K is for KILLER Read online

  “I’ll take your word for it,” I said, though of course I’d check. “What about the house-sitting? How’d Lorna end up doing that?”

  “I don’t remember exactly. I probably mentioned in passing that I needed someone. Her place was small and remarkably crude. I thought she’d enjoy spending time in a more comfortable setting.”

  “How often did she sit?”

  “Five or six times altogether, I’d guess. She hadn’t done it for a while, but Roger thought she was still willing. I could check my calendar at home if it seems relevant.”

  “At the moment I don’t know what’s relevant and what’s not. Were you satisfied with the job she did?”

  “Sure. She was responsible; fed and walked the dog, watered plants, brought in the newspaper and the mail. It saved me the kennel fees, and I liked having someone in the house while I was gone. After Roger and I split, I moved back in to my parents’ house. I was interested in a change of scene, and Dad needed some unofficial supervision because of his health. Mother’s cancer had already been diagnosed and she was doing chemo. This was an arrangement that suited all of us.”

  “So you were living at your father’s at the time Lorna died?”

  “That’s right. He’s been under doctor’s care, but he’s what they call a ‘noncompliant’ patient. I had plans to be out of town, and I didn’t want him in the house alone. Dad was adamant. He swore he didn’t need help, but I insisted. What’s the point of a getaway weekend if I’m worried about him the whole time? As a matter of fact, that’s what I was trying to set up when I went to her place and found her. I’d tried calling for days, and there was never any answer. Roger told me she was taking a couple of weeks’ accrued vacation, but she was due back any day. I wasn’t sure when she’d get in, so I thought I’d stop by and leave her a little note. I parked near the cabin, and I was just getting out of my car when I noticed the smell, not to mention the flies.”

  “You knew what it was?”

  “Well, I didn’t know it was her, but I knew it was something dead. The odor’s quite distinct.”

  I shifted the subject slightly. “Everyone I’ve interviewed so far has talked about how beautiful she was. I wondered if other women regarded her as a threat.”

  “I never did. Of course, I can’t speak for anyone else,” she said. “Men seemed to find her more appealing than women, but I never saw her flirt. Again, I’m only talking about the occasions when I saw her.”

  “From what I hear, she liked living on the edge,” I said. I introduced the matter without framing a question, interested in what kind of response I might get. Serena held my gaze, but she made no reply. So far she’d tended to editorialize on every question I asked. I ran the query one more round. “Were you aware that she was involved in other activities?”

  “I don’t understand the question. What kind of activities are you referring to?”

  “Of a sexual nature.”

  “Ah. That. Yes. I assume you’re referring to the money she made from the hotel trade. Humping for hire,” she said drolly. “I didn’t think it was my place to bring that up.”

  “Was it common knowledge?”

  “I don’t think Roger knew, but I certainly did.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “I’m not sure. I really can’t remember. Indirectly, I think. I ran into her at the Edgewater one night. No, wait a minute. I remember what happened. She came into the ER with a broken nose. She had some explanation, but it didn’t make much sense. I’ve seen assault and battery often enough that I wasn’t fooled. I didn’t say so to her, but I knew something was going on.”

  “Could it have been a boyfriend? Someone she was living with?”

  I could hear voices in the hallway.

  She glanced over at the door. “I guess it could have been, but as far as I knew she was never in any kind of steady relationship. Anyway, the story she told seemed suspect. I’ve forgotten what it was now, but it seemed phony as hell. And it wasn’t just the broken nose. It was that in conjunction with some other things.”

  “Such as?”

  “Her wardrobe, her jewelry. She was subtle about it, but I couldn’t help noticing.”

  “When was the incident that brought her to the emergency room?”

  “I don’t remember exactly. Probably two years ago. Check with Medical Records. They can give you the date.”

  “You don’t know hospitals. I’d have better luck getting access to state secrets,” I said.

  A baby had begun to cry fretfully in the waiting room.

  “Does it make a difference?”

