by Regina Fagan
No trace was ever found of Alyson’s boyfriend. A search of her modest apartment had turned up some expensive art objects, several pieces of jewelry, and a fur coat.
Investigators had no luck tracing the jewelry, yet someone had discovered that her fur coat was purchased from a Beverly Hills furrier, but once again the trail died since it had been paid for in cash by a “tall good looking man”. Just as now, this guy was extremely clever about covering his tracks well and leaving no paper trail behind him anywhere.
Kinsella turned to the medical examiner’s report. The cause of death had been strangulation. Her neck had been broken, and she had been dead when dumped into the water, where she’d remained about three days before being found. It had not been possible to determine if any sexual assault had taken place. The body was bruised severely, but how much of that had been caused by the sea and how much came from a possible beating at the hands of her killer had also been impossible to know.
Disappointed, Kinsella closed out the files. He looked at Alyson Merlott’s picture. The resemblance to Kelley Grant, Ann Heald, and Susan Sayles was indeed uncanny. The women were all frighteningly alike. So until he had definite proof otherwise, he was going to consider Alyson Merlott a possible victim of the same killer they were looking for now.
Kinsella had searched all unsolved killings that had taken place in the city in the last twelve years, beyond his initial request for any that had been done with a silk scarf. He had also searched the FBI’s VICAP Web, entering all the details of his current killings – especially the blue silk scarves used. Now he wondered why Alyson Merlott’s murder had not come up immediately. Angrily, he could only surmise that nobody had seen fit to enter the crime at the time.
That thought alone made him dread searching any farther back into the past, fearing he would find even more women who looked like Alyson and the three new victims. Yet, it could be that Alyson was this killer’s first and perhaps only killing until now.
Yes, that was possible. He certainly hoped that was so.
But then the most important question still remained unanswered. If so, why now? If he was looking for the same man who had killed only Alyson Merlott, what had triggered him to start killing again?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
WEDNESDAY – OCTOBER 19th - TAHITI
On a humid morning filled with the scents of tuberose and jasmine, Bill Arnett’s crew checked into their layover hotel on Maeva Beach outside Papeete. As soon as he’d settled into his room, Bill prepared for a swim. He was tired after the all-night flight from San Francisco, yet he could never resist an early morning swim in the hotel’s lovely pool.
He dove cleanly and swam several laps before turning onto his back to float. It was so early he had the pool entirely to himself.
Bill loved coming to Tahiti. It was always a restful layover. Sometimes, he would spend his entire day reading beside the pool or on the soft white beach nearby. Other times he would ride into Papeete, to Boulevard Pomare along the waterfront, where he would browse among the shops and cafes.
He swam across the pool one last time before returning to his room. It was time for some rest. Later today, he would go into town to see the cruise ship several of last night’s passengers were boarding. The ship would leave Papeete in the evening, and Bill thought it would be fun to watch the departure.
Bill was feeling very good. Monday night he had met up with a classmate from flight training, a man he had not seen since his days in New York. Peter Breen had just transferred to San Francisco. During their conversation, Bill learned that Peter had been alone for some years. The two made plans to meet for dinner when Bill returned home. They had always been good friends and had dated casually; now Bill was optimistic about a relationship with Peter. He was damned tired of living alone, and he still had a secret crush on Peter.
He took a cool shower and went to sleep until early afternoon, when he ordered a sandwich and coffee from room service and settled himself in the warm shade on his patio to catch up with his reading while he ate his meal. In the distance, the island of Moorea was mistily outlined against a tropical blue sky and puffy white clouds. It looked like a watercolor, lacking only the frame. Bill snapped a photo with his smart phone. Beautiful! This would be his Facebook cover photo for next month.
Tuesday had been a busy day, so Bill had had no time to look at his newspapers before reporting for the Tahiti flight in the early evening. He had stuffed Tuesday’s paper into his tote bag, planning to take a look at it during his break time during the flight last night. There had been no time, however, so now while he ate his lunch, he spread the day-old newspaper on the patio table next to his food.
The biggest story was the serial killer. Three victims, so far. But the police had a suspect. Yes, he’d heard something about that on the radio, and there was a composite drawing of the man on page one.
He looked at the picture, sipping the strong French coffee blend that he always drank too much of when he was in Tahiti. There was something about that face. He had a feeling that he recognized that face, that he had seen that man somewhere. But where? He met so many people.
He sat back, coffee cup in hand, glancing frequently at the lovely view of ocean and sky and Moorea such a short distance across the water. The clouds were obscuring part of the island now. The lush watercolor scene had become a blend of pale misty blues and grays and dusty whites.
And then he remembered where he had seen the face in the newspaper. It was Luther Ross-Wilkerson, of the spilled coffee incident on the flight from London, the man now harassing Christine. Could it really be the same person, or was he imagining a resemblance?
He studied the drawing carefully. He could never forget that face. Certainly this drawing was a very good likeness of Ross-Wilkerson, or someone pretty damn identical to him.
