Ronald Tierney - Good To The Last Kiss - Crimes of the Depraved Mind Series

A brick drops inside Paul’s stomach. Heart flatlines. He hadn’t thought about that possibility.

‘Oh,’ he managed.

‘You’ve got a life, right?’ Bradley said. ‘Julia’s coming back…’

‘Yes… yes… um yes, as a matter of fact, she’s nearly here.’

‘I mean, it was you and Julia, anyway, wasn’t it?’

‘Well yes,’ Paul said, puzzled. ‘She’s my friend.’

‘And you’ve got her back after all.’

‘I guess you could say that.’

‘I guess I did say that. Listen, Paul, this is kind of really abrupt, you know?’

‘Go on.’

‘I’ve met someone.’

‘Oh.’

‘His name is Chen. He’s a model. From Vietnam. Chinese actually from the Cholon district. It’s very exciting.’

‘I see,’ Paul said. ‘That’s not a surprise, you know.’

‘I know. And I’m being an ass. Maybe that will make it easier.’

‘It’d be strange if it were a Moscowitz or O’Brien or even Rodriguez. I’m sorry, don’t worry about it. Enjoy… have a good… what the fuck… have a good whatever. I mean it, don’t worry about it.’

‘I hate to do this by phone.’

‘Well, I’ll box up your stuff and you can let me know when…’

‘Just my leathers,’ Bradley said.

‘All right.’ Paul tried hard to keep emotion out of his voice. Not too cool, though. Friendly.

‘You’re really being nice about this.’

Paul looked at his watch. He felt a little hypocritical.

‘I am disappointed,’ Paul said, knowing he was about to launch into something. ‘The really sad part of this isn’t our going our separate ways. The sad part is that we’re going to continue to go the same way. You’ve found another almond-eyed, dark-haired, smooth-bodied exotic creature. And me? I will no doubt begin my search for another pretty blond. I won’t even care if he can read or write.’

‘Ouch,’ Bradley said.

‘Ouch, ouch. One for each of us. I’m serious. The mind won’t matter. The heart won’t matter. I know better. Don’t you?’

‘Me?’ Bradley said. ‘What do I know. I’m just a pretty face. Just a blond. I better go too.’

‘Chen awaits?’

‘Could be. Yes.’

‘I wish I could say “goodbye” in Chinese, at least.’

‘What can you say in Chinese?’ Bradley asked.

‘Kung Pao Chicken. How’s that?’

‘Bye.’

‘Not good enough,’ Paul said, then clicked off the phone.

Julia Bateman sensed the differences immediately. The people and the pace. At the San Francisco airport, the generally slow-paced vanilla world of an insulated Midwest was replaced by the largely fuel-injected swirl of humanity here at the shaky edge of the continent.

Paul was never on time. Sometimes early, sometimes late, but either he was shorted a sense of time and got lost in it or it was a characteristic of his passive-aggressive personality. Or both. She loved him dearly. She was pretty sure he was the one she most longed to see. But there was still a question about Thaddeus. She couldn’t get him off her mind.

When Paul finally arrived, the moment of awkwardness she feared didn’t materialize.

‘When we get back I’ll make myself scarce so you can acclimatize,’ Paul said.

‘Not for long,’ she said. ‘I want to jump in. Tonight I want to go to that Thai restaurant across from Hamburger Mary’s and have Thai beer and something hot and spicy.’ Her excitement broke. ‘Oh God, I bet you have plans. I always do that. I’m sorry.’

‘I don’t have plans.’

‘Tonight’s not a Bradley night?’

‘Bradley who?’ Paul said.

‘What?’

‘He found another Asian youth… one from the old country. Or some old country. Vietnam.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘So tonight is yours. We’ll have a feast. But remember I’m allergic to coconut.’

‘How about peanut sauce?’

‘No. Love it. And peanut butter.’

Gratelli sat at his desk. Opposite and butting against his own was McClellan’s desk, pretty much as it had been left. Any minute, it seemed, Mickey would plop his plump amorphous body down in the chair. The sudden whoosh of the cushion would be accompanied by random obscenities. Gratelli tried to concentrate on the folders – the ones that pertained to Bateman. While another stack, much larger and pertaining to the others rested on the upper left corner of the battered Formica.

The folders yielded little. There were no real suspects in the slaying of the girls. There were some remote possibilities with Bateman; but those didn’t make a great deal of sense with the others. Earl Falwell looked good for both Bateman and the others. But unless he was giving a Dustin Hoffman job of acting, it wasn’t likely that Earl could have avoided some sort of DNA trail. No blood. No hair. No semen. No fabric samples.

In the case of Bateman, most leads were dead ends. A couple of guys she testified against had concrete alibis. The guy from the laundromat had an unimpeachable alibi. Death. No alibi for Baskins, who may have resented her spying on him, if he knew. But the sexual aspect didn’t fit and he didn’t appear to be strong enough – even without a neck brace – to be that dominant. Then again, a flashlight to the head of the victim goes a long way in the domination department.

According to McClellan’s notes and the conversation they had after the interview, it was possible Ezra Blackburn could have done it; but how would he have known about the engraving? As a former insurance investigator, maybe Blackburn had some official connections somewhere. Any one of a number of cops who were first on the scene and could have taken a close enough look to describe the rose tattoo. The medical examiner’s office, maybe.

The silly charge that McClellan himself could have been involved should have been resolved quickly by getting the measurements of the skylight the intruder dropped through. McClellan’s girth would have been a pretty tight fit. This wouldn’t have been a McClellan choice for an entrance. He wasn’t exactly in shape for Olympic gymnastics.

Apparently some members of the task force implied that a cop would be smart enough to set up something like that. Pick the lock on the front door. Break the skylight to suggest that was the point of entry and avert suspicion. It still didn’t fit.

Who did that leave? Someone Julia Bateman knew? Seidman? He could easily have known about the engraving. They had a relationship, of sorts. He’d be smart enough to know how to destroy the evidence. He could have a real kinky side. A lot of people did.

Who else? Not Paul Chang. Surely.

Why? For what purpose? To take over the business? Murders have been done for less. Even so it didn’t work. On the other hand, judging by the photos Chang took, the books he owned and the clippings he saved, Paul wasn’t one hundred percent out of the running. Chang seemed like such a likable, wholesome guy. Maybe he was just an artist attempting to document our violent times. Sweet guy, right. On the other hand, Jeffrey Dahmer convinced a Milwaukee cop that a naked, fleeing, bleeding Cambodian youth was actually the other half of a mere, slight domestic quarrel. Ted Bundy was a genuine charmer. The Menendez kids didn’t look mean enough to blow their parents to smithereens. Not every mad dog looked and acted like Charlie Manson.

Gratelli picked up the phone. Called Paul Chang. He didn’t know what he would say. Maybe he would talk to him about the symbolism of engraving a flower on the inside of victims’ thighs. Maybe he’d have Paul Chang keep track of Earl Falwell. Mix it up.

As Gratelli prepared to leave a message after Chang’s recorded message advised of his inaccessibility, Gratelli flipped through the photos. He had pretty much avoided them before, especially the photographs of the killer’s etchings which were carved high on the victims’ inner thighs. It had seemed to him, even with all his years in the police force, to be a prurient thing for him to do, an invasion of privacy oddly more repulsive by the fact that all of them were dead. Except for Julia.