Innocent Monsters (13 page)

How could she possibly have known?

She shrugged. “I just knew I wanted to give you a book. I wanted to give you something I would have liked to receive. I don’t know if it sounds stupid but I wanted to give you something that would make you feel closer to me. I love Andersen. This was one of my favourite books when I was a teenager.” William leaned over to kiss her lips, he looped her hair behind one of her ears. “It’s not stupid. Thank you.” He whispered. “I’d never thought we’d have so much in common.”

He grabbed the coat he had left on the arm of the sofa and fished out a little rectangular black box from the inside pocket.

“This is for you. It doesn’t seem half as thoughtful now but... Happy Christmas.”

Jessica opened the box to find a small round diamond pendant on a thin silver chain, elegant and understated.

“I love it. But you really didn’t have to.”

“I only had one present to buy this year. I had to make it a good one.”

She turned her back to him, pulled her hair up. “Could you?”

William closed the silver chain around her neck. When she turned around beaming to show him the pendant, he felt strangely emotional. Was it seeing something he had chosen against her skin? Was it because she looked so happy, so radiant?

“What do you think?”

“I think you’re amazing. With and without the necklace.”

She kissed him, again and again until they were both lying on the sofa, her on top of him.

“I’m starting to like this Christmas business. I might come back next year.”

“Why wait till next year? Why don’t you just come back tomorrow?”

“Who said I was leaving?”

“Mhmm... Have you got something special in mind for later?”

“Ever had sex with Santa Clause? I look kinda hot with a white beard.”

She laughed. “I’m sorry, it just isn’t the same without the oversized belly.”

Just then, the timer she had set for the turkey rang and she jumped off him.

“That’ll be our dinner, I hope you’re hungry cause we have a lot of food to get through.”

“Don’t you worry about that, I’ve been saving myself.”

He followed her into the kitchen, admired the decoration on the table, watched her getting the turkey out of the oven.

“Anything I can do?” He asked picking at a spinach leaf.

“Not really. You can just stand there and look happy.”

“I’m doing my best.” He smiled.

“You’re doing a great job.”

William noticed a Christmas card stuck on the fridge with a tomato shaped magnet: it was
Snoopy
the dog
lying on the roof his red dog-house, his belly, nose and the top of his feet covered in snow, Woodstock the bird flying above him holding a star in his rounded beak. He casually opened it to read the inside.

“Who sends
Peanuts
Christmas cards in this day and age? I haven’t seen one of these since the eighties.”

“Someone called Charlie Brown.” He laughed. She had to be kidding. “That’s his name, Charles Brown.”

William frowned. “I thought you didn’t know anyone here. And of all people... Charlie Brown?”

“I know, you couldn’t make it up. He’s the detective who came to see me the day Kaitlyn died, when I called the police. He’s an old man, don’t worry.”

“And he sent you a Christmas card?”

Jessica took the oven mittens off and moved the turkey from the metal tin onto a chopping board. “He’s a nice man, what can I tell you.”

She could have said more, but she decided not to. He didn’t need to know about Brown, she didn’t want to talk about Kaitlyn’s death, not again. Not today.

“Would you like to carve?”

4 January 2001

THE ELEVATOR’s doors opened right in front of a large mahogany desk. The woman sitting behind it was blond, pretty, probably in her early thirties. Too much make up for his liking.

Brown had always liked women as natural as they could possibly come; he never even minded his wife not shaving her armpits and legs when she was still well enough to care. Chiara had never been particularly hairy. She shaved rarely, never in winter and only if she felt like wearing something revealing. She often joked about the fact that he would be the only man in Florida who preferred a hairy woman to the completely waxed Barbie dolls parading up and down beaches along the coast. How she would laugh knowing he even missed her armpits now, their musky smell, passing his hands along her calves and feeling her sporadic hair under his fingers.

The young woman at the desk lifted her eyes, smiled, studied him. Did she know him? Did he have an appointment?

“Good afternoon, my name is Charles Brown, San Francisco police.” He took his badge out of the pocket of his grey jacket, lifted it towards her. “I need to see your... boss? Roger Wither?” The woman was squinting, shaking her head, probably trying to remember if she had arranged a meeting for him that she had forgotten about. “I don’t have an appointment. I understand he might be busy, but this is really only going to take a few minutes. If you could just let him know I’m here?”

