‘Why so mysterious?’
‘We know Chantal was scared, but she wouldn’t say why. We also know she was in a big hurry to get out of there. So I ask myself: was there something going on in the building that drove her out?’
I get to Tribune Tavern early. It’s a ground-floor restaurant in the old Oakland Tribune Tower, always busy, filled with judges, politicians, journalists, and city administrators greeting one another as they come and go. I grab a corner table then wait for Scarpaci. I feel a little thrill when I see him come through the door then make his way gracefully across the room. When he’s seated and looks at me, I notice a sparkle in his eyes.
‘You look pretty pleased with yourself,’ I tell him.
He admits he is. ‘Ramos picked up a perp who claims he knows something about quote that-whip-lady-murder-thing unquote. This perp’s a wanna-be gangsta rap artist. He wants to exchange his info for a pass on a manslaughter charge.’
‘Can he really get off in return for info?’
‘That’s what his lawyer and the ADA are negotiating. If the info’s good the ADA might reduce the charge, but he’s reluctant because most of the time the “info” turns out to be bogus. It’s a nasty world out there.’
I find this upsetting, but Scarpaci, I note, is still smiling.
‘I still don’t get why you’re so cheerful.’
‘Don’t know about cheerful. Hopeful maybe. This is the first time we’ve heard anything about Chantal from the street.’ He pauses. ‘Remember Nadia, my fortochnitsa?’
‘Your electronic wizard – how could I forget her?’
‘I’m sending her out to do a little black-bag job for me tonight. If she finds what I’m hoping I may be able to get a warrant and wrap this thing up.’
He refuses to say more. ‘Call me superstitious, but I’d rather wait till everything falls into place.’
I’m back at work writing my Lou/Hitler scenes, when I decide to take a break. I go into my bedroom, put on gloves, and go to work on my new heavy bag. After a fifteen-minute workout I return to the main room to continue writing. As always before I start, I peer at the three pictures on my desk.
Looking at them I ask myself: What could Chantal have meant when she told Eva she was scared because of something having to do with the Luzern photograph? What’s in it? What’s not in it? Think like Dr Maude, I urge myself. Think psychoanalytically!
There’s nothing in the Luzern photograph that could have scared her. It was taken over a hundred thirty years ago. Yet Eva remembered asking her ‘The Luzern?’ to which Chantal responded ‘In a way.’
It’s then that I get an idea for the final scene in my play – I’ll step forward, address the audience, tie the three renditions of the Luzern photograph together. I’ll describe the way they’re linked, how the bizarre late nineteenth-century photograph, appropriated and twisted by Hitler in 1913, came to obsess a twenty-first-century dominatrix to the extent she decided to reinterpret it.
Suddenly another idea snaps into place: What if Chantal didn’t mean the original Luzern picture? What if she was referring to her own hommage photo?
As I ponder that I’m hit by a third idea, one so powerful I immediately pick up the phone and call Carl Hughes.
He’s annoyed to hear from me. ‘My lawyer doesn’t want me to talk to you guys.’
‘I’m not a cop, Carl. I need to talk to you about those blackmail pictures. This could be important.’
‘Important to you maybe. Why to me?’
‘Because it could hold the answer to why Chantal was killed.’
‘I didn’t appreciate the way you set me up, Tess. You know the saying – fooled once, shame on you, fooled twice …’
Before I can tell him I’m sorry he feels I fooled him, he starts telling me how the pressure from Scarpaci has turned his life upside-down.
‘My wife made me go into therapy. Now she’s put me out of the house. I’m living at a hotel. I’m distracted at work. My lawyer’s costing me a fortune. Everything’s fucked up because I was stupid. I should never have gotten involved with a woman like that …’
‘I don’t think you were stupid, Carl. You had desires. You acted on them. I think that’s brave.’ I pause. ‘I really need to talk to you about those pictures. Name a place and I’ll jump in a cab. I can be in San Francisco in twenty minutes.’ Silence. ‘Hey, come on, meet with me.’
Finally he relents. He tells me to meet him at a bar near his hotel.