There was a description of the suspect. When seen by witnesses with the last two victims, he had been well-dressed, expensively dressed.
Bill read on. Nowhere was there any mention of a British accent. He relaxed slightly. Although the accent had not been overly heavy, Bill was sure that anyone who had spoken to Luther Ross-Wilkerson at length would surely have noticed it. So perhaps he was being overly imaginative.
He turned the page and looked at the pictures of the three poor victims. Kelley Grant, Ann Heald, M.D., and Susan Sayles all smiled up at him from his newspaper.
He felt suddenly sick. The tropical warmth which had felt so good seemed stifling. The humidity pressed in on him, and his body was suddenly wet and clammy. He pushed his unfinished sandwich aside and got up, stumbling back into the room and hoping he would not get sick to his stomach. He drank in deep gulps of the cool air inside.
As hard as he tried, he couldn’t wipe those women’s faces from his mind. He tried to ignore what he had recognized just now, but it refused to leave him, refused to yield to any type of comforting logic he might try to apply to it. He was forced to admit that each one of those lovely blonde women looked like Christine. Too much like Christine for this to be a coincidence or fanciful thinking on his part.
This was insane. He began pacing the room, trying to reason himself out of this nonsense. Was it just the heat here? Was he overly tired? Going crazy? On the face of it, what he was thinking was simply too mad to be true. Yet could it be? Stranger things had happened.
He remembered his feelings the first time he had met and spoken to Luther Ross-Wilkerson. He had instantly disliked the man, something he was not used to doing with people he met. But something about the guy had unnerved him, repulsed him even. Christine had felt it, too.
Now he thought about the phone calls Chris had received, and the crazy expensive gifts of roses and crystal and silk. He’d told her she should report Luther to the police because he was harassing her. But he really doubted she would when it came down to it.
Christine! Where was she? Tokyo? Yes, that was it. She had left early Tuesday morning. Taking the International Date Line i
nto consideration, Bill tried to figure out where she would be today. It would be Thursday, and she would probably leave for home tonight, bringing her back to San Francisco also on Thursday. In his confused state, Bill was not sure if he was even calculating his dates and times properly.
Maybe he could phone her in Tokyo. Surely she had her cell phone on. But suppose not? He imagined trying to track her down in Japan. No, that would never do. He would have to wait until they were both back in San Francisco before he could do anything. She was safe in the meantime, far out of Luther’s reach.
But what about some other poor woman back home? This guy seemed to be killing women at random all over the city. What could he do about that?
He pulled up the calendar on his phone and went to tomorrow’s information. He would be back home early Thursday evening. Christine’s flight from Tokyo was due in about the same time. He would have to find her tomorrow night and alert her to what he had discovered. Then they both would notify the police. He wondered if perhaps she had already seen the composite herself and made the same connection he had.
He sat down on the edge of his bed, listening to tropical bird songs and warm breezes rustling the palms outside his room. In the distance, Moorea was almost totally veiled now by puffy clouds. He wondered if he was losing touch with reality, imagining some foolish disaster. A logical, sensible man by nature, he was not given to fanciful imaginings, ever. Yet now, for the first time in his life, he felt without doubt that he was on the brink of a terrible, unspeakable tragedy, one that could take the life of his dearest friend.
And for the time being, caught over five-thousand miles from home, he was utterly helpless to do anything to prevent it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
WEDNESDAY – OCTOBER 19th – SAN FRANCISCO
Luther phoned Christine’s apartment several times on Tuesday and again on Wednesday, each time reaching her answering machine. By Wednesday morning, deciding she was off on another trip, he thought he would take a chance and drive back to the city. He had a plan, and he thought now might be the perfect time to try it out.
He left Monterey wearing large dark sunglasses and a cap, more upset than he cared to admit over the composite he’d seen. It was featured prominently again in Wednesday’s papers, and it had been on all the television news reports. He told himself the picture wasn’t very accurate; just the same a disguise wouldn’t hurt. To be doubly safe, he didn’t shave, figuring a beard would make him safer still.
Luther left the BMW in a parking structure several blocks from Christine’s apartment complex and walked the remaining distance. Today, he would try to discover a way to get into Sutter Court.
The last time he had been there, he had noticed a café directly across the street. Small tables at the front windows offered a perfect view of Sutter Court’s main entrance. Luther went in and ordered a cup of tea. Then, seated at the window, he watched, trying to figure out any possible pattern that might offer him a chance to outsmart the building’s security system.
His attention soon turned to the underground garage. Quite a few cars had gone in. Since no one returned to the street from the garage, there had to be an elevator down there. Luther decided that the garage might be the safest and easiest way into the building, provided he could find some way to get past the locked gates, and also provided that the elevator didn’t require a card or key.
He would have to wait and watch for a car going in and then slip quickly through the gates next to it, in the driver’s blind spot. Fortunately, there was a bus stop in front that would make things easier for him. He could stand at the bus stop and watch the garage without attracting any attention.
