Now, work was his drug, both amphetamine and sedative, and he knew he’d need it tonight. Patricia Mowatt was still missing, and though the task force had spent the entire day interviewing family members and fitness club employees, they were no closer to learning where Mowatt might be. When darkness fell and Kearns was still at his desk, he caught Fuentes’s disapproving stare. Manny had his coat on and was heading off for a night of pizza and cards with Rosalie’s parents. He tossed Kearns his jacket, and Kearns obliged him by putting it on and heading home. He could work in his apartment just as easily.
Kearns did some rough arithmetic, concluding that this would be his 250th dateless weekend in a row. Favourite chair, big-screen TV, and a bowl of beer nuts — it wasn’t so bad. Kearns poured himself a soda water, and in his mind’s eye, he flipped a coin. When it came up heads, he opted for purgatory over hell and swallowed his Paxil. He imagined his therapist nodding her approval. He had no use for an erection anyway.
Friday. The thirteenth. A perfect night for some horror flicks. Kearns reached for a short stack of videotapes, each one carefully labelled, and popped the one with Lydia Price’s name on it into his VCR. Neither Monica Turner’s nor Carole Van Horne’s funerals were on tape — the police weren’t yet fully aware what sort of killer they were dealing with. After Lydia Price died, the Spiderman legend had been born.
Lydia’s funeral, a large gathering, had been held at the First Congregational Church of San Francisco on Mason Street. The native San Franciscan had drawn a crowd of relatives, high school acquaintances, and even a score of strangers, coming to gawk at the killer’s third victim. The closed casket, Kearns thought cynically, must have been a disappointment. Friend, relative, or stranger — all visitors were requested to sign the elaborately bound guest book, supervised by two plainclothes officers masquerading as funeral officials.
The list, when compared to the guest books provided by the Turner and Van Horne families, produced nothing. No two names were alike.
He could have used an alias, Kearns thought. He may not have signed the other books. He may not have attended all the funerals.
He may be smarter than you, you dumb shit.
Repeatedly Kearns asked himself what the point was in viewing and reviewing the tapes. He was only becoming more depressed, the sight of so many mourners and their sorrow gnawing at his soul.
He forced himself to think about Patricia Mowatt, still missing, and imagined the anguish of her parents, her friends, and the roommate who had called the station in a panic.
Mowatt had no steady boyfriend, though there were several interested admirers at the fitness club where she taught aerobics. The young cops, itchy for any kind of physical activity, were out shaking down Mowatt’s potential suitors. The task force seemed to prefer dead ends to sitting down and thinking, the youngest of the bunch still yearning for the kind of excitement seen only on a movie screen. Kearns knew the killer would be caught by sheer brainpower. Still, if the greenhorns wanted to wear out their shoe leather on a quest for a Hollywood rush, well, it was one less thing Kearns had to do.
Ellen Sims, Patricia’s roommate, had already assured members of Kearns’s task force that Patricia wasn’t shacked up with some guy in Mendocino or Napa. The roommates faithfully reported their whereabouts to each other, even before the Spiderman had rendered the city captive.
The bastard had her. In less than a week, Patricia Mowatt’s body would turn up somewhere. While the tape of the Price funeral rewound, Kearns opened a city map and flattened it on the coffee table. Where would the son of a bitch dump her? It could be anywhere. San Francisco had more green space than any other American city, so he could choose another park. Griffith Park? The Palace of Fine Arts?
How the hell could Kearns follow his own dogma of being preventive rather than reactive when he couldn’t begin to predict the movements of the lunatic? In one angry gesture, he swept the map off the table. He’d already written off Patricia Mowatt as another statistic, searching for her resting place, when what he needed to do was get inside the killer’s head.
He ejected the Price cassette and popped in the funeral of Natalie Gorman.
