by Pascal Scott
Zoe had been watching the house since 9:00 a.m. At 11:33 a.m., a woman in a hooded raincoat came out of one of the two front doors. She was a white woman, probably in her early thirties, slender, of medium height. The woman paused to open a large umbrella before descending the dozen or so steps to the sidewalk. She walked north. Zoe didn’t follow her; she wasn’t interested in the woman, whom she assumed was the wife.
Twenty minutes later, a man came out the same door. This, Zoe knew, was Rick. He was just as Stone had described him: tall and good-looking even from a distance, thirty-something, around six-two, approximately 195 fit pounds. He wore a flight bomber jacket zipped up over a dark collared shirt, pressed jeans, and black chukka boots. He stood on the elevated front porch beneath a wide, oversized archway until he saw a yellow cab pull up in front. Flagging the cabbie, he rushed down the stairs to let himself into the backseat.
Zoe started the Roadster and followed. The taxi drove down Church to Market, hung a right at the light, and jostled the Saturday morning traffic until it reached Webster. Turning left, the cab sped north, up into the exclusive district of Pacific Heights. After several red lights, it came to a final stop in front of a luxury condo complex at the corner of Webster and Clay. Rick paid the fare and hurried through the rain to the shelter of the shining steel-and-glass canopy. He slowed his pace as he walked past two large potted plants in terra cotta containers to the floor-to-ceiling glass door of the gleaming brass building. Zoe pulled the Roadster into the empty spot left by the cab. Leaning over the stick shift, she struggled with the passenger door crank to lower the window. When it was down, she picked up her Canon Rebel from the leather bucket seat and aimed it at Rick, zooming in and snapping photographs as he went into the building.
A well-groomed concierge in a black blazer and white blouse raised her head from behind an uncluttered desk. Rick bent over and said something in confidence that made the young woman laugh. Then he went to the elevator, pressed the button, and a few moments later went in. Zoe put the camera down and rolled up the window. Pulling out into traffic, she began scouting for a parking space. She found one around the block on Washington. Backtracking on foot, she reached the complex, noticing the sign above the entryway: the Paragon. Opening the front door, Zoe saw a copper umbrella stand to her immediate right. She deposited the dripping umbrella there before approaching the concierge.
“Good morning,” Zoe said in her best imitation of someone who was not out of place in a million-dollar condo. In her designer suit and pumps and her freshly applied lipstick, Zoe did, in fact, look like someone who belonged there.
“Good morning,” the concierge replied politely. “How may I help you this morning?”
Fifteen minutes later, Zoe was back in her Roadster, parked now on Webster with a view of the front door of the Paragon. She waited, her camera ready. A little before 3:00 p.m., Rick left the building and caught a cab. Zoe clicked a few quick pictures and then started her car, following the cab as it retraced the route back to Church Street. In front of his Victorian, Rick paid the cabbie and went inside. Zoe parked across the street and watched. Shortly after 4:00 p.m., the wife appeared at the end of Church Street, walking south. It had stopped raining, and she had lowered the hood of her raincoat. Reaching the Victorian, she ascended the steps and put her keys in the door. Before she’d had a chance to turn them, the door opened, and Rick welcomed her inside. Lynne. The unsuspecting wife, Zoe thought.
The condo was owned by Mrs. Terrence J. Huntington. Correction, it wasn’t just a condo; it was a penthouse suite on the sixth floor with a view of the Golden Gate Bridge and all the amenities the elite of San Francisco expect from a high-end residence, including a full-service concierge. Zoe’s hunch turned out to be correct. One of the services provided by the concierge was a discreet list of male escorts for her wealthy female residents. Rick Ketchum’s name was on that list. Zoe learned this after convincing the concierge that she was a jealous rival for Rick’s time and attention.
Rick was an escort and all which that implied. At the San Francisco Public Library, Zoe combed through back issues of the San Francisco Chronicle’s society page, finding a black and white photograph of a tall, good-looking young man escorting Mrs. Huntington to opening night at the opera, the Author’s Luncheon to benefit The Kidney Foundation, and—oh, and here it was—to art galleries. Yes, that was the connection. Rick was prostituting himself into the elite world of San Francisco patronage.
