Every Wickedness (12 page)

“Do we have to go out?” she asked, snuggling closer. “I’m not much of a party person.”

“Me either, but you’re forgetting Ginny. She’ll never forgive us if we back out. Didn’t you tell me she’s been talking about nothing else?”

“A man with a conscience can be such a pain,” Beth groaned. “Okay, have it your way. I’ll go, under protest, but I can’t guarantee libidinal control. If during the party, I haul you into a closet, don’t be surprised.”

“Surprised?” He traced a line of feathery kisses down her throat. “I’d be delighted. Now, come on. The sooner we get there, the sooner we can leave.”

Ginny was waiting for them curbside when Jordan pulled his Mazda before her low-rise building in the North Beach. Her usual psychedelic garb had been traded in for Greenwich Village beatnik —
black turtleneck, suede boots, and black jeans that hugged her chunky calves. While Ginny’s clothing selection was subdued, her exuberance was not. She’d scarcely clambered into the back seat when she started in on Jordan.

“What’s the scariest thing that’s happened on one of your flights? Is there really a mile-high club? Is it true most pilots are gay?”

To Beth’s relief, Jordan appeared amused by Ginny’s candour. He responded to her interrogation with the patience of a kindergarten teacher. Beth had prepared Jordan for Ginny’s lack of subtlety en route to her friend’s apartment.

As they crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, Ginny said, “Since Beth’s parents aren’t here, I’ll ask on their behalf: What designs do you have on my designer friend?”

“Ginny,” Beth said, “we’ve been in the car ten minutes, and the only thing you haven’t asked Jordan is whether or not he has a prison record. A little small talk would be refreshing.”

“It’s okay,” Jordan said, reaching for her hand and giving it a squeeze. He half-turned to address Ginny over his right shoulder. “Ginny, Beth’s lucky to have someone like you looking out for her. As for my intentions, well, all I want is for Beth to fall in love with me, then I plan to work like hell to keep her that way. And no, I don’t have a prison record.”

Ginny laughed. “That’s good enough for me. You’re in, Jordan.”

Beth turned to him. “I think I’m already in love with you,” she said, hoping he heard her above the radio.

He smiled.

A cool mist fell as they headed north along Route 1. Beth hoped they weren’t going all the way to Stinson Beach. The hairpin turns and the hour-long drive always made her carsick. One of Beth’s clients resided on Seadrift Road, an exclusive residential enclave with its own private lagoon; invariably, Beth would show up green around the gills. She warned Jordan.

“We’re just going as far as Muir Beach,” he said. “Will you be all right? Roll down your window a little.”

After too many sleepless nights, the intermittent thwacking of the windshield wipers lulled Beth into a semi-trance. She leaned toward Jordan and rested her head comfortably on his shoulder. Ginny, too, was quiet, and the radio was playing mellow tunes. Jordan drove carefully, conscious of the dangerous road. The fog rolled in thickly now, and Beth hoped there were no deer wandering anywhere near the road.

The road narrowed, and minutes later a white flat-roofed house came into view. It was brightly lit, and rock music thumped from within. Knocking on the door or ringing the bell would have been pointless, so the three went directly inside, where the party was in full swing.

“Holy shit,” Ginny said.

Beth nodded. There were easily forty people in the living room, yet there was still a feeling of spaciousness. Beth absorbed the details of the room, though there weren’t many. The host had chosen a contemporary minimalist look, perfect for the house — no clutter to mar the view of nature from the top of the hill. Everything was sleek, low, and smooth. There was an L-shaped white leather sectional, a black marble cocktail table, black and white floor tiles, a massive black acrylic wall unit. The only real texture came from a zebra-print throw rug, sprawled before a white brick fireplace. The loud music bounced off the hard surfaces.

“Whoever this guy is, I hate him,” Ginny wailed.

“For heaven’s sake,” Beth said. “Why? We don’t even know which one he is.”

“Look at this place. It’s spotless.” Ginny ran her hand along a Plexiglas sofa table. “Not a speck of dust. And the food!” The dining room table was covered with platters of Dungeness crab, spring rolls, and smoked salmon. Garlicky shrimp simmered in a silver chafing dish. Not a rubbery cheese puff on the table, Beth noted, her curiosity about their host matching Ginny’s.

“So much for winning your friend over with my cooking, Jordan,” Ginny said. “Guess I’ll have to wow him in the boudoir. What does this guy do for a living?”

“Whatever it is,” Beth said, “he must be good at it. This place is worth a fortune.”

