Good to the Last Kiss (21 page)

The bodily injury charges had been dropped; and even though he was glad to be in his dark little one-room cave, he was on edge, a scary, dangerous edge.

The dead phone reminded Earl how long it had been since he had talked with his grandmother. She would be worried. He might have to call her collect. He didn’t want to do that. It would make her worry more. But she had probably tried to call. She’d be worried anyway. Hell, he was worried.

That last conversation with the two cops in that little room was too close. He was pretty sure they were just checking it out. If they had something, really had something, they’d have said more. His past arrest record was no big thing. The Camaro I.D. was the worst part of it.

But if they had a license plate, or even a color, they wouldn’t have let him off so easy. And the homo thing, that was just to get him all screwed up, make him crazy, so he’d give something away. He didn’t give away anything, he was sure. He ran the conversation back over his brain as best he could. No. No slips.

He looked around the room. He couldn’t tell if anyone had been there messin’ around other than his lawyer. Maybe the lawyer had been a little nosy. Probably. The cops maybe. But there was nothing to see. He didn’t keep anything. Just the photos. For a moment, he was seized with panic.

Nothing about the killing, he thought, then relaxed. Embarrassing yeah, but not anything they could use against him. Earl went to the refrigerator, pulled out the meat tray, undid the tape holding the envelope underneath.

Didn’t look tampered with. He’d check anyway. All three Polaroids were there. He’d taken fifty or so, but saved only the three. He cut the others into little pieces and threw them in the neighbor’s trash.

If the cops took a peek at these, they would think he was all fucked up, taking naked pictures of himself. Fuck, he thought, they think he’s all fucked up anyway. They were right, weren’t they? But taking pictures of yourself all shaved and naked wasn’t illegal. Just weird.

The photos looked good. Sharp definition to the muscles. He’d have to work like hell to get that back. Even a few months without the right equipment and off the ’roids and you’re screwed. He went to the bathroom, lit the candles, catching glimpses of himself in the full-length mirror on one wall. He undressed. Somehow, it didn’t excite him. Maybe he should go ahead and shave his body. Maybe that would help. He was tired. That seemed like a lot of effort. Later.

Maybe he should dump the photos. He put the photos, one on top of the other, and grabbed the scissors. He would cut them up in little pieces and scatter the cuttings in trash cans around the city so no one could put them back together again.

Even that required more effort or interest than he could muster. Later, he thought. He put them back where he found them, using new tape.

In bed he felt empty. He ought to be glad he didn’t have the desire. He didn’t feel driven. Not to do that, anyway. He was edgy though. Unsettled. Not his body. There was nothing left to drive it. But his mind. He couldn’t make sense of what was going on there. Edgy, angry, impatient. But he had no idea how to calm it. The way he felt, though, he almost wished he had the desire. Somehow, not knowing what he wanted, he was starting to feel worse. Now there was no reason to move, to open his eyes.

It was like something filled his chest, a pressure kind of; a kind of pressure that started to feel like it was going to explode, like it was all out of his control. But what? What could he do about it. It was anger, he was pretty sure. But at what? At who? He knew life was unfair. That couldn’t be it. It wasn’t just unfair to him. It was just the way of things.

He was free from the family. No one was calling him names any more. He was out of jail. What was it? What was this thing that was so ready to explode?

It was rare when Gratelli couldn’t sleep. All he could think about was McClellan, and those thoughts were disturbing. If one were sensitive, any conversation with his partner could be disturbing; but what made Gratelli uneasy was that his partner had been getting quieter. He wasn’t bothering so much with keeping up the tough guy act. He seemed to be taking the deaths of the girls personally. Anger had turned to futility. The ‘end of the line’ remark wasn’t vintage McClellan.

McClellan had grown increasingly quiet during dinner, refused to respond to guaranteed hot buttons and was nearly morose by the time dinner was over.

A lot of things were coming down on the guy. All at once. The marriage, the embarrassment of having the investigation taken away – most of it anyway, and the case itself. Nothing to do really. Julia’s survival was supposed to have moved the whole thing along. But she wasn’t much help. Now things were at a standstill. Gratelli knew that the only hope for finding the killer, besides an unexpected confession, would have to come from another victim. A new victim. Would there be one? Was he wishing for one?