‘I’m sitting here now,’ he tells me, ‘guzzling bourbon and feeling sorry for myself.’
I spot him soon as I walk in, slouched at a small table in a corner, unshaven, wearing a faded gray T-shirt, looking less the confident besuited museum curator I met in Oakland than a scruffy inebriated loser reveling in loneliness and rejection.
Making my way to him, I scan the place. It’s a shabby bar with barely any customers. A middle-aged guy perched on a bar stool is talking to the dyke bartender. She wears a cowboy hat and fringed leather vest. There’s a poster for an old John Wayne film on the wall.
‘Hi, Carl.’ I sit down opposite. ‘Thanks for meeting me.’
‘Yeah … sure … So what’s on your mind, Tess? What’s so damn important?’
It takes me a while to get him talking about the photo session he did with Chantal and Josh. He tells the same story as Josh about the first set not working out because of Chantal’s annoyance with the see-through hoods, and how she then buckled them into black-leather fetish helmets.
‘Those photos you got in the mail – they were from the first set, right?’
‘Had to be,’ he says. ‘The images were fuzzy but I recognized myself.’
‘Fuzzy?’
‘They seemed like blow-ups.’ He pauses. ‘There was something off about them too. The angle – it didn’t seem right. Chantal’s camera was on a tripod at waist level. But those pictures looked like they were taken from higher up.’
Thinking immediately of Chantal’s ceiling cameras, I ask: ‘How much higher?’
‘Like maybe she was standing above us. I figure she must have taken them with a cellphone, snapped them off when we weren’t looking. When I saw them I thought it was part of the blackmail game I wanted her to play with me. But when I called her she denied she’d sent them. When I described them to her, she got really upset, claimed she hadn’t taken any such pictures then hung up. Never heard from her again.’ He stares at me. ‘If she didn’t send them who did? The other guy? Why?’ He seems to have sobered up. ‘What would anyone have to gain? There were never any blackmail demands.’
‘Don’t know, Carl. Maybe someone just wanted to fuck with you. She had security cameras in the ceiling. I think that’s how they were taken. The way I reconstruct it, soon as you described those pictures she realized someone was using her own security cameras to spy on her. I think that must be what freaked her out, caused her to sell off her stuff in a hurry and move out of the building.’
He looks stunned. ‘So when she said she didn’t send them to me she was telling me the truth?’
‘Sure looks that way …’
I take the BART back to the East Bay. I feel terrible about what I’ve discovered. Everything now points to Josh, Scarpaci’s main suspect, the guy I’ve been defending all along. It still seems implausible. Josh told me he loved Chantal … but he’s told me many fibs along the way. I don’t know what to believe. I do know I have to phone Scarpaci, tell him Carl’s so-called blackmail shots were likely taken from one of Chantal’s security cameras. Let him figure out the rest. It’s possible, I know, that someone else had access to Chantal’s feed. And even if Josh did send Carl those pictures that doesn’t necessarily mean he killed her. He was, I remind myself, down in LA when she disappeared.
I walk from the BART station back to the Buckley. Tonight the heat feels oppressive. I notice black herons moving restlessly in the yucca trees. Hearing cawing I look up, spot seagulls circling over downtown like giant black bats.
The
lobby at the Buckley is deserted. The Art Deco décor – yellow and black tile floor, interlocking brass-work on the elevator surround – glows in the dim light cast by the geometric sconces and reverse pyramid chandelier. Everything’s lustrous. The lobby as always projects an aura of faded luxury.
I glance at the concierge’s podium where Clarence stands in the morning exchanging greetings with arriving office tenants.
I ring for the elevator. It arrives with a jerk. The door rolls open. The ornate interior is brightly lit. I push the button for the penthouse. The elevator gives a little shake then starts its ascent. I lean against the back wall anticipating the weird way the lights will dim then brighten as it passes every floor.
I get off at the penthouse, peer around to make sure no one’s lingering in the hall, unlock my door, enter, close it, and double lock it from inside.
I pause in the foyer, scan the books that once belonged to Chantal, glance up at the Lou Salomé quote over the archway, step into the main loft, and switch on the lights.
