Hello Kitty Must Die (21 page)

I knew I had no right to poke my nose into Sean’s business. But everyone knows about Hello Kitties and curiosity. It was inevitable.

WHEN I ARRIVED AT
South Beach Harbor, I walked over to Gate E. Because I didn’t have a gatekey, I couldn’t go down to where the boats were docked. I waited by the gate for a minute or so, but the docks were deserted. Not a soul in sight.

So I ran back up the steps to the walkway terrace overlooking the boats. From where I stood, I counted to the thirteenth slip where
The Countess
should be docked. The slip stood silent and empty.

My left lower eyelid started pulsating rapidly. A bad omen.

According to Chinese superstition, if your upper eyelid flutters, it means a large feast is coming your way. If your lower eyelid flutters, find an exit strategy. Fast. It means trouble your way comes.

“Mom, my eyelid is jumping,” I said, when it happened for the first time. I was in the third grade.

“Lower or upper lid?”

“Lower.”

“Go splash some water on it. And say ‘God forbid! God forbid! God forbid!’”

“What?”

“Fiona, just do as I say. Or something bad is going to happen.”

Okay.

But three days later, my father still lost his job. The water splashing didn’t kept the bad fortune at bay from our family.

That’s the thing with omens. Dousing the messenger with water or flames isn’t going to change what’s coming. Neither is asking God to forbid it. Rather than burying your head in the sand, better to stay on your toes and be on your guard. Nothing else really works, no matter what your mother tells you.

As I walked through the harbor parking lot, my eyelid continued to pulsate. A hot, beating nerve twitched under the skin, filling me with a sense of doom despite my rational mind telling me the contrary.

I returned to the office to finish my work for the evening, keeping my cell phone on my desk and email open on my desktop.

But no Sean.

Contrary to what he said, we didn’t meet up the next day, or the day after that. I waited for a phone call, text message, email— none of which came.

One good thing about being in Catholic school was that you had to account for all your absences. The Sisters of the Immaculate Conception didn’t just mark you down as absent. They called your house and demanded to know why you weren’t at school. Then on Monday mornings, you had to talk about what you did over the weekend in front of the whole class, unless you spent it blowing chunks or crapping your pants. You couldn’t just disappear for days on end without a note or some kind of explanation.

No exceptions. Not even for Sean.

On Friday afternoon, I got a text message from Sean. Short, unobtrusive, and no need to be in front of the computer. For people on the go. I love text messages, even if ATT charges me ten cents for each one.

Going to Tahoe for weekend. To try my luck. Drinks when I return.

I didn’t reply as I felt a bit slighted that Sean didn’t invite me up to Tahoe with him. My father had no dates planned for me, and my own plans for the weekend consisted of working, trying to rack up billable hours to build a comfortable cushion. In case I got sick, had an emergency, or just wanted a day or two off that year from Doreen. Or in case Saks Fifth Avenue had a huge one day sale.

No big deal.

It wouldn’t hurt to show Doreen that I worked weekends. All lawyers are expected to work weekends. It’s one of those rules they forget to mention in law school.

But that weekend, San Francisco got a bout of earthquake weather. Another bad omen.

Earthquake weather. That’s what we call hot, humid, oppressive, cloudy conditions that occur in late September in the City by the Bay. Once upon a time, we enjoyed our Indian summers, especially after our chilly Julys and Augusts. But ever since the 1989 Loma Prieta quake, every time it gets hot in the city after Labor Day, we all get nervous. We stock up on bottled water, CLIF bars, Duracell batteries, first-aid kits. We get twitchy and paranoid, waiting for the next big one.

It’s like waiting for the Second Coming. Seismologists have been promising the next Big One ever since 1906. That was the last big one. Then Loma Prieta hit. It wasn’t big enough because it failed to turn San Francisco into a new Pacific island. So we are still waiting.

For Jesus and the Big One.

But instead of repenting for sins, my father sent me to Safeway to get bottled water and Wonder bread.

“Get the large family size, Fiona.”

“I know, Dad.”

Sean called while I was standing in the middle of the beverage aisle, deciding between Alhambra and Arrowhead.

“You’re doing what, Fi?”

“Stocking up on water. This earthquake weather is making everyone uneasy.”

“Right. It’s been hot here.”

“In Tahoe?”

“Uh, no, I’m back in the city.”

“I thought you said you were going to be there for the whole weekend.”

“Change of plans.”

In the background, I heard the sounds of waves, seagulls, boats. Harbor music.

“Sean, where are you?”

“Oh, just out and about for an evening walk near my apartment.” Which was nowhere near South Beach Harbor. “Fi, you want to grab a drink later on?”

“Sure. Aren’t you tired after coming back from your trip?”

“What?”

“Aren’t you tired after Tahoe?”

“Oh, no, I’m good. I just went up there briefly, did a little hiking, but got bored and came back.”

“Hiking? Since when were you a nature lover?” I had trouble imagining Sean ruining his leather Italian loafers in the dirt and muck of Mother Nature.

Sean laughed. “Fi, have you ever been up there? Nice woods, great views. Lots of trails.”

“No, I haven’t. My cousins go for the skiing. And I’m not a skiier.”

“Too bad. You’d like the lake. It’s very clear and deep.”

“You said you were going up there to try your luck. I assume you did a little gambling?”

“A little. Guess I was wrong. Luck’s still with me. So you want to grab a drink or not, Fi?”

