Good To The Last Kiss: Crimes of the Depraved Mind Series

by Ronald Tierney

  ‘Yes. You knew that too.’

  ‘True. Word gets around.’

  ‘You probably knew it before I did.’

  ‘Don’t fight me. Use me,’ Seidman said.

  Gratelli didn’t have a chance to use Seidman. In less than a week, the task force judged Earl Falwell to be the sole killer of eight of the girls and Julia Bateman’s attacker and everybody who had to buy into it bought into it. Julia Bateman’s file was closed along with the others.

  The serial killer had become old news. The police chief was becoming big news because of the high society, big-time political connections to the body found in the car in St Francis Woods. The body and the case were still in the deep freeze waiting justice or, at the least, disposition.

  The fall opera had opened. It was Gratelli’s reprieve. He missed opening night on purpose. He wasn’t interested in the minor spectacle of the first gala of the season. Gratelli went to the opera as most people went to the movies. Often and without fanfare, with the expectation that he’d be entertained, lifted from reality for two hours or so. Pure escape. The difference might be that he was destined to see the same operas over and over again. There were very few new ones. And those few he didn’t like. At least he would see each old opera anew; different sets, different talent, different interpretation. That gave him comfort. Tonight, Rigoletto . He’d seen it a half dozen times. Maybe more. Once in Milan at the Teatro Alla Scalla . The rest here over the years.

  At intermission, Gratelli was convinced of two things. One, he had never been so hot. The city was suffering from one of its occasional heat waves. Two, this was as good a Rigoletto as he’d ever seen, including the one in Milan. This was an appropriate dark and brooding performance. It mirrored his mood.

  Thaddeus Maldeaux was in the lobby. A young woman, girl perhaps – someone who had the waifish charm of the young Calvin Klein model reclining on a sofa – stood near Maldeaux’s arm and seemed to be the sole object of his attention. The other two in the party looked more art than finance. A slightly bohemian man with a beard and a younger man with longish hair whose opera attire consisted of a white t-shirt and a pair of blue jeans.

  In one swoop, Maldeaux pulled a cream-colored silk handkerchief from the side pocket of his dark suit coat and ran it across his forehead, back of his neck, and over his chin. He slipped it back in his jacket pocket.

  The lights flickered and the crowd went to their seats. Gratelli’s eyes followed Maldeaux. Maldeaux sat with the two men. The waif was down from them, third row center, apparently by herself.

  Gratelli would listen to the opera now, but he was distracted. His eyes were on Maldeaux.

  Gratelli had probably brushed against, bumped elbows with, or passed the sugar to any number of celebrities he didn’t know. North Beach was and is a magnet for the rich and famous. And for the poor and famous as well. There were tourist traps here for the tourists. But there were legitimate landmarks that were little more than utilitarian for Gratelli. To him, City Lights was merely the neighborhood bookstore. Specs and Tosca and the two dozen or so legendary bars and espresso joints may be haunted by beat literary ghosts and current literary and film folks, but Gratelli saw them as neighborhood bars and coffee shops. Sure, he knew there were national and international celebrities who could be seen at Enrico’s and had been for decades. Gratelli rarely recognized them and felt no different for having passed close to their orbit.

  So there was another reason for the excitement in Gratelli’s bones as he angled toward Thaddeus Maldeaux inside Tosca. More of a crowd had gathered around him.

  What Gratelli had to do would be difficult, but not impossible.

  ‘Mr Maldeaux,’ Gratelli said, squeezing between the handsome young heir and a dark man with a beard. Fortunately, the androgynous model type was pressing against Maldeaux’s left side.

  ‘Inspector?’ Maldeaux said surprised. ‘The man who refused one of my great breakfasts. How are you?’

  ‘Good. Excellent. Saw you at Rigoletto ,’ Gratelli said, the slightly arthritic fingers of his left hand lifting the right flap of Maldeaux’s suit jacket.

  ‘And you followed me here?’ Maldeaux asked with humor. ‘What did I do? Talk too loud during an aria?’

  ‘I live just up this way.’

  ‘Didn’t know you fancied opera,’ Maldeaux said. He introduced Gratelli to the bearded man and handsome but aloof young man – a director and actor. Gratelli thought the names familiar, but couldn’t place them exactly. The young man in jeans and ponytail was at the bar. No one introduced the girl.

