Muller, Marcia - [10] The Shape of Dread (v1.0) (html) (49 page)

Emmons moved a hand as if to deny the possibility. "By the time we
found out the details of the confession, it was too late. If we'd said
anything, they'd try to pin it on us."

"Were the two of you involved before Tracy disappeared?"

Amy looked genuinely shocked at the suggestion. Emmons said, "No. We
just sort of came together afterwards. Even though we'd broken up, I
missed Tracy. Amy missed her. It just happened."

"You both missed Tracy, but you said nothing about what Amy had
found at the cottage. What if she'd still been alive at that point? You
might have saved her."

"But she wasn't," Amy said. "I could feel it, when I saw the blood
in that car."

"Great. Yet for nearly two years you've watched Marc going around
acting lovelorn and pretending he believed she was still alive. For all
that time, you let her body lie there—"

Amy turned her face against Emmons's upper arm and started to cry.
Through her sobs she said, "We didn't know she was there. And we did
miss her. Ask anybody. We did!"

Emmons smoothed the tufts of her ragged hair. "Haven't you upset her
enough?" he said. "Neither of us needs a lecture. We know what we did
was wrong."

"Maybe you do, but both of you have certainly capitalized on her
death. Amy has this entire apartment for half the rent, plus use of all
Tracy's things. And you built your career on her disappearance."

He stood up so fast that Amy was thrown off balance. She clawed at
the edge of the table, looking up at him in teary panic.

"I've had enough of this," he said. "Just get out of here and leave
us alone."

"I'll do that, but I think you should be prepared to hear from the
authorities. If you think I've been rough on you, wait until they start
talking to you about a charge of obstructing justice." I stood, picking
up the book on creating a new identity. "Did you plant this in Tracy's
room," I said to Emmons, "or is Amy lying about where she found it?"

His face became mottled with rage. I retreated into the living room.
He took a step toward me, but Amy's sobs became louder,
her breath rasping and fast, as if she were having an anxiety attack.
Emmons glared at me, then turned and put his arms around her.

I left the apartment, struggling to contain my own anger. It was a
relief to be out of there and not have to hear any more self-serving
explanations of what was simply cold-blooded behavior.

Early that afternoon Jack Stuart and I sat together on a bench in
the visiting area at San Quentin. We'd been waiting to see Bobby Foster
for over two hours. The delay annoyed me, but Jack took it stoically;
attorneys were used to long waits until one of the segregated visiting
rooms became available, he told me: At first we'd discussed the case
but after a while had run out of things to say and lapsed into silence.
Jack seemed remote today; I wondered if it had to do with my avoidance
of him at the New Year's Eve party.

At about one forty-five, a slender black woman wearing jeans and a
thick turquoise sweater entered the area. Her head, crowned by a short
afro, turned from side to side as if she was looking for someone; plain
gold hoop earrings danced with the motion. Jack roused himself and
waved to her. "That's Leora Whitsun, Bobby's mother," he said. "I spoke
with her earlier, and she mentioned she would be coming up here."

I watched Leora Whitsun make her way toward us, realizing with some
shock that she was no older than I—several years shy of forty. The
woman had had seven children and three
husbands; I knew from the files I'd read that she'd put herself through
two years of college in night sessions while organizing community watch
programs and working days at the clinic. I'd expected a much older,
wearier-looking person, rather than this attractive, vigorous woman in
the prime of her life. And I certainly would not have expected her to
be smiling.

Jack made the introductions, and Leora Whitsun sat down beside me,
taking my hands in hers. "I can't thank you enough for what you've done
for my boy," she said.

I shrugged, embarrassed by what I considered undue gratitude. "I was
just doing my job. I'm only happy that things may work out after all."

"Will work out, I know it." She flashed us an even more brilliant
smile. "I'm into the power of positive thinking today. Yesterday, when
I found out about that girl's body turning up, I was just in heaven.
Been there ever since."

"Yesterday?" I said. "Jack didn't even know until this morning."