It’s then I see Clarence sitting still as a mannequin in the middle of my couch.
At that moment everything comes clear. Clarence somehow got access to Chantal’s camera feed. When Carl described the so-called blackmail pictures to her, Chantal understood this. Of course that scared her! How could it not? Of course she had to move!
This revelation frightens me. Looking at Clarence sitting there I start to shake.
‘Hey, Tess.’ His tone lacks any trace of deference.
I warn myself to stay cool, hide my fear. He’s the building manager. He has keys. But what the hell is he doing in here at midnight?
‘I understand you and the detective are seeing a lot of each other,’ he says.
‘You understand that? Really?’ I add a little edge to my voice. ‘Tell you what I don’t understand, Clarence – what the fuck are you doing sitting here in my living room in the dark?’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘I came up to do more work on your pipes then decided to take a breather. That’s when I noticed the manuscript on your desk. Read through it.’ He gestures toward my printout beside him. ‘Interesting project. Chantal was an interesting woman. Only problem, Tess – you got her all wrong.’
‘All right, Clarence, that’s enough,’ I tell him, gathering up my courage. ‘You had no right to look through my manuscript and you’ve no right to be in here. I want you to go.’ I pull out my cellphone. ‘I’m calling 911.’
‘Don’t do that, Tess.’ The formerly over-accommodating building manager now addresses me like a drill sergeant. ‘Put down the phone and sit,’ he orders with a strong undercurrent of threat. Fearing what he might do, I put my phone in my pocket and take a seat.
‘Chantal wasn’t at all like the woman in your play,’ he says, pushing my pages contemptuously aside. ‘I knew her, watched her, saw everything she did, spent hours monitoring her sessions. It wasn’t hard. I came in here one day when she was out, played around with her computer, discovered the software that controlled her security cameras. A few key strokes and I fixed things so I received the feed whether she thought she was streaming it or not. Her fault, if you think about – she’s the one had those cameras installed. What’d she expect me to do when I found out about them? Of course I watched her. I watched her for hours at a time.’
‘She didn’t know?’ I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
‘Oh, she knew. She sensed it just like you did. That’s why you taped over the lenses – to taunt me, right?’ He giggles. ‘You caught me watching you through the skylight too. You knew it was me. Who the hell else could it have been?’
His tone is mocking. I’m seriously frightened now. I know it’s unlikely he’d tell me these things then just walk away. He also knows I’m allied with Scarpaci. There’s a steely menace in his manner, the kind of intensity you see in the chilly eyes of a snake preparing to strike. My only hope, I know, is to stay cool and keep him talking until I can find a way to change the dynamic.
You’re an actress! Turn the tables! Improvise!
‘You should be careful what you say to me,’ I warn him. ‘I wouldn’t want to see you mess up your life. If you tell me anything that implicates you in Chantal’s death that could put you in a very bad light.’
He appears to be listening, but doesn’t react. There’s a distant look in his eyes as if he’s thinking about something else. Then he starts speaking in a strange otherworldly voice, the kind of rhapsodic monotone an actor might use to deliver a soliloquy.
‘She was amazing, you know? So powerful … yet touched by grace. We talked a lot. She told me things about her clients, intimate things, their quirks and fantasies. She liked feeling their need. “That’s the best part,” she told me, “feeling how desperately they need me and knowing how well I can sate their desires, toy with them, tantalize them, show them who they really are. Then afterwards look into their eyes and see their gratitude for everything I’ve given them …”’
He continues like this, speaking dreamily about Chantal and the secrets she shared with him, the things he saw her do, the vulnerability he sensed in her when she thought she was alone. But he was watching. He saw everything. He knew everything about her, the hard dominant side she showed her clients and the soft needy side she kept concealed.
‘… she talked to herself, paced the room, mumbling like I’ve seen you do when you’re rehearsing …’
Seen me! Fuck!
