Good to the Last Kiss (30 page)

‘I don’t know,’ Gratelli said. ‘You mind if I use the bathroom?’

‘One through there,’ Seidman said. ‘Can I fix you a drink, while you’re freshening up?’

‘Sure,’ Gratelli said. ‘Any old whiskey will do. Scotch. Irish. Italian.’

‘Italian whiskey taste anything like Italian beer?’ Seidman asked. ‘Is there such a thing as Italian whiskey?’

The bathroom yielded no bottles of anything. This was the guest bathroom. If Seidman had colognes and aftershave, they would be in the upstairs bath or dressing room or bedroom, whatever.

Seidman’s home was nice. Expensive. Anyone who owned a single family dwelling had to have some money in this city. Having a house slightly larger than modest in a neighborhood slightly more than the usual still meant that the wealthy David Seidman wasn’t showing off his wealth. His clothing was probably off the rack too. Nice stuff. But off the rack. Would he invest in an expensive, custom-made perfume?

‘So,’ Seidman said, giving Gratelli a glass a quarter filled with caramel-colored liquid. ‘I’m still a suspect.’ Seidman smiled. ‘Jilted boyfriend? That it?’

‘Listen, this isn’t formal . . .’

‘I know, they want this case closed and all the bodies attributed to a crazy dead criminal. Good for the force. And they need this one, don’t they? They have other bodies in embarrassing places.’

‘Yes.’

‘This is good for you too. City cop, first on the scene. What’s eating you?’

‘This one doesn’t fit,’ Gratelli said.

‘This is the only one that
does
fit, Inspector. The others are speculation. I mean we’ve got a classic return to the scene of the crime.’

‘You followed this closely?’

‘Sure, after the attack on Julia, I sure did.’

‘Why did you call it a “rose”?’

‘That was what it was, wasn’t it?’

‘But why did you call it that? Did you see it?’

‘No. Somebody told me.’

‘Who?’ Gratelli asked.

‘I don’t know. Paul Chang, maybe.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘No, I remember. It was your partner.’

‘Mickey?’

‘Yes.’

‘He told you?’ Gratelli was puzzled. ‘When?’

‘I stopped in Homicide. He was at the desk. Why?’

‘Why?’ Gratelli asked.

‘I wanted to know. Wouldn’t you? It was Julia. And I promised Paul I’d make sure the case didn’t get lost.’

‘Your friend, Paul?’

‘I know what I’ve said about him. Sometimes I’m an ass. I know he cares about her and I didn’t want him playing amateur detective in a murder. Anyway, your partner said something about it being a rose. He’d just talked to the medical examiner. He asked me some questions. Wanted to know about her habits. I told him. I think he was checking me out too. Actually, I think the case got to him.’

‘He didn’t tell me that. Didn’t write it down.’

‘I can’t help you there.’

‘Did he tell you how the girls died?’

‘Strangled, right?’

‘That’s what he told you?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t understand why you two met. He didn’t tell me,’ Gratelli said more to himself than to Seidman.

‘I don’t know what to tell you about that,’ Seidman said. ‘You’re pretty good at the questions. The girls weren’t strangled, were they? And obliquely, what you’re telling me is that the mark isn’t a rose. Am I right?’ There was a pause. ‘Inspector, I’m not an idiot when it comes to cross-examination. How did they die?’

‘Do you happen to have an aspirin, Mr Seidman? This must be Italian whiskey.’

‘Sure, I’ve got some upstairs.’

Gratelli followed him up, but was passed by the terrier. The three went into the bathroom.

‘Nice house,’ Gratelli said, watching as Seidman opened the wooden cabinet. There were bottles, but Gratelli – during his brief glance – was unable to confirm anything that looked like a cologne bottle or anything exotic.

‘It’s private. It’s quiet. No cars.’

‘Keep you in shape, being in the middle of this hill.’

‘Yep. I work out a bit too. Otherwise I’d never make it. You see some of these older women up and down these steps every day. At least once. It’s good for them. They’ll live to ripe old ages. Here, some Excedrin. Good for headaches. Advil?’

‘Excedrin,’ Gratelli said. The bath was pretty ordinary as baths go. The upstairs was small. Two bedrooms up. A dressing room wasn’t likely.

‘You live pretty modestly, Mr Seidman. A bachelor. I understand you’re wealthy. You’d think you’d have Jacuzzis, walk-in closets, one hundred pair of shoes and one hundred and twenty dollar an ounce cologne.’

