Ripper

  Monday, 30

  In the three years Denise West had been attending the Holistic Clinic, she had become a favorite patient of a number of the therapists. Rain or shine, she devoted every Monday afternoon to her health and her art: she visited Indiana Jackson for Reiki, lymphatic drainage, and aromatherapy, then Yumiko Sato for acupuncture; David McKee supplied her with his gentle homeopathic remedies; and to round off her afternoon, she took art lessons with Matheus Pereira. She never missed a session, although it took her an hour and a half to drive there in the same beat-up truck she used to deliver products from her garden to farmers’ markets. She would set out early, since parking the truck on North Beach was quite a chore, and always brought some treat from her garden—lemons, lettuces, onions, a spray of narcissus, fresh eggs—to give to the people she called her “soul doctors.”

  Denise was sixty years old, and insisted that she was only alive thanks to the Holistic Clinic, which had restored her health and her optimism after an accident that left her with a cerebral contusion and six broken bones. At the Holistic Clinic, she could vent her political and social frustrations—Denise was an anarchist—and absorb enough positive energy to fight the good fight for the rest of the week. Her “soul doctors” were enormously fond of her, as was Matheus Pereira, though Denise’s artistic style made him nervous. Pereira’s own paintings were vast canvases of tortured souls in broad sweeps of primary colors, while Denise painted chickens and lambs. Her subject matter could only be explained by the fact that she farmed and raised animals, since it was deeply at odds with her Amazonian temperament. Despite these divergent artistic approaches, the atmosphere in their classes was good-natured. Denise was scrupulous in paying Pereira fifty dollars a lesson, which he accepted guiltily, since the only thing she had learned in three years was how to prime a canvas and wash her brushes. At Christmas, the woman would give gifts of her artwork to her friends, including the soul doctors; Indiana had a collection of chickens and lambs in her father’s garage, while Yumiko invariably received her gift with both hands, bowing deeply, in accordance with the etiquette of her country, before discreetly making it disappear. Only David McKee appreciated the oil paintings, and hung them in his office. He was a veterinarian by profession, but his homeopathic remedies had become so renowned that all his clients now were human except for the arthritic poodle, who was also a patient of Indiana’s.

  It was Ryan Miller and Pedro Alarcón who had first brought Denise West to the Holistic Clinic and entrusted her to Indiana’s care, hoping she might be able to help. Denise and Pedro were old friends—in fact they had been lovers for a short time, though neither ever mentioned the fact, pretending to have forgotten all about it. Denise’s bones had been reset during a series of complex operations, leaving her with a weakness in her knees and hips and the unpleasant sensation of having a spike jammed into her spine. The pain, which she kept at bay with fistfuls of aspirin and swigs of gin, did not limit her activities. She was exhausted and angry at the world when she first arrived at the clinic, but the combined efforts of her “soul doctors” and the distraction of the art classes had worked wonders in bringing back the joyfulness that had seduced Pedro Alarcón years before.

  That Monday, at the end of her session with Indiana, Denise got down from the massage table with a contented sigh. She pulled on corduroy trousers, a lumberjack shirt, and the work boots she wore every day, then waited for Ryan Miller, who had his appointment with Indiana after hers. Thanks to her holistic treatments, she could make it to the second floor, clutching the art-deco balustrade as she went. But she had never been able to climb the ship’s ladder that led to the flat roof, so her painting classes took place in treatment room 3, which had been empty for some years. The Chinese businessman who owned the building could not lease it, because two previous tenants had committed suicide there; the first had discreetly hanged himself, but the second had blown his brains out, creating a shocking scene of blood and brain matter. More than one alternative practitioner had expressed interest in the unit—the location was good, and benefited from the prestigious reputation of the Holistic Clinic—only to walk away when they heard the story. It was rumored in North Beach that treatment room 3 was haunted by the suicide victims, but Pereira, who lived in the building, had never seen anything out of the ordinary.