“Come on,” Jordan said. “Let’s look around.” Jordan led Beth and Ginny down a wide corridor to the right of the entryway. The walls here, as everywhere, were stark white, illuminated with pot lights. A collection of photographs spanned the length of the hall. The black and white essays were framed in chrome and clustered according to theme. One grouping appeared to deal with aging — withered faces, dried leaves, eroded mountainsides, crumbling gargoyles. Another, Beth guessed, focused on innocence, with photographs of frolicking children, a bride, and a parade of nuns, in full white habit, carrying candles to vespers. There were scenes depicting poverty, natural disasters; there was even a collection of bridges. Beth recognized the Pont Alexandre III in Paris and London’s Tower Bridge. There was a wonderful shot, taken at night, of a wooden drawbridge, with thousands of lights reflected in the waters of the Amstel.

“Brad took these?”

Jordan shrugged his shoulders. “I couldn’t tell you, but they sure are good.”

“Enough already,” Ginny moaned. “The suspense is killing me. The guy’s rich. Is he cute? Is he single? Is he in here somewhere?” Ginny craned her neck for a better view.

“Over there,” Jordan pointed toward a set of sliding doors leading from the dining room onto a deck. “But Ginny, I should warn you. Brad’s engaged.”

Ginny gasped again. “That’s your friend? I don’t
care if he’s married with ten kids. See ya later. I’ll make my own introductions.”

Cute was a ridiculous word, Beth realized, as the host of the party came into full view. He wasn’t nearly as tall as Jordan, but he was hard to miss. Brad Petersen was drop-dead gorgeous, with a smile that, in Beth’s father’s phrase, could charm the ass end off a snake. Brad looked like he’d just returned from heli-skiing the New Zealand glaciers or surfing the Banzai Pipeline. His skin was deeply tanned, his hair white-blond. Now Ginny stood near him and helped to transfer
ice
cubes from a plastic bag into a large crystal punch bowl.

“Didn’t take her long,” Jordan said.

“Poor Brad. He doesn’t know what he’s in for.” Beth turned to face Jordan. “I must say you came through Ginny’s inquisition unscathed. You can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Don’t think I didn’t appreciate it. Ginny’s something else, all right. Though,” he said, pointing to where Brad and Ginny were standing, “Brad doesn’t appear to mind.” Jordan’s friend was grinning widely at Ginny, who looked ready to melt.

“I’m sure Brad can take care of himself,” Beth said, “but let’s try to rescue him from the Italian barracuda anyway.”

They made their way through a crowd of dancers and headed toward the European-style kitchen where Brad was mixing Ginny a drink.

“Jordan!” Brad called out. “Glad you could make it.” He clapped him on the back. “And you must be
Beth.” He flashed a megawatt smile. “Jordan’s squash game’s been way off ever since he met you. Can’t say I blame him for not being able to concentrate.”

She glanced at Ginny, who didn’t look happy that Brad’s attention had focused on someone else. Quickly, she said, “I see you’ve met my friend, Ginny, champion violinist and lasagna maker.”

“Sure have,” Brad said, looking down at her. “Now do you see why I love parties? I get to meet such interesting people.”

Ginny beamed.

“How about introducing us to that fiancée of yours?” Jordan said.

“Ingrid? She’s not here. Off in Europe on a photo assignment. She called last night. Won’t be back until Tuesday.”

“Are those her photographs in the front hall?” Beth asked. “They’re fabulous.”

Brad nodded, obviously proud. Ginny’s disappointment deepened. “Tell me,” Brad said, draping his arm across Ginny’s shoulders, “do classical musicians like heavy metal?”

“Do Italians make the best lovers?”

“Rumour has it. First things first. Come on, let’s dance.” Brad faced Jordan and Beth once more. “Excuse us, won’t you? And Jordan, excellent taste, as always.” He flashed Beth another smile, then led Ginny through a set of sliding doors and onto a redwood deck where several couples were pounding out the rhythm of a Bon Jovi song.

“Well,” Beth said, “it looks like Ginny’s geared up for a great evening.”

Jordan slipped an arm around her waist. “Chin up,” he said. “Ours is just beginning. Let’s get some appetizers, then we can talk about all the things we’ll be doing to each other later.”

T
hree members of the Spiderman task force stood in a semi-circle in front of Kearns’s desk. Kearns pointed at Weems, the youngest and most nervous of the bunch. When stressed out, it was easy for Kearns to pick on the junior cop, whose smooth pink face always looked like it had just received its first shave.

“Anything come of your discussions with Mowatt’s admirers?”

Weems shook his head. “Seems lots of the guys at the fitness club had a thing for Mowatt. That includes one or two of the instructors, not just the members. But they all said the same thing, L.T. Mowatt was energetic, friendly, and helpful, but she never encouraged so much as a coffee date with any of ’em. One of the guys got the impression she was already seeing somebody.”