‘You’ve got me confused with . . .’

‘With who?’

Seidman smiled. ‘With your caricature of the rich. Then again, nothing innocent comes out of your mouth, does it? You seem interested in my medicine cabinet at the moment. Why don’t you just tell me what you’re looking for, Inspector. It’d be easier.’

‘I thought you’d never ask. Cologne, Mr Seidman.’

‘Some here,’ Seidman said, opening the cabinet again. ‘Some by the shower.’

Gratelli investigated.

‘I’m not much for scents,’ Seidman continued, bringing a gold and silver container that bore the name Armani. ‘Most of the time I go without. I use this when I feel a little insecure.’ He smiled. ‘It was a gift.’

Gratelli sniffed. The case held some Farenheit aftershave in a spray bottle. The inspector found nothing similar to butter or leather in either one. Then again, he wasn’t an expert.

‘So that’s what they mean when they say the “police are sniffing around”?’

‘Yes. But it’s only recently I learned to sniff properly.’

‘Listen. Tell me what you’re on to, here, Inspector. I’ll help. Tell me how I can help. If there’s a killer out there, I want him as badly as you do.’

‘You knew she went up there when she did, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, I did. I wanted to go up with her. I was worried. I practically begged. She took it as my just wanting to mend the relationship. Probably was. What can I say? I loved her. Still do. Why would I kill someone I love?’

‘A lot of that going around though, isn’t there?’ Gratelli asked.

‘Yes. There is. I keep forgetting I’m talking to a policeman.’

‘You haven’t forgotten that for one minute, have you?’

‘No,’ David Seidman said. ‘Not for a minute. If you are waiting around for me to confess, it’s not going to happen. I’m serious. Let’s work together. I can put some people on it. You’re probably officially off the case, aren’t you?’

‘Yes. You knew that too.’

‘True. Word gets around.’

‘You probably knew it before I did.’

‘Don’t fight me. Use me,’ Seidman said.

Gratelli didn’t have a chance to use Seidman. In less than a week, the task force judged Earl Falwell to be the sole killer of eight of the girls and Julia Bateman’s attacker and everybody who had to buy into it bought into it. Julia Bateman’s file was closed along with the others.

The serial killer had become old news. The police chief was becoming big news because of the high society, big-time political connections to the body found in the car in St Francis Woods. The body and the case were still in the deep freeze waiting justice or, at the least, disposition.

The fall opera had opened. It was Gratelli’s reprieve. He missed opening night on purpose. He wasn’t interested in the minor spectacle of the first gala of the season. Gratelli went to the opera as most people went to the movies. Often and without fanfare, with the expectation that he’d be entertained, lifted from reality for two hours or so. Pure escape. The difference might be that he was destined to see the same operas over and over again. There were very few new ones. And those few he didn’t like. At least he would see each old opera anew; different sets, different talent, different interpretation. That gave him comfort. Tonight,
Rigoletto
. He’d seen it a half dozen times. Maybe more. Once in Milan at the
Teatro Alla Scalla
. The rest here over the years.

At intermission, Gratelli was convinced of two things. One, he had never been so hot. The city was suffering from one of its occasional heat waves. Two, this was as good a
Rigoletto
as he’d ever seen, including the one in Milan. This was an appropriate dark and brooding performance. It mirrored his mood.

Thaddeus Maldeaux was in the lobby. A young woman, girl perhaps – someone who had the waifish charm of the young Calvin Klein model reclining on a sofa – stood near Maldeaux’s arm and seemed to be the sole object of his attention. The other two in the party looked more art than finance. A slightly bohemian man with a beard and a younger man with longish hair whose opera attire consisted of a white t-shirt and a pair of blue jeans.

In one swoop, Maldeaux pulled a cream-colored silk handkerchief from the side pocket of his dark suit coat and ran it across his forehead, back of his neck, and over his chin. He slipped it back in his jacket pocket.

The lights flickered and the crowd went to their seats. Gratelli’s eyes followed Maldeaux. Maldeaux sat with the two men. The waif was down from them, third row center, apparently by herself.

Gratelli would listen to the opera now, but he was distracted. His eyes were on Maldeaux.

