Muller, Marcia - [10] The Shape of Dread (v1.0) (html) (19 page)

"Naive, considering identification techniques."

"Well, Kostakos probably didn't have too much knowledge of forensic
science."

"You think she was the killer? Or an accessory?"

I nodded, feeling a different kind of depression than I had earlier.
For a while there I'd been caught up in the process of reasoning; now I
couldn't help but personalize the facts. If my theory was correct, the
aftermath of my investigation would inflict pain and suffering on the
man I was beginning to care for a great deal.

"And the victim?" Jack asked.

"Well, someone who hasn't been missed or had no one who cared enough
to mount a full-scale search. Someone who might be expected to just
pull up stakes and go."

"Any specific ideas?"

"One. A waitress named Lisa Mclntyre who worked at the club. She
disappeared at roughly the same time Kostakos did. Larkey was concerned
enough when she didn't come to work that he sent his partner's wife to
check on her. Mclntyre had moved out without notice. Larkey didn't
pursue it, because in his mind she was something of a drifter."

"Coincidence?"

"Could be, but I don't like the things. Let me call Larkey."

I got up and followed the phone cord across the floor to where the
instrument sat on the drainboard of the sink, and grabbed it up
irritably. The long cords on the All Souls's phones had annoyed me for
years—both because of their tendency to tangle and the staff members'
tendency to abandon the instruments wherever they were when they hung
up. Since the introduction of cordless phones, I'd been lobbying for us
to buy some for our restless talkers, but so far no one had listened to
me. I supposed I would indefinitely continue to follow cords, like
trails of crumbs in the woods, to some highly peculiar places.

Larkey answered the phone at Café Comedie, sounding down. "I heard
about you going up to Napa to assist in the identification," I said.

"The least I could do. And it was a relief to know the body wasn't
Tracy's. But Jesus, what a depressing experience. Somehow in my spotty
career I'd missed out on having to do that. I hope I never have to
again."

"I don't blame you. Jay, I know my assistant questioned you about
Lisa Mclntyre earlier today, but I'd like to ask a few more things."

"Sure, go ahead."

"Did anyone come around asking about her after she left town—family
or friends, for instance?"

"Not that I know of. She hadn't been here long enough to make close
friends, and as for family, she mentioned something about having been
on her own since she was fifteen. She was from Oklahoma, but I gathered
she'd drifted around the country for the past ten years—Boston, New
York, L.A. The usual places would-be comedians gravitate to."

"Was she any good as a comedian?"

"Not really. Comedy is like any other branch of show business:
you've got to have discipline, and Lisa lacked it. I wasn't really
surprised when she up and left town. Her kind are
always looking for those fabled greener pastures."

"And you say she had no close friends. What about lovers?"

"Lisa was a lesbian, but I never saw her with another woman."

I thought of the videotape George had been watching in the early
hours of the morning, and the lesbian waitress named Ginny whom Tracy
had portrayed. Had Lisa been the inspiration for that character?

"What does Lisa look like?" I asked.

"Tall, thin, light brown hair worn longish and curly. Fairly
attractive."

"One more question, and I'll let you go. Did you ever work on her
teeth?"

Larkey hesitated. I assumed the question had surprised him. "As a
matter of fact, I did."

"And you still have her records?"

"Yes." There was an inquiring note in his voice now.

"Then Napa County will probably be in touch with you about getting
hold of them."

"You think it was Lisa up there?"

"It's worth checking out."

"Hmm." He hesitated. "Now that you mention it—this isn't a
hard-and-fast recollection; no dentist can be expected to remember the
teeth of all his patients—but I think Lisa's and Tracy's may not have
been all that dissimilar. Few cavities, no capping or irregularities.
That would explain why, when I first started making the comparison, it
seemed to be Tracy. There were slight differences, but not all that
many."

"I'll call Napa and tell them to get in touch with you." I thanked
him and hung up quickly, before he could ask any time-consuming
questions.