  “It might. Suppose the guy who punched her decided to make it permanent.”

  “Oh. I see your point.” Serena’s eyes strayed to the open door again as Joan went past.

  “But she didn’t confide in you when she came in?”

  “Not at all. After I saw her at the Edgewater, I put two and two together.”

  “Seems like a bit of a leap.”

  “Not if you’d seen her the night I ran into her. Part of it, too, was the guy she was with. Older, very slick. Gold jewelry, gorgeous suit. Clearly a man who had money to burn. I saw them in the bar and later in the boutique where she was trying on clothes. He dropped a bundle that night. Four Escada outfits, and she was modeling a filth.”

  “I assume Escada is expensive.”

  “Dear God.” She laughed, patting herself on the chest.

  Lights were going on in the examining cubicle across from us. I could hear the murmuring of voices: fussy baby, shrill mom speaking rapid-fire Spanish.

  Serena went on. “It happened again within the month, as I remember. Same situation, different guy, same look. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out.”

  “You think one of these guys knocked her around?”

  “I think it’s a better explanation than the one she gave. I’m not saying this is always true, but some guys in that age bracket start having trouble with impotency. They pick up high-priced call girls and spread the money around. Champagne and gifts, a gorgeous babe in tow. It looks good on the surface, and everybody thinks what a stud he is. What these men are looking for is a one-up relationship because they can’t ‘get it up’ any other way. He’s paying for the service, so if the equipment doesn’t work, it’s her fault, not his, and he can express his disappointment any way he likes.”

  “With his fist.”

  “If you want to look at it from his point of view, why not? He’s paid for her. She’s his. If he can’t perform, he’s got her to blame and he can paste her in the chops.”

  “Some deal. She keeps the cash and the clothes in exchange for the punishment.”

  “She doesn’t always get punished. Some of these guys like to be punished themselves. Beaten, humiliated. They like to have their little fannies spanked for being bad, bad, bad.”

  “Did Lorna tell you this?”

  “No, but I’ve heard it from a couple of other hookers on the local circuit. I also did some reading on the subject when I was getting my degree. I used to see them come in, and I’d be incensed at the way they were treated, furious because I didn’t really understand what was going on. I’d jump to the rescue, trying to save them from the ‘bad’ guys. For all the good that did. In an odd way, I’m a better nurse if I can stay detached.”

  “And that’s what you did with her?”

  “Exactly. I felt compassion, but I didn’t try to ‘fix’ her. It was none of my business. And she didn’t see it as a problem, at least as far as I knew.”

  “You seem to spend a lot of time at the Edgewater. Is that where the singles hang out these days?”

  “The singles in our age group, yes. I’m sure the kids would find it stuffy beyond belief and the prices astronomical. Frankly, it makes married life look pretty good.”

  “Do you happen to remember any dates when you saw her? If I check with the hotel, it helps to pin it down.”

  She thought about that briefly. “Once I wa
s with a bunch of girlfriends. We get together to celebrate birthdays. That time it was mine, so it must have been early in March. We don’t always manage to get together on the exact date, but it would have been a Friday or Saturday because that’s when we play.”

  “That was last March?”

  “Must have been.”

  “Was this before the broken nose or afterward?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Did Lorna know you knew?”

  “Well, she saw me that night and maybe twice before that. Since Roger and I had separated, I was out with friends almost every weekend. Lorna and I didn’t come right out and discuss her ‘career,’ but there were veiled references.” Serena had used the fingers of both hands to form the quote marks around the word career.

  “I’m just curious. How do you happen to remember in such detail? Most people can’t recall what happened yesterday.”

  “The police asked me most of this, and it stuck in my mind. Also, I’ve given it a lot of thought. I don’t have a clue why she was murdered, and it bothers me.”

  “You believe she was murdered?”

  “I think it’s likely, yes.”

  “Were you aware that she was involved in pornography?”

  Serena frowned slightly. “In what way?”