  Only after Gratelli pocketed the pilfered handkerchief did he see her clearly. See the smart and hungry eyes of a woman much older than her face.

  ‘Opera is one of the few things I fancy. A sad statement actually. Opera is my TV,’ Gratelli said.

  ‘We were talking about the great tenors,’ Maldeaux said. ‘I bet you’ve heard them all, then.’

  ‘A few.’ Gratelli smiled. He was so unused to social pleasantry, his own smile felt evil and twisted. ‘I was young and heard Jussi Bjorling. Franco Corelli. And what’s his name, now, the new one, Carreras.’

  ‘The new one,’ Maldeaux laughed. ‘How about Tito Gobbi?’

  ‘Baritone, I think.’

  ‘Yes, he was. He was.’ Maldeaux said. ‘See how quickly I get out of my depth.’

  ‘I’m going to move along now,’ Gratelli said, offering a paler version of his earlier smile. He wondered if Maldeaux would notice he had left the bar without so much as a drink.

  THIRTY

  He saw her from the cab. It was daybreak. The heat broke about four a.m. Now it was gray, damp. Julia Bateman was on Thaddeus Maldeaux’s front doorstep. There was a blue Miata parked in front. Behind it was a Taurus. Maldeaux thought he recognized Gratelli behind the wheel.

  ‘Julia?’ Thaddeus Maldeaux said, coming up to her. ‘My God.’ He looked past her toward the street. No one else.

  ‘Hello Thaddeus. Another late night?’ The tone was clear.

  He seemed surprised by it. ‘Come in,’ he said opening the door and stepping inside. She followed. ‘Should we… Inspector Gratelli?’

  ‘No. I’ve asked him to wait outside.’

  ‘How are you?’ Before she could answer, he suggested they go out to the back. ‘Can I get you something?’ he asked as they traversed the hall and passed by the door to the kitchen. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘No. That’s all right.’ She was curt, cool.

  Outside it was damp. Cool.

  He offered her a seat at one of the marble-topped tables, one next to the pot dripping with luscious leaves and purple flowers. The purple flowers were everywhere, filling the ledge, which was formed by the short wall that enclosed nearly the entire balcony. The only opening was for the stone stairway that led down on to the back lawn.

  Julia didn’t sit. She didn’t say anything.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here, Julia. But I’ve got to confess I don’t know why you’re here. You’ve been ignoring me. I assumed… well… You don’t look like you want to be here. Is there some way I can help you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Here,’ she said, pulling out the handkerchief, letting it drop on the table.

  Maldeaux picked it up.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘This is why I’m here. To return your handkerchief. See you without your mask on. You needed to do it just once, didn’t you? One more experience in your search? To see what it was like to kill someone while having sex? Afraid you’d miss some life experience that you were no doubt entitled to because you are you.’

  ‘What are you talking about? Has something happened?’

  ‘I will never forget that scent.’

  Maldeaux took the handkerchief, brought it up to his nose. He didn’t answer.

  ‘Well, you failed.’

  Maldeaux shrugged. He had a little boy’s sadness on his face. ‘I’ve failed what?’

  ‘I’m alive. You killed n
o one.’ She wondered what was wrong with her. Every man… What did it matter now?

  ‘You think…’

  ‘I know. And I don’t even have to ask why. The sad thing is you’ll never be convicted of it. Your money, your power, your charm. Not to mention the fact that you were a pretty clever rapist. Left nothing behind but your scent. So lingering I could never, ever forget it. Yet so insubstantial no one would give it a thought.’

  ‘Julia…’

  ‘Shut up. And you sent a boy to finish your job. Did you make him an expendable member of your staff?’

  ‘Listen.’

  ‘Are you going to pick someone else out? So you won’t be deprived of the experience of killing during sex? Or will you finish me off?’

  ‘Julia!’

  ‘Or have you done it to someone else already? You strike me as someone who usually realizes his goals. A true achiever.’

  Maldeaux’s face turned cold. His stare was ice. Slowly he put the handkerchief back down on the table.

  Both were startled at the movement up the steps.

