How to Survive a Killer Seance (28 page)

I left the guys trying to rekill each other and stopped by Brad’s office on the way back to mine. He was on the phone so I returned to my office to fill Dee in on my plan.

“So, this time you want me to play the Great Mesmer?” she asked, clarifying. “A man?”

“Yes,” I said. “Can you do it?”

“Of course I can!” Dee said. “I played Peter Pan in my college production. With a wig, a mustache, and a magician’s outfit, I should be pretty convincing. This is going to be awesome!”

After we worked out some details, I checked on Brad to see if he’d talked to his buddy, Luke.

“Did you talk to him?” I asked.

“Yep.”

“So . . . what did he say?”

“You can have five minutes with Jonathan, under the supervision of a guard. That’s it. Be there at three o’clock p.m.”

“Oh my God, you’re amazing!” I wanted to kiss him but this wasn’t the time or the place. “How did you do it?”

“Let’s just say, he owes me from a poker game.”

“I owe you big-time! How about I make dinner tonight at your place?”

“I thought you couldn’t cook.”

“I can cook,” I said, not meeting his eyes. “I usually don’t have time.”

He eyed me suspiciously before answering. “Okay, you got a deal. But if I have to have my stomach pumped, you’re paying for my hospital stay.”

“Very funny,” I said before I dashed back to my office.

I sat down in my chair, took a deep breath to calm myself, then realized no amount of deep breathing would help with the upcoming tasks. Not only could something go wrong with every step of my plan, but I could get myself into some serious jeopardy if the killer decided to kill the messenger.

And worse, I felt bad about lying to Brad.

I didn’t really know how to cook.

 

Brad accompanied me to 850 Bryant: the location of the Hall of Justice, the main San Francisco Police Department, and the county jail. I’d been to the jail before, to see Delicia when she’d been mistakenly arrested for murder. I didn’t like the place any more now than I had back then. The SoMa—South of Market—location felt seamy and unsafe, the concrete building imposing, and the relentless sadness I imagined behind those walls was depressing.

After passing through the metal detector, where I’d had to temporarily relinquish my iPhone, keys, and purse, I collected the Flip camera that Berk had lent me, and waited in the empty meeting room for Jonathan to appear. Memories came flooding back as I sat staring at the pale pink walls. When I’d visited Dee, it had been during regular visiting hours and the room had been filled with families and friends of the inmates. The noise—laughter, tears, excited conversations—had been loud and distracting. Now, with me as the only visitor, the room was deathly quiet—and lonely.

While I waited, I practiced videotaping the picnic-style tables and benches, the ticking clock on the wall, the official signs that warned visitors of potential misconduct. Berk had taught me how to use the simple gadget and had sworn it was foolproof, but I still worried I’d forget to remove a lens cap or turn on a wrong button and erase everything. I guess we’d see about that.

A heavy metal door on the far side of the room clanked, then creaked open. Jonathan Ellington entered, his usually erect shoulders slumped, feet and hands in shackles, his eyes darting around. He was accompanied by a uniformed officer, instantly reminding me that Jonathan was here for a capital offense, not tagging buildings with spray paint or driving while texting. His skin appeared drawn and pale, his mouth drooped, almost as if he’d had a stroke like his father, but his eyes lit up when he saw me.

“Presley!” he said, maneuvering around the shackles to sit down on the end of the bench opposite me. “They said I had a visitor, but I had no idea it would be you. What are you doing here?”

He reached out a hand to touch mine, but the guard called out, “No touching.” His hand contracted, like a startled turtle pulling its head into its shell. I had a feeling he would have liked to do the same with his whole being.

“I only have five minutes,” I said, “so I’ll be quick. I want to videotape you.”

His eyebrows rose. “What for?”

“I’m having another Séance Party tomorrow night and I want you to appear—at least, in spirit.”

He squinted at me, as if I might belong in the criminally insane section of the jail. “I don’t understand.”

“Listen, Jonathan. I’m trying to prove whether or not you killed those guys. That’s why I want you to make a surprise appearance at the séance and say these words. If you’re really innocent, then I’m hoping the real killer will be exposed.”

I pulled out a single sheet of paper from my jeans pocket and pushed it over to him.

He picked it up, his steel bracelets jangling, and scanned it.

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

“You really think this will work?”

“I . . . don’t know. I hope so. It’s certainly worth a try.”

I glanced at the clock on the wall. If Melvin had been serious about having only five minutes, I had just three left to get this done. Holding up the video camera, I said, “Are you ready for your close-up?”

He frowned, but said, “I guess so.”

I put his face in most of the frame, trying to block out the details of the jail meeting room, then nodded, indicating for him to start. He took a last glance at the script, faced the camera, and said the first line I’d written for him:

“Yes, it’s me. I’m out of jail . . .” He paused.

“. . . And I know who killed Levi and Zachary . . .” Another pause.

“Furthermore, I have the evidence to prove it . . .”

Finally, Jonathan pointed his finger outward and said, “It was you—”

I stopped taping and smiled at him. “Perfect.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.” I checked the tape before I turned the camera off, to make sure I hadn’t messed up. “Now, if you’re superstitious, keep your fingers crossed.”

He looked down at his hands. “That’s about all I’m able to do right now.”

“Time’s up!” the officer said.

I gave Jonathan a last smile of encouragement and said, “Hang in there.” It was all I had at the moment.

