Muller, Marcia - [10] The Shape of Dread (v1.0) (html) (45 page)

Now I saw the scotch bottle on the desk and the glazed look that not
even his thick horn-rimmed glasses could hide, and realized he was
quite drunk. I came into the room, shut the door, and sat in the
client's chair.

"Happy New Year," Hank said. He gestured at the bottle. "Want a
drink?"

"You know I don't drink scotch."

He shrugged and poured himself some.

"What're you doing in here?" I asked. "Why don't you join the party?"

"Don't care to. How're you? I hardly ever see you anymore."

It was on the tip of my tongue to reply that he hardly ever saw me
because I didn't spend my every waking hour at the Remedy, but I
restrained myself. "I know. We'll have to rectify that."

"What're you working on these days?"

"The Foster case, for Jack."

"Jack. Jack's a good man. He's hung up on you, you know."

"Jack's at the stage where he'd be hung up on any woman who was nice
to him."

"You could do worse. Have done worse." He paused to drink. "Greg's
here. Have you seen him?"

"Not yet."

"He broke up with What's-her-name."

"So he told me."

"You been seeing him?"

"Occasionally. But there's nothing between—"

"Greg's hung up on you. Always has been."

"According to you, the whole world's hung up on me."

He waggled his finger at me. The motion almost tipped the chair
over. He righted it with exaggerated dignity. "You'd do well to heed my
advice."

"Why are you always trying to fix my love life?"

"Somebody's got to. You need a man of sh… substance. Solid, like
Greg or Jack. Look at you."

"What's wrong with me?"

"That's a man-hunting dress if I ever saw one."

"So?"

"So if I don't take you in hand and advishe… advise you, you'll go
and fall for some yoyo like that disc jockey you just got rid of. God
knows what it'll be next. Another surfer,
probly."

I'd come in here to discuss his troubled marriage, and he'd managed
to turn it into a dissection of my romantic history. "The surfer was
way back in high school. Hank, where's Anne-Marie?"

"Home. Fuck her."

That shocked me so profoundly that I couldn't think of a reply.

"She wants to stay home, entertain the assholes upstairs, let her.
This is where I belong. Celebrate New Year's with my friends, like
always. So fuck her."

"I realize you two are having problems—"

"Problems?" He laughed bitterly.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Will you at least come out and join the party?"

"No."

"Hank—"

"You go out and join the party. Trample on Jack's feelings. Snub
Greg. Find a surfer and take him home and screw him, for all I care.
Just leave me alone."

I had long before learned not to try to reason with a belligerent
drunk. I went.

The party was in full swing now. Voices babbled and laughed, glasses
clinked, and ice rattled. I went to the living room, got some punch,
and looked around for Greg. He was over by the Christmas tree, talking
to a tall redhead whose expression said she was captivated by his
gray-blond good looks. I felt a flash of irritation, which quickly
faded when he saw me, smiled, excused himself, and made his way through
the crush.

He put his hand on my shoulder and kissed my cheek. "Hi. You look
great."

"Thanks. But so many people have said that in such tones of wonder
that I'm beginning to suspect I look terrible the rest of
the time. How're you?"

"Not too bad. Overworked as usual. I really had to do some finagling
to get off tonight." Someone jostled him from behind and his punch
sloshed dangerously. "Why don't we go out in the hall where it's not so
crowded?"

We weaved through the crowd, found the hallway jammed, too. Greg
motioned at the stairs, and we went halfway up and sat.

"So what's new with you?" he asked when we were settled.

"Not a great deal. I finally got the house refinanced and they're
going to start work on the new bedroom next week."

"It's about time. What's your next project?"

"I may actually be done." I paused, wondering how to broach the
subject of the Foster case.

"You seeing anybody?" he asked.

"No. You?"

"No."

The silence that followed was not a comfortable one. Greg watched me
speculatively. I looked away, saw Willie Whelan performing one of his
commercials for Rae's benefit. She was laughing uproariously. Maybe
they— No, that was too unlikely a combination.

