Muller, Marcia - [10] The Shape of Dread (v1.0) (html) (39 page)

"I've met her."

"Well, you see? She's really insane. Completely… you're looking kind
of tolerant, like maybe you don't agree with me."

"I didn't mean to. Tell me more about her."

"Well, the main thing that's weird is about this apartment. Don't
get me wrong—I benefit. I like having a place like this all to myself.
I can have my boyfriend here, no hassle. And I get the use of this nice
furniture, all the kitchen stuff." She paused, seeming to hear herself.
"That doesn't mean I don't miss Trace. I do, dammit."

"I'm sure you do. About Mrs. Kostakos?…"

"Sorry. I tend to run on. Anyway, Mrs. K is creepy. She gives me
full run of the place, except I can't go in Trace's room, not even to
dust."

"I guess she just wants it the way it was before."

"Oh, I can understand that. If Trace ever did come back, she
wouldn't want to find out I'd been pawing through her stuff. Not that I
would, but Mrs. K doesn't really know me. So she keeps the door locked."

So far she hadn't told me anything that seemed so peculiar. I was
about to comment to that effect, when she added, "What's creepy is the
way she comes up here and sits for hours in that room."

"When does she do that?"

"Every Friday, at the same time of day that she used to have lunch
with Trace."

But Laura Kostakos had told me she hardly ever left her house. And I
knew from my files that Amy worked five days a week at a place where
they silk-screened T-shirts. "How do you know that?"

"The way I caught on, on Fridays I would come home from work and the
place would smell funny, like gardenias. Then, one day about a year
ago, I got sick and came home early. Mrs. K was just leaving the
building, and I realized the smell was that perfume she wears. Pretty
strong stuff. The next Friday, I left the answering machine off and
kept calling the apartment from work. Around one-thirty she answered."
Amy paused dramatically. "And do you know what she said?"

I shook my head.

"She said, 'Tracy, is that you?' You see what I mean— creepy."

Somehow I doubted Amy had enough imagination to make up such a
story. I said, "Are you sure she comes every Friday?"

"Yep. You go in that room, you can smell the gardenias."

"I thought you weren't supposed to go in there, that she keeps it
locked."

Amy looked mildly abashed. "The locks on these doors, there's a
little tool you can use to open them from the outside."

"And you've used it."

"Only because I wonder what she does in there—at first I thought
maybe she'd set up a shrine or something."

"And had she?"

"No, nothing like that. All she'd done was move a rocker that used
to be out here—I wondered at the time why she'd taken it away—in there
by the window. I guess she just sits there, waiting."

I compressed my lips and frowned, concerned for Laura Kostakos.

Amy said, "Yeah, that's how I feel. It's creepy, coming home on
Fridays and knowing she's been in there… just waiting. I mean, I never
know what to expect. What if she does something?"

"Like what?"

She flung a hand out wildly, almost knocking her wineglass over.
"How do I know what a crazy person will do? She might kill herself. I'd
come home, find her. Yuck. Or what if she turns violent? I'd walk in,
and it'd be all over."

In spite of her dramatics, I sensed Amy was genuinely afraid. "I
don't think she's violent or self-destructive," I said, "but maybe it
would be good to talk to someone about it. Have you thought of
contacting Tracy's father? After all, he's a psychology professor."

"Old George? Forget it."

"Why?"

"He's just… all psychologists are weird."

Maybe it was just as well she hadn't talked to him, I thought. If he
didn't already know about his wife's weekly vigils in Tracy's room, it
would be best if he heard it from someone more tactful and less prone
to histrionics than Amy. "Tell you what," I said, "I'll ask him about
it. If he thinks there's potential danger, you should probably move out
of here."

Amy sipped wine, her gaze skipping around the room, as if taking
note of all the possessions she would lose use of by such an action.
Then she sighed. "Maybe it would be for the best. Maybe it's time I
move in with my boyfriend. If he'll let me."

"Would you mind if I look at Tracy's room?"

"Why should I? The only one who might mind is Mrs. K, and she'll
never know. By the way, if you're not working for her, who is it? I
started to ask, and then I forgot."