“Okay. Where?”

“Someplace in the Marina. How about the Matrix Fillmore? You know that place?”

“Oh yeah, lovely meat market with a giant fireplace in the middle. I doubt they’re going to have that going in this heat wave though.”

“‘Cuz we’re going for the décor.’”

Right.

I returned home with a case of Arrowhead water, three loaves of Wonder bread, a dozen cartons of Stouffer’s meals, and Sean’s half-truths. I knew he loved sailing, but he hated hiking ever since he learned about ticks in health class.

“You’re just asking to get lyme disease,” he said once.

Maybe Sean had changed his mind about ticks, about nature. Maybe he was up at Lake Tahoe in the woods. Maybe he wasn’t. All I did know was he had been away and near a body of water.

I told myself it didn’t really matter.

The oppressive, muggy heat—a sign of an impending quake— lifted two days later and San Franciscans breathed a huge sigh of relief. The wait for the Big One would continue.

On Monday afternoon, Caroline Derby’s bloated, fish-nibbled body washed up on the shores of San Francisco Bay.

Then everything mattered.

For the first time, Sean was wrong. His luck had begun to run out.

S
EAN HATED OVERSEXED WOMEN
and bullies. That much I knew. But why he did what he did during his night outings, I could only guess. Maybe he wanted to make the world a better place. Maybe he did it for the thrill.

Like Brenda Spencer, who shot up a San Diego schoolyard because she just didn’t like Mondays.

So no one
really
knows. Not even FBI profilers. They just label such murders simply as thrill kills. Because most serial killers enjoy doing God’s work. And it’s fun, like torturing Jesus and blowing a wet raspberry at the police for being donut-eating, coffee-chugging dumbasses.

Problem is that you have to survive to keep doing God’s work. In order to be prolific like the Green River Killer, you have to be out and about in free society, mixing with your potential victims, not behind bars. Getting captured would be a career-ending move.

But even for the best of the best, “All good things must come to an end,” as the old English proverb says. You make a mistake. Someone sees you. You leave something behind. And it all ends. You get your bunk on Death Row, especially if you did God’s work in California.

Or your luck just runs out. Simple as that. Some beagle goes digging where it shouldn’t. Landslides regurgitate your skeletons onto the public sidewalk. Strong currents and waves sweep your secrets up from the bottom of the sea and cast them ashore. Then everyone knows.

For Sean, things began to unravel after the discovery of Caroline’s body.

CAROLINE DERBY. RICH,
single, white, young. Now too pretty and too dead. She spent her last night alive bar hopping, hoping to meet her soulmate over a bellini or two. Instead, she met her Maker after leaving with an attractive white man who according to various inebriated eyewitnesses, looked a lot like Pierce Brosnan, Brad Pitt, and Benicio Del Toro.

Good luck with that description, SFPD.

But the media became fascinated by the dead girl with the lovely cheekbones and dirty blonde hair. Dead Barbie washing up like kelp was definitely newsworthy. So the media ran about a dozen stories warning young women about roofies and going out to bars alone.

Thanks to Caroline, the young women all stayed home.

Sean’s hunting trips at the ritzy bars were on hiatus, so instead we went for a long, evening drive through various parts of the City.

We drove to the Tenderloin, San Francisco’s red light district, and studied the ladies of the night in their vinyl mini skirts, fishnet stockings, platform stilettos, faux fur wraps, cheap makeup. All oozing sex appeal.

I double-checked that the passenger side door was locked properly, unlocking and locking the button on the armrest of Sean’s Mercedes.

“No worries, Fi. You’re fine,” Sean said without looking over.

Despite the sketchy neighborhood, a part of me never felt safer than when I was with Sean. Perhaps that was why I agreed to accompany him to the bars. And why I was with him in the car. No one would dare tickle me anywhere. Not with Sean around.

“Sean, let’s go and have a drink at the Big Four.”

“Big Four?”

“Old, rich geezer bar at the Huntington.”

“I know where it is, Fi. I was just surprised that you suggested that place.”

“It’s nice, quiet, and full of rich, white people. And safe.”

“Oh, you know you’re safe with me. I’ll take you home after you do your part.”

He was right. “My part?”

“Don’t piss your undies. You’re an amoeba, I know. I just want you to help me with the selection.”

“I see.”

Some serial killers kill to clean up the scourge of the earth. They get rid of vermin like drug dealers, pimps, child molesters. People whose depravity has already condemned them to early deaths.

More power to these self-appointed guardians of morality.

But Sean targeted prostitutes now because his supply of classy, snooty women dried up thanks to Caroline Derby.

“You don’t need me, Sean.”

“No, but it’s more fun this way. For both of us.”

Sean might be out of luck, but he was still right. It’s always more fun to do things with a friend.

I spotted a tall, black girl with Tina Turner hair wearing a red spandex top with a plunging sweetheart neckline. Silver spangled mini skirt. No stockings. For easy access. And red patent leather stilettos.

“This is my corner, ho! You get the hell off my corner,” she screamed at another girl who looked terrified. She started swinging her big purse at her competition. The other girl finally ran away.

“That one,” I said as we drove by her corner.

“Why?”

“You know why.” Because she is a big sex pot as well as a big bully.

Sean glanced over and nodded approvingly.

“Very good, Fi. Now pick another.”

“What?”

“A second one.”

“Sean, take it easy.”