Gratelli had probably brushed against, bumped elbows with, or passed the sugar to any number of celebrities he didn’t know. North Beach was and is a magnet for the rich and famous. And for the poor and famous as well. There were tourist traps here for the tourists. But there were legitimate landmarks that were little more than utilitarian for Gratelli. To him, City Lights was merely the neighborhood bookstore. Specs and Tosca and the two dozen or so legendary bars and espresso joints may be haunted by beat literary ghosts and current literary and film folks, but Gratelli saw them as neighborhood bars and coffee shops. Sure, he knew there were national and international celebrities who could be seen at Enrico’s and had been for decades. Gratelli rarely recognized them and felt no different for having passed close to their orbit.

So there was another reason for the excitement in Gratelli’s bones as he angled toward Thaddeus Maldeaux inside Tosca. More of a crowd had gathered around him.

What Gratelli had to do would be difficult, but not impossible.

‘Mr Maldeaux,’ Gratelli said, squeezing between the handsome young heir and a dark man with a beard. Fortunately, the androgynous model type was pressing against Maldeaux’s left side.

‘Inspector?’ Maldeaux said surprised. ‘The man who refused one of my great breakfasts. How are you?’

‘Good. Excellent. Saw you at
Rigoletto
,’ Gratelli said, the slightly arthritic fingers of his left hand lifting the right flap of Maldeaux’s suit jacket.

‘And you followed me here?’ Maldeaux asked with humor. ‘What did I do? Talk too loud during an aria?’

‘I live just up this way.’

‘Didn’t know you fancied opera,’ Maldeaux said. He introduced Gratelli to the bearded man and handsome but aloof young man – a director and actor. Gratelli thought the names familiar, but couldn’t place them exactly. The young man in jeans and ponytail was at the bar. No one introduced the girl.

Only after Gratelli pocketed the pilfered handkerchief did he see her clearly. See the smart and hungry eyes of a woman much older than her face.

‘Opera is one of the few things I fancy. A sad statement actually. Opera is my TV,’ Gratelli said.

‘We were talking about the great tenors,’ Maldeaux said. ‘I bet you’ve heard them all, then.’

‘A few.’ Gratelli smiled. He was so unused to social pleasantry, his own smile felt evil and twisted. ‘I was young and heard Jussi Bjorling. Franco Corelli. And what’s his name, now, the new one, Carreras.’

‘The new one,’ Maldeaux laughed. ‘How about Tito Gobbi?’

‘Baritone, I think.’

‘Yes, he was. He was.’ Maldeaux said. ‘See how quickly I get out of my depth.’

‘I’m going to move along now,’ Gratelli said, offering a paler version of his earlier smile. He wondered if Maldeaux would notice he had left the bar without so much as a drink.

THIRTY

H
e saw her from the cab. It was daybreak. The heat broke about four a.m. Now it was gray, damp. Julia Bateman was on Thaddeus Maldeaux’s front doorstep. There was a blue Miata parked in front. Behind it was a Taurus. Maldeaux thought he recognized Gratelli behind the wheel.

‘Julia?’ Thaddeus Maldeaux said, coming up to her. ‘My God.’ He looked past her toward the street. No one else.

‘Hello Thaddeus. Another late night?’ The tone was clear.

He seemed surprised by it. ‘Come in,’ he said opening the door and stepping inside. She followed. ‘Should we . . . Inspector Gratelli?’

‘No. I’ve asked him to wait outside.’

‘How are you?’ Before she could answer, he suggested they go out to the back. ‘Can I get you something?’ he asked as they traversed the hall and passed by the door to the kitchen. ‘Coffee?’

‘No. That’s all right.’ She was curt, cool.

Outside it was damp. Cool.

He offered her a seat at one of the marble-topped tables, one next to the pot dripping with luscious leaves and purple flowers. The purple flowers were everywhere, filling the ledge, which was formed by the short wall that enclosed nearly the entire balcony. The only opening was for the stone stairway that led down on to the back lawn.

Julia didn’t sit. She didn’t say anything.

‘I’m glad you’re here, Julia. But I’ve got to confess I don’t know why you’re here. You’ve been ignoring me. I assumed . . . well . . . You don’t look like you want to be here. Is there some way I can help you?’

‘No.’

‘What?’

‘Here,’ she said, pulling out the handkerchief, letting it drop on the table.

Maldeaux picked it up.

‘What’s this?’

‘This is why I’m here. To return your handkerchief. See you without your mask on. You needed to do it just once, didn’t you? One more experience in your search? To see what it was like to kill someone while having sex? Afraid you’d miss some life experience that you were no doubt entitled to because you are you.’