"Bobby Foster's lawyer."

Her eyes widened and she became very still. After a moment she said,
"Bobby. God, it's so awful!"

"You know him?"

"Not well, but to even have an acquaintance on death row… I've had
bad dreams about that."

She was beginning to wear on me. I stood and moved toward the
hallway to the bedrooms. "So has Bobby."

Amy opened her mouth, shut it, and gave me a reproachful look. Then
she followed me, wineglass in hand.

Two of the doors off the hallway were open: to a bathroom midway
down and a small bedroom to the left at the end. The door to the right
room was closed. I said, "Where's the tool for unlocking this?"

"Here in the linen closet." Amy rummaged around and handed me a
slender metal probe.

I fitted it into the slot in the doorknob, pushed, and the lock
snapped open. As it did, I realized there was something wrong with
Amy's story about Laura Kostakos. "How does Mrs. Kostakos get into this
room if it's kept locked?" I asked.

Amy hesitated, frowning. "I never thought about that. The door locks
if you set the button before you close it, but there's no key other
than…" She looked at the probe in my hand. 

"She must use this, then. Is it always kept in the same
place?" 

"Yes, sort of. But… oh shit!"

"What?"

"Sometimes when I've gone in there, I've put it back on a different
shelf. If she realizes I've been using it to check out Trace's room,
she'll throw my ass out of here!"

"She's probably known all along and doesn't care. She may even be
aware you know of her visits." I turned back to the door, opened it,
and felt for a light switch. Behind me, Amy was silent. 

When I flicked the switch, an overhead fixture came on.

The room, its dim light revealed, was fairly good sized— about
twelve feet square—but so crammed with furniture and possessions that
it seemed a cell. A king-sized waterbed covered with a white goosedown
comforter stood against the wall perpendicular to the window. Part of
the window itself was blocked by a huge antique armoire; the rocking
chair Amy had mentioned stood in front of the unobstructed portion. The
dresser was laden with cosmetics and jewelry in clear acrylic stack
boxes; the floor space between it and the bed was taken up by a stand
with a portable TV and VCR, in spite of there being similar equipment
in the living room.

I stepped all the way inside. Through the closed window I could hear
the swish of tires on the pavement of Upper Market; headlight beams
slid over the bedroom's walls and ceilings. That, I thought, was the
price tenants paid for the view: bedrooms on the street side,
inconducive to sleep.

The bed was piled with pillows. There was no room for nightstands,
so the things one usually keeps there were on the floor: a clock radio,
water carafe and glass, Kleenex box, TV remote control. In addition to
these commonplace items, I noted several paperback biographies of
celebrities, yellowing copies of Variety, and an ashtray filled with
what looked to be marijuana roaches. I went to the closet—a large one
in which my wardrobe would have taken up maybe a third—and found it
crammed with clothing. The shelf above the pole was stacked with
sweater boxes, the floor covered with a jumble of shoes. The armoire
was in a similar state—the clothing jammed so tightly that it would
have required ironing before it could be worn. On top of the armoire
sat a big stuffed unicorn; it stared haughtily down at me.

Amy lounged in the doorway, sipping wine. "Trace was into things,"
she said.

"I can see that."

"She loved to shop, was always charging stuff. Clothes, cosmetics,
furniture, stuff for the apartment."

Laura Kostakos said Tracy had never abused their credit cards. What
did "abuse" mean to people of their financial standing? And what about
last year, when Tracy had established her own credit? She couldn't have
been earning enough to pay cash for everything, and most companies
place low limits on new cards.

Amy seemed to take my silence for disapproval of her friend's
spending habits. She said, "Look, Trace might have been into things,
but she was a good person. She was generous, always buying people
presents. And she only bought quality. The stuff for the kitchen, for
instance— there's a Sharp microwave, a Cuisinart, a whole set of
Calphalon cookware. The stainless is Dansk—"

"Amy, would you mind if I look over the room alone? I could
concentrate better."

She shut her mouth abruptly, turned, and strode back toward the
living room.

