K is for Killer (18 page)

“I'm not here for the party. I have a personal appointment with Mr. Ayers.”

His look said this seemed doubtful; however, he was being paid to smile, and he gave me the minimum wage's worth. “Ring the front doorbell. One of the maids will let you in.”

The house was surrounded by a narrow band of yard, generous by San Francisco standards, where houses were usually constructed smack up against each other. A high boxwood hedge had been planted just inside the wrought-iron fence to maximize privacy. I moved up the brick walk. The grass on either side was tender green and recently mowed. The house was a looming three stories of old red brick, aged to the color of ripe watermelon. All of the leaded-glass windows were framed in pale gray stone. The mansard roof was gray slate, and the entire facade was washed with indirect lighting. From the rear, I could hear the alcohol-amplified voices of numerous guests superimposed on the harmonies of a three-piece combo. Occasionally a burst of laughter shot upward like a bottle
rocket, exploding softly against the quiet darkness of the neighborhood.

I rang the bell as instructed. A maid in a black uniform opened the door and stepped back to admit me. I gave her my name and told her Mr. Ayers was expecting me. She didn't seem to care one way or the other, and the black all-purpose dress apparently suited her just fine, thanks. She nodded and departed, allowing me a moment to take in my surroundings. The foyer was circular, with a black marble staircase curving up from the right. The ceiling rose a full two stories and was capped with a cascading chandelier of gilt and flashing prisms. One of these days an earthquake would send the weight of it crashing, and the maid would be flattened like a cartoon coyote.

Yet another man in a tuxedo appeared in due course and escorted me toward the back of the house. The floors were black-and-white marble squares, laid out like a game-board. The ceilings in the rooms we passed were a good twelve feet high, rimmed with plaster garlands and strange imps peering down at us. The walls in the hallway were covered in dark red silk, padded to dampen sound. I was so intent on my survey, I nearly bumped into a door. The butler butled on, ignoring me discreetly when I yelped in surprise.

He ushered me into the library and pulled the double doors together as he left the room. A large Oriental rug spread a soft mauve pattern across the parquet floor. On the left, the room was anchored by a massive antique desk of mahogany and teak, inlaid with brass. The furniture—an oversize sofa and three solidly constructed armchairs—was upholstered in burgundy leather. The room was functional, fully used, not some tidy assemblage designed to impress. I could see file cabinets; a computer setup, a fax machine, a copier, and a four-line telephone. Mahogany
shelves on three walls were lined with books, one section devoted to film scripts with titles inked across the visible end.

On the fourth wall, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the walled grounds in the rear, where the party was in full swing. The noise level had risen, but the brunt of it was muted by the mullioned panes. I stood at the windows and looked down at the crowd below. Sections of the immense garden had been tented for the occasion, the red canvas glowing with candlelight. Tall propane heaters had been placed along the perimeter to warm the chilly night air. Tiny bulbs had been strung through all the saplings on the property. Every branch was defined by pinpoints of illumination. Tables had been covered in red satin cloths. The centerpieces were arrangements of dark red roses and carnations. Folding chairs were swaddled in clouds of red netting. I could see the caterers were still setting up a cold midnight supper—blood sausage, no doubt.

The invitations must have specified the dress requirements. The men wore black tuxedos, and all the women wore full- or cocktail-length dresses in red or black. The women were slim, and their hair was ornamental, dyed that strange California blond affected by women over fifty. Their faces seemed perfect, though by dint of surgery they all appeared to be much the same age. I suspected that none of these people were the cream of San Francisco society. These folk were the rich milk who had risen as close to the top of the bottle as money and ambition permitted in the course of one generation. My guess was that even as they drank, eyeing the buffet tables, they were trashing the host and hostess.

“If you're hungry, I can have someone bring you something to eat.”

I turned. “I'm fine,” I said automatically. In truth I was starving, but I knew I'd feel disadvantaged grubbing down food in this man's presence. “Kinsey Millhone,” I said as I held out my hand. “Thanks for seeing me tonight.”