  ‘I was fertilizing the bulbs down by the steps,’ said Mrs Maldeaux. ‘I didn’t want to interfere.’ Her graceless form slowly climbed the stone steps to the balcony. She carried a white bag and a small silver trowel. Her face was ashen. From the look she gave her son, it was clear she had heard more than she had wanted. Her hand shook as she set the bag and trowel on the table.

  ‘The lilies, the iris, narcissus and the tulips need some bone meal through the winter to flower well in the spring.’ She touched Julia Bateman’s wrist with a shy tentativeness. ‘I’m terribly sorry.’

  Mrs Maldeaux went into the house.

  Thaddeus Maldeaux seemed frozen for a moment.

  ‘I’m not having much luck with women lately,’ he said, shaking his head in disgust or frustration. He looked at Julia Bateman. Shrugged. Nothing else to do, the shrug said. Nothing could be done or said.

  Her life changed. Before the attack, Julia had lived in the future. Now she was tugged back to the past. Unfinished business. It would never be finished unless… Unless what? Until he finished the job? She wasn’t frightened. But she was alert. And she was angry. All this thievery – of her time, of her mind, of her body, of her soul. Taken. He could never give it back. And he was never going to pay.

  She was so close to falling in love with him. Perhaps she had. Boy, could she pick them. In the mirror, a sterner, tougher Julia Bateman looked back. She wondered, at times, if she could kill him. She’d played it out more than once.

  But for the most part, she had settled in – back into her friends and activities. Movies with Paul on Monday nights. Aerobics with Sammie Cassidy on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturday mornings. That was as much physical therapy as fitness. She had gone with Gratelli to two operas. He had been appropriately fatherly, undemanding, informative and even funny. Dry, very dry humor. She had also reconnected to David. Just by phone, though. They had talked probably a dozen times. He’d lightened considerably. Said he was dating someone now. Someone he could get serious about. The old David was returning a lot faster than the old Julia.

  Even so, she was surprised to see him. He had been waiting for her, in the landing, near the door to the exercise studio on Pine Street just off Fillmore. The light from the studio window flattened on the street in a small patch and a man stood at the edge of it.

  ‘David?’

  ‘Hi,’ he said. His hair was mussed. He had a couple of day’s growth of beard. Very unlike him. He looked forlorn. Maybe even a little down on his luck, judging by the clothes.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m in need of a friend tonight,’ he said.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I need advice about women,’ he said, grinned. Shook his head.

  ‘Women or a woman?’

  ‘A woman. Yes,’ he said. ‘Can we go for a drive and talk?’

  ‘Well…’ She didn’t have an excuse. Sammie hadn’t shown up. Not totally unlike her. It was cold and dark and late. She had planned to walk back to her apartment. Still, she wasn’t sure she wanted to be trapped into an evening with David. Buy some time, she thought. ‘How did you know I was here?’

  ‘Paul told me.’

  ‘He did? Hmmmn. OK, for a little while. Maybe we could catch a drink or something. There are some places down on Hayes Street. I’d be nearly home.’

  ‘I want to go somewhere quiet. Where we can talk. A little drive?’

  ‘This isn’t your car, is it?’ Julia asked, as David opened the passenger door.

  ‘Rental. Mine’s in the shop.’

  ‘You look different,’ Julia said. ‘You don’t normally dress this way.’ It started to seem odd to Julia. His happening there on the night Sammie didn’t show up. A strange car. The slightly frayed outdoor look in clothing.

  David Seidman laughed. ‘I’m trying to relax a little. Enjoy life a little more. I’m trying not to be such an uptight asshole. And seeing what I look like in a beard. What do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘A little early yet. But I will probably shave it all off tomorrow morning.’

  ‘So this girl is putting you through some changes?’

  ‘Yes, you could say that.’

  The car picked up the fog about the time they hit the Sunset district.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Ocean Beach. That OK? Just a few more miles. Quiet out there. Just the sound of the waves.’ He patted her knee. ‘And they don’t make much noise anyway.’

  ‘David, I’m just a little nervous. Could we go back.’

  ‘Give me five minutes, OK. I really do need help.’

  ‘OK,’ she said hesitantly. ‘Ummm… well, let’s start. What’s she like?’