  “She starred in a video. Someone sent the cassette to her parents about a month ago.”

  “What was it, like a snuff film? S and M?”

  “No. It was fairly pedestrian in terms of the story and subject matter, but Mrs. Kepler suspects it may be linked to Lorna’s death.”

  “Do you?”

  “I’m not being paid to have opinions at this point. I like to keep my options open.”

  “I understand,” she said. “It’s like making a diagnosis. No point in ruling out the obvious.”

  There was a knock at the door frame and Joan peered in. “Sorry to interrupt, but we’ve got a baby over here I’d like you to take a look at. I’ve got a call in to the resident, but I think you should see him.”

  Serena rose to her feet. “Let me know if there’s anything else,” she said to me as she moved toward the door.

  “I’ll do that. And thanks.”

  I drove back to my place through deserted streets. I was beginning to feel at home in the late night world. The nature of the darkness shifts from hour to hour. Once the bars close down and traffic dissipates, what emerges is the utter stillness of three a.m. The intersections are empty. Traffic lights are bright O’s of red and sea-foam green in a dazzling string that you can see for half a mile.

  Clouds were pouring in. A dense ground fog, like cotton batting, was laid across the mountains, and the gray hills were pocked with streetlights against the backdrop of rolling mist. Most of the residential windows I saw were dark. Where an occasional light burned; I pictured students churning out last minute papers, the nightmares of the young. Or maybe the lights burned for recent insomniacs like me.

  A police car cruised slowly along Cabana Boulevard, the uniformed officer turning to stare at me as I passed. I took a left onto my street and found a parking place. I locked the car. The sky was velvety with clouds now, the stars completely obscured. Darkness hugged the ground, while the sky was tinged with eerie light, like dark gray construction paper smudged with white chalk. Behind me, I heard the low hum of air moving swiftly through the spokes of a bike. I turned in time to see the man on the bicycle passing. From the rear, his taillight and the strips of reflecting tape on his heels made him look like someone juggling three small points of light. The effect was oddly unsettling, a circus act of the spirits performed solely for me.

  I went through the gate and let myself into my apartment, flipping on the light. Everything was orderly, just as I’d left it. The quiet was profound. I could feel a little nudge of anxiety, made up of weariness, the late hour, empty rooms around me. I wasn’t going to be able to sleep at this point. It was like hunger – once the peak moment passed, the appetite diminished and you could simply do without. Food, sleep… what difference did it make? The metabolism shifts into overdrive, calling up energy from some other source. If I’d gone to bed at nine or even ten o’clock, I could have slept through the night. But now my sleep permit had reached its expiration point. Having stayed awake this long, I was consigned to further wakefulness.

  My body was both fatigued and fired up. I dropped my handbag and jacket on the chair by the door. I glanced at the answering machine: no messages. Did I have any wine on the premises? No, I did not. I checked the contents of the refrigerator, which showed nothing of culinary interest. My pantry was typically barren: a few stray cans and dried items that, singly or in combination, would never constitute anything remotely edible, unless you favored uncooked lentils with maple syrup. The peanut-butter jar had concentric swirl marks in the bottom, as if the rest of it had drained away. I found a kitchen knife and scraped the sides of the jar, eating the accumulated peanut butter off the blade as I walked around. “This is really pitiful,” I said, laughing, but actually I didn’t mind a bit.

  Idly I flipped on the TV set. Lorna’s video was still in the VCR. I touched the remote control, and the tape began to run again. I had no intention of watching any late night sex, but I went through the credits twice. The night before, I’d tried directory assistance in San Francisco, hoping for a telephone number for the production company Cyrenaic Cinema. In the credits, the producer, director, and film editor were all listed by name: Joseph Ayers, Morton Kasselbaum, and Chester Ellis respectively. What the hell, telephone operators are awake all night.

  I tried the names in reverse order, bombing out on the first two. When I got to the producer, I picked up a hit. The operator sang, “Thank you for using AT and T,” and a recording kicked in. A mechanical voice came on the line and recited Joseph Ayers’s number for me twice.

