Every Wickedness (18 page)

By the time Letterman delivered a mute monologue, Beth knew what she had to do.

I
nspector Anscombe poked her head into Kearns’s office. Fuentes, seated across from Kearns’s desk, swivelled to look.

“Okay, Anscombe,” Kearns said, “let’s have it. The good news. Am I gonna get some sleep tonight?”

Sharon Anscombe shot Fuentes a quick look then took a step further into the room and leaned against the doorframe. “Bailey has a membership at the Bay Club.”

“Yes!” Kearns shouted, his fist raised in triumph. “I knew it!”

“But L.T., I’ve marched all over that club, talked to a good dozen of the staff, and no one can recall ever seeing Bailey with Mowatt.”

“Just because they didn’t see it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. What else did you get?”

“Talked to the club’s squash pro. Says Bailey’s a real stand-up guy. Good squash player. Good sport. Does a little weight training once in a while. But Mowatt taught step aerobics and a Pilates class. Mostly women. Squash pro says he can’t picture Bailey at one of those sessions.”

“Not even if the instructor was attractive?”

Anscombe shrugged and shot another look in Fuentes’s direction. “I suppose it’s possible, L.T.
Quite a few guys wanted some action with Mowatt. Why should Bailey be immune?”

“No reason I can think of.”

“I’ve still got some people to talk to, L.T.,” Anscombe said, producing a notepad from the pocket of her navy slacks. “Couple of Bailey’s squash buddies have a game booked for 4:30. I figure I can catch them when they come off the court.”

Kearns knew Anscombe would be thorough, and if there was anything to get on Bailey, she’d find it. But her tone of voice told Kearns she just wasn’t into it, and when he spotted her parting glance at Fuentes, he knew she was going through the motions to appease him.

When she left, Fuentes swivelled back toward Kearns and said, “Good cop, that Anscombe.”

“First rate,” Kearns replied.

Fuentes polished off the last of a stuffed pepper from his brown-bag lunch and wiped his mouth with a quilted paper towel. Stray grains of rice littered Kearns’s desk. Kearns aimed and shot each one, crokinole style, in the direction of Fuentes’s lap.

Fuentes swept them onto the floor. “Your nose is really twitching for Bailey, huh?”

“You better believe it. He’s made to order.”

“I’ll agree, he’s got a few pieces that fit quite nicely —”

“A few pieces? The list is as long as a gorilla’s arm. To add to it, Bailey got back from Europe on
Thursday but didn’t see Beth. Translation? Maybe no alibi for Mowatt.”

“I was in town that night too, but that doesn’t mean I killed Mowatt.”

“I know. But Bailey and Beth haven’t spoken since Mowatt was killed. Why? Depressive phase. Mowatt’s death didn’t live up to Bailey’s fantasy. Nothing can. So he starts retreating into his own dark corner where he can plan his next kill.”

“Maybe Beth and Bailey just need some cooling-off time,” Fuentes said uncertainly. “Rosalie and I do, after we’ve had a whopper of a fight.”

“Manny, trust me. This isn’t tunnel vision. Bailey’s all wrong.” Kearns picked up a pencil and started tapping.

“But he was otherwise occupied the night Anne Spalding disappeared, remember?”

“So his friends say. Could be that pilots, like cops, protect their own. I repeat, Bailey’s all wrong.”

“Sure he is. He’s taller than you, makes more money than you, and he’s got the girl you want.”

“Knock it off, Manny. But listen, there are a coupla things bothering me about our killer’s time clock.”

“Shoot.”

“Carole Van Horne was killed in April, Monica Turner in June, Lydia Price in July.”

“And Anne Spalding in August, Natalie Gorman in September —”

“Now we’ve got Patricia Mowatt, our man’s Miss October.”

“Point being?”

“Why no murder in May?”

“Van Horne was his first, so he was able to live off that fantasy fortwo months.”

“Or?”

“Or he was fighting his urge to kill again. Or he got the flu. Or relatives were visiting from out of town.”

“No other ideas?”

“Maybe this asshole’s like the rest of us. Needs a holiday once in awhile.”

Kearns nodded. “I hear Amsterdam’s nice in the spring. All those colourful tulips.”