Natalie had been baptized Roman Catholic, though the bulk of the congregation who had come to say their goodbyes had likely never seen the inside of a church. The tape revealed an attractive crowd, models, actors, and a few local celebrities. Several attempted to imitate the more faithful parishioners by awkwardly genuflecting in the aisle and making haphazard signs of the cross. Most though, didn’t bother, slouching in the pews instead, looking bored.
The Spalding tape was saddest of all. The pretty flight attendant had no living relatives, and, being new to the area, had made few friends. Her ex-husband, the picture of grief, was among the handful of mourners, mostly flight attendants and pilots who scarcely filled three rows of the Calvary Presbyterian Church in Pacific Heights. Beth Wells hadn’t even been able to attend. She had gone to England to scout for antiques with a client.
Beth had felt guilty about that too, Kearns knew. Anne Spalding’s life these past years had been the shits, having to uproot herself to find a measure of peace in a new city, but things, according to Beth, had taken a turn for the better. Anne loved her job with the airline, and there was even a new boyfriend. Kearns studied the video. Maybe it was one of these guys. Could be that airline types were like cops, sticking to their own kind.
His cop’s nose began to twitch, and Kearns knew himself well enough to pay attention. He rewound the Spalding tape and played it again. Something about the killer’s profile nagged at him.
Outwardly functioning as normally as most. Often able to play-act at some sort of relationship. Mobile. Warped time clock.
Whose circadian rhythms could be more askew than a pilot’s?
Kearns catapulted from his easy chair and paced the length of the tiny living room. He debated calling Fuentes, then nixed the idea, aware of Rosalie’s reaction the last time Kearns had picked Manny’s brains on a weekend. Kearns shoved the videos into a grocery bag and drove to the Hall of Justice on Bryant Street.
In his office, Kearns unlocked his filing cabinet and yanked the folder labelled “Spalding.” A photocopied page of the guest book listed less than thirty names. A computer check surrendered ages, occupations, addresses.
Five pilots had paid their respects to Anne Spalding on Friday, August 19 — Brent Turnbull, Peter Samuelson, Linc Gaudette, Martin DiMascio, and Jordan Bailey.
22
Beth felt her jaw tense. She took a deep breath and tried to quell the anxiety bubbling inside her. For nearly twenty minutes, she rooted in her closet for an appropriate outfit. She shoved hangers aside, dismissing a black cocktail dress as too formal, a yellow sundress as too summery. Her green wool suit was too serious.
If only she knew more about what kind of party Jordan was taking her to. Though Beth dealt with dozens of people every day, and had been raised with strangers coming and going at her parents’ inn, she was uncomfortable in socially contrived situations, and this trio party spelled mix and mingle with two capital Ms. After a long week at work, she would have preferred to spend a quiet evening at home, or better yet, in Jordan’s bed.
Jordan had seen her dressed up, dressed down, and undressed every night since their first time together, and had told her she’d look sensational wearing a garment bag; still, she wanted to look perfect. Tomorrow, he was flying overseas, so she wouldn’t see him for days.
Finally, she settled on an ivory shantung double-breasted blazer and matching slacks, and just as her doorbell rang, she clasped a four-strand faux pearl choker around her neck. If everyone else went in jeans, she’d be in trouble.
When Beth opened the door, she was relieved to see Jordan wearing a black linen sports jacket and tan slacks, and when he took her in his arms, she wondered why they were going to the party at all.
“Come here, you,” he said, opening his arms. “It’s been a helluva day.” He pulled her close.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing now,” he murmured, burying his face in her hair.
“Are you sure? You sound exhausted.”
“I’m fine,” he insisted. “Really.”
“Do we have to go out?” she asked, snuggling closer. “I’m not much of a party person.”
“Me either, but you’re forgetting Ginny. She’ll never forgive us if we back out. Didn’t you tell me she’s been talking about nothing else?”
“A man with a conscience can be such a pain,” Beth groaned. “Okay, have it your way. I’ll go, under protest, but I can’t guarantee libidinal control. If during the party, I haul you into a closet, don’t be surprised.”
“Surprised?” He traced a line of feathery kisses down her throat. “I’d be delighted. Now, come on. The sooner we get there, the sooner we can leave.”
