Muller, Marcia - [10] The Shape of Dread (v1.0) (html) (24 page)

When the phone buzzed, I snatched up the receiver and growled
something that sounded like one of those syllables in the crossword
puzzle that correspond to the clue "kennel sound."

Larkey said, "What's the matter—you caught a cold?"

"Oh, Jay, hi. No—just a frog in my throat."

"They do better in ponds. Listen, I talked to Kathy, and she's
willing to see you if you can get to her house in Tiburon by noon."

"Tiburon by noon. No problem. What's the address?" I scribbled it
down, thanked him for arranging things, and left the
office buoyed by the relief of a kid going out for recess.

Kathy Soriano didn't look very good that day. Her makeup was freshly
applied, but there was a pallor under the tan base; her expensive suede
shirt had a grease spot on it, and her leather boots bore scuff marks.
Her hands shook as if she might have a hangover, and her greeting was
subdued.

I found myself feeling sorry for her, even though she had a Jaguar
sedan in the drive of the redwood-and-glass house set high above the
bay. Her windows might overlook Angel Island and pine-studded
hillsides, her living room might be filled with bronze sculptures and
Imari porcelain, but I remembered what Larkey had said about the
creditors closing in on the Sorianos. And I remembered Tracy's brutally
frank description of Kathy as a woman who jumped when those in power
snapped their fingers, and who felt compelled to betray her steely-eyed
husband. Kathy moved and spoke like a nervous, unhappy woman and seemed
pathetically alone in the big house. And because of the attitude I had
sensed in her toward others of her gender, she probably didn't even
have a woman friend whose shoulder she could cry on.

She seated me facing a glass wall that overlooked a veritable forest
and offered me a glass of wine, which I accepted. When she returned
from the wet bar, I noticed her own drink looked to be something far
more potent than wine. She drank half of it straight off, and gradually
her color improved.

"I'm sorry I ran out on you so abruptly last night," she said in the
tones of a little girl whose parents have told her to
apologize. "I wasn't feeling well, and I needed to get home."

"That's too bad. I hope it's nothing serious."

She shrugged and looked away. The little girl had told her polite
social lie but didn't want to be bothered with elaborating on it.

"Thank you for seeing me," I added. "I suppose Jay's already told
you that the body I thought was Tracy Kostakos's is actually Lisa
Mclntyre's?"

She nodded.

"I'm trying to find out when Lisa went up to the Napa River, and
why. Jay tells me you and Rob drove her home the last night that any of
you saw her."

"Yes, we did. It was raining pretty hard by then, so we took her
right to her apartment building."

"I also understand that you went around to her apartment at Jay's
request the next week, and the manager told you she'd moved out."

"Skipped out is how she put it. Lisa didn't give any notice, and she
left a lot of her stuff there. She was also behind on her rent."

"What's the manager's name?"

"… I don't remember."

"I've been trying to contact her, but there's never anyone home."

"I'm sorry I can't help you, but it was a long time ago."

"No matter. Let's go back to that Thursday night. Your husband's
executive assistant, Jim Fox, had come around to the club. The next day
he found that his company car had been stolen off the lot."

"Yes, by Bobby Foster."

"I've recently found out that Tracy was the one who took it—"

"That's ridiculous!" She finished her drink quickly and went to the
bar for another. "Tracy wouldn't have done that. She was a nice girl.
Everybody liked her. I even liked her, and let
me tell you, I'm not too keen on women. She wouldn't have ripped off
one of our cars. She wouldn't have needed to, with all her family's
money."

"Nevertheless, it appears she did. Would you go over the sequence of
events that night for me?"

"I'm not sure I understand. About the car or about Lisa?"

"Both. Why don't you start with when you arrived at the club."

"I was there from about ten o'clock on. Around closing Rob wanted to
go over some papers about the real estate business with Jay. The place
was practically empty by then, so Lisa changed out of her uniform and
waited with me at the bar."

"How did she seem?"