What had Mrs. Huntington promised him? An exhibition in the prestigious Franklin Gallery? To date, Rick had only managed the unglamorous street-artist galleries that were SoMa, south of Market Street. Zoe found a review by a female art critic of Rick’s work from June 1989.
“Recently discovered by San Francisco’s art aficionados, photographer Rick Ketchum reveals raw emotion through his use of saturated black and white images. Even as his portraits represent specific individuals, they extract the universal qualities of his subjects. Most apparent in his nudes, Ketchum exhibits a classic, rigid sense of beauty that relies heavily on proportionality. In his photographs, every figure, every face, every object becomes art.”
That was what Rick was doing. He wasn’t stalking Emily; he was building his portfolio. Zoe would share that news with Stone when they met again. And then she would learn what Stone had discovered from the medical examiner.
Chapter Thirteen
When Stone saw Gavin Kelly at his office on Newhall Street, the medical examiner was still dressed in his blue scrubs. Dr. Kelly was a big man of about sixty with pale skin, blue eyes behind rimless glasses, and a head as bald as a light bulb shining under the fluorescent tubes overhead.
“People think jumping off the bridge is an easy death,” Dr. Kelly said. “It’s not. It’s a hard fall. The body goes from zero to eighty miles per hour in a nanosecond. When it hits the water, it’s like hitting concrete. The force of the impact causes the internal organs to tear loose, the bones to break, and the skull to fracture. During the autopsy, we often see ribs shoved into the heart or lungs. It’s not a pretty death. It’s multiple blunt-force trauma.”
Stone winced. “Was that what you saw in Emily’s body?” she managed.
Dr. Kelly opened a cabinet drawer and pulled out a manila folder marked Bryson, Emily; November 8, 1989. He flipped it open and found what he was looking for.
“No,” he answered. He read aloud from his notes.
“Decomposition caused interpretation difficulties. I found extensive maceration, as would be expected from long exposure to seawater. I did find indications of laryngeal fracture, which is not unusual in jumpers. And due to the effects of immersion, it was impossible to confidently determine if the injuries were ante- or postmortem in origin. There was also severe marine depredation—the skeletal and soft tissue damage caused by sea animals or fish. Based on my findings, I ruled the death a suicide. In my expert medical opinion, it was the best etiological explanation, given the state of the body.”
“You said laryngeal facture,” Stone noted. “What is that?”
“The larynx was broken. The voice box, in layman’s terms.”
“Her neck?” Stone asked. “Her neck was broken?”
“Part of her neck, yes,” Dr. Kelly confirmed.
“And that’s not suspicious?”
Stone became aware of her own neck and the veins in it, pulsing.
“Not in a body that has hit water with a force of fifteen thousand pounds of pressure per square inch.”
Dr. Kelly took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose before putting them back on. Stone noticed the loose dark bags of skin under his eyes.
“With all due respect, Ms. McStone, suicide is never what the family wants to hear as the cause of death. It’s one of the hardest duties of my position as medical examiner to have to inform a mother or father or spouse that their loved one chose to end their own life.”
“But it didn’t make sense,” Stone protested. “Emily wouldn’t have killed hers
elf. She had everything to live for. There was no good reason for her to want to die.”
“There never is,” Dr. Kelly said grimly. “I know this is hard to accept. There’s a social stigma attached to suicide that is unfortunate. I have a resource list of grief counselors I could give you.”
“I don’t need a grief counselor,” Stone snapped.
Dr. Kelly cleared his throat. “I know this is difficult. Your emotions are in turmoil. You’re experiencing traumatic bereavement. No one ever fully recovers from the suicide of a loved one, but you will heal. Time will bring perspective. Your life will go on.”
Dr. Kelly was right about that, and Stone knew it. Her life would go on. But he was wrong about the other thing. It wasn’t suicide.
