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

The fall opera had opened. It was Gratelli’s reprieve. He missed opening night on purpose. He wasn’t interested in the minor spectacle of the first gala of the season. Gratelli went to the opera as most people went to the movies. Often and without fanfare, with the expectation that he’d be entertained, lifted from reality for two hours or so. Pure escape. The difference might be that he was destined to see the same operas over and over again. There were very few new ones. And those few he didn’t like. At least he would see each old opera anew; different sets, different talent, different interpretation. That gave him comfort. Tonight, Rigoletto . He’d seen it a half dozen times. Maybe more. Once in Milan at the Teatro Alla Scalla . The rest here over the years.

At intermission, Gratelli was convinced of two things. One, he had never been so hot. The city was suffering from one of its occasional heat waves. Two, this was as good a Rigoletto as he’d ever seen, including the one in Milan. This was an appropriate dark and brooding performance. It mirrored his mood.

Thaddeus Maldeaux was in the lobby. A young woman, girl perhaps – someone who had the waifish charm of the young Calvin Klein model reclining on a sofa – stood near Maldeaux’s arm and seemed to be the sole object of his attention. The other two in the party looked more art than finance. A slightly bohemian man with a beard and a younger man with longish hair whose opera attire consisted of a white t-shirt and a pair of blue jeans.

In one swoop, Maldeaux pulled a cream-colored silk handkerchief from the side pocket of his dark suit coat and ran it across his forehead, back of his neck, and over his chin. He slipped it back in his jacket pocket.

The lights flickered and the crowd went to their seats. Gratelli’s eyes followed Maldeaux. Maldeaux sat with the two men. The waif was down from them, third row center, apparently by herself.

Gratelli would listen to the opera now, but he was distracted. His eyes were on Maldeaux.

Gratelli had probably brushed against, bumped elbows with, or passed the sugar to any number of celebrities he didn’t know. North Beach was and is a magnet for the rich and famous. And for the poor and famous as well. There were tourist traps here for the tourists. But there were legitimate landmarks that were little more than utilitarian for Gratelli. To him, City Lights was merely the neighborhood bookstore. Specs and Tosca and the two dozen or so legendary bars and espresso joints may be haunted by beat literary ghosts and current literary and film folks, but Gratelli saw them as neighborhood bars and coffee shops. Sure, he knew there were national and international celebrities who could be seen at Enrico’s and had been for decades. Gratelli rarely recognized them and felt no different for having passed close to their orbit.

So there was another reason for the excitement in Gratelli’s bones as he angled toward Thaddeus Maldeaux inside Tosca. More of a crowd had gathered around him.

What Gratelli had to do would be difficult, but not impossible.

‘Mr Maldeaux,’ Gratelli said, squeezing between the handsome young heir and a dark man with a beard. Fortunately, the androgynous model type was pressing against Maldeaux’s left side.

‘Inspector?’ Maldeaux said surprised. ‘The man who refused one of my great breakfasts. How are you?’

‘Good. Excellent. Saw you at Rigoletto ,’ Gratelli said, the slightly arthritic fingers of his left hand lifting the right flap of Maldeaux’s suit jacket.

‘And you followed me here?’ Maldeaux asked with humor. ‘What did I do? Talk too loud during an aria?’

‘I live just up this way.’

‘Didn’t know you fancied opera,’ Maldeaux said. He introduced Gratelli to the bearded man and handsome but aloof young man – a director and actor. Gratelli thought the names familiar, but couldn’t place them exactly. The young man in jeans and ponytail was at the bar. No one introduced the girl.

Only after Gratelli pocketed the pilfered handkerchief did he see her clearly. See the smart and hungry eyes of a woman much older than her face.

‘Opera is one of the few things I fancy. A sad statement actually. Opera is my TV,’ Gratelli said.

‘We were talking about the great tenors,’ Maldeaux said. ‘I bet you’ve heard them all, then.’

‘A few.’ Gratelli smiled. He was so unused to social pleasantry, his own smile felt evil and twisted. ‘I was young and heard Jussi Bjorling. Franco Corelli. And what’s his name, now, the new one, Carreras.’

‘The new one,’ Maldeaux laughed. ‘How about Tito Gobbi?’

‘Baritone, I think.’

‘Yes, he was. He was.’ Maldeaux said. ‘See how quickly I get out of my depth.’

‘I’m going to move along now,’ Gratelli said, offering a paler version of his earlier smile. He wondered if Maldeaux would notice he had left the bar without so much as a drink.

He saw her from the cab. It was daybreak. The heat broke about four a.m. Now it was gray, damp. Julia Bateman was on Thaddeus Maldeaux’s front doorstep. There was a blue Miata parked in front. Behind it was a Taurus. Maldeaux thought he recognized Gratelli behind the wheel.

‘Julia?’ Thaddeus Maldeaux said, coming up to her. ‘My God.’ He looked past her toward the street. No one else.

‘Hello Thaddeus. Another late night?’ The tone was clear.

He seemed surprised by it. ‘Come in,’ he said opening the door and stepping inside. She followed. ‘Should we… Inspector Gratelli?’

‘No. I’ve asked him to wait outside.’

‘How are you?’ Before she could answer, he suggested they go out to the back. ‘Can I get you something?’ he asked as they traversed the hall and passed by the door to the kitchen. ‘Coffee?’

‘No. That’s all right.’ She was curt, cool.

Outside it was damp. Cool.

He offered her a seat at one of the marble-topped tables, one next to the pot dripping with luscious leaves and purple flowers. The purple flowers were everywhere, filling the ledge, which was formed by the short wall that enclosed nearly the entire balcony. The only opening was for the stone stairway that led down on to the back lawn.

Julia didn’t sit. She didn’t say anything.

‘I’m glad you’re here, Julia. But I’ve got to confess I don’t know why you’re here. You’ve been ignoring me. I assumed… well… You don’t look like you want to be here. Is there some way I can help you?’

‘No.’

‘What?’

‘Here,’ she said, pulling out the handkerchief, letting it drop on the table.

Maldeaux picked it up.

‘What’s this?’

‘This is why I’m here. To return your handkerchief. See you without your mask on. You needed to do it just once, didn’t you? One more experience in your search? To see what it was like to kill someone while having sex? Afraid you’d miss some life experience that you were no doubt entitled to because you are you.’

‘What are you talking about? Has something happened?’

‘I will never forget that scent.’

Maldeaux took the handkerchief, brought it up to his nose. He didn’t answer.

‘Well, you failed.’

Maldeaux shrugged. He had a little boy’s sadness on his face. ‘I’ve failed what?’

‘I’m alive. You killed no one.’ She wondered what was wrong with her. Every man… What did it matter now?

‘You think…’

‘I know. And I don’t even have to ask why. The sad thing is you’ll never be convicted of it. Your money, your power, your charm. Not to mention the fact that you were a pretty clever rapist. Left nothing behind but your scent. So lingering I could never, ever forget it. Yet so insubstantial no one would give it a thought.’