  After his Monday sessions with Indiana, Ryan would often stop by to collect Denise from her painting class and help her back to her truck. He too was lucky enough to receive the farmyard-themed oil paintings for Christmas. He took them to the annual auction at a shelter for battered women, where they were gratefully received.

  Ryan emerged from Indiana’s treatment room at peace with himself and with the world, taking with him an image of her and the physical sensation of her hands on his body. In the hallway he ran into Carol Underwater, whom he saw from time to time at the clinic.

  “How are you, ma’am?” he asked out of courtesy, knowing the response, which was always much the same.

  “Well, I still got cancer, but I’m hanging in, as you can see.”

  After her session with Ryan, the tranquillity that filled Indiana while she worked, intent on her healing, melted away, and she once more found herself overwhelmed with sadness at her failed relationship, and the vague, unshakable fear that she was being watched. A few hours after splitting up with Alan in the park, her anger had faded, replaced by the grief of losing him; never had she cried so much over love. She wondered how she had missed the signs that something was wrong. Alan had not seemed to be there in spirit; he had been distracted and withdrawn, and they had grown apart. Instead of probing, she had chosen to give him time and space, little suspecting that another woman was behind it all. Now she gathered up the sheets and towels, tidied the treatment room, and jotted down some notes about the general state of health of Denise West and Ryan Miller, as she did with every patient.

  That day it was Carol Underwater who consoled Indiana—something of a novelty in their relationship, in which Carol had assumed the role of the victim. Carol heard what had happened with Alan on Sunday, when she phoned Indiana to invite her to the movies. Sensing that Indiana was upset, she had persuaded her to get it off her chest. Indiana saw her arrive with a basket on her arm and, moved by the kindness of this woman who might well die soon and had more serious reasons than she to give in to despair, regretted all the times she had been impatient with Carol. Seeing her patient sitting in reception in her thick skirt and her mud-colored jacket, a scarf tied around her head, the basket in her lap, she decided that once Carol finished radiation and had recovered a little, she would take her to her favorite thrift stores and buy her some clothes that were a bit younger, a bit more feminine. Indiana thought of herself as an expert in secondhand clothes; she had a good eye, and would frequently discover priceless treasures amid the piles of old rags—like the snakeskin boots she considered the height of elegance, and which she could wear with a clear conscience, since no reptile had been skinned for them. They were plastic: made in Taiwan.

  “I’m so sorry, Indi,” Carol said. “I know you’re hurting, but you’ll soon see that this is a blessing. You deserve someone better than Alan Keller.”

  She spoke in a halting, broken voice, in fitful whispers, as though breathless or bewildered. “The voice of a vacuous blonde movie star in the body of a Balkan peasant,” Alan had described it, on the one occasion when the three of them met at Café Rossini. Indiana, who had to strain to hear Carol, could scarcely hide how irritated she was by this way of talking, but she attributed it to Carol’s illness, thinking maybe her vocal cords were damaged.

  “Listen to me, Indiana—Keller was no good for you.”

  “Nobody goes into a relationship thinking about what’s good for them, Carol. Alan and I were together four years, and we were happy—at least, I thought we were.”

  “That’s a long time. When did you plan to get married?”

  “We never talked about it.”

  “Why on earth not? You’re bo
th single.”

  “We were in no hurry. I thought I’d wait till Amanda went off to college.”

  “Why? Didn’t she get along with him?”

  “Amanda never gets along with anyone who goes out with me or her father. She’s a jealous girl.”

  “Don’t cry, Indiana. Soon you’ll have men lining up around the block, and I hope this time you’ll be a bit more selective. Keller is a thing of the past, it’s like he was dead, don’t think about him anymore. Look, I brought a gift for Amanda. . . . What do you think?”

  She set the basket on the table and lifted off the cloth covering it. Inside, curled up in a nest improvised from a woolly scarf, was a little animal, fast asleep.