“Joseph Ayers,” he replied. He was probably in his late forties, with the intense air of a gynecologist delivering embarrassing news. He wore glasses with large lenses and heavy tortoise-shell frames. He tended to keep his head down, dark eyes peering up somberly. His handshake was firm, and his flesh felt as slick as if he'd just donned rubber gloves. His forehead was lined, his face elongated, an effect exaggerated by the creases beside his mouth and down the length of his cheeks. His dark hair was beginning to thin on top, but I could see that he'd been vigorously handsome once upon a time. He wore the requisite tuxedo. If he was still exhausted from long hours in the air, he showed no signs of it. He gestured me onto one of the leather chairs, and I took a seat. He sat down behind the desk and placed a finger against his lips, tapping thoughtfully while he studied me. “Actually, you might look good on camera. You have an interesting face.”

“No offense, Mr. Ayers, but I've seen one of your films. Faces are the least of it.”

He smiled slightly. “You'd be surprised. There was a time when the audience wanted big, voluptuous women—Marilyn Monroe types—almost grotesquely well endowed. Now we're looking for something a little more realistic. Not that I'm trying to talk you into anything.”

“This is good,” I said.

“I have a film school background,” he said as if I'd pressed for an explanation. “Like George Lucas and Oliver Stone, those guys. Not that I put myself in the same league
with them. I'm an academic at heart. That's the point I was trying to make.”

“Do they know what you do?”

He cocked his head toward the window. “I've always said I was in the business, which is true—or at least, it was. I sold my company a year ago to an international conglomerate. That's what I've been doing in Europe these past few weeks, tying up loose ends.”

“You must have been quite successful.”

“More so than the average Hollywood producer. My overhead was low, and I never had to tolerate union bosses or studio heads. If I wanted to do a project, I did it, just like that.” He snapped his fingers to illustrate. “Every film I've done has been an instant hit, which is more than most Hollywood producers can say.”

“What about Lorna? How'd you meet her?”

“I was down in Santa Teresa Memorial Day weekend, this would have been a couple of years ago. I spotted her in a hotel bar and asked if she was interested in an acting career. She laughed in my face. I gave her my card and a couple of my videocassettes. She called me some months later and expressed an interest. I set up the shoot. She flew up to San Francisco and did two and a half days' work, for which she was paid twenty-five hundred dollars. That's the extent of it.”

“I'm still puzzled by the fact that the film never went into distribution.”

“Let's just say I wasn't happy with the finished product. The film looked cheap, and the camera work was lousy. The company that bought me out ended up taking my entire library, but that one wasn't included in the deal.”

“Did you know Lorna was working as a hooker on the side?”

“No, but it doesn't surprise me. Do you know what they call those people? Sex workers. A sex worker might do all manner of things: massage, exotic dance, out-call, Lesbian videos, hard-core magazines. They're like migrant pickers on the circuit. They go where the work is, sometimes city to city. Not that I'm saying she'd done related work. I'm filling you in on the big picture.”

I watched his face, marveling at the matter-of-fact tone he was using. “What about you? What was your relationship with her?”

“I was in London when she was killed. I left on the twentieth.”

I disregarded the non sequitur, though it interested me. When we'd talked on the phone, he'd been vague about how long ago her death had occurred. Maybe he'd done an internal audit in anticipation of my arrival.

He opened a drawer and took out a slip of paper. “I checked the payroll roster for the film she did. These are the names and addresses of a couple of crew members I've been in touch with since. I can't guarantee they're still here in San Francisco, but it's a place to start.”

I took the slip and glanced at it, recognizing the names from the list I'd checked. Both San Francisco numbers were now disconnects. “Thanks. I appreciate this.” Worthless as it is, I thought.

He got up from the desk. “Now if you'll forgive me, I have to put in a quick appearance before I go to bed. Are you sure you wouldn't like a drink?”

“Thanks, but I'd better not. I have ground to cover yet, and I'm not in town that long.”

“I'll walk you out,” he said courteously.

I followed him down the wide white marble stairs, across the foyer, and through a vast empty room with a domed
ceiling and pale, glossy, hardwood floors. At the far end, there was a small stage. “What will you do now that your business is sold?”