"Greg," I said.

He raised his dark eyebrows, looking hopeful.

"Greg, there's something I need your help with."

The eyebrows pulled together in a frown. "Uh-huh. Here it comes."

"Hear me out. You remember the Bobby Foster case?"

"… Kid who kidnapped and killed the Kostakos girl, right? Gallagher
headed up the investigation."

"Right. Jack Stuart's handling the appeal."

"And he believes those cockeyed rumors about Kostakos not being
dead."

"I think there might be something to them. That investigation was
full
of holes."

"Look, Gallagher wasn't one of the department's brightest, but—"

"I'd really like to take a look at the case file."

"Why do you always have to ask me for things like this?"

"It's been a long time since I asked for a favor."

The speculative look was back on his face. "What'll you do in
return?"

"Well, not that!" The words popped out before I could consider them.

Greg threw his head back and laughed so loudly that several people
looked at us.

My face got very hot. "Hush," I said, tugging on his sleeve. "I
didn't mean—"

"You meant exactly what you said, but don't worry—it wasn't what I
had in mind. Although I have to warn you, I'm not counting us out just
yet."

It was the first time he'd so much as hinted that he would like to
get back together, and it silenced me.

He added, "What you can do is buy me dinner one night next week. Why
don't you come down to the hall tomorrow morning? I'm on duty, and
things will be quiet."

"Thanks. I really appreciate it."

"No problem. If there really are holes in the investigation, I want
to know." He stood up, reached for my glass. "I'll get us another
drink."

Halfway to the punch bowl, however, he was buttonholed by one of the
city's watchdog activists, and I could see he would be a long time
fielding her criticisms of the department's policies. Finally I got my
own drink and wandered about, talking with friends and renewing old
acquaintances. And waiting for the time when we could all sing that
such things should be forgot, and then go home.

The party had begun to depress me. Every time I turned around Jack
was there, looking wistful and staring at my cleavage.
Hank never emerged from his office, and I was afraid he had passed out
in there, but didn't want to appear to be checking up on him. Greg's
speculative gaze kept following me around the room, and I sensed he
would make some move before the evening was out. My soul mate had
failed to materialize, and I didn't so much as spot a surfer. Finally,
at half past eleven, I slipped upstairs for my coat, shoved the
envelope from the DMV into my bag, and went home to usher in the New
Year alone.

I had a bottle of champagne on ice—perhaps I'd subconsciously
expected I'd leave the party early—and I opened it, then turned the
TV to the replay of the Times Square celebration. Even that was
depressing. The big red apple that had been installed there some years
before in an ill-advised burst of civic pride had finally been
supplanted by the more traditional golden ball that I remembered from
my childhood, but it now looked tacky to me. The drunken revelers
seemed asinine, and I kept looking for pickpockets in the crowd. It was
a relief when the ball dropped and I made my solitary toast to new
beginnings.

And then the phone rang.

I looked at it, afraid it might be Jack or Greg or somebody else
wanting me to come back to the party. Or a maudlin, drunken Hank. Or my
mother, whom I love but didn't particularly want to speak with just
then. Or worst of all, a wrong number. But it also might be something
important, so on the fourth ring I answered.

"Happy New Year," George Kostakos's voice said.

I felt a surge of warmth. "Happy New Year to you, too."

"I wasn't sure I should call, but I wanted to share the moment with
someone—and who could be better than a fellow personality-group member?"

"I'm glad you did call. I can't think of anyone I'd rather share it
with."

We talked for a while, about other New Year's Eves—good ones, bad
ones, pleasant surprises, disappointments, disasters. Long after we'd
hung up, the warm glow persisted.

When I poured the last of the champagne, I again toasted to new
beginnings.

