Riptide (33 page)

thirty-four

Jennifer stood in a corner, her eyes closed against the bedlam around her, aware of nothing but pain.

With the building manager’s cooperation, a vacant apartment two doors down from Maura’s unit had been commandeered as a command post and now hosted a swarm of cops, uniformed and plainclothes. Forensic technicians worked the crime scene. The assistant district attorney had shown up, and a pathologist was on the way. The captain of the Pacific Area station was here, as was his overboss, the commander of Operations-West.

Arriving personnel were logged in by a patrol officer posted at the elevator. As residents drifted home from work, they were intercepted by detectives in the lobby and questioned. The tenants on Maura’s floor had been kept away from their homes for the time being.

Everything was being handled according to procedure. She might have found some reassurance in that fact. At other crime scenes, she would listen to the chatter of police radios and take comfort in the imposition of order on chaos. Death had struck, but life went on. That was what she would tell herself. She didn’t believe it now.

A memory came to her, Maura’s voice calling her “kiddo,” the word as sharp and clear as if it had been spoken in her ear.

She’d suffered other shocks and traumas, but none of them had been like this. Whatever loss she had endured, she’d always felt she could recover.

Not this time. This time she was numb to the point of catatonia. She felt as if she’d died along with Maura, and what was left of her was only a shell, a hollow vessel. She thought of the glass jars that tumbled off her mantel during the earthquake. She was like that—shattered, in pieces—and there was no one to sweep up the mess.

Distantly she told herself to get it together. She couldn’t be out of action, relegated to the sidelines while Richard’s fate was decided. The words sounded right, but she couldn’t make them real. She was worn out. She was done.

“I don’t think we want to go public yet.” That was Casey, his voice rising over the babble of conversation.

He was arguing with a man she didn’t recognize. She tuned in to the discussion and gathered that it concerned the possible release of Richard’s photo to the media. The other man wanted the photo shown on the late TV news. Maybe an alert viewer would call in a tip. Casey didn’t agree. They would have to set up a telephone hotline. They would be deluged with false sightings. It would be a waste of resources.

“The public needs to be involved,” the other man insisted.

They’re already involved, Jennifer thought. They’re getting killed.

She turned away. Two days ago the prospect of Richard’s photo on the news would have reduced her to tears. She was past all that.

Catch me when you can
, he’d told her.

She hadn’t caught him. But others would. He would be arrested, or he would die resisting arrest. Then the whole story would come out. Their family’s history. Their father’s crimes. Edward Hare. Everything.

How long before the spotlight transfixed her in its glare? Possibly she was the only person in Los Angeles who’d never wanted to be famous. Soon she would be. Nothing would ever be the same, but somehow she just didn't care.

A loud voice attracted her attention. Someone was asking how Richard had gotten inside the building when the lobby doors were locked. It was a fair question. None of the residents would have opened the door for a street person. But people were always finding ways around security doors. Maybe a tenant had failed to close it completely, or had propped it open with a rock while unloading his car.

“Fifty-one-fifty,” the loud man kept saying. “The fuckin’ guy is fifty-one-fifty.” It took her a moment to remember that 5150 was LAPD radio code for
mental case
.

Yes, she thought, he’s fifty-one-fifty, all right.

She stepped out of the room, into the hallway, to escape the din of voices. The hall was empty. The door to Maura’s apartment remained open, but she refused to look in that direction.

Lightning flashed at the edge of her vision. She wondered if it was raining outside. No, it wasn’t lightning, only bursts of illumination from a flashbulb—the evidence-team photographer snapping photos of the crime scene.

Draper was still in the apartment, supervising the evidence search. There was talk of bringing in Homicide Special from downtown, but for now he was primary on the case. She didn’t know if he wanted to be. Maybe he would be glad to be rid of it. And rid of her.

She heard the rhythmic clunk of leg braces and looked up to see Dr. Parkinson plodding down the hall.

“Dr. Silence.” He blinked at her. “What are you doing here?”

“The deceased”—it felt surreal to refer to Maura that way—“was a friend of mine.”

“I’m very sorry.” He stood there for a moment, not knowing what to say. She found herself appreciating his mute sympathy more than any words of consolation. “Very sorry,” he said again, moving past her into the condo.

Looking after him, she got an unwanted glimpse of the horror on the living room sofa, still in plain sight. Her brother’s work.

They had been so close to catching him. He must have returned to the hotel only a few minutes after their arrival. Seeing the police out front, he had watched from the crowd, trusting his disguise to preserve his anonymity.

Probably he’d come straight from the murder scene. Somehow he had managed to avoid being spattered with blood. Some writers theorized that Jack stripped naked before commencing the postmortem mutilation of Mary Kelly.

Mary. An M name. Like Maura.

The pattern continued. Richard’s fifth kill in L.A. paralleled the Ripper’s fifth victim in London.

Was that why Maura was chosen? Because of a stupid, meaningless coincidence? Richard knew where she lived. He could have picked her simply because she was convenient.

“Jennifer.”

She turned. Casey was there. She managed a smile. “What, I’m not Half-Pint, or Small Change, or Pixie?”