Ginny was waiting for them curbside when Jordan pulled his Mazda before her low-rise building in the North Beach. Her usual psychedelic garb had been traded in for Greenwich Village beatnik —black turtleneck, suede boots, and black jeans that hugged her chunky calves. While Ginny’s clothing selection was subdued, her exuberance was not. She’d scarcely clambered into the back seat when she started in on Jordan.
“What’s the scariest thing that’s happened on one of your flights? Is there really a mile-high club? Is it true most pilots are gay?”
To Beth’s relief, Jordan appeared amused by Ginny’s candour. He responded to her interrogation with the patience of a kindergarten teacher. Beth had prepared Jordan for Ginny’s lack of subtlety en route to her friend’s apartment.
As they crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, Ginny said, “Since Beth’s parents aren’t here, I’ll ask on their behalf: What designs do you have on my designer friend?”
“Ginny,” Beth said, “we’ve been in the car ten minutes, and the only thing you haven’t asked Jordan is whether or not he has a prison record. A little small talk would be refreshing.”
“It’s okay,” Jordan said, reaching for her hand and giving it a squeeze. He half-turned to address Ginny over his right shoulder. “Ginny, Beth’s lucky to have someone like you looking out for her. As for my intentions, well, all I want is for Beth to fall in love with me, then I plan to work like hell to keep her that way. And no, I don’t have a prison record.”
Ginny laughed. “That’s good enough for me. You’re in, Jordan.”
Beth turned to him. “I think I’m already in love with you,” she said, hoping he heard her above the radio.
He smiled.
A cool mist fell as they headed north along Route 1. Beth hoped they weren’t going all the way to Stinson Beach. The hairpin turns and the hour-long drive always made her carsick. One of Beth’s clients resided on Seadrift Road, an exclusive residential enclave with its own private lagoon; invariably, Beth would show up green around the gills. She warned Jordan.
“We’re just going as far as Muir Beach,” he said. “Will you be all right? Roll down your window a little.”
After too many sleepless nights, the intermittent thwacking of the windshield wipers lulled Beth into a semi-trance. She leaned toward Jordan and rested her head comfortably on his shoulder. Ginny, too, was quiet, and the radio was playing mellow tunes. Jordan drove carefully, conscious of the dangerous road. The fog rolled in thickly now, and Beth hoped there were no deer wandering anywhere near the road.
The road narrowed, and minutes later a white flat-roofed house came into view. It was brightly lit, and rock music thumped from within. Knocking on the door or ringing the bell would have been pointless, so the three went directly inside, where the party was in full swing.
“Holy shit,” Ginny said.
Beth nodded. There were easily forty people in the living room, yet there was still a feeling of spaciousness. Beth absorbed the details of the room, though there weren’t many. The host had chosen a contemporary minimalist look, perfect for the house — no clutter to mar the view of nature from the top of the hill. Everything was sleek, low, and smooth. There was an L-shaped white leather sectional, a black marble cocktail table, black and white floor tiles, a massive black acrylic wall unit. The only real texture came from a zebra-print throw rug, sprawled before a white brick fireplace. The loud music bounced off the hard surfaces.
“Whoever this guy is, I hate him,” Ginny wailed.
“For heaven’s sake,” Beth said. “Why? We don’t even know which one he is.”
“Look at this place. It’s spotless.” Ginny ran her hand along a Plexiglas sofa table. “Not a speck of dust. And the food!” The dining room table was covered with platters of Dungeness crab, spring rolls, and smoked salmon. Garlicky shrimp simmered in a silver chafing dish. Not a rubbery cheese puff on the table, Beth noted, her curiosity about their host matching Ginny’s.
“So much for winning your friend over with my cooking, Jordan,” Ginny said. “Guess I’ll have to wow him in the boudoir. What does this guy do for a living?”
“Whatever it is,” Beth said, “he must be good at it. This place is worth a fortune.”