“Amsterdam?”

“Bailey flew the San Francisco to Amsterdam run in May. I’m waiting for a call from the head of Amsterdam’s homicide unit. Worth checking to see if some poor Dutch girl has met our man.”

“Well, Jimmy, you’re making good sense.”

For a brief moment, Kearns thought he and Fuentes were thinking in tandem the way they used to, then he took a look at his friend’s expression. “Now what’s going on in that fine Latino head of yours?”

“Something you said. The killer’s depressive phase. Funny you should mention that.”

“Why? Nothing new there.”

“No, I mean it’s funny coming from you.” Fuentes got up and shut the door then sat back down and nailed him with a steady stare.

Kearns heaved a sigh. “How long have you known?”

“Forever.”

“Guess I haven’t always been easy to get along with. Us depressed folks are good at driving people away.”

“You’ve been a shit. Been treating me like some lackey.”

“Hey, wait a minute,
amigo
. Cut me some slack.”

“Be glad to, if you’ll promise to cut the Spanish bullshit.”

“I didn’t mean —”

“It’s annoying as hell.”

Kearns felt his face go hot. He could count on the fingers of one hand the number of arguments he and Fuentes had had over the years. They communicated better than most married couples, knew each other better, too. Or at least they used to.

“I deserve better, that’s all,” Fuentes said.

Kearns waited, allowing the sentence to hang in the air like a bad smell. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact day he and Fuentes had stopped being a team, when their thoughts, instead of meshing, had driven them in opposite directions. They had become like the Kilkenny cats. The Irish rhyme came to him from some faraway place.

All couples need a cooling-off period
. He and Fuentes clearly needed one now, the air thick with animosity.

Fuentes seemed to sense it, too. He stood and headed toward the coffee machine, an aging Norelco that another cop had nabbed as part of his divorce settlement.

Kearns was dimly aware of the bustle around him. There were phones ringing and file drawers slamming, yet it was as though someone had placed a glass cube over him — he could observe, he could listen, but he couldn’t participate. The numbness was familiar. He and Mary had countless cooling-off periods during the final years of their marriage. In the end, there had been only
ice
.

Fuentes returned with two cups of coffee, an improvised peace offering. He sat down again.

Kearns spoke. “Bailey’s no damn good, and we’re gonna prove it. I’m going to learn everything I can about our parochial school alumnus, so that by the time we bring him in, I’ll know him better than he knows himself.”

“I’ll talk to Bailey’s pilot friends again,” Fuentes offered. “See if his alibi for Spalding still holds up. But I’ll have my kid gloves on. If Bailey turns out to be the doer, the last thing we need is for him to vamoose because we’re breathing down his neck.”

Fuentes stood, then paused. “You said there were two things bothering you about the Spiderman’s time clock. What was the second one?”

“It’s almost Halloween, Manny. Hormones being what they are, our man is already planning his November murder, trolling for another victim. I don’t want to unroll any more yellow tape. Time to get our asses in gear.”

E
l Camino Real, literally The Royal Road, was California’s first freeway. It parallels the coastline for some 650 miles, connecting the twenty-one Franciscan missions erected in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The Mexican secularization of the missions resulted in the historic buildings falling into decay. It wasn’t until the end of the nineteenth century that a group of dedicated preservationists moved to save the crumbling edifices from destruction. The Church of the Good Shepherd, with its accompanying school, was built at the beginning of the twentieth century, a modern tribute to its historical counterparts.

Beth had done some reading on the plane, trying to get a feel for the area. By the time she landed in L.A., picked up a rental car, and made the drive to Ventura, she was more than a little curious about the place where Jordan had spent his childhood.

She had scheduled an appointment with a Father Daniel Fortescue for three o’clock, and though the priest had been pleasant on the phone and agreeable to their meeting, Beth detected a note of what — amusement? in the man’s voice. How must this look to an outsider? Here she was, on her day off, jumping on a plane solely for the purpose of checking
into Jordan’s past, a past he had been reluctant to discuss. She pictured a kindly white-haired cleric who would listen patiently, then perhaps provide her with generalities about Jordan, information that could apply to any of thousands of students who had passed through the parochial system. Still, foolish though the excursion appeared, it was too late to cancel. The digital clock by the car radio read 2:45. She had to do this. Jordan had secrets, and Beth had nowhere else to turn.

