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

He went to the door.

Gratelli looked at the clock – 1:10 a.m. He wondered why he was awake. Then he remembered the dream. It was Mickey. The dream was a replay. Gratelli walked into the bathroom, and there was Mickey crawling out of the tub. The side of his head had been blown off. His white shirt was soaked scarlet. He cursed in much the same manner as he had when his bowl of noodles were cold or the traffic was snarled.

‘Fuck, can’t I do anything right?’

‘Damn,’ Gratelli said. Was there more to it? If there was, Gratelli didn’t want to know. It was clear to Gratelli that he’d been bothered by McClellan’s death more than he cared to admit. He’d been slacking, too. Coasting. All he really had to do these days, besides a few court appearances on previous busts, was Bateman. And he wasn’t sure where to go with what little he knew.

He rarely let things get to him. Something was getting to him now. It was some damned combination of Bateman and McClellan.

Once he got a new partner, Gratelli thought, the cases would begin to flow. He’d be back in the swing. Things would return to normal.

Paul had eventually given up on the tea and had three – or was it four – Singhas. A positive belief in the future – as required by their initial toast – needed a little reinforcement. It wasn’t clear that either was convinced.

He’d walked Julia back to her place, arriving there by ten, going immediately to this address on Stanyan. He had a photo of Earl Falwell, the person who lived there. The likeness showed pockmarks and dull eyes on an otherwise average Caucasian face. This was probably the ugliest picture of the kid ever taken. There was no such thing as a looker on a mug shot – unless you use your imagination.

The stake out on Falwell held little promise, Gratelli told him. It was true the killings had stopped while Earl Falwell was incarcerated. But it was also true Earl Falwell had been out long enough to renew his efforts if he were the one. Maybe the killer had long since moved to some other part of the country or the world and continued his nasty ritual where the connections wouldn’t be made. Maybe the killer was dead. Killed himself. Not an improbable end to this kind of thing.

Bateman’s may have been a separate crime in any event. Certainly, the occurrence in that cabin that night was different from the others, perhaps different enough to change the killer, to alter the patterns, to force him to stop or move on or completely change his procedure. Hell maybe the killer was dead.

Julia Bateman had gone to bed. Then, too restless to sleep, she got back up, put on a robe and paced. The dinner had gone well. A few beers and the restaurant took on a golden glow. The exotic smells, the mix of people, the music and chatter – all made her feel alive again. But a little anxious. By the time they were ready to leave, a light, drizzly fog moved in and they walked back.

Maybe she shouldn’t have had the coffee. Maybe it was the time change. Jet lag. Whatever it was, she was on edge. She had put on some music. Every CD she tried irritated her. Too fast. Too slow. Too romantic. Too cold. She picked up a thick Margaret Atwood paperback; but it proved too complex for a mind that seemed to flit around like a butterfly. She shut out light. Maybe she could sleep now.

The steam radiators had caught up with the chill. Now she felt hot. The room seemed stuffy. No air conditioning. She went to the windows, pulled the lever down and pushed out, her body leaning out over the fire escape. She caught the cold breath of a summer night in the city. She caught movement across narrow Ivy Street – an indistinct figure in the window. It took a moment to realize what he was doing there. What had been discomfort now had a dark, eerie edge. She recognized the symptoms of panic creeping into her mind. She took a deep breath. She shut the window, pulled the shade down.

She picked up the phone and dialed Paul.

‘Thanks for calling,’ came the response. ‘I am not available at the moment. If you’ll leave your name and number and a brief message, I’ll return the call as quickly as I can.’

‘Paul,’ she said in the loudest whisper. Then, realizing it was a little foolish, she spoke in a nearly normal voice. ‘Paul, pick it up. Please.’

She repeated herself, waited. Nothing. She thought about going down the hall. She had a key. No. She was over-reacting. She thought about calling the police. No, no. She wasn’t ready for an all-nighter and the questions.

It wasn’t the killer. He wasn’t in the window for her. Was he? Then who? He was in the window before she got there. He couldn’t have known she was going to open the window. Had he even noticed?

Julia went to the kitchen, found a bottle of white rum and discovered the half-empty bottle of tonic water in the fridge. It was several months old. It had to be flat. She’d try to settle her nerves. First day back and it felt like the day had gone on for weeks.

Julia went to the window again, peeked from the side of the shade. He was still there. She didn’t want to be alone. She didn’t want to go out into the night. The alcohol hit her stomach like peroxide on an open cut. Had she made a mistake by coming back?

Iowa wasn’t the answer. But was coming here a solution? She didn’t know. She didn’t have answers. She wasn’t sure she understood the questions. And all of that frightened her almost as much as the peeping Tom.

Earl went out his door, crept from the rear of the three-story Victorian, down the narrow walkway between the houses, toward Stanyan. He didn’t venture far enough to be seen in the hazy glow of the street lamps. No life on the street that he could see. He scanned the row of parked cars. The drizzle had coated most of the windows so it was difficult to tell if there was an occupant in any of them. He watched for some sign of movement.

He was familiar with most of the cars – a couple of them he had thought about hot wiring and just taking off. Maybe for San Antonio or Atlanta. Some place totally new. Away from the cops and the phone calls.

There was a tan Toyota he hadn’t recalled seeing before. And there was a VW bug. The windows were fogged. Either someone had just parked it or someone was in it.

Just as he focused in on what would be the driver’s window, a hand swiped across it. It startled Earl. His body lurched involuntarily. Someone was watching. Could be a couple making out or talking after a date, Earl thought. Could be someone was watching him. Could be the guy who was calling him now. A guy with a cell phone.

Anyone who had staked out Earl’s place would know any movement would have to be on Stanyan. No way to watch from the rear. And it would be difficult for anyone leaving from the back to go anywhere but the front to leave. No alleys. No paths in the back.

The late night drizzle coated Earl’s flesh. His fear turned to anger. Then, like some sort of electrical charge, he became confident. If someone were stalking him, he’d turn the tables. It was as if his brain was lit. He had a feeling similar to the one he had with his young victims. Heartbeat increased, brain cleared, sharp. The excitement was also sexual as it had become for that guy in the Panhandle. This was even better. Earl Falwell had reached some sort of new level.

This was exciting. Danger. A contest. Putting his own life on the line. The scared killer who preyed on weak, unsuspecting young girls was history.

Paul’s cat investigated the newly cleaned window, crawling on Paul’s lap, moving up on his shoulder. Paul swiped at the window again. He thought he saw something move near the house he was watching. It was taller than the ferns that seemed to wall the space between the buildings.

‘I did a really stupid thing,’ Paul said to his cat. He wished the mark he’d made on the window would fog up quickly. He blew on the space that had been cleared.