The Panhandle was a drive across town from North Beach, but not a long one. Even in the rain – the heavy drizzle – at this time of night Gratelli could be there in ten minutes. There was a space out front – the same space that had been there when he dropped McClellan off at his new digs.

There were four apartments in the building. Three had names, none of which were McClellan’s. One was unmarked. That was apartment A, just as you came in. Gratelli knocked. No sound. No answer. There weren’t many places near there where a guy could go for a drink. Maybe down into the Haight, but the bars down there weren’t likely McClellan hangouts.

He knocked again. He put his ear to the door.

Gratelli wondered if he’d done the right thing. Maybe Mickey had called one of the various ‘escort’ or ‘massage’ services. Maybe the pot-bellied Irishman had tanked up on a bottle of Jack Daniels and was out. Then again, the reason Gratelli drove all the way across town was to find out. And Gratelli wasn’t acting on curiosity. He had a bad feeling. McClellan’s normally abnormal behavior was more abnormal than usual.

‘Mickey! You in there?’

No answer.

The lock wouldn’t be much of a challenge. One more time. McClellan may be inside, half drunk, and think that the guy busting in was some stranger. Like any cop, McClellan had to be considered armed. And if he was drunk – a likely condition given the hour – also dangerous. Gratelli was content enough with life. He didn’t want to die just yet.

‘This is Vincent, Mickey. I’m coming in.’

This time, Gratelli heard a sound.

‘Shit.’

He heard a thud on the floor, the scraping of furniture and then the knob turned. But the door didn’t open. ‘Shit.’ There were some clicks and the door opened to reveal a half-steady, bleary-eyed McClellan. He still had on his suit jacket, but was without pants and shoes. His dress shirt was open. The tails hung down over the boxer shorts.

‘What the fuck is this?’ McClellan asked.

‘Welcome wagon,’ Gratelli said. ‘I’ve been asked to officially welcome you to the neighborhood.’ Gratelli looked over the slouching McClellan to see the Irish cop’s gun on the table beside the bed. ‘You got company?’

‘You. Don’t I see too fucking much of you during the day, you gotta haunt my nights as well.’

‘Yeah, well . . .’ Gratelli stammered. He’d forgotten what excuse he’d thought up on the way over, the one he’d use when called upon to explain his presence.

‘Yeah, well what?’

‘I wanted to talk about that kid, what’s his name? Falwell?’

‘Earl,’ McClellan said.

‘Yeah, Earl Falwell. You gotta minute?’

‘No, no, no,’ McClellan said. ‘You never wanted to talk about a case . . .’

‘I’m spooked. I’m afraid we didn’t search his place all that well.’

McClellan ran his hand through his hair. ‘There was nothing in his room except a few fucking muscle mags, Gratelli. Zero. Zilch. I don’t even think he reads those magazines, just looks at the pictures. The kid’s got to be the dimmest bulb on his family tree. He hasn’t got the smarts to snap these little girls’ necks and not leave at least one fucking clue. We talked about it. OK? Goodbye. Sweet dreams.’

Gratelli was relieved McClellan bought the story about coming over to discuss Earl Falwell.

‘I couldn’t sleep,’ Gratelli said.

‘So you thought I shouldn’t sleep either. Nice of you.’ McClellan turned to go back toward his bed, sitting down on the edge. Gratelli followed. There were two pint bottles of Jack Daniels. One was empty. The other was nearly so. The pistol bothered him. So near the bed could merely mean that McClellan was too tired, too lazy to take off the holster and simply wanted the weight of the piece off him. Or it could have been so close because McClellan was thinking about doing something with it.

‘That’s it, huh? You come over to talk about a case even though in fifteen years you never did this?’

‘Seemed to bother you too,’ Gratelli said.

‘Not any more. Nothing fucking bothers me.’

‘Why don’t you put your pants on?’ Gratelli said, getting up and grabbing the pants that had been carelessly tossed on the floor. As he handed them to McClellan, the wallet fell out.

‘Why?’ McClellan said. ‘We going somewhere?’

‘No.’

‘The President going to pay us a visit?’ McClellan tossed the pants on the other side of the bed. ‘I spilled something on them.’

‘Then take off your coat and tie, for Christ sakes,’ Gratelli said.

