Muller, Marcia - [10] The Shape of Dread (v1.0) (html) (18 page)

"Do you still love her?"

"Yes."

"Does she still love you?"

"If she still does after New Year's Eve, she ought to be
institutionalized."

"What happened—besides your going to the All Souls party without
her?"

He motioned for Brian to bring him another drink. Brian looked
doubtful but poured it when I nodded at him.

"Okay," Hank said when the drink was in front of him. "What happened
was Anne-Marie invited the Andersons— the people we rent the upstairs
flat to—for dinner. I wanted to be at All Souls, where we've always
spent New Year's Eve, so I left. But then I couldn't face people, so I
drank in my office."

"Do you remember me coming in and talking with you?"

"Oh, yes. I remember it quite clearly now. I'm not so bad off that
I'm blacking out. And I remember the rest of the evening. In hideous
detail."

"Go on."

"I gave up and went home a little after midnight. Took a cab—I'm not
enough of an asshole to drive in that condition. The Andersons were
still there. Anne-Marie had this made-of-porcelain look she gets when
she's pissed off but trying to remain civil. I'd hoped they'd be gone
so we could talk. Just seeing them there… Are you sure you want to know
what a swine I am?"

"We all behave swinishly upon occasion."

"Some of us more than others. Well, I started yelling at her for
letting 'those people' in our flat. Said I was sick of them, sick of
hearing about their car phones and computers and their vacation condo
with the view of some golf course fairway, and their stupid, boring
jobs on Montgomery Street."

"Oh, Lord!"

"It gets worse. Then she started yelling at me. Said that the only
reason she ever had them down to dinner was so she wouldn't have to
spend the evening arguing with me. Said that she'd only asked them for
New Year's Eve so we wouldn't go to the All Souls party and get drunk
and scream at each other in front of our real friends. Said that she
found car phones and computers and condos and Montgomery Street boring,
too, and besides, Bob—he's the husband—is an ass grabber. By that time
the Andersons were on their way out the door."

Hank's expression was woebegone in the extreme. I, on the other
hand, felt a welling up of relief. For months now Anne-Marie had
avoided me, not returning my phone calls. From what I'd heard of her
behavior, I'd been afraid that my friend had turned into someone I
wouldn't even want to know. But her New Year's Eve outburst in front of
the dreadful Andersons proved that the candid, unpretentious Anne-Marie
of yesterday still existed.

I said, "Well, you won't have to worry about having them to dinner
again."

"It gets worse."

"How could it?"

"Then we really got into it. I'm sure the Andersons were upstairs
with a glass pressed to the floor. Hell, they wouldn't even have needed
one. I told her I couldn't stand living her life-style. She told me I'm
a slob with the social graces of a pit bull. Then she said my chili was
awful." Hank drew himself up indignantly. One elbow slipped off the
bar, and I had to steady him.

I'd been having difficulty controlling the laughter that was
building inside me. Now it rose and spilled over. The more I laughed,
the more indignant Hank looked, and his expression only gave fuel to my
hilarity. Finally—gasping and wiping my eyes—I said, "Hank, I don't
know about all the rest, but she's right on one point—your chili is
horrible!"

"… You always ate it."

"That's because the company was always so good."

He thought about that for a moment. "Anne-Marie always ate it, too.
Guess my company isn't good anymore."

"For the time being, probably not."

He knocked back half the fresh drink and said, "Do you want to hear
the rest of it?"

"There's more?"

"It still gets worse. She stomped off and locked me out of the
bedroom. Then I threw up and passed out on the bathroom floor, sort of
wrapped around the toilet. And in the morning there was an envelope
from the Andersons shoved under the door. They gave thirty days'
notice. That's when I decided I'd better stay at All Souls."

I leaned my forehead on my hand and groaned. Finally I said, "A nice
flat like that'll be easy to rent."

"It's not keeping the flat occupied that worries me," he said. "It's
the prospect of sleeping on the All Souls's couch for the rest of my
life."

I knew what he meant; the couch was a maroon relic of the 1930s with
badly sprung springs.