  “It’s a kitten,” she said.

  “Oh, Carol!”

  “You said your daughter wanted a cat. . . .”

  “What a wonderful gift! Amanda will be so pleased.”

  “It didn’t cost a thing—I got her from the Humane Society. She’s six weeks old, in good health, and she’s had all her shots. She’s good as gold. Can I give her to your daughter myself? I’d like to meet her.”

  Tuesday, 31

  The deputy chief was in his office, sitting in his ergonomic desk chair—an extravagant gift from his subordinates to mark his fifteenth anniversary with the department—his feet up on the desk, his hands clasped behind his head. Petra Horr came in without bothering to knock, as always, carrying a paper bag and a cup of coffee. Before he got to know her, Bob had felt that her powerful name did not suit this little woman and her childlike face, but he soon changed his mind. Petra was thirty; she was short and slender and had a heart-shaped face with a wide forehead and a pointy little chin, a freckled complexion, and short hair, which was teased into spikes with gel and dyed black at the roots, orange in the middle, and yellow at the tips, like fox fur. From a distance—and indeed from close up—she looked like a girl, but the minute she opened her mouth, any impression of weakness disappeared. She set the bag down on the desk and handed the coffee to Bob.

  “How long since you had something to eat, boss? You’ll end up with hypoglycemia. Organic chicken sandwich on whole wheat. Very healthy. Eat.”

  “I’m thinking.”

  “Well, that’s new! About who?”

  “About the case of the psychiatrist.”

  “About Ayani, you mean.” Petra sighed theatrically. “Now you mention it, boss, I meant to say, you’ve got a visitor.”

  “Is it her?” asked the deputy chief, taking his feet down off the desk and straightening out his shirt.

  “No. Some really hot guy. The butler who works for the Ashtons.”

  “Galang. Send him in.”

  “No. Eat first, the gigolo can wait.”

  “The gigolo?” the deputy chief asked through a mouthful of the sandwich.

  “Oh, boss,” Petra called out as she left. “You’re such an innocent!”

  Ten minutes later Galang found himself sitting across the desk from the deputy chief. Bob had interviewed him a couple of times at the Ashton house, where the young Filipino wore black trousers and a long-sleeved white shirt: a tasteful uniform that, together with his inscrutable expression and his slinky feline movements, made him all but invisible. There was nothing invisible, however, about the man who presented himself at the police department that day: he was slim and athletic, his black hair tied up in a little ponytail at the back of his neck like a bullfighter’s. He had carefully manicured hands and an easy, dazzling smile. He took off his navy-blue raincoat, and Bob recognized the classic beige-and-black lining of Burberry, which Galang could never afford on his salary. He wondered how much this man earned and whether somebody bought his clothes for him. With his elegant appearance and exotic face, Galang could pose in an advertisement for men’s cologne—some sensual and mysterious fragrance, Bob thought. Petra would have corrected him: for that, he would pose nude and without shaving.

  Bob leafed through the available information again: Galang Tolosa, thirty-four, born in the Philippines, immigrated to the States in ’95, one year of college, worked at a Club Med, a few gyms, and the Institute of Conscious BodyWork. He asked Petra what the hell this last one was, and she explained that it was an approach to massage therapy that used the power of conscious attention and intention as a powerful tool to bring about change in cell tissue. Witchcraft, just like Indiana’s, thought Bob, whose idea of a massage was a sleazy parlor full of topless Asian girls in hot pants and latex gloves.

  “Sorry to take up your time, Deputy Chief. I was passing and thought I’d come and talk to you,” said the Filipino with a smile.

  “About what, may I ask?”

  “I’ll be frank with you, Deputy Chief. I’ve got a resident’s visa, and I’m applying for American citizenship. I can’t afford to get mixed up in a police investigation. I’m worried that this business with Dr. Ashton might cause problems.”