‘… her power thing – most of that was an act. Good one too. She knew what she was doing, knew exactly what buttons to push to bring a client to his knees. It was thrilling to watch her take control, bend those guys to her will. I considered asking her for a session. I thought I might enjoy being in her power. Temporarily, just for an hour or two. But I knew if I did everything would change. She had plenty of slaves. She needed me as a friend. She knew I cared for her, watched out for her, protected her. Josh thought he played that role, but I was her real protector. Then I got bored, decided to play a little game with her, mix things up a bit. I’d heard that guy, Carl, beg her to blackmail him, and the scornful way she refused. So I thought, OK, that’s what he wants, let’s give him a taste of it, shake him up, put a little scare into the guy and see how they both react. Big mistake! Didn’t think it through. Soon as he described those pictures to her she knew they’d been taken by her cameras even when she thought she’d turned them off. I watched her as she went straight to her laptop and trashed the monitoring software. That must be when she decided to move. I understood I was going to lose her. I knew too there was nothing I could do about it … and, the worst part, that it was all my fault.’
He stares at me. ‘I know you figured some of this out. I’ve heard you and the detective talking …’
Heard us! Did he come up here after Nadia swept the place and bug it again? If so then he knows everything we know, including our conversations about why Chantal was in such a rush to leave.
He seems to be in a trance state now, lost in a reverie. Observing him closely, I think about escape. Can I make a run for it? Since I double-locked the door, he’ll be on me before I can unlatch it. He’s not a big man, but he’s strong. I remember the way his muscles bulged when he delivered the chariot.
I peer around the loft looking for something to hit him with, something that will stun him long enough for me to get away. Smash the glass top of my coffee table then stab him with a shard? Make a dash for the kitchen, grab a chef’s knife, then lunge at him if he tries to stop me leaving?
I feel my heart pounding. Suddenly I get an idea. What if I become Chantal, become the dominatrix he watched, the one he longed for from a distance because he was too cowardly to ask her for a session?
Try it! Act it out!
‘Stand, Clarence!’ I order, standing up myself. I give him a menacing look. ‘You’ve been nasty. You know how I treat nasty boys. I punish them.’
He stares at me, startled. For a moment I’m afraid he’s going to laugh. But to my surpris
e he obeys, stands, hangs his head. Without knowing whether he’s faking, merely humoring me, I decide to take my domination act as far as I can.
‘Nasty boys who spy on ladies always get found out. You’ve been in here when I’ve been out, haven’t you, Clarence?’ He nods. ‘You’ve probably sniffed around in my lingerie drawer.’ He grins. ‘I’m going to punish you for that. Go to the cell.’ He hesitates. I raise my voice. ‘You heard me! Move!’ He shakes his head. ‘You dare to defy me, Clarence!’ And then, before he can answer, ‘Know what I think? I think you want to be punished, but you’re too chickenshit to admit it.’
I grab hold of his arm, pull him forward, then get behind him and shove him roughly toward the jail alcove.
‘You’re going into the cell. I’m going to lock you up in there so you can think about all the nasty things you’ve done and how sorry you are for having done them. Before I let you out you’re going to apologize for your transgressions.’
I push him hard again, get him almost to the cell door. I pull it open then push him forward.
Just two more steps and I’ll have him caged!
The intercom sounds. The buzz jolts Clarence. He turns. His trance is broken. He peers at me, eyes cold and menacing.
‘Who’s that?’ he demands.
‘Scarpaci.’
‘Don’t answer!’
‘He knows I’m here. He’s got a key.’
Clarence grabs hold of me. I feel his strength as he shoves me backward.
‘Go to the intercom. Tell him you’re working. Tell him to come back later.’ He puts me in a chokehold. ‘Do it or I’ll snap your neck.’
I nod, feign weakness, go slack, pretend to stumble.
I start whimpering. ‘My ankle gave out.’
Then, just as he slightly loosens his grip, I smash my elbow hard into his stomach and break loose. He stumbles back into the cell doorway. We’re facing one another. I assume a Muay Thai stance. As he’s about to lunge toward me, I kick out violently, catch him hard in the groin with the tip of my shoe. As he starts to crumble, I clobber him with a knuckle punch to the face. Then as blood spurts from his nose, I twirl, jab my elbow hard into the side of his head, step out of the cell, slam the door, lock it, and pull the key.
The Luzern Photograph Page 29