“This is the ballroom,” he said, catching the curiosity in my look. “My wife had it refurbished. She gives charity balls for diseases only rich people get. To answer your question, I won't have to do anything.”

“Lucky you.”

“Not luck. This was my intention from the onset. I'm a goal-oriented person. I'd advise you to do likewise.”

“Absolutely,” I said.

In the foyer, we shook hands. I noticed he had the door closed before I reached the front walk. I retrieved my car, tipping the parking valet a buck. From his look of amazement, everybody else must have tipped him five.

I consulted my map. Russell Turpin's Haight Street address wasn't far. I headed south on Masonic and crossed the Panhandle section of Golden Gate Park. Haight was two blocks up, and the address I needed was only four blocks down.

The sidewalks were crowded with pedestrians. Remnants of the past glories of Haight-Ashbury were still in evidence: vintage dress shops and bookstores, funky-looking restaurants, a storefront clinic. The street was well lighted, and there was still quite a bit of traffic. The street people were decked out like the flower children of old, still wearing bell-bottoms, nose rings, dreadlocks, torn blue jeans, leather, face paints, multiple earrings, backpacks, and knee-high boots. Music tumbled out of bars. In half the doorways, kids loitered, looking stoned, though perhaps on drugs more exotic than grass or 'ludes.

I circled, driving an eight-block track—two down, two over, two up, two back—trying to find a place to tuck my
car. San Francisco seems ill equipped to accommodate the number of vehicles within the city limits. Parked cars are squeezed into every available linear inch of curb, angled into hillsides, lined up on sidewalks, wedged against the buildings. Front bumpers are nosed in too close to fire hydrants. Back bumpers hang out into red-painted zones. Garage space is at a premium, and every driveway bristles with signs warding off the poachers.

By the time I found parking, it was nearly 1:00
A.M.
I tucked my rental around the corner on Baker Street, whipping into a place as another vehicle pulled out. I fumbled in the bottom of my handbag until I found my penlight. I locked my car and hiked up the hill the half block to Haight. All of the buildings were close-packed, pastel, four and five stories tall. An occasional frail tree contributed a grace note of green. Many of the oversize windows were still lighted. From the street I could see, in a diminishing series of acute angles, fireplace mantels, bold, abstract paintings, white walls, bookshelves, hanging plants, and crown molding.

The address I had turned out to be a “modern” fourplex of shaggy brown shingles sandwiched between two Victorian frame houses. The streetlight was burned out, and I was left to surmise that one was painted dull red, the other an indigo blue with (perhaps) white trim. In the dark, both appeared to be shades of muddy gray. I talked to a painter once who worked on movie sets. For a film shot in black and white, he said the crew used brown paint in eleven different shades. My current surroundings had the same feel, an environment drained of color, reduced to tones of chestnut and dun. The gradations were infinite but visible only to night souls.

Turpin apparently occupied a second-floor apartment,
and I was gratified to note that the hand-lettered card tucked in the slot actually specified “Russell” by name, along with a housemate named Cherie Stanislaus. I peered through the glass door at a handsomely papered foyer with an apartment door on either side. At the rear, a stairway angled left and out of sight, probably doubling back on itself to an identical hallway above. I moved out to the street and looked up at the second-floor windows. The front rooms on both sides of the building were lighted, which suggested that the occupants were still awake.

As I moved up the stairs to the entrance, I could hear the tapping of high heels approaching from behind me. I paused, looking back. The blonde coming up the stairs wore makeup so pale, the effect was ghostly. Her eyes were elaborately done up with thick false eyelashes, two shades of eye shadow, and a black pencil line on both her upper and lower lids. Her forehead was high, and her hair was teased upward at the crown, held back with a gaudy rhinestone clip. The rest of her hair was long and straight, splitting at the shoulder so that half extended down her back. A cluster of long curls tumbled over her breasts. Her long dangle earrings were shaped like elongated question marks. She wore a dark leotard on top and a slinky black skirt that was split up one side. Her hips were narrow, her stomach flat. She took out a ring of keys and gave me a long, cool look as she unlocked the foyer door. “Looking for someone?”