“Come on,” Jordan said. “Let’s look around.” Jordan led Beth and Ginny down a wide corridor to the right of the entryway. The walls here, as everywhere, were stark white, illuminated with pot lights. A collection of photographs spanned the length of the hall. The black and white essays were framed in chrome and clustered according to theme. One grouping appeared to deal with aging — withered faces, dried leaves, eroded mountainsides, crumbling gargoyles. Another, Beth guessed, focused on innocence, with photographs of frolicking children, a bride, and a parade of nuns, in full white habit, carrying candles to vespers. There were scenes depicting poverty, natural disasters; there was even a collection of bridges. Beth recognized the Pont Alexandre III in Paris and London’s Tower Bridge. There was a wonderful shot, taken at night, of a wooden drawbridge, with thousands of lights reflected in the waters of the Amstel.
“Brad took these?”
Jordan shrugged his shoulders. “I couldn’t tell you, but they sure are good.”
“Enough already,” Ginny moaned. “The suspense is killing me. The guy’s rich. Is he cute? Is he single? Is he in here somewhere?” Ginny craned her neck for a better view.
“Over there,” Jordan pointed toward a set of sliding doors leading from the dining room onto a deck. “But Ginny, I should warn you. Brad’s engaged.”
Ginny gasped again. “That’s your friend? I don’t care if he’s married with ten kids. See ya later. I’ll make my own introductions.”
Cute was a ridiculous word, Beth realized, as the host of the party came into full view. He wasn’t nearly as tall as Jordan, but he was hard to miss. Brad Petersen was drop-dead gorgeous, with a smile that, in Beth’s father’s phrase, could charm the ass end off a snake. Brad looked like he’d just returned from heli-skiing the New Zealand glaciers or surfing the Banzai Pipeline. His skin was deeply tanned, his hair white-blond. Now Ginny stood near him and helped to transfer ice cubes from a plastic bag into a large crystal punch bowl.
“Didn’t take her long,” Jordan said.
“Poor Brad. He doesn’t know what he’s in for.” Beth turned to face Jordan. “I must say you came through Ginny’s inquisition unscathed. You can’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Don’t think I didn’t appreciate it. Ginny’s something else, all right. Though,” he said, pointing to where Brad and Ginny were standing, “Brad doesn’t appear to mind.” Jordan’s friend was grinning widely at Ginny, who looked ready to melt.
“I’m sure Brad can take care of himself,” Beth said, “but let’s try to rescue him from the Italian barracuda anyway.”
They made their way through a crowd of dancers and headed toward the European-style kitchen where Brad was mixing Ginny a drink.
“Jordan!” Brad called out. “Glad you could make it.” He clapped him on the back. “And you must be Beth.” He flashed a megawatt smile. “Jordan’s squash game’s been way off ever since he met you. Can’t s
ay I blame him for not being able to concentrate.”
She glanced at Ginny, who didn’t look happy that Brad’s attention had focused on someone else. Quickly, she said, “I see you’ve met my friend, Ginny, champion violinist and lasagna maker.”
“Sure have,” Brad said, looking down at her. “Now do you see why I love parties? I get to meet such interesting people.”
Ginny beamed.
“How about introducing us to that fiancée of yours?” Jordan said.
“Ingrid? She’s not here. Off in Europe on a photo assignment. She called last night. Won’t be back until Tuesday.”
“Are those her photographs in the front hall?” Beth asked. “They’re fabulous.”
Brad nodded, obviously proud. Ginny’s disappointment deepened. “Tell me,” Brad said, draping his arm across Ginny’s shoulders, “do classical musicians like heavy metal?”
“Do Italians make the best lovers?”
“Rumour has it. First things first. Come on, let’s dance.” Brad faced Jordan and Beth once more. “Excuse us, won’t you? And Jordan, excellent taste, as always.” He flashed Beth another smile, then led Ginny through a set of sliding doors and onto a redwood deck where several couples were pounding out the rhythm of a Bon Jovi song.
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