Jack had been listening to my end of the conversation closely; he
made no comment as I called NCSD and asked for Stan
Gurski. I wasn't sure if the reasoning that I laid out for Gurski made
a great deal of sense, but it didn't take him long to say he'd request
Mclntyre's records from Larkey and let me know what the medical
examiner concluded.

It was now well after seven. George would be wondering what had
happened to me. I called him and said I had to go home to feed the cat,
but that I was on my way. He asked me what I liked on my pizza, and
when I hesitantly admitted to a fondness for anchovies and Italian
sausage, he laughed.

"Do you realize how hard it is for me to find someone who also likes
that combination?" he asked. "We must be made for each other."

"I'll hold on to that thought."

When I replaced the receiver in its cradle, Jack was looking
quizzically at me. "Was that George Kostakos you were talking to?"

"… Yes."

"Sounds as if the two of you really hit it off."

"Yes, we did. He's an interesting man, and easy to get to know."

Jack's expression grew guarded; there was an element of concern in
his voice when he spoke again. "I hope you're not becoming emotionally
involved with… a principal figure in the investigation."

Good Lord, I thought irritably, he's given up on me as a possible
romantic interest, and now he wants to dispense advice, like Hank. "Why
would I do that?"

He shrugged. "I've met Kostakos. He's intelligent, good-looking,
personable, rich. I don't know why you wouldn't be attracted to him."

He meant well, but it really wasn't any of his business. I said,
"He's also married. Don't forget that."

Jack relaxed slightly. "Just so long as you don't," he said.

Amy Barbour's apartment building wasn't really on my way across town
to the Marina district, but I made an uphill detour so I could drive by
there. I told myself I wouldn't bother to stop unless I spotted a
convenient parking space; the police would have checked and rechecked
the apartment, so chances were slim that Barbour was at home. When I
reached the building, however, there was a vacant space almost in front
of it. Destiny, I thought as I steered the MG to the curb.

The windows of the second-story bedrooms were dark; a Mercedes
sports coupe stood in the driveway. The light in the vestibule showed
that the metal security gate had been propped open, the way it might be
if someone were carrying things in or out and didn't want to be
bothered with unlocking it on every trip. Was Barbour moving in with
Emmons tonight? If so, why hadn't the police located them here or at
his place?

I went through the gate and up the stairs. The door to the apartment
was slightly ajar, but I heard no voices, saw no lights. As I moved
forward, the flesh along my backbone rippled
slightly.

The interior was in shadow, but the draperies on the picture windows
hung open, the glow from the farflung city lights silvering the room.
It washed over the pale furniture and silhouetted the tall figure of a
man who stood in front of the glass, looking out. When I pushed the
door fully open and stepped over the threshold, he turned quickly,
steel-rimmed glasses glinting. I fumbled for the light switch; one of
the table lamps came on. The man was Rob Soriano, Larkey's partner.

In spite of his precise military bearing, Soriano seemed relaxed and
not at all surprised to see me, as if he'd expected that sooner or
later I'd turn up. He didn't speak, merely folded his arms across his
chest and studied me. I returned his stare.

Tonight Soriano wore a gray business suit, lighter gray shirt, and
muted striped tie. The monochromatic clothing, combined with the severe
glasses and conservative cut of his hair, lent him a faceless quality,
but even in flashier garb he would not be a man you would pick out of a
crowd. His square-jawed face looked tired, as if he'd spent the day in
wearisome negotiations; there were deep brackets from his nose to the
corners of his mouth, which in no way could be termed laugh lines.

When it appeared he was waiting for me to speak, I said, "How are
you, Mr. Soriano?"

"Fine, Ms. McCone. And you?"

"Fine also. May I ask what you're doing here?"

A small smile played around his thin lips. "I could ask you the
same."

"I'm looking for Amy Barbour and Marc Emmons."

"Then we have a common purpose."

"Why do you want them?"

"Actually, I'm only interested in Marc. Our chubby comedian has
failed to show up since Thursday night. Jay wants me to
drag him down there so he can give him the axe."

Larkey seemed to rely on both of the Sorianos to run errands for
him, I thought. But Rob didn't look or act like a gofer. "How did you
get in here?" I asked.