Touchy, I thought, looking after her. Touchy, and quite mercurial. I
wasn't sure about the public defender's claim that Amy hadn't told
everything she knew at Bobby Foster's trial, but there was more to her
than initially met the eye.

I searched the room carefully, taking my time. Few things that I
found interested me, except for a thick notebook in which Tracy had
written sketches of characters she portrayed in her comedy routines. I
set it aside to take with me; it would help me get to know her better,
and I could copy it and return the original before Laura Kostakos
realized it was gone.

What did interest me was how few things of a personal nature I
found. There were no letters, postcards, souvenirs, diaries, not even
an appointments calendar. Of course, I thought, they might have been
removed by the police or Laura Kostakos. Or perhaps Tracy had not been
one to save things or keep a journal. Finally, noting it was after
eight o'clock, I took the notebook containing the character sketches
and returned to the living room.

Amy slumped on the couch, working on another glass of wine. When I
came in, she looked up sulkily.

I said, "I'd planned to ask if you'd noticed whether any of Tracy's
things are missing, but after seeing her room, I can't imagine how you
could have."

"Yeah." Her good humor returned—marginally. "Given what she owned,
there was no way to keep track."

"I gather the two of you were good friends."

"The best."

"How did you meet?"

"Through a roommate referral service—one that matches people up
according to their preferences. Where they want to live, how much they
can pay, whether they smoke or not. You know."

I knew. Such services could be iffy, but apparently this one had
done well by Amy and Tracy.

I ran through my routine questions—some of which I already knew the
answers to, ones that merely served as checks on Amy's truthfulness.
She answered them all without hesitation: they had lived together for
two years before Tracy's disappearance; they'd squabbled about the
usual things, such as boyfriends staying overnight too often; they'd
confided in each other, given parties and dinners together, played
racquetbail at a health club a couple of times a week. As far as Amy
knew, Tracy had had no serious personal problems; her career had come
before anything else.

"She was all set for a big breakthrough," Amy said. "Her appearances
at Café Comedie were terrific exposure, and Jay—that's Jay Larkey, the
owner—had renewed her contract for another six months. She'd landed a
couple of TV commercials, and a Hollywood agent had agreed to take her
on. She could have been another Carol Burnett, only then this… thing
happened to her."

"You say 'this thing,' but I got the impression before that you're
convinced she's dead."

"I say 'thing' because I can't stand to use the other word. But like
I told you, I know she's dead, and I can live with it. Bobby killed
her. He confessed, didn't he?"

"There are a lot of discrepancies in that confession."

"But there was evidence."

"Tracy's mother thinks she disappeared deliberately and faked the
evidence. Tracy said some things that make her believe—"

"What things?"

"That she felt she had turned into a bad person. That circumstances
were forcing her to do things she never would have before."

Amy drew her feet up on the sofa and locked her arms around her
knees. "God," she whispered.

I looked inquiringly at her, but she shook her head, refusing to
elaborate.

"You testified for the prosecution at the trial," I said. "Bobby's
public defender thought you were holding something back."

She tightened her grip on her knees. "What could I hold back? All I
did was testify that Trace was supposed to wake me when she came home
that night, but didn't." Her voice had changed, gone high and shrill.
"All I said was that she was dependable, like clockwork. I don't know
anything else. And it wasn't my testimony that put Bobby where he is—it
was his own confession."

"You sound as if you feel bad about testifying against him, though."

She wouldn't look at me.

"Do you?"

"Look, I don't like having had any part in sending somebody to the
gas chamber, if that's what you mean. But I told the truth, and I
wasn't holding anything back. There isn't anything I could have held
back."

I didn't reply. After about thirty seconds of silence, Amy squirmed
uncomfortably, her eyes still focused on the opposite side
of the room.

I said, "What about the things Tracy told her mother? Do you have
any idea what she might have meant?"

"Look, everybody knows Mrs. K is crazy. She probably made the whole
thing up." But Amy's voice was even more shrill now; hearing what her
roommate had told her mother had frightened her.