Muller, Marcia - [10] The Shape of Dread (v1.0) (html) (51 page)

"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."

"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.