  “Are you referring to the murder of Dr. Ashton? You’ve every reason to worry, my friend. You were at the house, you had access to the study, you have no alibi—and if we dig around, I’m sure we’ll find a motive. Would you like to add something to your previous statement?” The policeman’s affable tone was in stark contrast to the implied threat of his words.

  “Yes, well . . . ,” Galang ground to a halt. “It’s about what you just mentioned: a motive. Dr. Ashton was a difficult man, and I had some altercations with him.” His smile had disappeared.

  “Explain.”

  “The doctor could be violent, especially when he drank. During their divorce hearings, both his first and second wives accused him of abuse—you can check it out, Deputy Chief.”

  “Was he ever violent toward you?”

  “Yes, three times, but only because I tried to protect Mrs. Ashton.”

  The deputy chief curbed his curiosity and waited for the other man to continue at his own pace, carefully observing his facial expressions, his gestures, the almost imperceptible tics. Bob was no stranger to lies and half-truths, and had long since resigned himself to the fact that almost everybody lies: some out of vanity, to present themselves in a favorable light, others out of fear, and the majority out of sheer habit. Everyone gets nervous in a police interview, even the innocent; it was Bob’s job to interpret their responses, detect any false notes, intuit the omissions. He knew from experience that people who are anxious to please, like Galang, cannot stand an awkward silence, and, given the right encouragement, will talk much more than they should.

  He did not have to wait long. Thirty seconds later, the Filipino began a speech that he may have prepared, but stumbled off course in his desperate need to be convincing. He had first met Ayani in New York a decade ago, he said, and they had been friends when she was at the peak of her career. They were more like brother and sister than friends, though: they helped each other out, saw each other almost every day. Both had struggled to find work when the economic crisis hit, and by late 2010, when she met Ashton, their situation was getting desperate. As soon as Ashton and Ayani were married, she had brought Galang to San Francisco as a butler, a job far beneath his qualifications, but he had wanted to get away from New York, where he had problems with money and other things. The salary was meager, but Ayani made up for it by giving him money behind her husband’s back. It had been awful for Galang to watch his friend suffer—Ashton treated her like a queen when they were in public and like trash when they were at home. At first he had tortured her psychologically—he was a master at that—and then he had begun hitting her. Galang noticed bruises on Ayani a number of times, which she tried to conceal using makeup. Galang tried his best to help her, but despite the trust between them, this was an aspect of her marriage that she would not talk about—it made her ashamed, as though her husband’s brutality was her fault.

  “They fought a lot, Deputy Chief,” he concluded.

  “Why did they fight?”

  “Trivial things: a meal she’d cooked him that he didn’t like, the phone calls she made to her family
in Ethiopia. Dr. Ashton was infuriated that she was recognized wherever she went, while he was ignored. On the one hand, he liked to be seen with Ayani on his arm, and on the other he wanted to keep her locked away. So that’s what they fought over.”

  “And did they also fight over you, Mr. Tolosa?”

  The question took Galang by surprise. He opened his mouth to deny it, thought better of it, and nodded silently, looking pained and rubbing his forehead. Richard Ashton could not stand his friendship with Ayani, Galang said; he suspected her of buying him things and giving him money. Ashton knew that she trusted Galang with her secrets—from her spending sprees and evenings out to the friends she continued to see, even though Ashton forbade it. The psychiatrist would test them, humiliating Galang in front of Ayani, or mistreating Ayani until Galang could bear it no longer and had to confront him.

  “Look, Deputy Chief, I’ll admit that sometimes my blood would boil. It was all I could do not to punch him. I lost count of the times I had to intervene to pull him off his wife—to shove him or hold him down like a spoiled child. Once, when he went after Mrs. Ashton with a kitchen knife, I had to lock him in the bathroom until he calmed down.”

  “When was this?”

  “Last month. Recently things had gotten better—they were going through a good phase; they were happy together and started talking about the book they were planning to write. Ayani—Mrs. Ashton—was happy.”