“Not tonight,” he said soberly. “I’m headed over to the station. I’d like you to come along.”

“What for?”

“So you can give me a full statement. We need you to go over the whole story from the beginning.”

“I can do that here.”

“No, you can’t. This place is a zoo. And it’s only going to get worse. We, uh, we have word the media’s on the way.”

“Oh.”

“Once this hits TV...”

“I know.”

“Let’s get going, then.”

They got out before the first TV crew arrived. Jennifer caught sight of a KABC truck rounding the corner just as Casey pulled away. She had watched the news on many nights, feeling vaguely guilty as she snatched voyeuristic glimpses of other people’s tragedies. Now the rest of the city would be watching her.

The ride to the station house was brief and quiet. The only words were the crackling transmissions on the cruiser’s radio. As Casey turned into the parking lot, Jennifer asked, “Shouldn’t you be off-duty by now?”

“Guess I’ll put in some overtime. I can use it.”

“Sure, you’re just in it for the money.”

He shut off the engine. They sat in the sudden stillness.

“He’ll get help now,” Casey said.

“Unless he gets killed first.”

“My people are professionals. They’ll make every effort to see he isn’t hurt. And once he’s off the street, no one else will be hurt, either.”

He opened the door, but she made no move to unbuckle her seatbelt.

“I should have come to you sooner,” she said.

“Before the library? You still weren’t sure.”

“I was sure enough.”

“Without proof, we might not have listened.”

“I’d have
made
you listen.”

“You can’t blame yourself.”

“Yes, I can. I was trying to protect him. And now this has happened. And it’s my fault.”

“No one would ever say that.”

thirty-five

Casey left her in the break room of the station house, suggesting she get herself something to eat. It seemed odd to think about sustenance. She rummaged in the cabinets and found Saltines. Crunching the dry crackers, she thought about guilt.

Casey was right; no one would blame her. Yet she blamed herself. Maybe she was just obsessive by nature.

She remembered the long hours she’d spent in the Santa Monica Library—the old library, not the modernistic palace that replaced it—scrolling through newspapers on microfilm, researching her father’s suicide. She’d done it in secret, telling no one, not her mother, not even Richard. She talked to the neighbors who had known him. She learned everything she could, though the task was painful and pointless.

Yet not entirely pointless. She had a purpose, one she had scarcely admitted even to herself. She was driven by fear of inheriting her father’s insanity. And so she needed to know all about it, to know the warning signs, the timetable. From her late teens onward, she’d been on guard against the onset of schizophrenia, relaxing only when she entered her late twenties and statistics said she was at minimal risk. She had been spared.

Then Richard had been taken. It was Richard the disease wanted, not her.

And part of her—part of her had felt
grateful
.

Even as she grieved for her brother, part of her had stood back, thinking,
Thank God it’s not me.

She had never quite admitted it to herself—how thankful she’d been. How selfishly pleased that the hand of fate had passed her by and fingered Richard instead.

She wondered why the revelation would hit her now, of all times. Maybe because her defenses were down, all rationalizations stripped bare.

If she could change places with him...if
she
could be the crazy one...would she do it? Would she make the trade?

No point in thinking about it. Thoughts like that would only—she shook her head—would only make her nuts.

The cell phone in her pocket let out the special ring tone that signaled an SMS alert. She had a text message.

From Abberline.

She stared at the phone, reading the words on the display screen.

Need to talk.

For a moment she couldn’t react. This was just a new facet of her nightmare. It wasn’t real, and even if it was, she couldn’t deal with it.

But this was Richard. Reaching out to her.

She had promised herself she would always be there for him. And yet she couldn’t break that promise, even now.

Her fingers trembled as she tapped a response.
I’m here.

You chased me. You brought the police after me.

I have to stop you, Richard. I don’t want you to kill anymore.

There was a long pause. She feared he’d gone away. Then he answered,
I don’t want to, either.

She needed to believe him. But she forced herself to be analytical, to approach the communication the same way she’d approached the threat letter to Marilyn Diaz. To follow the red thread wherever it might lead.

He’d already noted her association with the police. If the police were his enemies, then so was she. Why would he open up to someone working against him?

That’s good, Richard
, she wrote cautiously.
That’s the right way to feel.

Can’t run forever.

OK.

Need to turn myself in.

OK.

They’ll put me in a hospital.

She couldn’t dispute this. He was too smart to tolerate any lies.
In the hospital you can get better
, she answered.

I’ll never be free again. I’ll be alone.

Not alone. I’ll come see you.

You’re just telling me what I want to hear.

She wondered about that statement. He’d already said he wanted to stop killing. Was
he
just telling her what
she
wanted to hear? It wasn’t uncommon for a writer to project his own state of mind onto others.

I’m telling you the truth
, she typed.

You’re a liar. Setting me up.

I’m being honest, Richard. The next move is up to you.

Another long pause. Genuine, or for dramatic effect?

I’ll surrender to you
, he wrote.
No one else. Just you. At the house.

He wanted her alone behind closed doors. He’d said she was setting him up. It looked more like it was the other way around.

Unless he was sincere. She couldn’t rule it out.

We’ll have to go to the police
, she told him, just to test his reaction.