Chapter Fourteen
“Rick Ketchum is a gigolo,” Zoe stated matter-of-factly. “He wasn’t stalking Emily. He was using Mrs. Huntington as entrée into the art scene in San Francisco.”
They were sitting at a table in Café Flore on the first Monday in February.
“A gigolo,” Stone said. “Seriously?”
“Uh-huh, from what I can tell. He’s managed to seduce a prominent San Francisco socialite, Mrs. Terrence Huntington. I’m assuming Rick Ketchum is trying to make a name for himself as a photographer by using her connections.”
“Oh, wow,” Stone said. “The Huntingtons. Yeah, they’re practically a San Francisco institution. Big supporters of the arts here—opera, symphony, art museums. Everyone knows them. And they know everyone. Wow. But I’ll bet Mr. Huntington doesn’t know about his wife’s boyfriend.”
“Probably not, although you’d be surprised about some of those marriages. But the point is I don’t think Rick’s interest in Emily was anything other than artistic.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Stone said, although she felt some unexpected disappointment at the news. Because where did that leave them? With no leads, again.
“What did the medical examiner say?” Zoe inquired.
“He told me I need a grief counselor. And that he believes Emily’s death was caused by the fall from the bridge.”
“Uh-huh,” Zoe said.
“But he also told me that Emily’s larynx was broken.”
“Really?” Zoe’s expression changed, darkening. “You may be right about Emily’s death. That sounds like strangulation to me.”
Stone surprised herself when tears filled her eyes. At last, someone was beginning to believe her.
“That’s how it sounds to me, too,” she managed. “What do we do next?”
“I’m going to the Kitty Club,” Zoe said. “You need to take care of yourself. Get some rest, for goodness’ sakes. You look like you haven’t slept in days.”
Chapter Fifteen
“People think we’re slutty and stupid,” Raven said.
Raven was her stage name. Her legal name was Yu Yan Li. Zoe was sitting in the dressing room of the Kitty Club on a wheeled chair, taking notes. Yu Yan was applying mascara, looking at her face in a wall mirror lit by a vanity strip of bright bulbs.
“Or messed up. Or both. I hear it all the time. Why would you do this if you’re not an addict? The public’s perception of exotic dancers is extremely negative. People show no respect for what we do.”
“Is that true of your clients, too?” Zoe asked.
“Of course. Some of them are the worst. Their attitude is, I paid for it, you owe me. I’ve been followed to my car after leaving the club. I’ve been followed home. I’ve had to move twice since I got this job. Until I got an unlisted number, I had obscene phone calls. I’ve had letters delivered to my door, notes put under my windshield wipers, and I’ve had unwanted gifts left at the club. There are men who don’t understand that this is how we make a living. It’s a job. I am never going to be their girlfriend. Some of them just don’t get that.”
“Was there anyone in particular who didn’t get it?”
“Oh, yeah, there was one dude. May—the owner—eighty-sixed him from the club, and when he came back, she got a restraining order. That worked. I haven’t seen him in months.”
Zoe was familiar with the new law that made stalking a crime. California was the first state to respond to the problem with legislation after an obsessed fan had shot and killed Rebecca Schaeffer, a promising young actress, in the doorway to her West Hollywood home.
“Do you remember his name?” Zoe asked. “This man who harassed you.”
“Can’t forget it. John Adams. Like the president.”
“How about Emily? Did she have any problems with clients?”
“No more than the usual. We all had problems with clients at one time or another.”
“What about Mr. Adams? Did he harass Emily?”
“She never mentioned it if he did. I think he was more into me. She wasn’t his type. He liked women who were exotic, he told me. Like I’m exotic. I was born in San Francisco. Guys like him can’t see past their racism. They have to sexualize the Asian woman. Like we’re all Dragon Ladies or China Dolls.”
“What about the night Emily disappeared? That was a Thursday last October. October 12, to be exact. Were you working that night?”
