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

‘David calls him Teddy.’

‘Is he as dangerously exciting as we are led to believe or is he four-foot-eight with a toupée?’

‘Definitely bigger than life.’

‘Mmmmn,’ Paul said, trying to figure out what she was thinking.

‘Is he gay?’ he asked then thought for a moment. ‘Could he be bisexual?’

‘Don’t know. And it’s not my world anyway. I’m sounding pouty, aren’t I? What I mean is trying to become genuinely a part of that world would be like my trying to become a Hasidic Jew. I sprang from another culture altogether.’

‘Who says? People change their worlds all the time. Look at Whoopi. Look at the guy who married Martha Raye. Look at me, by all appearances you’d think I was Chinese or something.’

‘You are Chinese,’ she grinned.

‘Ah, but I’m not, I’m a Christian Reformed kid from Grand Rapids and that is the state of mind, far removed from China. I’m John Boy trapped in Charlie Chan’s body.’

‘Not really Chinese?’

‘Well, I’m not particularly reformed, but Bradley says I’m about as Chinese as potato salad. It’s true. Now tell me you don’t want to be famous, have the world buzzing about Julia Bateman? Your picture in Vanity Fair like Madonna or Sharon Stone or Heidi Fleiss?’

‘No, I’m afraid I’m not going to be your brush with fame.’

‘You never, never know. So have you seen our guy?’

‘What guy?’ Julia asked.

‘Why are you here? You enjoy staring at dilapidated brick buildings while the poor and indigent crawl from their Maytag box homes and greet the day with all the gusto of a slug? The reason you are here is one Samuel Baskins, victim or malingerer. Any sign of him?’

‘No.’

‘You want me to take over?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You were up late last night, I can tell.’

‘Do I look horrible?’

‘A little. I’ve brought a pad and I plan to do some sketches.’

‘A little romantic poverty?’

Thaddeus Maldeaux had breakfast with his mother. The grand old house was dusty and unkempt. The furniture was worn, frayed. The oils in their thick, ornate gold frames were dark from decades of neglect. Mother and son talked about the decline and death of afternoon papers. She also fretted about the Internet and how it was destroying journalism in general and newspapers in particular. Thaddeus tried to soothe her. Their company was prepared for the changes.

‘We’ll do fine,’ he said.

‘That’s not the point,’ she said. ‘Where will people get the truth? Now, just anybody with a computer can say whatever they like. Where will the truth be when this plague has completely swept over the world?’

Mrs Maldeaux was not a pretty woman. The thought had crossed Thaddeus’ mind that she was not even a handsome woman. She was short, stout and bosomless. The wattle under her chin seemed to match the waddle under her arms. Her rear end looked as if it had been flattened by the backside of a coal shovel.

Her husband, Andre Maldeaux, on the other hand, had killer looks and empty bank accounts. He wouldn’t have left Helen of his own accord. She was as devoted and possessive of him as she was of their son, Thaddeus. Andre was killed in an auto race in Europe. Fortunately, he didn’t injure his handsome face. He did, as the old line goes, make a great looking corpse. Thaddeus was terrified he’d have a daughter who favored his mother. Then again, he would rather have a daughter or a son who had her intelligence, her resolve, her ethics. She was truly a good woman despite what he said about her and often to her. He wished he were half as good. Like all true beauty, her kind of beauty only surfaces when people can see below the surface.

He showered, shaved. Living with his mother at his age! He smiled at the thought. He wiped a bit of steam from the mirror. There were things to do today – legal matters on Sansome, a board of directors meeting at the Transamerica building and property inspection south of Market. He would lunch there. Great little places, he thought, though he had only sampled a few.

Thaddeus looked in the mirror closely, examining the wrinkles around his eyes. He’d look twenty-eight if it weren’t for those little buggers, the spider webs around the eyes. The wind and weather he thought, then forgot about the wrinkles as he tried to determine which cologne he would use. The Prospera? The Romeo Gigli? Or his own, the plain bottle with his name and assigned number – the scent created for him in Paris. He chose the latter.

Other things to do? Perhaps the club. If he had time, he’d do some handball or tennis, get a rub down. There were times he played hard and long just to get the massage. Then, of course, there was Julia Bateman. He wasn’t sure what the attraction was. Was it simply because she was with David? No, he thought. He’d never found David’s choices in anything appealing before. He would see her again. Today, perhaps. He’d find a way.

Being the only one of the fourteen San Francisco homicide cops to actually live in the city, Gratelli easily got to the Twin Peaks hillside before McClellan. He had to pass a gaggle of joggers held fifty feet away from another crowd of cops and medics.

‘Anything?’ he asked the cop from General Works, the guy who called in.

‘Murder,’ the cop said. ‘That’s why we called you – thought you needed the overtime. And what do we have…’ He glanced at his notebook. ‘Neck broken. Sometime last night probably. So far, seems to fit with the others. No I.D. Pretty girl, looks a little rough around the edges. Not likely a society bimbo. But who knows? That’s why we have experts like you. You wanna see?’

The cop didn’t wait. He pulled the fabric down to reveal the entirety of the bluish, slender body, including the odd angle of the neck and head.

‘M.E. and Photo on their way.’

There was a little shuffling in the crowd and some cursing that Gratelli recognized as McClellan’s.

‘Cover the fucking thing up,’ McClellan said. ‘Jesus fucking Christ, I haven’t even had breakfast yet.’

‘Looks like she’s another pearl on your string,’ the cop said as he covered the face. ‘How many now?’

‘Who’s counting?’

‘They found another down on Highway One, San Gregorio,’ Gratelli told his partner McClellan.

‘Let’s see what we can get here,’ McClellan said. ‘Then let’s go to the beach.’ He looked around at the people. ‘What in the hell are we all doing walking on the fucking grass?’ He raised his hands to the sky as if only God could understand his frustration with mortals. ‘No fucking wonder we can’t cage this slime ball. We got people walking all over the fucking evidence.’

‘Watch your mouth,’ came a voice from the back. It was Lieutenant Broderick from General Works. ‘There are kids over there.’

‘Get the fucking kids outta here,’ McClellan said very quietly. ‘Then they won’t hear me say “fucking” all the time.’ He looked around. ‘What the hell are they doing here anyway? This isn’t the fucking Donna Reed Show, you know.’

‘And the press. Come on, McClellan. You’re a natural asshole, you don’t need to work so hard at it.’

‘I put a hundred percent into everything I do,’ McClellan said.

‘Eating, drinking…’ said the cop from General Works.

‘My belt size is my fucking business.’ McClellan grinned evilly. ‘Hell you check out homicide sometime. Not a belt under thirty-eight inches except for Gratelli and that fruit, Bushman.’

The cop shook his head, looked at Gratelli. ‘One of these days, they’re gonna change the rules and homicide cops won’t have lifetime appointments. You’d think you were the fucking Supreme Court or something.’