Blood of Others (8 page)

The Forever & Ever
bridal shop remained
shrouded by the huge canvas. Yellow police tape still protected the scene. More
flowers had accumulated on the sidewalk in front of the boutique where Olivia
had placed the first one. Her white rose.

Theories and rumors swirled over
the crime during the lunchtime rush at Caselli’s. It was a cult thing, it was
an ex-boyfriend, an ex-girlfriend, a crime of fashion, mob, drugs, psycho.
Nothing made sense, Olivia thought, after staring at Iris Wood’s picture in the
Chronicle
all morning.

The insurance company where she
had worked was a few blocks away. Had Iris Wood ever shopped at Caselli’s? Had
anyone ever purchased a gift for her here? She had been thirty-two years old.
They were almost the same age. She had lived alone. Olivia stared at her face,
feeling the stirrings of kinship with Iris Wood. In some mysterious way she had
rescued Olivia, her tragic death fuelling her determination to ensure that
her
life mattered by holding Olivia to the promise she had made to herself on the
bridge.

The lunch-hour traffic subsided
and Olivia worked quickly on the next day’s e-mail orders, then ate her lunch
in the store. A fresh salad with French dressing and some fruit. She flipped
through the new magazines she picked up on her way to work and scanned articles
on FINDING LOVE ON-LINE, a fun item on TEN WAYS TO OVERCOME SHYNESS, an edgy
one called, SEX, LIES AND CYBERSPACE, and one SURFING FOR SINGLES. Olivia
chuckled through most of them. Common sense was the common thread.

In the store’s back room, Olivia
started the kettle for tea, catching herself in the mirror, her neat slacks,
print top. She studied her hair, her face.

“Brave enough to try a little
tune-up?”

Olivia picked up the phone,
called her hairdresser, and booked an appointment before she could change her
mind.

“Here I go,” she said to no one,
making tea and sitting before the store computer.

That morning at home, Olivia
visited several on-line dating sites. She had posted a humorous plea for advice
for shy girls trying to meet decent guys.

What’s the best approach?

She had checked her Internet
e-mail for responses.

The first one had said:
Hey,
livinsf, just be yourself. If a guy cannot accept you for who you are, he’s not
for you.

Next:
You out there in San
Francisco, that is pretty wicked about that bride murder. Saw it on CNN and the
Chronicle Web site.

Olivia responded:
It’s very
sad. I walk by that shop every day to the place where I work.

Next came a new message from the
person who earlier had asked Olivia what exactly she looked for in a man.
Olivia had responded that she had looked for honesty.

Then there had been a new
question for her:
Dear livinsf: Honesty. That’s good. I like that. Now help
me with this: If you found the right man for you, could you forgive any sins in
his past life?

Iris Wood’s
landlord was sitting in a creaking
wicker rocker on the front porch when Sydowski and Turgeon arrived. His face
was ashen; Iris’s cat was rubbing against his leg.

“How are you holding up?”
Sydowski said.

The landlord shrugged.

“The people from Crime Scene are
wrapping up, so Linda and I are going to spend some time alone in her apartment
to look for anything that might help us.”

The landlord collected Jack the
cat into his arms. “I just don’t understand,” he said. “She was such a good
person. Wouldn’t harm a soul. Lived here for three years. Always smiled, always
said hello.” His eyes glistened. Turgeon placed a hand on his shoulder. “I read
the papers, watched the news. What sort of depraved person could do such a
thing?” He stared at both detectives for a moment, his thin moustache
quivering. “Do you think she suffered?”

Turgeon and Sydowski exchanged
glances.

“We have lots of questions too,”
Sydowski said; then he and Turgeon headed up the stairs to the apartment. Iris
Wood’s cat leapt from the landlord’s arms and followed them.

Sydowski signed the receipt sheet
for the apartment key as the last members of the weary crime scene team
departed.

For a long silent moment,
Sydowski and Turgeon stood in the center of the large living room and scanned
it as Jack padded off. The walls were the color of a tropical bay with pearl
trim moldings. The oak floors gleamed from the sunlight splashing through the
customized wall-to-ceiling window facing the north. It offered a sliver view of
the Golden Gate. Sydowski detected the fragrant hint of mandarin oranges.

There was a small Indian rug near
the glass-top coffee table and couch; above it was a large framed painting of a
girl alone on a beach, cutting a forlorn figure gazing at a vast azure ocean
and an eternal horizon.

“Hi, Iris.” A strange woman’s
voice broke the silence. “It’s Mel at the office. Are you coming in today,
dear? We haven’t heard from you.”

Turgeon was replaying calls on
the telephone answering machine.

“It’s the only message,” she
said.

Sydowski nodded to the desk,
computer, and work area.

“You take this room, Linda. I’ll
start on the others.”

The bedroom walls were yellow
cream, a framed Van Gogh print over the four-poster bed. Neatly made with a
quilted bedspread and throw pillows. A telephone and paperback were on the
nightstand. Sydowski slipped on his bifocals.
Gone With the Wind.
The
tassel of a bookmark protruded at the halfway point. Jack meowed from his regal
spot on the bed.

Sydowski went to the four-drawer
wooden dresser against the wall. Cotton pajamas. Panties, socks, bras, shorts,
T-shirts, pullover tops, a swimsuit. All neatly arranged. Nothing unusual.
Nothing kinky to indicate a secret life.

He opened the jewelry box atop
the dresser to find Iris Wood looking at him from a snapshot framed inside the
lid. Far removed from the bridal shop, the cold autopsy room, and her driver’s
license. His first unofficial glimpse of her alive.