On the way to the Hall of Justice the next morning, I thought about
Tracy's character sketchbook, which I'd read the previous day before
the New Year's festivities began. It contained some 50 two-or
three-page descriptions of women in the young-to-middle-aged range.
They were less physical descriptions than psychological
profiles—reflecting the kind of insight her father possessed—and the
way she turned a phrase led me to believe that had she not gone into
comedy, she might have become a writer. I was particularly interested
in the first entry because, having seen Tracy's room, I suspected she
might have been describing herself.

In part, it read: No need for a physical description. She is
superiorly average, almost nondescript. What stands out is her
greed—for material things, for life itself. Why such neediness? Easy to
blame it on her family. The mother was cold. She never hugged her. She
wanted to be a mentor. But there's no place for mentors in families.
The girl needed a mother. The beloved father, for all his academic
knowledge was little better. Vague, fondly absent. Sometimes she
thought him only half-alive.

As I read the other profiles, I realized that Tracy had based a good
number of her characters on actual individuals. Although she had given
most fictional names, the brief physical details in two of them allowed
me to recognize people I'd recently met: Kathy Soriano, Larkey's
partner's wife; and Amy Barbour.

The interesting portion of Kathy's profile read:
Not for her the
garden club, the volunteer work, the kiss-kiss
luncheon-and-fashion-show circuit. She prefers to hover on the fringes
of power, a sort of exalted gofer for those who control. But she has no
power herself. That belongs to the husband, the man of steel-rimmed
glasses and steelier eyes. Deceptively mild-mannered, he watches his
wife jump at whatever fingers are snapped and remains amused and
detached. She knows this, so she indulges in petty revenge, nasty
little affairs designed to wound a man who is unwoundable. A circular
bind here, because he will never let her have power over him—which is
what she wants the most.

Beside the entry in another color of ink, Tracy had noted:
Can't
use. Too grim, and she's likely to recognize herself
.

Amy's sketch was gentler, more affectionate, but most of it still
damning:
She's a poor thing,
clinging to each current craze,
desperately hoping to define herself by externals. The tough facade
easily gives way to anger, the anger to fear, then to tears. A bundle
of rage, despising whoever is convenient for what her parents have done
to her, but actually despising herself because she believes their
neglect was deserved. She thinks if she finds someone to love, she will
belong. An impossibility, because she is incapable of loving even
herself.

Tracy had merely drawn an X through the entry.

In the latter pages of the notebook the profiles became more brief
and even more grim than Kathy Soriano's, as if Tracy had lost her
ability to see humor in those around her. The
last five or so did not even bear fictitious names, and the final one
was only a paragraph.

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. She sleeps with another for his
influence, all the while professing love. But if she does love him,
shouldn't she take steps to protect him? It's a form of paralysis, her
inability to act.

Reflecting on the sketchbook now, I thought of Laura Kostakos's
claim that her daughter had been upset and disillusioned with herself
shortly before her disappearance. If her impression was correct—and I
had no reason to doubt it—it would account for the apathy and
disinterest shown in these last pages.

When I arrived at the hall, I found a parking space directly in
front on Bryant Street and hurried inside. The Hall of Justice is
normally a noisy, bustling place, but on this Sunday and holiday, with
the courts closed and the various offices minimally staffed, it seemed
strangely quiet. I found Greg in his cubicle upstairs, looking
cheerful. Perhaps, I thought, he'd gotten together with the tall,
admiring redhead after I'd left the party. Whatever the reason, his
mind was on business this morning, and after a perfunctory inquiry
about where I'd disappeared to the night before, he sat me down at an
out-of-the-way desk with the bulging files on the Foster/Kostakos
investigation.

I plowed through the material for more than three hours, even though
much of it was familiar because I'd read it in the files Foster's
public defender had turned over to Jack. I took notes on a few details
that had previously escaped me: what Tracy had been wearing when last
seen (a red llama's-wool cape, jeans, and matching red rubber rain
boots); the registration of the blue Volvo that had been stolen from
the club's lot and later abandoned in the Santa Cruz Mountains (Atlas
Development Corporation); the statements of witnesses who said her
performance had been off that last night, and that she had made a phone
call shortly before leaving the club.