“So you didn’t bring the Pole?” Amanda whispered to her father as they arrived at Loco Latino.
The succession of Mexican dishes—uncontaminated by any North-American influence—began arriving early, and guests were still eating and dancing at midnight. Amanda, who by now was bored with talking to her cousins, whom she considered philistines, dragged her father off the dance floor, got her grandfather up from his table, and took them to one side.
“We’re making real progress in Ripper, Dad, investigating the crimes.”
“What nonsense have you come up with now, Amanda?”
“It’s not nonsense. Ripper’s inspired by one of the great puzzles in the history of crime: Jack the Ripper, the legendary murderer who terrorized London neighborhoods in 1888. There are more than a hundred theories about the Ripper’s identity—including one that he was a member of the royal family.”
“What has any of this got to do with me?” her father asked her, sweating from all the tequila and dancing.
“Nothing—I’m not talking about Jack the Ripper, I’m talking about the San Francisco Ripper. Me and the other players have been piecing together the facts. What do you think?”
“I think it’s a terrible idea, Amanda, as I’ve told you before. Why don’t you just leave things to the Personal Crimes Division?”
“Because your department is doing nothing about it, Dad! I’m convinced these murders are the work of a serial killer,” Amanda insisted. She’d spent her midterm break going through her files with a fine-tooth comb and messaging with the other players.
“So what evidence have you come up with, Little Miss Ripper?”
“Just look at the coincidences. Five victims: Ed Staton, Michael and Doris Constante, Richard Ashton, and Rachel Rosen. All murdered in San Francisco; none of the bodies showed signs of struggle; in each case the killer entered without forcing any locks, which means he had easy access, knew how to pick locks, and possibly knew the victims themselves—he certainly knew their habits. He gave himself enough time to plan and execute each murder perfectly. Each time, he had brought the murder weapon with him: a pistol, a baseball bat, two syringes of heroin, a Taser—possibly two—and a length of fishing wire.”
“How did you know about the fishing wire?”
“From Ruth Rosen’s preliminary autopsy report, which Kabel read. He also looked through Ingrid Dunn’s report on Ed Staton, the guard they shot in the school—remember him?”
“Of course I do.”
“D’you know why he didn’t defend himself and why he was on his knees before the coup de grâce was delivered?”
“No, but I’ll bet you do.”
“The Ripper players think the killer used the Taser he killed Richard Ashton with to stun Ed Staton, and before he could get up, the killer shot him.”
“That’s not bad, sweetheart,” the deputy chief admitted.
“How long does a Taser paralyze someone for?” Amanda asked.
“Depends. A guy Staton’s size . . . could be three or four minutes.”
“More than enough time to kill him. Would Staton have been conscious at that point?”
“Sure, but pretty confused. Why?”
“Nothing. . . . Just, Abatha, the psychic in Ripper, says the killer always leaves enough time so he can talk to his victims. She thinks he’s got something important to tell them. What do you think, Dad?”
“It’s possible. None of the victims was killed from behind or taken by surprise.”
“And shoving the handle of the baseball bat up his . . . you know what I mean—he did that after Staton died. That’s important, Dad, because it’s something else all the murders have in common. The killer didn’t torture the victims while they were alive, he desecrated their bodies: Staton with the baseball bat, the Constantes branded like cattle, Ashton with the swastika carved into him, and Rosen strung up like a convict.”
“Listen, don’t get ahead of yourself. The Rosen autopsy isn’t finished.”
“Okay, so there are details still to come, but that much we already know. There are differences between the crimes, but the similarities point to a single killer. It was Kabel who spotted that the victims were being desecrated postmortem.” Amanda emphasized the technical term she had recently learned from a detective novel.
“That’s true,” Blake said. “It’s like Amanda says: the killer didn’t want to brutalize the victims, he wanted to leave a message.
“Do you know Rachel Rosen’s time of death?” Amanda asked her father.
“The body had been hanging there for a couple of days. We know she died on Tuesday night, but we don’t know exactly what time.”
“So it looks like all the crimes took place around midnight. The Ripper players are looking for similar cases over the past ten years.”
“Why ten years?” asked the deputy chief.
“You got to set some kind of cutoff, Dad. Sherlock Holmes—the kid I play Ripper with, I mean, not the Conan Doyle character—anyway, he says studying old cases would be a waste of time. Because if it’s a serial killer, like we think it is, and he fits the usual profile, he’s less than thirty-five years old.”
“Well, we can’t be certain it is a serial killer, and if it is, he’s not your typical case,” the deputy chief replied. “There are no common factors linking the victims.”
“I’m convinced there have to be. Instead of investigating the cases separately, look for something they all have in common, Dad. Then we’ll find the motive. The motive’s the first stage of any investigation, and in this case it’s not money, like it usually is.”
“Thanks, Amanda. Just what would the homicide detail do without your valuable help?”
“Laugh if you want to, but I’m telling you we’re taking it all pretty seriously in Ripper. You’re going to be embarrassed as hell when we solve the crimes before you do.”