Before I could offer any optimistic comments, however, Brian
signaled that I had a phone call. "We'll talk more later," I said to
Hank and went to the end of the bar to take it.

George's voice came over the line—high and shaky, infused with an
element that I wouldn't have expected. As he said, "Sharon? Your
assistant told me to call you here," I heard joy—no, elation.

"What's happened?"

"I just spoke with Detective Gurski. About the identification from
Tracy's dental records."

"I've been trying to get in touch—"

"Sharon," he said, "it wasn't her! The body you found wasn't
Tracy's!"

For a moment I couldn't speak. The implications of this new
development were staggering, that much I knew. But I couldn't quite
grasp them yet, couldn't put them into words.

"Sharon?" George said.

"Yes, I'm here."

"Do you realize what this means? Tracy may be alive after all!"

Not necessarily, I thought. And if she was, we'd be back to the
monstrous thing he feared.

George interpreted my silence correctly. "Yes, I know," he said.
"But at least there's hope. After believing her dead— really believing,
the way I did last night—I know I can handle anything."

"I hope so." I thought of the pitiful collection of bones I'd found,
and the tattered remnants of Tracy's clothing. The obvious had already
occurred to me, and it was extremely unpleasant.

"Well," I added, "this certainly changes things. I hardly know how
to proceed."

"I wish you'd come over here, or let me come there. I'm so hyper
that I feel as though I'll come apart if I don't see you."

The need and desire in his voice cut through my confusion. I glanced
up and saw Jack come through the door, probably looking for Hank. He
and I would have to talk right away.

"Let me come there," I said. "But first I have to talk this over
with Bobby Foster's attorney. That may take a while. I'll be there as
soon as I can."

"I'll be waiting."

I hung up the receiver and waved at Jack. He changed course and came
to the end of the bar. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"It's that obvious?"

"You should see your face."

"Well, what's wrong is this: the body up at the river wasn't Tracy
Kostakos." Quickly I explained about George's call.

Jack's craggy features went blank as he shifted mental gears and
assimilated the news. Then he rubbed his chin and said, "Of course they
have no idea who the bones do belong to."

"No, and the ID on that is going to be a tough one—if not
impossible."

"Meanwhile, we're back to square one."

"Not quite. We have proof that Kostakos was alive at two-ten in the
morning—well after Foster confessed to killing her. And we have
Barbour's story about the car being at the cottage a week later."

"Sure, and it's enough to move for a new trial, but then we've got
the proof of Foster's whereabouts to worry about. The parking
attendants who alibied him were easily the weakest defense witnesses at
his first trial. Neither presents himself in a way that exactly
inspires belief. Ah, shit!" Jack slapped a hand on the bar so hard that
it made the man sitting around its corner jerk.

"Look," I said, "why don't we go up the hill and kick this around in
private?"

"Fine by me." He glanced the length of the bar, to where Hank still
hunched over his drink. "Is he okay?"

"Going to be, I think."

"Then let's go."

I waved good-bye to Hank and followed Jack outside.

Winter darkness had settled over Mission Street. Cars, their
headlights ablaze, jammed the pavement; buses and jitneys pulled up to
the curb and disgorged commuters. Some hurried into the warm shelter of
bars and restaurants, others went toward the nearby Safeway to pick up
things for dinner. Still others trudged uphill with us, to the
hodgepodge of dwellings that line Bernal Heights' steep streets. I
watched them, feeling the beginnings of the depression that often
settles over me at that hour of the evening.

At times it seems as if I'm always out of step with the world—set
apart by both my temperament and my habits. On nights when people are
rushing home to their families or lovers, I'm often at loose ends or
about to go to work on an interview or a stakeout. While others round
out their days with cocktails and dinner, TV and helping the kids with
their homework, I'm likely to be chasing an elusive witness all over
the city, or sitting cramped and cold in my MG in front of somebody's
apartment building.