“Or so she said to brush him off. Of course, you asked each member of Mowatt’s fan club where he was on the twelfth.”

“Checked ’em all, L.T.,” Weems answered, his glance darting around Kearns’s office. “It’s all there in the notes.” His gaze came to rest on the file folder he’d set before Kearns. “They’re clean.”

“That’s not what I wanted to hear,” Kearns said, sending a disgusted look across the desk.

Erik Bauer, a glob of dried mustard still stuck to the corner of his mouth, looked apprehensive. “Mowatt’s roommate gave me a list of places where she likes to hang out. I’ve shown her picture at Starbucks, at the place where she buys her workout gear — I’ve even stopped a few joggers along Mowatt’s running route. No one’s seen her, L.T. Not her hairdresser, her doctor, her dry-cleaner. Nobody.”

“Well, Bauer,” Kearns said, fixing a stare at the cop whose wavy black hair needed cutting, “you tried. I just hope to hell when you spoke with Ellen Sims and all the others who knew and cared for Patricia Mowatt, you weren’t still wearing your supper on your face.”

“No, L.T.” The serviette Bauer scanned the room for didn’t appear, forcing him to improvise with a saliva-dampened fingertip.

True to form, Anscombe stepped in to mediate. “We want to find Patricia as badly as you, L.T. And we want the bastard who’s got her. But Mowatt’s roommate and her parents are in shock. We’ve got to respect their right to come to grips with what’s happening. We can’t very well camp out in their living rooms. Some of the other families, especially the Van Hornes, are starting to hate the sight of us. They need time to heal, to grieve in private. They need a
break
, L.T.”

“I’m sure they do,” Kearns replied, “and if our killer promised to leave everybody alone, I’d say let’s
all take a break. But I don’t think that’s gonna happen. So unfortunately we’re back to the redundant, nasty business that’s called good police work. And if that means we have to camp out in someone’s living room to keep the trail hot, then that’s what we’ll do. Got it?”

Anscombe nodded. Bauer still seemed to think there was something on his face and continued to rub the corner of his mouth. Weems checked his fingernails, then looked at his shoes.

“And don’t ever imagine I’m not thinking about what the Mowatts or any of the others are going through,” Kearns added. “You oughta know better.”

He could have slapped their hands a little longer, but Anscombe muttered something about having to arrange a time to interview Carole Van Horne’s choreographer, and her awkward exit opened the door for Weems and Bauer to make their excuses and leave.

Good, Kearns thought. Message received.

Alone in his office, Kearns realized he’d been nit-picky, bugged not so much by his task force’s whining but by the interviews he’d conducted with the pilots earlier. The five who had attended Anne Spalding’s funeral had been brought back in for questioning. Although Anscombe had done so after Spalding’s death in August, Kearns wanted to talk to each one personally.

Brent Turnbull was happily married with three kids and living in a nice Tudor house in St. Francis
Wood. Peter Samuelson was a newlywed, and Linc Gaudette lived in the Castro with a male partner. Martin DiMascio had been divorced for nine years and had dated nearly every flight attendant he’d come into contact with. Except Anne Spalding. Unremarkable biographies, Kearns thought, recalling the information he had accumulated. With a few case studies, some jargon and a little imagination, any psychologist could turn one of these guys into a slavering killer. But you couldn’t argue with airtight alibis, and each of the pilots had one. Kearns tried to shoot holes in the pilots’ stories; in the end, with some cross-checking and verification of their flight schedules, the four held up to scrutiny. They were off the hook.

The last pilot he interviewed, however, turned Kearns’s litmus paper the wrong colour. Jordan Bailey not only intrigued Kearns but also disturbed him.

Bailey quickly admitted he was in San Francisco when each of the Spiderman’s victims was killed. His flight schedule confirmed this. No, he couldn’t remember what he was doing on most of those days, but on the night Anne Spalding was reported missing, Bailey was celebrating his birthday with a few friends at a restaurant downtown. The place didn’t take reservations, nor did it accept credit cards, but Bailey’s four friends, also pilots, vouched for his being there. He’d already given this information to Inspector Anscombe, he said, but he didn’t mind repeating it. Anything to help catch Anne’s killer.
Bailey also had no problem telling Kearns he’d dated Spalding a few times, but that their relationship fizzled before they’d so much as held hands. The night that Anne died, Bailey was home entertaining some friends. He remembered them talking about Spalding, how they hoped she’d turn up safe. Bailey’s dinner guests backed him up, one going so far as to rave about the
coq au vin
.