Tuesday, 28
Alan Keller’s life had changed on the day he had been summoned to his brother’s office and stripped of his privileges. Mark and Lucille Keller took over his debts to the IRS and began the process of selling the Woodside house. There was no need to throw him out of the tumbledown mansion. He couldn’t wait to leave: for years he had felt like a prisoner there. In less than three days he had taken his clothes, his books, his CDs, a few pieces of antique furniture, and his art collection and moved to the Napa vineyard. He thought of it as a temporary solution; Mark had had his eye on the vineyard for some time and would take it from him sooner or later—unless something very unexpected happened, like Philip and Flora Keller both dying at once, for example, but that was only the remotest possibility. Keller’s parents were not about to do anybody the favor of dying, much less Alan. He resolved to enjoy his stay at the vineyard while he could, without worrying too much about the future. Unlike the paintings, the jades, the porcelains, and the smuggled Inca treasures, it was the one possession that he really wanted to keep.
That week in February it was fifteen degrees warmer in Napa than in San Francisco. The days were balmy and the nights chilly; magnificent clouds glided across a watercolor sky. The air smelled of the soft, sleeping earth, where the vines were getting ready to burst with spring buds, and the fields were streaked with the bright yellow of wild mustard. Keller knew nothing about farming or winemaking, but he had the passion of a landowner: he loved his estate, and would stroll between the neat rows of vines, study the shrubbery, gather bunches of wildflowers. He would survey the contents of his little cellar, count the cases and the bottles, and then count them again. He talked to the few workers who were out pruning, itinerant Mexican laborers who had lived off the land for generations; their movements were quick, precise, and graceful. They knew exactly what to prune and what to let grow.
Alan would have given his all to save this blessed place, but the money he’d raise from the sale of his artworks and antiques would scarcely cover his credit-card debts, the interest on which had skyrocketed. It would be impossible to keep the vineyard from hi
s brother’s greedy clutches: when Mark got an idea into his head, he pursued it with a frightening determination. When she realized the dire straits he was in, Geneviève van Houte offered to find some venture capitalists who could turn the vineyard into a profitable business, but Mark preferred to relinquish it to his brother, at least it would stay in the family and not fall into the hands of strangers. He wondered what he would do after he lost the place, where he would live. He was sick of San Francisco: the same endless round of parties, the same faces, the same caustic gossip and banal conversations. There was nothing to tie him to that city anymore except its cultural life, something he was not about to give up. He fantasized about living in a modest house in one of the quiet towns in Napa Valley, like St. Helena, and working—although the idea of looking for his first job at fifty-five was laughable. What kind of work would he do, exactly? His education and sophistication might be praised in the salons, but they would be of little use when it came to making a living. He was utterly incapable of keeping to a timetable or taking orders: he had an “authority issue,” as he would say in passing when the topic came up.
“Marry me, Alan,” Geneviève said on the phone one day. “At my age, having a husband looks a hell of a lot better than a series of gigolos,” she added, chuckling.
“Would this be an open marriage, or monogamous?” Alan asked, thinking about Indiana.
“Polygamous, obviously!”
It was as quiet as a convent at Alan’s country retreat, with its thick, pumpkin-colored walls and tiled floors. Here, he could sleep without the need for pills; he had time to turn ideas over slowly, instead of being trapped in a winding, chaotic maze of thoughts. Sitting in a wicker armchair on the covered veranda, staring out over the hills and the vineyards that stretched into the distance, a drink in one hand and María, the maid’s dog, at his feet, Alan made the most important decision of his life. It was the one that for weeks on end had plagued him when he was awake, and that he had dreamed of while he slept, his intellect waging war with his emotions. He dialed Indiana’s number a few times and got no answer: he thought she must have lost her cell phone for the third time in six months. He finished his drink and told María he was going into the city.
An hour and twenty minutes later, Alan was parking his Lexus in the garage under Union Square and walking the half block to the Bulgari store. He didn’t know what people saw in expensive jewelry: it had to be kept locked in a safe, and wearing it made any woman look ten years older. Geneviève van Houte bought jewelry as an investment, believing that when the next global crisis came, gold and diamonds would be the only thing to retain their value. But she never wore them: they were locked away in a Swiss bank vault, while she wore paste copies. Once he had gone with her to the Bulgari store on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan and admired the designs, the audacious combinations of stones, and the quality of the craftsmanship; but he had never been into the San Francisco branch. The security guard—obviously an expert in determining a customer’s social class—ushered him in, not batting an eye at Alan’s disheveled clothes and boots encrusted with dried mud. A woman dressed in black, with white hair and professional makeup, was there to serve him.
“I need a memorable ring,” he told her, without so much as glancing at the display cases.
“Diamonds?”
“No diamonds. This woman thinks they’re bought with African blood.”
“All our jewels are of certified provenance.”
“Try explaining that to her.”
Just as the security guard had done before her, the sales adviser quickly divined her client’s particular brand of sophistication. She asked him to wait a moment and disappeared, returning a few moments later with a black tray lined in white silk. On it was a ring with an oval stone, a beautifully understated piece that reminded him of the simple jewels of the Roman Empire.