It isn't that I mind my erratic schedule; it's the only way of life
that will ever really suit me. And I live for those cut-crystal moments
when a difficult case finally begins to come together. But in the early
evening, with the lights of other people's residences glowing warm
around me, I'm more often than not reminded of what a lonely life I've
made for myself, and sometimes I wonder what it would have been like
had I made other, more traditional choices.

On this night, however, I was able to banish the depression quickly.
I had George to think of, the touch of his hands and lips and body to
anticipate. Because of the new, fragile thing
between us, I had no reason to feel lonely. No reason not to expect it
would grow stronger and prosper, unless this new development…

I pushed the thought aside and followed Jack into the big brown
Victorian.

Rae and one of the attorneys sat on the couch in the living room
watching the TV news; the half-denuded Christmas tree hulked in the bay
window behind them. A lone industrious soul perched on a stool in the
law library, the trestle table covered with books and crumpled sheets
of yellow paper. Oddly enough, the kitchen was deserted. Jack and I got
glasses of wine and sat down at the round oak table in front of the
window. I kicked off my shoes, propped my feet on one of the extra
chairs, and waited to hear his thoughts on the matter at hand.

He began to discuss the impact of this latest development on
Foster's legal situation, weighing each factor carefully, speaking
slowly and precisely. After his initial frustrated outburst at the
Remedy, he had settled into a calm, professional mood, displaying the
sharp insight and cool logic I'd come to expect of him. Hard to believe
that this was the same man who two nights before had mooned around the
New Year's Eve party like a lovesick teenager.

Unfortunately, what Jack concluded was that the discovery of the
body had even less impact on the status of his case, now that we knew
it wasn't Tracy's. While he still had enough evidence to move for a new
trial, to bring the case before a jury in its present unresolved state
would only invite another conviction. "As I've said before," he added,
"what we need is to find out what happened that night. And now we seem
to be further than ever from that."

"Well, let's look at what we've got, item by item," I said. "Tracy:
a pretty cold user, if we accept what she told Foster about sleeping
with him for the exotic experience."

"Do we?"

"I do. The sketchbook backs it up. She may have had qualms about her
behavior, but they didn't prevent her from throwing it in his face." I
made mental apologies to George for my harsh assessment of his
daughter. But then, as he admitted, he hadn't really known the woman
his little girl had grown into. "Next," I said, "we have a stolen car.
That's something that bothers me: why steal a car? I'm going to have
Rae find out more about the car's owner."

Jack nodded in agreement.

"All right," I went on, "now we have Foster's claim that Kostakos
was on her way to Emmons's apartment that night. Truth or excuse, so
she could get away from him? No way to know until the police locate
Emmons."

"What's the status on that?"

"He and Barbour are missing. My fault, I'm afraid. I panicked them.
But they'll turn up. Anyway, the next thing we know is that Kostakos
was driving the car in the vicinity of the Barbour cottage at two-ten
the next morning. Driving badly, so perhaps she was nervous or
frightened. We can safely assume that the cottage was her destination.
We don't know if anyone was with her, and it's unlikely the officer who
issued the citation will remember. We do know that the car was at the
cottage a week later but that Kostakos was not."

"How did she leave there? From what you've told me, it's a long way
from the main road."

"It is. There aren't too many options." I began ticking them off on
my fingers. "She hitchhiked or got a ride with someone from a
neighboring cottage. But in that case, when all the publicity started,
someone probably would have recognized her picture in the papers or on
the news and come forward."

"Unless they didn't read the papers or watch the news. Or just
didn't want to get involved."

"That's possible, too. Another possibility is that someone she knew
came to get her. She could have prearranged that or called
from a neighbor's. And here's another possibility: that the person
whose bones I found arrived at the cottage in a car which Kostakos
later left in."

I paused, sipped wine, all too aware of what neither of us had yet
put into words. Finally I said, "The clothing remnants I found with
those bones were what Kostakos was wearing when she left Café Comedie.
What they suggest to me is that the body was dressed in them after
death, in an attempt to make it look like hers. The killer must have
realized that the chances of it being discovered in the near future
were slim, but if it ever was, the clothing would indicate that
Kostakos was the one who died."