"Leora found out at the clinic," Jack said. "She was working intake
yesterday, and Larkey's partner's wife came in, looking for Larkey, so
she could break the news about Tracy personally."

Maybe Kathy Soriano had a heart after all, I thought. "Was he there?"

"No," Leora said. "None of our dentists work on holidays, although
we always have one of the regulars on call. Anyway, somebody must of
got hold of Jay, because he took the records up to Napa himself first
thing this morning, so he could help with the identification."

I knew that forensic dentists appreciated the assistance of the
subject's own dentist whenever possible; the records, especially X
rays, were open to wide interpretation, so it helped to have a person
who was familiar with them on hand. I said, "How did Larkey seem to be
taking the news?"

"Poor man was upset, even though he was glad that my boy'll go free."

Jack said, "Leora, I have to caution you: we've got a long pull
ahead of us yet. What this evidence does is pave the way for a new
trial. But Bobby could be convicted again."

She frowned. "But the body being up there in Napa proves his
confession was no good. And from what you"—she looked at Jack—"told me
on the phone this morning about that girl getting a traffic ticket,
there wouldn't have been time for Bobby to go up there and be back at
the club before closing."

I said, "There's no proof of exactly when she died. Given the state
of the remains, there's no way the medical examiner can pin it down.
And even if it were possible, a jury might not believe the testimony of
the parking attendants who claim Bobby came back to the club at
closing."

Jack added, "We have no way of knowing how the prosecution might
structure a new case against him."

Leora shook her head, earrings swinging violently. "But he didn't
kill her."

"We know that," I said, "and what we're going to do is work to find
out who did."

For a moment she continued to look downcast but then rallied. "I
just know you can do it, because you've already done one miracle."

Jack touched her shoulder reassuringly and got up to confer with the
visiting desk officer. When he came back he said, "We're on. Do you
want to come with us, Leora?"

"I better see my boy alone," she said. "Gives him more visiting
time. I don't mind the wait."

Jack and I said good-bye to her and went to the segregated room
assigned to us. After the door had closed and locked, he set his
briefcase on the table and began taking files and a legal pad from it.
He said, "How do you want to handle this?"

"You explain to him about me finding Tracy's body, and I'll take it
from there."

"Just what is it you're looking to get out of him?"

"Bobby's hiding something. It has to do with his quarrel with Tracy
when she was leaving the club that night. I've an inkling of what that
was all about, and I want to get him to confirm it."

Jack looked curious but merely nodded.

After about ten minutes Bobby was let into the room on the opposite
side of the grille. He seemed wary as he greeted Jack and me, and he
held himself stiffly as he sat down. I supposed that each of Jack's
sessions with him required a certain amount of time for rebuilding
their rapport. Jack explained quickly about the break in the case,
cautioning him first about becoming overly optimistic. Bobby listened
intently, wetting his lips and then compressing them, as if to keep his
emotions contained.

He was silent for a bit after Jack finished. Then he looked at me.
"You say you'd try, and you did. Thanks. For that, and for believing
me." Quickly he glanced at Jack. "You, too."

Jack nodded.

I said, "As Jack explained, we're by no means in the clear yet. I've
got a lot of work to do. We need to establish the facts—all of them."

"The facts, Bobby," I repeated. "Such as what you quarreled with
Tracy about the night she disappeared. It was something that you felt
would make you look even worse, wasn't it? Something you're so ashamed
of that you've kept it to yourself all this time."

"… Don't know what you mean by that."

"You do—and you'd better tell me about it."

"Tracy, she dead. It don't matter now."

"It matters a lot."

He was silent.

I reached into my briefcase and took out the notebook containing
Tracy's character sketches, opened it to the last page. "Does this
sound like someone you used to know, Bobby?"

He looked at me, then at the notebook, puzzled.

I read, "'It has become her habit to milk every emotion, even her
own, for personal gain. Everything is useful. She sleeps with this one
and that one solely for the exotic experience.'"

He moved his hand, as if to push the words away.