“I was. And I’ve already told all this to the cops. We worked our shift, and Emily and Stella and I walked out of the club onto the strip. Stella and I had parked in one direction, Emily was in the other. We said good night, and we walked to our cars. I got in and drove away. I remember, I did look around in case Mr. Adams had come back, but there was nobody on the street except us. It was about 2:30 by that time. The next day, I heard that Emily hadn’t shown up for work. And that wasn’t like her. She was always so dependable.”
“Did you notice anything unusual that night, the night you walked out of the club?”
“No. But I remember it was foggy. We could barely see across the street. But no, I didn’t notice anyone or anything out of the ordinary. It was a quiet night. Thursdays not much happens at the club. Fridays are when business picks up for the weekend.”
“May I ask you something personal?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Why do you stay? Is it worth it?”
Yu Yan stopped applying her makeup. She looked at Zoe’s face in the mirror.
“I ask myself that every day. But yeah, until I get where I’m going, it’s worth it.”
Chapter Sixteen
Zoe found John Adams through the injunction filed with the city’s civil court. His home address was listed as a financial district high-rise, recently converted to condominiums. On the phone, he had been polite, cooperative, and nonchalant. Zoe had been around stalkers long enough to know the type: small, frustrated, unattractive men who denied and justified their actions. Losers. Opening the door to his top-floor unit, Mr. Adams stood before her. He was not the type.
He was five-ten or maybe eleven, clean-shaven and clean-scented, smelling lightly of a woodsy cologne. He was a sharp dresser, in a white button-down shirt with black pinstriped slacks, clip suspenders in royal blue, a red silk necktie, and black Italian wingtips. It was nothing but her own sartorial snobbery, Zoe admitted, but she always thought better of people who dressed well.
“Would you like something to drink?” he asked. “I have espresso, tea, or something stronger, if you’d like.”
“No, thank you,” Zoe said.
She quickly surveyed the room, decorated in the minimalistic style so popular with yuppies—the young urban professionals of Montgomery Street.
“Please,” Adams said, indicating a white couch that matched the color of the walls.
She sat. He seated himself in a black leather Barcelona chair. On a prism coffee table, ice melted in a rocks glass filled with a clear liquid. Zoe removed her notepad and pen from her handbag.
“As I explained on the phone, Mr. Adams, I’ve been hired to investigate the disappearance and subsequent death of a dancer who worked at the Kitty Club, the club in North Beach. I believe you were a regular customer there before your restraining order.”
“John,” he said with a polished smile.
“John,” Zoe repeated.
“And may I call you Zoe?”
“You may,” Zoe replied.
“Well, Zoe, yes, I was a patron of the Kitty Club. I’m a day trader, and as you can imagine, the pressures of my job are considerable. I am not the only stockbroker in San Francisco who uses strip clubs to blow off a little steam at the end of the day.”
“I’m sure that’s true, Mr. Adams—John,” Zoe said. “I understand that you became interested in one of the club’s dancers, a young woman who goes by the name Raven.”
“Raven, yes,” Adams said. “Raven and I developed a…personal…relationship.”
“That’s not her version of what happened,” Zoe contradicted. “Raven says there was no relationship other than client-dancer. She told me that you were obsessed with her.”
“She would say that,” Adams said. “I can hear her saying that, actually. Let me give you some color on that, if I may. In its truest form, love is an obsession. Look at all the great myths— Eros and Psyche, Orpheus and Eurydice. I’m an intense person. I use that intensity in my work, and it makes me successful. My personality doesn’t stop at my romantic life. I’m intense on my job, and I’m intense in my relationships.”
“You felt you had an intense relationship with Raven?”
“Yes, I did. She and I were romantically involved in an intensely personal way.”
“She says you weren’t.”
“Of course she does. Now.”
“Then why did the club’s manager take out an injunction on you?” Zoe asked.
“That bitch in charge, May, the manager. She was jealous, that’s why.”
“Jealous?”
“Of our passion. May is a frustrated old dyke. A real cold-hearted bitch. She’s the one who ended our relationship, Raven and mine. May told Raven that if she didn’t stop seeing me, she’d be fired. Did they tell you that?”