“This is from an antique collection—you won’t find anything like it in contemporary ranges. It’s a Brazilian aquamarine—a cabochon, which is very unusual for the stone, set in twenty-four-karat mat gold. As you can imagine, sir, we have more expensive gems than this one, but it’s the most striking item I can show you today.”
Alan could feel himself about to take the plunge and give in to the sort of extravagance that his brother Mark would crucify him for; but once his collector’s eye had fallen on the exquisite piece, he did not need to look at any others. One of his Boteros was about to be sold in New York, and though he knew the money should go to shoring up his debt, he decided that “the heart has its reasons.”
“You’re right, it is . . . extraordinary. I’ll take it, although it’s probably too expensive for a washed-up playboy like me and too sophisticated for a woman who wouldn’t know if it came from a jeweler’s or a joke shop.”
“If you wish, sir, you can pay in installments—”
“I need it right now,” Alan interrupted. “That’s what credit cards are for, right?” He smiled his warmest smile.
As he had time to spare and there were no taxis in sight, he walked to North Beach, a cool breeze in his face and a spring in his step. He prayed that Danny D’Angelo would not be working when he went into the Café Rossini, but there he was, coming out to greet him with effusive enthusiasm and once again apologizing for vomiting in his Lexus.
“Forget about it, Danny, that was last year,” said Alan, trying to wriggle out of the man’s embrace.
“Order whatever you like, Mr. Keller, it’s on me,” Danny declared, almost shouting. “How can I ever repay what you’ve done for me?”
“You can start right now, Danny, by ducking out of here a few minutes and going over to see Indiana. I think she lost her cell phone again. Tell her somebody’s asking for her, but don’t tell her it’s me.”
Danny was not a man to harbor a grudge: he had forgiven Indiana for the furor at the Narcissus Club because two days afterward she had showed up, Ryan Miller in tow, to apologize for ruining his celebration. He forgave the Navy SEAL, too, but couldn’t resist an opportunity to needle him with the fact that homophobia usually masks our fear of finding homosexuality in ourselves, and that military camaraderie is riddled with homoerotic overtones. They live together, Danny teased, they’re always horsing around, they’re united by loyalty, by love, and they champion masculinity to the exclusion of women. On any other day Ryan would have punched the man for casting doubt on his manhood, but this time —still bruised from the fight in the club and humbled by the Alcoholics Anonymous meeting—he accepted the telling-off.
Danny gave Alan a conspiratorial wink and slipped off to the Holistic Clinic. He soon returned, reporting that Indiana would be along as soon as she could finish with her last patient. He served Alan an Irish coffee and a giant sandwich that he hadn’t ordered but that he attacked hungrily. Twenty minutes later, when Alan saw Indiana cross the street, her hair tied up and wearing her work smock and clogs, he was so overcome with feeling that he was rooted to the seat. She was so much more beautiful than he had remembered—flushed and radiant, like an early breath of spring. When she came in and saw him, she hesitated, ready to leave again, but Danny reeled her in and steered her toward Alan, who by then had managed to get to his feet. Danny persuaded Indiana to sit down, and then retreated far enough to give them a feeling of privacy, but not so far that he couldn’t hear what they were saying.
“How you doing, Alan? You look thin,” she said neutrally by way of greeting.
“I’ve been sick, but now I feel better than ever.”
Just then Gary, Indiana’s last patient on a Tuesday, trailed in after her, hoping to buy her dinner. Seeing her with another man, he hung back, disconcerted. Danny made the most of this hesitation to steer him toward another table, whispering that he should leave them alone; this had “date” written all over it.
“What can I do for you, Alan?” Indiana asked.
“A lot. Like change my life. You can transform me, turn me inside out like an old sock.”
She gave him a distrustful sid
eways glance while he dug around for the Bulgari box, which seemed to have become lost in his pocket. He found it eventually and presented it to her with all the awkwardness of a schoolboy.
“Will you marry a poor old man, Indi?” he asked her, not recognizing his own voice. Then he told her everything that had happened recently, talking up a storm and taking big gulps of air as he spoke. He was happy to have lost everything—perhaps “everything” was an exaggeration, he still had enough, he was not about to go hungry, but he was living through the most serious crisis of his life. He remembered the Chinese saying, “Crisis = Danger + Opportunity”; well, this was his big opportunity to start over, and to do it with her, his one true love. How had he not realized that the moment he met her? He was a fool, and he couldn’t carry on like this. He was sick to death of his life, of himself, his selfishness and his wariness, and he was determined to change—he promised her that—but he needed her help, he couldn’t do it alone; they had both invested four years in their relationship, they could hardly let it fall apart over some misunderstanding. He talked about the house he planned to buy in St. Helena, near the Calistoga springs: it would be an ideal place for her aromatherapy work. They would lead an idyllic existence and breed dogs—which made a lot more sense than breeding horses. And he went on unburdening himself to her, trying to tempt her with all the things they could do together, begging for her forgiveness, and imploring her to marry him tomorrow.