Once he got inside, he needed to find the number of Christine’s apartment. There would be mailboxes surely, or a directory perhaps in the lobby. He would have to be very careful about meeting the manager again. Luther realized while he slowly sipped his tea that everything he was planning to do was extremely risky, yet the danger he faced exhilarated him. All he wanted was Christine.
He finished his tea and walked across the street to the bus stop. It was late in the afternoon and people were gathering there. He had calculated that it would be several more minutes before another bus was due. He would not be conspicuous. Many more cars were entering the garage now also, so all he had to do was wait for the right moment and then slip quickly down into the garage.
He stood to the rear of the group waiting for the bus, watching the street carefully, eager for another car to turn into Sutter Court. For several minutes, nothing happened. Anxiously, Luther hoped the bus didn’t arrive before he was able to make his move. The crowd at the stop was growing, meaning the bus must be due along any minute. If a car didn’t drive in soon, and if all these people left on the bus, he doubted he would be able to justify standing alone any longer.
Nervously, he continued to watch the street and the garage gates, moving slightly away from the bus passengers and closer to the building. For nearly five minutes more, there was no activity at the garage. Then Luther noticed a rustle of movement among the people gathered at the stop; change was coming out of pockets, packages were being picked up. Glancing along the street to his left, he could see the bus approaching in the distance.
Clenching and opening his fists over and over again, he cursed silently to himself. Once the bus passengers had gone, he would have to leave here. He would have to cancel his plans until another day.
Just at that moment, an SUV slowed and started to turn into the driveway. Excellent, he thought, the bulky vehicle was better than he had hoped for. As the bus crowd moved closer to the curb and the approaching bus, Luther backed further toward the wall of the building behind him. The SUV’s sole driver was waiting for the gates to open fully. Finally, he eased the vehicle into the garage, while Luther slipped neatly and discreetly into the passage next to him, taking care to stay to the right of the vehicle and turning quickly in the opposite direction from the driver once he was down the ramp and inside the garage. Behind and above him, he heard the gate locking into place again, just as the bus braked at the curb and opened its doors to pick up and discharge passengers.
He walked to a dark corner of the garage and watched for the driver of the SUV to leave. He heard a door slam and soon saw the man, carrying a briefcase in one hand and a bag of groceries in the other, walking to the farthest side of the garage, out of Luther’s sight. Then there was the ping of a bell and the sound of elevator doors opening. The man was gone, and there was no one else in sight.
Like a cat, Luther glided silently across the garage toward the elevators, where he waited for a car to return, praying that he didn’t need a key or code to operate it. But no, he was in luck again. A woman stepped out of the car when the door opened, smiling pleasantly at him. Luther smiled in return and stepped into the car, pressing the button for the lobby. He was buoyed up by the ease with which he had gotten inside the building, but now, as the elevator stopped on the lobby level, he felt his heart pounding violently again. What was he going to do now that he was here? Suppose he walked right into the manager again? How would he explain how he had gotten in?
The elevator door opened onto a small lobby with highly polished tile and trees and plants arranged attractively in large containers. A full glass wall offered a pretty view of the courtyard. Two comfortable couches stood near the windows, and there were framed watercolors of city landmarks on the richly papered walls. There was nobody in sight.
A few feet from the elevators, a hallway led to an office. Next to the elevators were the mailboxes, with an alphabetical directory above listing last names and apartment numbers. Just what he had hoped for.
He stepped to the directory and scanned the names until he found Christine’s apartment number: 608. Marvelous! He could not believe how easy this had been, or how lucky he had been today.
He walked across the lobby, intending to leave now through the courtyard. He had done enough for one day. Then, as he neared the
glass doors, he saw two women walking toward him from the front gate. With them was the building’s burly manager. The three, talking as they walked, did not notice Luther standing inside the lobby watching them.
In a panic, he dashed back to the elevators. A car was waiting, and he got in and took it to the sixth floor. He would have to wait here for awhile before venturing back to the lobby to make his exit. In the meantime, he would find Christine’s apartment. He began counting off the numbered doors along the hallway. He had really not intended to come this far today.
The thickly carpeted hallway was very quiet. Luther turned the corner toward number 608 and was within a few doors of the apartment when 608’s door opened and a young girl came out carrying a plastic garbage bag. She passed Luther and continued along toward the elevators. Luther watched her go along the length of the hall and turn.
It was then that he looked back at the door of 608 and noticed the girl had left it partially open. With hardly any thought at all, he dashed inside. In the distance along the hallway, he heard a door slam and footsteps coming back. She was returning.
Shaking and nearly sick with fear, Luther realized what an insane move he had made. What would he do now? How did he know who else might be in the apartment? Blindly, he made his way from the small foyer and through the apartment to a bedroom, pulling open the first door he came to and slipping inside.
He found himself in a large walk-in closet, with a light that went on when the door was opened and off as he closed it quietly behind him again. His heart was pounding and thudding so violently that he was sure he would collapse. His body was soaked with perspiration. What had ever possessed him to run into the apartment? Who was the girl and what would he have to do to her if she caught him here?