Kathy turned, drink in hand, bracing herself against the edge of the
counter with her elbows. "You mean how did she act? Quiet. Lisa was
always quiet around me, probably on account of me being an owner's
wife. And frankly, I didn't encourage her. She was just a waitress, and
not a very good one at that. She'd been closeted with Jay in his office
for a while before Rob went back there, and Jay had probably chewed her
out about something, as usual."

"All right, you waited together at the bar. What time did Jim Fox
leave with the woman he met?"

"The… I guess while we were sitting there. I'm not sure."

"He wasn't involved in going over the papers with Rob and Jay?"

"… I don't think so."

"How long were Rob and Jay together in the office?"

"Not long. Maybe fifteen minutes."

"And what time did you drop Lisa at her apartment?"

"Two-thirty or so. I know we were home by three."

I had run out of questions. Suddenly I wondered why I had even
requested this interview. I cast about to make sure I had asked
everything I needed to. "Did you see Tracy leave the club that night?"

For some reason that bothered her. She turned back to the bar and
began removing a cork from the corkscrew. "I watched her routine, of
course."

"A number of people said she wasn't at her best that night."

Kathy shrugged.

"She also made a phone call before she left. Do you know anything
about that?"

"… No. All I remember is watching her routine from our usual table
in the last row."

"And after that?"

"After that she was gone. And that was it." The words were firm and
flat, but her body language told me she was lying.

Kathy came away from the bar, set her glass on a coaster on the
coffee table, but remained standing. "If that's all," she said, "I need
to get ready for an appointment that I have in the city."

As she showed me out of her big, heavily mortgaged house, her step
was lighter, as if she'd performed a difficult task and felt she'd
acquitted herself well.

I hadn't eaten lunch, so I stopped at Sam's on the Tiburon
waterfront. The clear weather had enticed a few diners onto the outdoor
deck, and I joined them, snuggling deep inside my heavy pea jacket. As
I waited for my crab sandwich, I thought about Kathy Soriano's
evasiveness.

She'd been relatively candid and forthcoming early in the interview,
possibly because the questions I asked were more or less what she'd
expected to hear. Then my revelation that it was Tracy, rather than
Bobby Foster, who had stolen the company car had shaken her composure.
And my question about whether she'd seen Tracy leave the club that
night had led to
her curtailing our conversation. I wondered about Kathy's relationship
with Tracy; she'd admitted to liking her, even though she wasn't "too
keen on women." Was it possible they'd been friends? That Kathy knew
more about what had happened than I'd initially suspected? Perhaps
Larkey could shed some light on that.

After I finished eating I called the club. Larkey was there, dealing
with yet another representative of PG&E about the persistent gas
leak. He told me he would be in a meeting with Rob Soriano and his tax
accountant until three; why didn't I come by at three-thirty? I said I
would, and started back to the city. I wanted to stop once again at
Mclntyre's former building; Kathy's report of what the manager had told
her about Lisa's departure wasn't particularly enlightening. Then I'd
check the microfilm room at the library for the copy of the L.A. Times
before keeping my appointment with Larkey.

I was buzzed in as soon as I rang the manager's apartment at the
building on Pacific Avenue. The smell of baking bread from the store
downstairs wafted up as I climbed to the second floor. It would be
hell, I thought, to live over a bakery. The instant they took their
wares from the oven in the morning, I'd be down there, my nose pressed
to the glass, waiting for them to open.

The manager looked as if she'd never so much as glanced at a
croissant. She was extremely thin, clad in black jeans and a turtleneck
that emphasized the spareness of her frame, and had milky white skin
that pulled so tight over her cheekbones that it seemed nearly
translucent. Her youthful clothing and long hairstyle belonged on a
woman in her twenties or thirties; her eyes hinted at at least two more
decades of experience. She came into the hallway rather than admit me
to her apartment. As we spoke, she pulled off the browned and shriveled
fronds of a half-dead Boston fern that hung from a
skylight at the top of the stairs.