You were moving kind of fast with this guy
. Kearns’s words. And true enough. Even Ginny had been surprised at how hard Beth had fallen. Beth thought about her feelings for Jordan. Away from the intimate dinners and dizzying sex, Beth wondered what truly drove her into the relationship.

She was intrigued by the mystery of Jordan, wanted to know everything about him. There was something about him that reminded Beth of a wounded animal, one who needed nurturing.

But there was so much more. Jordan brought out the best in her.

So why was she here?

Because women were dying.

Because Kearns was a good cop.

And something wasn’t right.

The Church of the Good Shepherd was barely visible from the main highway. A rustic carved wooden sign and two white crosses at the foot of a long gravel drive were the only indicators that any
building lay beyond the grove of immense redwoods. When the church finally came into view, Beth gasped. It was beautiful, remarkable in its simplicity — stark white stucco, with a red tiled roof. There was a scalloped gable and a three-tiered
campanario
, or bell tower. Beth imagined squeaky wooden kneelers, the cloying aroma of incense, votive candles flickering in the narthex. As if out of respect for the place, Beth shut off the car radio and slowed her speed. Drawing nearer, she noticed the single contrast to the church’s simple architecture — a pair of massive Moorish doors with huge iron ring handles.

A crushed stone pathway snaked in front and bisected a garden full of yuccas and lilies. The façade of the church had just received a fresh coat of paint. The scaffolding was still assembled at the northwest corner, but there wasn’t a painter in sight. In fact, there wasn’t a soul about anywhere, and almost immediately, the peaceful hush that Beth had found soothing became disturbing.

The school, when it came into view, wasn’t quite as white as the church, but it bore the same red-tiled roof. It stood three storeys tall, fronted by a magnificent garden of more yucca, cacti, and fronds of palm.

Beth recalled her own school days in Arkansas — children shrieking outdoors, the ones in the younger grades scrambling for swings and teeter-totters, sprinting for the baseball diamond as they grew older. The truly sophisticated ones, the eighth-graders, clustered around the doorways, exchanging
gossip and phone numbers. But there was no one on these school grounds, and Beth doubted that she’d find any playground equipment behind the building.

Beth stepped out of the car and stretched, again overwhelmed by the stifling quiet of the place. What time did classes dismiss? At this moment, Beth would have been grateful for a rush of young bodies pouring out of doorways, racing each other toward some more cheerful destination. She tried to imagine Jordan, or any child, spending time in such an antiseptic place, and half-expected to see another calligraphied sign: No Frolicking Allowed. Vowing to adopt a more positive attitude by the time she met Father Daniel, Beth reached for her purse, locked the car, and made her way toward the school.

Inside, to Beth’s left was a glassed-in reception area. As she approached, a small window slid open. A dour-faced matron ruled the kingdom on the other side. Beth resisted the impulse to request a cheeseburger and an order of fries; the woman’s raised eyebrow told Beth she was all business.

“May I help you?” the woman asked, her voice cracker dry.

“I’m here to speak with Father Daniel Fortescue. My name is Beth Wells.”

The woman raised slightly off her swivel chair to get a better look and didn’t bother to disguise her disapproval of Beth’s above-the-knee skirt.

“He’s expecting me,” Beth added firmly. “Could you tell me where I might find him?”

“His room is at the top of the stairs. Name’s on the door.” With that, the woman closed the glass partition and sat back down. Beth wondered whether the glass was to keep the woman in or other people out.

Ahead was a large open concourse and, against the far wall, a statue of Jesus, a flock of sheep at His feet. An inscription above the tableau read:
And the lost shall return to the fold
.

Beth recalled the parable of the prodigal son, a story she had learned so many years ago. Was this reflective of the philosophy of the school, to shepherd those whom others had led astray? A formidable task. Beth wondered how the teaching priests kept the black sheep in line, then quickly dismissed the thought. One stern-faced secretary and the eerie quiet did not a prison make.