Iris, part of a trio of women,
was standing behind an office desk and a small cake with lighted candles, waves
of white icing.
Congratulations, Jan
looped elegantly across the top.
The woman in the center looked to be in her early twenties and pregnant. She
was beaming. The other woman, early thirties was grinning. And there was Iris.
Living her life. Wearing a beige skirt and matching top. Smiling as if forced
to. Standing stiffly. Self-conscious. Sad. A hint of desperation in her pretty
eyes.

Sydowski blinked behind his
glasses. The photograph was smeared with fingerprint powder from the crime
scene crew. He tucked it inside the breast pocket of his jacket, sifted through
the small collection of earrings, necklaces and bracelets. He closed the lid on
the jewelry box, then opened the folding doors of her closet, to the modest
wardrobe of Ms. Iris May Wood. Single, working woman. Sleeveless sheath
dresses, button-front cotton prints, embroidered jacket, dress suits, knit
tops, pleated twill pants, some stretch pants. Fat pants.
Not that she
needed them.
Jeans, shorts, a floral-print kimono. He imagined her in the
kimono snuggled on her couch watching a girl movie, Jack curled on her lap.
Sydowski surveyed the shoes on the closet floor, fabric pumps, scuffed
flared-heeled loafers, white joggers, and frayed thong slippers. He detected a
plastic bottle of foot deodorizer pushed nearly out of sight in the closet. She
was sensitive about foot odor. Sydowski closed the door and headed to the
bathroom.

It was clean and bright with a
pleasant trace of lavender; tumble-stone floor tiles, matching rose-tinted wall
tiles, a soaker tub, pedestal sink with brass fixtures, shampoo, conditioner,
wheat germ soap, skin creams, bath oils, candles, potpourri on the toilet’s
water closet, thick towels hanging from the wall rack. He opened the medicine
cabinet over the sink. One tooth brush. No regular boyfriend, or girlfriend, he
figured, studying the bottles and boxes, aspirin, cough syrup, eye drops,
calcium, over-the-counter sleeping pills, vitamins, the usual array of women’s
hygienic items. No prescriptions. Sydowski closed the vanity, scanning the
glass shelf under it, antiperspirant, toothpaste, mascara, lip gloss, eye
shadow, hair spray, moisturizer, baby oil, nail-polish remover.

He studied the mirror for a long
moment, the very mirror she had stood before in the final hours of her life.
Sydowski looked beyond his own reflection, staring hard as if he could retrieve
the face that was once there for a message, for a clue, for direction on where
to search to avenge her death.

How did he know you? Tell me
that and I will find him.

He felt the cat weaving itself
around his ankles; then Sydowski moved on to the kitchen.

“Already went through it, Walt.”
Turgeon was seated before the computer clicking and typing. “Single-girl fare.”
Sydowski looked. Healthy frozen low-cal single-serving dishes, vegetables for
salad, flavored tea, juice, bottled water, comfort food like gourmet ice cream
and microwave popcorn. And take out menus for Chinese and pizza. Stuff for Jack
under the sink.

Turgeon was concentrating on the
computer screen.

Sydowski looked through the
living room. He scanned her CD player and flipped through her music, Bruce
Hornsby, Jann Arden, Bruce Springsteen, Van Morrison, Annie Lennox, Neil Young,
some old Beatles stuff. Then he went to the titles of hardcovers on the
floor-to-ceiling bookcase. Contemporary best-selling novels, a smattering of
literary classics, Joyce, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Hugo, Tolstoy, Pasternak. He
pulled some from the shelf. They looked as if they had been read. Sydowski then
selected a worn Bible, the kind found in most hotels. Fanning the pages, a
notation blurred by. He stopped, found it in The Book of the Prophet Isaiah,
chapter forty-two. A small, neat hand-written note penned in the blue ink of a
fountain pen, said
Comfort in time of loneliness,
and underlined the
passage:
Fear thou not; for I am with thee.

She was lonely and
self-conscious.
Hiding her foot powder.
Sydowski was almost certain she
was not the victim of a random crime. Because of the specific mutilation, the
way she was displayed, her death had been organized, planned, calculated. It
was ritual. He had selected her because he knew her, or knew her type.

But how did he know you, Iris?

Sydowski replaced the bible.

He saw Iris Wood’s phone bills,
credit card bills, and other papers stacked next to Turgeon near the computer
and shuffled through them. They already had people running down her most recent
phone calls, credit card purchases, and the status on her bank accounts.

Sydowski checked his watch. “We
should head to her office.”

“I hear your wheels turning,
Walt.”

“At this point, Linda, I’d say
she lived a quiet life.”

“Lived much of it on-line. Look.”

Screen upon screen of bookmarked
sites all relating to lonely-hearts clubs, on-line dating, chat rooms and
cyber-clubs for singles scrolled down the monitor, reflecting on Sydowski’s
bifocals as he bent down for a closer look.

“It’s massive,” Turgeon said.
“She’s locked on to hundreds and hundreds, maybe in the thousands, of sites.”

Sydowski’s eyes widened slightly
as he realized the potential number of people
around the world
that Iris
Wood could have had contact with. He stood, shaking his head.

“We’re going to need help with
this aspect of the case,” Turgeon said.

“Yup.” Sydowski, removed his
bifocals, muttering something about computers.

“Now, I’m not an expert but I
know who is, Walt.”

“Who, Linda?”

“Ben Wyatt.”