McClellan smiled big. ‘What’s this to you.’

‘You look silly,’ Gratelli said.

McClellan laughed. ‘I am silly. Fucking silly.’

‘Your kid?’ Gratelli said, picking up a small, faded color portrait of a young blonde teenage girl. An old photo.

‘No, I bought it in a museum. Who the hell would it be?’ McClellan said, his big grin getting smaller. ‘Look, what is this?’

‘Nothing,’ Gratelli said. ‘Just seemed like you needed somebody to talk to.’

‘About what?’

‘I don’t know. Things.’

‘I can go to confession.’

‘Good for you,’ Gratelli said. ‘I don’t want you doing anything stupid.’

‘That’s the way I do everything,’ McClellan said.

‘You want to talk about it?’

‘It?’ McClellan shook his head. ‘It? It what? What it?’

‘Your life. Your marriage. Something’s going on.’

‘I haven’t paid attention to my wife in fifteen years. She decides to leave me and I’m all fucked up about it. Figure. I got two kids, moved out of the house long time ago. I’m not even sure I said goodbye or good luck. I feel deserted, sad. Figure that! I ignore my entire family forever, and I feel deserted because I’m not close to any one of them. I don’t know them. I got nothing. I got no life.’

‘Wait a . . .’

‘No you wait. It gets better. I make good money. There’s people in India begging. I got more than enough to eat. There’s hundreds of thousands of people starving in Africa. I’m healthy. There are people sick all over the world. Name it. Cancer. AIDS, diseases they ain’t even got names for. I’m fucking sorry for myself. Why? What right . . . ?’

‘No, you’re angry because you can’t do anything about it.’

‘I can’t do anything about anything. We got this killer. Seems like we got killers all over the place.’

‘Do what you can.’

McClellan stood up, went to the window. ‘It’s a dump, Gratelli. A fuckin’ dump.’

‘You all right?’

‘You thinking of leaving now? I had a perfectly good drunk going on and you come in here, get me sobered up. For what? There’s this world and then there’s nothing. Do you know how fucking frightening that is?’

‘I thought you were Catholic.’

‘Thanks a hell of a lot. That helps. Something worse than nothing. You find it.’ He turned. He was grinning. ‘Gratelli, you’re a real pisser. What in the hell are you doing here?’

‘You want to grab a bite to eat?’ Gratelli asked.

‘What are you doing here. You don’t even like me.’

Gratelli winced.

‘What do you mean?’

‘What do I mean? That’s a laugh.’

‘I know you are trying to do your job.’

‘You don’t like me.’

‘There’s a lot about you I don’t like,’ Gratelli said. ‘That’s true. But I’m here aren’t I? Doesn’t that count for something? Maybe I don’t want to go steady with you Mickey, but since I’m here, do you want to go out for a bite to eat?’

McClellan came back to the bed, shaking his head. He seemed amused.

‘No. What I’d like to do is get on with my drunk. Short of that . . . forced to accept your Boy Scout efforts to help an old lady across the street whether she wants to go or not, I’d like to sober up, shower, change my clothes. I could use a pack of cigarettes. I’ll put some coffee on,’ he said. ‘I wonder if you wouldn’t mind going out and getting me a pack of Camels?’

Gratelli thought his partner looked relaxed for the first time. Oddly, he seemed suddenly sober. Suddenly lucid.

TWENTY

E
arl Falwell woke up for the third time that night. For a few moments after each, he thought he was still in the cell with Cobra. The little asshole had got to him. More ways than one. Each time Falwell woke, not sure he was out of the dream, he sighed in relief, letting his head drift back into the pillow. He’d glance at the tiny but constantly burning night light for reassurance and close his eyes.

But this last time he couldn’t get back to sleep. Earl was troubled by the idea that the cops connected him to the girls’ deaths. Those thoughts put other thoughts in his head, starting with the girls. The killings. The time after the killings. Earl searched his mind for better pictures. Clearer pictures.

He had the same problem in prison. He could not bring them into his mind clearly. The faces were no longer distinctly separate. He felt empty. There was nothing to feed his fantasy. He wasn’t ready to go out; but he was ready to settle his mind – to reconstruct, to excite himself, to satisfy himself, to sleep. To make all of these confusing thoughts go away. To stop all of this from eating him alive.