"Same way you did. Both doors were open; it looks as if someone's
been moving things out."

I glanced around the room. The furniture was undisturbed, but there
were empty spaces in the record cabinet and on a bookcase. A
half-packed box of kitchen equipment stood on the cluttered dining
table. I moved down the hall to the bedrooms. The door to Tracy's was
locked. Amy's bed had been stripped; the bureau drawers were empty, and
only a few items of clothing hung in the closet. The bathroom was
devoid of toiletries and towels.

Rob Soriano was sitting on the white leather sofa when I returned to
the living room. He took out a pack of cigarettes, offered one to me,
and when I shook my head, lit one for himself. "Where do you suppose
our plump little birds have flown to?" he asked.

I sat down at the other end of the couch. "Amy was planning to move
in with Emmons."

"Well, she must have gotten lost en route; there's no one at his
place, either."

It occurred to me that the police might have picked them up in the
last few hours; that would explain why Amy had interrupted her packing.
I decided, however, to say nothing about that to Soriano. "How come
you're out tracking down Emmons?" I asked. "You said your wife is the
one who takes the active role in Café Comedie."

"Kathy's hardly the one to haul a large, protesting young man down
there."

From what I'd seen of Kathy Soriano, I judged her to be more than a
match for most people, but I didn't voice the opinion.
"What about Larkey?"

"Jay's busy overseeing the operation of the club. Besides, he has…
difficulty dealing with Marc."

"Why is that?"

Soriano blew a smoke ring and watched as it wafted through the air,
its shape gradually becoming distorted. "Marc was the Kostakos girl's
boyfriend," he finally said.

"So?"

"Jay was also her boyfriend—although that's not quite the term to
apply to someone of his age."

I was silent, assimilating this new information.

Soriano noted my surprise and added, "It's a wonder no one's told
you about that. Everyone knew."

"Larkey claims he was fond of Tracy as a father would be. And it
never came out at the Foster trial."

"Well, I'm sure that at this late date Jay doesn't want to admit to
being a middle-aged fool. And as for the trial, it simply wasn't
relevant. Also, the prosecution tried to paint little Ms. Kostakos as
the girl next door. If her relationship with Jay had come out, other
things would have, too."

"Such as?"

"Tracy was a very busy girl. There was Marc, of course. I like to
think of that as her last uncorrupt attachment. After Marc, there was
Jay. She used him—to get an extended contract at the club, for an
introduction to a talent agent, for spending money. Oddly enough, I
think she genuinely cared for him; all the kids do, it's hard for them
not to. But she did use him, and her behavior on the side would have
distressed him, if he'd known."

"What do you mean by 'behavior on the side'?"

Soriano smiled bleakly. "Ms. Kostakos had a nasty habit of worming
her way into people's lives, taking what she could, and using it in her
routines. She'd become close to a person, cast herself in a role; she
wanted the whole experience, the
whole flavor. There was the Foster kid—"

"You know about that?"

Now it was his turn to look surprised. "Yes. How did you find out?"

"He told me."

"Huh. I thought he'd never break his silence. Well, anyway, I don't
think she ever got to put that material to use, and she certainly
didn't in my case—"

"You?"

"No, I saw through her and put a stop to it. But in the case of Lisa
Mclntyre . "

"The lesbian waitress routine?"

"That's right. Tracy's portrayal of her had an undertone of
viciousness. Lisa had no idea what her motives were when they had their
brief… fling, and when she saw the routine, she was furious."

"God." All I could think of was George, how it would hurt him should
all this come out. If it was humanly possible, I would make sure he
never heard any of it. "Are you aware that I found what I thought was
Tracy's body at a cottage up at the Napa River yesterday?" I asked.

He nodded. "My wife told me."

"Well, it turned out not to be hers."

"Oh?"

"The sheriff's department is comparing the remains with Lisa
Mclntyre's dental records."

He had been about to stub out his cigarette, but his hand stopped
inches from the ashtray. For a moment he froze. "That's a curious turn
of events. It's difficult not to draw a very distasteful conclusion."