She smiled again, a brief, insincere smile. “Let me see what I can do.” She picked up the phone and dialed a single digit, then covered the receiver with one hand. “Sorry, Mr? Did you say...?”

“Brown. Detective Charles Brown.”

“Yes, Roger?” Her hand off the receiver, “There’s a Mr... Detective Brown here to see you... Yes... I’m not sure... Yes, of course.” She put the phone down, lifted a hand towards a door on her left and smiled her insincere smile again. “Mr Wither will see you right away.”

“Thank you.”

Roger Wither was sitting at a desk the same kind of wood, but a lot larger than his secretary’s. The more important, Brown thought, the bigger the desk. Obviously. Behind it, enormous windows showed an incredible view of San Francisco; it was enough to make anyone fall in love with the city.

Wither stood up, offered a hand. He was well dressed, not a single stubble on his odd face. “Detective Brown, Roger Wither. Please take a seat.”

Brown sat slowly in the plush swivel chair opposite the desk. His back was playing up again and he wondered if he’d have trouble getting out of it, wondered how much fishing he would actually be able to do once this case was wrapped up. Sitting for hours in a small, humid boat to catch something he would have to gut and cook on his own did not seem as appealing now as it had been months ago, when Chiara had outlined the scene for him.

“First of all, thank you for seeing me. I just need to ask you a few questions and I will be on my way.”

Roger sat back at the desk, poured himself a large glass of water but didn’t offer any. Poor manners, tiredness or uneasiness? People forgot to do the simplest things when they felt under pressure.

“Can I ask what’s this about?”

“Of course.” Brown fished Kaitlyn’s photograph out of the pocket of his jacket and offered it to him across the desk. “Have you ever seen this woman, Mr Wither?”

Roger took his time, took a few sips of water and kept looking up with a mystified look on his face.

“I think I know who it is, yes... Kaitlyn Lynch. Can’t really say I know her, though.”

Brown took the photograph back, put it in his pocket again. “Can I ask how you know her name?”

“Jessica Lynch, her sister, she’s one of the authors signed to this company. I must’ve met her sister here, maybe in the lobby? Can’t remember for sure. Can’t really think where else I would’ve seen her. She died recently, didn’t she?”

“Yes, she did. We’re looking into her death.”

“I thought it was suicide.”

“You seem to know a lot about her, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Roger took another sip of water. “Don’t mind at all. Ya get to know a lot more of your author’s private life than ya really care when you’re an editor, lemme tell you.”

Brown laughed, looked around the walls: framed photographs, mostly scenery, city skylines, a couple of pictures of Wither with some probably well known writer. “Have you ever been to a restaurant called Gironda’s, Mr Wither? An Italian restaurant in Port Street.”

“Lemme think... Maybe. Again, can’t remember for sure. I eat in a lot of restaurants around San Francisco, detective. I’ve got a busy life and I don’t really care for cookin’ when I finish work. Something tells me that if you’re askin’ me if I’ve been there, it means ya already know that I have. So, how we cut to the chase and you tell me why you’re askin’?”

Wither was getting annoyed, he could tell, but Brown preferred remaining calm. He had been doing this job long enough to recognize in Wither the signs of a bad temper: his body language, the look in his eye, the tone of his voice, everything was telling him he was trying his best not to explode. Remaining calm, irritating him might make him spit out something he’d rather not share.

“So you
have
been there?”

“Yes, I have been at that Giro-whatever-the-name-is restaurant, months ago, a coupla times if I remember rightly. The food was rubbish the first time, I gave them another chance, cause that’s the kinda guy I am, it was rubbish again and I never went back. Now will you tell me what it is you askin’ me these questions for?”

“As I said, we’re looking into a death, we’re just trying to make sure we talk to every person Miss Lynch might have been in contact with while alive.”

“In
contact
?” Roger laughed, a laud, devilish laughter. “I’m sorry, buy I don’t exactly classify as someone she was in contact with. The only reason I know her name is because she and one of my writers are related. Or should I say were. In my book, that does not classify as any kind of relationship you should come and bother me with.”

“Nonetheless. Thank you very much for your time.” Brown stood up from the chair, flinching as pain shoot up his back. He offered Wither his hand to shake. “I’m sure we’ll meet again. In the meantime, if you remember anything that might be of any help, please don’t hesitate to contact me. Anything at all.”