  I made a note, then picked up the phone and called directory assistance in San Francisco again, this time checking for a listing in the names of the other players, Russell Turpin and Nancy Dobbs. She wasn’t listed, but there were two Turpins with the first initial R, one on Haight and one on Greenwich. I wrote down both numbers. At the risk of wasting my time and Janice Kepler’s money, a trip north might actually be worth a shot. If the contacts didn’t pan out, at least there was hope of eliminating the porno angle as a factor in her daughter’s death.

  I put a call through to Frankie’s Coffee Shop, and Janice answered on the second ring. “Janice. This is Kinsey. I have a question for you.”

  She said, “Fire away. We’re not busy.”

  I brought her up to date on my conversations with Lieutenant Dolan and Serena Bonney, and then filled her in on the minisurvey I’d done of the pornographic film crew. “I think it might be worthwhile to talk to the producer and the other actor.”

  “I remember him,” she cut in.

  “Yeah, well, between Turpin and this film producer, I’m hoping we can satisfy some questions. I’ll try to contact both by phone in advance, but it looks like it’d make sense to make a quick trip. If I can set up a few appointments, I thought I’d hit the road.”

  “You’re going to drive?”

  “I’d thought to.”

  “Don’t you have a dinky little VW? Why not fly? I would, if I were you.”

  “I guess I could,” I said dubiously. “On a short hop like that, though, the plane fare will be outrageous. I’ll have to rent a car up there, too. Motel, meals…”

  “That sounds okay to me. Just save your receipts and we’ll reimburse you when you get back.”

  “What about Mace? Did you tell him about the tape?”

  “Well, I told you I would. He was shocked, of course, and then he got mad as hell. Not with her, but whoever put her up to it.”

  “What’s his feeling about the investigation itself? He didn’t seem that thrilled yesterday.”

  “He told me just what he told you,” she said. “If this is what it takes to make me happy, he’ll go along with it.”

/>   “Great. I’ll probably fly up sometime tomorrow afternoon and talk to you as soon as I get back.”

  “Have a good flight,” she said.

  Chapter 9

  *

  At 9:00 the next morning, I roused myself just long enough to call Ida Ruth, telling her I’d be in shortly in case anyone was looking for me. As I pulled the covers up, I checked the Plexiglas skylight above my bed. Clear, sunny skies, probably sixty-five degrees outside. To hell with the run. I awarded myself ten more minutes of rest. I next woke at 12:37, feeling as hungover as if I’d drunk myself insensible the night before. The tricky factor with sleep is that aside from the number of hours you put in, the body seems to hold you accountable for their position. Snoozing from four a.m. to eleven a.m. doesn’t necessarily equate with the same number of hours logged between eleven p.m. and six. I had sketched in a full seven, but my regular metabolic rhythms were now decidedly off and required additional down time to correct themselves.

  I called Ida Ruth again and was relieved to discover she was out at lunch. I left a message, indicating I’d been delayed by a meeting with a client. Don’t ask why I fib to a woman who doesn’t even cut my paycheck. Sometimes I lie just to keep my skills up. I staggered out of bed and into the bathroom, where I brushed my teeth. I felt as if I’d been anesthetized, and I was sure that none of my extremities would function. I propped myself against the wall in the shower, hoping the hydrotherapy would mend my skewed circuits. Once dressed, I found myself eating breakfast at one in the afternoon, wondering if I’d ever get myself back on track again. I put on a pot of coffee and dosed myself with caffeine while I made some phone calls to San Francisco.

  I didn’t get very far. Instead of Joseph Ayers, I got an answering machine that may or may not have been his. It was one of those carefully worded messages that bypasses confirmation of the party’s name or the number called. A mechanical male voice said, “Sorry I wasn’t here to take your call, but if you’ll leave your name, number, and a brief message, I’ll get back to you.”