a bell tower. The building was circular, with high walls sliced by stained windows, and skylights peeking through a conical roof. At the very top, a cross stood against wine spattered clouds.
Two ladies came out of a side door and crossed the parking lot.
“Father Jonathan looked tired tonight, don’t you think Linda?” one said.
“All Souls’ is coming up,” the other replied. “I bet Father was up late listening to the confessions of a lot of widowers I happen to know.”
“Oh, Linda!” The ladies giggled and then shuffled away arm in arm. I walked to the entrance and stared at the glass door, a new thought slowly forming in my head. I raised a hand as to touch the handle but before I could reach it the door swung open.
“I’m sorry,” a distinctive man in an old fashioned suit mumbled. He stepped back, held the door open for me, and then disappeared outside.