  ‘When we get there.’

  ‘How’s work?’

  ‘Really good, Julia. The party’s talked to me. There’s no promises, but it could be prosecutor in two. Governor in six with some high visibility stuff in between.’

  ‘Wonderful.’ She tried to be enthusiastic, but fear made it increasingly difficult. She could talk with him. She’d get whatever weirdness was going on out in the open. By morning, she’d laugh about it. She was just being paranoid. That would be normal for someone who had gone through what she had gone through. Like the guy across Ivy Street. A moment of panic. She wasn’t thinking rationally.

  Visibility was nil. David had turned off the headlights, using only the parking lights. The windshield wipers kept a constant rhythm, brushing aside not drops, but a fine coat of mist.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ Julia said.

  ‘I’m not sure I do either,’ David said. ‘I was angry before. Even so, I didn’t want you to see my face.’ He could make out her face in the reflection of the dash lights. ‘You’re not surprised.’

  ‘Too many already.’

  He pulled a knife from his coat pocket, put it to her throat. ‘Quiet now.’ He reached down in the console and pulled out a telephone. He laid it on the dash and punched in the numbers.

  There was a moment of quiet. Julia stared out into the gray nothingness that surrounded the car.

  ‘Hello, Teddy?’ There was a momentary pause. ‘I need you out here. Ocean Beach, at the end of Balboa. To the right side. Be careful, it’s foggy.’ Another pause. ‘It’s the most important thing in my life. I need you. You’ll see the tail lights.’ He didn’t wait for any more conversation. He disconnected.

  ‘They will trace the call.’

  ‘Not my phone. Not my call.’

  ‘The scent. It’s not yours.’

  ‘No,’ he said. He laughed. ‘As many times as I screwed up on this one – you know, not killing you, getting the kid to try to finish you off. So fucking smart and so well planned and it didn’t work either. And the thing that makes all of this work is that cologne. And that was an accident. Teddy had it in his locker that day. I tried it. I didn’t pay any attention to it. That’s what’s so funny,’
David said. ‘I’m ten times smarter than Teddy. True. And he always gets it right. And I do all the right things. And it never turns out.’ He laughs.

  ‘David, you’re destroying…’

  ‘Oh shit, Julia. If I don’t finish this and get it right, I will be destroyed.’

  ‘So, you do me in and probably kill Ted…’

  ‘Ted? Oh, that’s nice. I didn’t know you called him “Ted.” Doesn’t matter, Julia. Never mind. Yeah, I do you with the knife and shoot Teddy with your gun.’

  ‘I don’t have a gun.’

  ‘Oh yes you do.’ He pulled a gun from the pocket of the coat.

  ‘It’s not mine.’

  David smiled. ‘Of course it is. You ordered it. From Iowa. Came to you in Iowa.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s the part you don’t know about. I had a gun sent to you – to a Post Office Box in Iowa – J. Bateman. I came there and picked it up.’

  ‘You were in Iowa.’

  ‘Oh yeah, Julia.’

  ‘You were stalking me?’

  ‘Doesn’t seem all that serious compared to what’s going to happen, does it? You know, you were going to kill yourself. Commit suicide in the cemetery. That fucking dog. Scared the shit out of me. Something weird going on there. So I was going to give it up. Just in case, though, I shipped the gun back to me here. Then you came back to San Francisco. I thought: What if you remember? What if Teddy, or Ted as you call him, remembers my using his cologne that day. It’s fixed now. I’ve talked with Gratelli. He wanted to know the possibility of indicting Teddy with what little evidence you have. He believes Thaddeus is the murderer. He wants him. He came to me for help. This is going to be so easy.’

  ‘David, you know this is deranged. Even you can understand how you’re acting. Why don’t we work on getting you well?’

  ‘Oh Christ, Julia. You can do better than that. You kept me hanging for years. With you dead and with Teddy dead, I win. I win in so many ways.’

  ‘David?’

  ‘Be quiet.’ He spoke softly, almost gently.

  ‘You wouldn’t let me go. Friendship, you kept saying. Right. You said that. You could handle it. We could be friends. Aside from Paul, I was the only close friend you had. I couldn’t abandon you.’