"Tracy used people," I said. "She let her friends confide in her,
then built characters for her routines based on those confidences. When
she ran out of material, she created it. Like she planned to create it
by sleeping with you."

Jack grunted in surprise. Bobby lowered his head into his hands, his
fingers pressing spasmodically against his skull.

"If it's any comfort," I added, "she regretted what she'd done. She
told her mother she thought she wasn't a good person anymore, said
she'd done things to hurt others."

He mumbled something.

"What?"

"Wasn't the way she told it to me. That why we had the fight. I knew
what we did was wrong. We were friends. I loved her, but not that way."

"When did you sleep with her?"

"Two, maybe three weeks before."

"How many times?"

"Just the once."

"And that Thursday night… ?"

"I wanted to talk about it, tell her no way it gonna happen again. I
want to know why— She started it, see. But she wasn't having any talk.
I say we got to have it out, and she say…"

"She said… ?"

"That it wasn't no big deal. She done it 'cause she was gonna use a
white girl who slept with black men in her act. She wanted to know
firsthand what it was like. You know how she make me feel? Like some
slave put out to stud. I say that to
her, and she say some ugly things. That the last I saw of her."

He raised his face; his eyes were bleak and moist. "Now we can't
never put it right. She dead, and I can't tell her I'm sorry."

Beside me Jack cleared his throat and shifted on his chair. I didn't
feel any too comfortable myself, but I pressed on. "Okay—you fought,
and then what?"

Bobby wiped his eyes on his sleeve before he answered. "She run off,
something about going to Marc's."

That gave me pause; Emmons had said nothing about an appointment
with Tracy that night. "He wasn't working the bar?"

"Guess not. He only a part-timer."

"Marc told me they'd broken up."

"Yeah, but every time she want something, she go to him. And Marc,
he love her, so he give it to her, no matter what."

But love has its limits, I thought, and when they're reached, it can
turn nasty. "All right," I said, "then what did you do?"

"Just walked. Stopped for a couple of drinks."

"Where?"

"Some bar, I don't remember where."

"Think."

He thought. And shook his head. "The way it was, I'd done some
crack, to get up for talking to Tracy. With the booze and all…"

"Well, if you do remember anything, let me know right away. So you
walked around, stopped for a couple of drinks, then went back to the
club around closing?"

"Yeah. I wanted to see if the other guys covered for me with Larkey."

"Had they?"

"Yeah."

"Then what did you do?"

"Look, I told you all this the other day."

"Tell me again."

He sighed. "I went to see this girl I know, but she not home. After
that I go back to my ma's place. She working all night at the clinic.
My brothers, they off someplace. The old granny from next door, she
sitting with the little ones. She the only one saw me, and that don't
help 'cause she die the next month, before all this shit start to come
down."

Now I sighed. He'd told it as he had before; it bore the
unmistakable stamp of truth. But it wouldn't be of much use in
establishing his story.

Bobby looked from me to Jack and back again. "Still don't look good,
huh?"

I began gathering my bag and briefcase. "Things are better than they
were last week. We'll just take it one step at a time." I wanted to get
back to the city now, to call Stan Gurski in Napa to see if he had an
identification on the remains. And I needed to check with Rae about
what she'd turned up on Lisa Mclntyre. And then there was George…

Jack said, "You going?"

"Yes. I'll check in with you later." We'd come in separate cars, so
there was no reason for me to wait for him.

Bobby said, "I thank you again."

"You're welcome. Try not to feel discouraged. We'll work this out
yet."

"I wish…"He hesitated.

"Wish what?"

"I don't know. All this time I been hoping you'd find her alive. So
I could of got things straight between us."

I had no answer for that. I knew from bitter experience that every
death diminishes us, but those that leave differences unresolved and
things unsaid are the most painful of all.

"According to Larkey, Mclntyre worked at the club the night that
Kostakos disappeared. She was scheduled to have Friday and Saturday off
that week, and they're not open Sundays, so her next shift was Monday
night. She never showed, never picked up her last check. In my book
that's a big coincidence… Sharon, are you listening to me?"