He gave him a business card and watched him looking at it as if he had just passed him a handful of garbage.

“Remember what else exactly? I told you I think I have only seen the woman once. I never spoke to her, haven’t seen her since. How have you even managed to link my name to her?”

Roger was almost shouting now and Brown congratulated himself on knowing he would lose his temper this easily.

“At this moment, I can only say that you and Miss Lynch appeared to be both at the same place at the same time. Obviously, I cannot ask her if you two had lunch or dinner together at any point over the past three or four months, so I have to come and ask you. There’s nobody else.”

“So you’re tellin’ me you came here because I ate in the same restaurant as a dead woman a coupla times? Is this a fuckin’ joke?” Brown didn’t smile. He was obviously being serious. “Why don’t you ask her sister? She’ll tell ya me and Kaitlyn Lynch never met.”

Brown moved towards the door. Another idiot trying to tell him how to do his job.

“I might just do that. Thanks again for your time.”

6 January 2001

THE GREEN walls of the study reflected the light beautifully. It was a nice colour but not relaxing, not to her anyway. She couldn’t relax in here, not enough to write. Nowhere enough to write anymore.

Jessica stood against the door frame of the sitting room with both hands cupped around a mug of coffee, staring at the black screen of the computer sitting on the table in the corner gathering dust, yesterday’s morning copy of the San Francisco Post folded next to it. She had been looking through it for a long time looking for inspiration —it seemed to work for some writers, it might have worked for her. But the incredibly gripping story she had been hoping to spot hadn’t materialised. Nothing caught her imagination, not even after reading the paper at least a couple of times front to back.

She had been using the internet, been in chat rooms, online forums, tried to suck up anecdotes, details of lives that seemed richer, more interesting than hers; frustrated housewives, dog lovers, new mothers, teachers, pupils, sexually charged teenagers. Could she write about being young and carefree? Could she write about something she had never really experienced? Could she at least try to sit down and touch a few keys on the keyboard? An
L
... an
O
... An
S
...

...Loser.

Somewhere among the long days and nights she’d shared with William since Christmas, Jessica had spoken to Brown again. He was still following the lead in the restaurant. It had not been easy, he had told her, looking for someone whose name he didn’t even know, but he was close, he was getting closer.

Could she write about how sometimes, incredibly, she still caught herself hoping he might be right? About how sometimes she found herself wanting to believe again he would catch a killer, clear her sister’s name?

The phone rang at the other end of the corridor and she turned her head still standing against the door frame, watched it ring for a couple of seconds wondering if it might be Lisa trying to speak to her again. She had left a message on her answering machine at the beginning of the week, just after Christmas, “I waited for you to call,” Lisa had announced, “but I guess you’re not going to, so... Here I am. Anyway, just wanted to tell you I missed you on Christmas day and... Just wanted to wish you a happy New Year and, my number is still the same so, y’know, just give me a call one of these days. I miss you, you lunatic.”

Jessica had been expecting the phone call, she had expected to feel remorseful when it arrived and hearing Lisa’s voice she had indeed felt a little guilty, but only for a few seconds and then absolutely nothing, like someone with a short-term memory loss who recalls having seen something but forgets within the following blink. Now you see it, now you don’t. Now you feel it, now you don’t.

What was happening to her?

The phone was still ringing in the corridor and she forced herself to move and go pick it up.

“Hello?”

“Jessica? Roger Wither here.”

Damn. Damn damn damn
. “Roger, I’m just in the middle of something. Can I give you a call back later this afternoon?”

“Busy, uh? Nice joke. We gotta talk, Jessica, I gotta see you.”

“Ok.”
Damn damn shit.
“Not today tho’. Today I can’t.”

“Sunday?”

“Sunday? Do you work on Sundays?”

She heard him sighing heavily in the receiver, a long exasperated sigh.

“Is Sunday good? ’Cause if it ain’t than how about we do it whenever the fuck you want?”

“Jesus Christ. What is wrong with you?”

“You know what’s wrong with me. You’re avoiding my calls, you missed the appointment on Friday, I ain’t got your fucking outline yet and you ain’t even got the decency to call me an’ tell me if I should expect it any time while I’m still alive.”