Her name was Ms. Wilson, she said, and yes, she had been manager
when Lisa Mclntyre had lived there. No, she didn't remember the woman
from the comedy club who had come looking for Lisa after she'd moved
out. That had been a bad year, and it was possible she had forgotten
the visit. I braced myself for the story of the bad year—strangers have
a way of confiding their tales of woe in me—but none was forthcoming.
Ms. Wilson, it turned out, was a woman of few words.

I said, "The woman who was looking for Lisa claims you said she
'skipped out' without giving notice and left a lot of her things
behind."

The manager frowned. "I said no such thing—if I spoke to this person
at all. Lisa didn't give notice, but she left me a note saying to keep
the security deposit to make up for the lost rent. The apartment was
furnished; she took what was hers, left what belonged there. I wouldn't
call that skipping out, would you?"

"No, certainly not. Did you keep the note?"

"There was no need to."

"Did she leave a forwarding address for her mail?"

"No."

"Didn't that strike you as odd?"

She permitted herself a small smile; it seemed to cost her a fair
amount of effort. "Most of what the tenants do strikes me as odd."

"Did Ms. Mclntyre have many visitors while she lived here?"

"I don't know. I keep to myself and hope the tenants do the same."

"Did you see her move out, perhaps see someone helping her?"

"No."

"And no one has inquired after her?"

"No."

"Is it possible you've forgotten, seeing as it was a bad year?"

She closed her left hand over the dead fronds she held, crushing
them to dust. Her fingers were bony, their skin as pale and stretched
as that of her face. "It wasn't that bad a year. Now that I've had a
few minutes to reflect on it, I'm sure no one came looking for her.
That woman who says she did, whoever she is, is lying to you."

Someone sure was.

There was a pay phone in the bakery downstairs, so I stopped and
checked in with Rae at All Souls. When she came on the line, her voice
was high-pitched with excitement.

"Where the hell have you been?" she demanded. "I have this news for
you, and you never call in!"

"What is it?"

"Your friend Johnny Hart got me the information you wanted on
Mclntyre from the food service workers' union. Sharon, you were right!
Listen to this: The Great American Laugh-in, 27333 Reseda Boulevard,
Reseda. I've already checked; there's no residential listing for her
down there."

It was another comedy club; she hadn't been able to stay away from
them. Not Lisa Mclntyre—Tracy Kostakos hiding behind Lisa's identity.

I rummaged for my pad and pencil. "Reseda. That's—"

"L.A. area, in the San Fernando Valley. From the airport, you take
the 405 freeway north, then swing west on 101. Reseda Boulevard
intersects it."

"Great. Call—"

"US Air."

"And find out—"

"They have flights leaving for LAX almost every hour.You've got a
reservation on the three o'clock one open return." 

"I'll need a—"

"Car. It's reserved. National."

"One more thing: I've got an appointment with Jay Larkey in half an
hour. Cancel it, and tell him I'll be in touch later."

"Will do."

"Rae, thanks. I'll check back with you… whenever."

Early rush-hour traffic crawled north from L.A. airport on
Interstate 405, past industrial areas and old tracts of small,
lookalike houses. After about ten miles the freeway began to climb into
the hills, and names made fabled in the days when motion pictures were
still a glamour industry began to appear: Sunset Boulevard, Mulholland
Drive.

I'd traveled this road many times before, en route from my parents'
home in San Diego to San Francisco and, earlier, Berkeley. Nothing much
had changed over the years except the swelling number of cars. I kept
wary eyes on the bumper of the van in front of me and tried to control
my mounting tension.

It now seemed that the theory I'd first dismissed as very shaky had
at least some basis in reality. Tracy had gone to the cottage on the
Napa River. Lisa had later joined her there. Perhaps the two of them
had been alone, perhaps there had been a third party. But the end
results had been Lisa's death by gunshot and Tracy's flight and
assumption of Lisa's identity.

She'd come to the Los Angeles area, a good place for a young woman
to lose herself. Since she had been a waitress before Larkey gave her
her chance at performing, it had been easy for her also to assume
Lisa's occupation. But she'd made the mistake that most people who
attempt to disappear do: she hadn't totally disassociated herself from
her prior life. She hadn't been able to keep away from the comedy clubs.