We rose, and I watched Jonathan shuffle back to the door that led to the jail. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him, in spite of his usually cocky attitude and scandalous disregard for women. I had a feeling that my mother was right—this man hadn’t killed anyone. He was a lover, not a killer.

But if that was true, someone hated him enough to make it look like he had.

And I was going to prove it.

Tomorrow night at my encore Séance Party.

After a quick side trip to the care home on Van Ness Avenue to reassure my mother and Stephen Ellington about Jonathan’s well-being and my plans to help get him released, I returned to the office and spent the rest of the day preparing for the party. By six I was ready for a break and when Brad stopped by I was packing up my things.

“Looking forward to dinner,” he said.

Oh my God. I’d forgotten all about my promise to make dinner. I quickly recovered and said, “Yeah . . . hope you like it. One of my specialties.”

“You want to ride with me or follow me over?”

“Uh, I need to feed my cats, get my mail, pick up a couple of things. I’ll meet you at your place, if that’s okay.” We headed to the parking lot.

“Sure. Want me to come with you to your condo?”

“No, no. I’m sure I’ll be fine for the few minutes I’m there.”

“Okay, but keep your phone handy. If you see anything suspicious, call me. I can be there in two minutes.”

I felt guilty lying to him. He was such a great guy. I gave him a quick kiss as a promise of more and got in my MINI, while Brad headed for his Crime Scene Cleaners SUV. Minutes later I was at my condo, still wondering what I was going to serve Brad for dinner.

Me and my big mouth.

Night was falling quickly and blanket fog had begun to seep in. I grabbed the mail, unlocked the front door, and opened it slowly, half expecting the boogeyman to jump out at me. When I’d come home this morning to feed the cats, everything was fine, but that didn’t stop me from feeling jumpy now that it was getting dark.

Maybe I should have had Brad accompany me, I thought. But after nothing more had happened the other night, I’d felt silly calling him. I was sure the sounds had been caused by teenage vandals or a couple of drunks who were out having what they considered a good time.

Inching the front door open, I listened for any unusual noise. The creaking of the door alerted my cats that I was home, and they ran to me as if I were their long-lost mother.

“Hey, guys,” I said, giving each a head massage, tummy rub, or back scratch, depending on their preference. The cat bowls still had traces of the morning meal, but I filled them up, freshened the water, and sat down in a kitchen chair with a glass of merlot to go through the mail.

Bills, ads, flyers, coupon books, and a single envelope with my name computer-typed on the outside. No return address. I hoped it was a check from one of the several parties I’d recently hosted—I needed the money. I tore it open.

Inside was a folded sheet of paper. I unfolded it—and nearly peed my pants. I was looking at a Photoshopped collage of six pictures.

Each one of me.

Me coming out of my office building yesterday—I could tell by the clothes I’d worn.

Me leaving Brad’s house this morning.

Me in the parking lot of Stereo-Scope Graphics.

Me entering the Hall of Justice to see Jonathan.

Me dropping by my mother’s place.

Me returning to my office building wearing the same thing I was wearing now—black jeans, a T-shirt with a replica of a Ouija board on it, and my black Mary Janes.

I held up the envelope with trembling hands to study it. No stamp. I hadn’t even noticed that when I’d torn it open. That meant someone had been following me, had come to the Island—to my
home
—and put the letter in my mailbox. I picked up the sheet of photos again and stared at them.

The last one had been taken only a short while ago.

How could someone have followed me throughout my day taking pictures without my knowledge?

And they had even beaten me home.

With sweat prickling my forehead, I picked up my purse, stuffed the envelope and letter inside and grabbed the closest cat—Cairo. “Hey, kitty. That’s a good boy,” I said reassuringly as I carried him quickly to my car. I placed Cairo inside, along with my purse, closed the door so he couldn’t escape, then ran back, and picked up Thursby from the couch and Fatman from under the coffee table. I returned to the car, and with all three cats safely inside, I ran back and locked the front door to my condo, got in my MINI, and headed up Macalla, toward the Bay Bridge.

 

Instead of driving directly to Brad’s place, I drove to the city. I couldn’t go to Brad’s empty-handed, not when I’d lied about being able to cook. One of my favorite places to pick up to-go food is practically right off the bridge exit, a little place in trendy SoMa called The Butler and the Chef. I phoned in my order on the way, hoping I didn’t get caught using my cell phone while driving and end up in jail, and asked for two Croque Monsieurs, two ham-and-cheese quiche slices, and some pâté. I also told them I’d call when I got there so they could bring the food out to me, explaining that I couldn’t leave the car. The reason: My bewildered cats were climbing all over me.

I drove into the parking space reserved for takeout customers and let them know I was there. When the waiter arrived with my order, I had him put it the trunk to keep it away from my hungry cats. Unfortunately, they could smell it with their supersensitive cat nostrils and I had to listen to a trio of meowing all the way back to Yerba Buena Island.

I parked in the narrow slot behind Brad’s house and dialed his number.

“Presley?” he answered breathlessly. “Are you okay? I’ve been worried.”

“I’m fine, Brad, but I need help carrying a few things in from the car. Do you have a couple of large cardboard boxes with tops that close?”

Silence, then, “You’ve got that much food?”

“Just bring them,” I insisted, and hung up.

Moments later Brad arrived with two boxes the size of small microwave ovens. He reached for my car door but it was locked. I eased the window down an inch. “I’m going to open the window in a minute and I want you to shove one of the boxes inside as fast as you can.”