Michael Prescott - Riptide

“Haven’t seen him,” he said.

His companion snorted. “You ain’t seen shit since you lost your glasses.”

He grabbed the photo and regarded it coolly. His expression was unreadable. A triangular port-wine stain discolored the left side of his face from his forehead to his chin.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know this guy.”

“Do you know where I can find him?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“I’m his sister. I’m trying to help him.”

The man gazed at her with empty eyes. “I had a sister. I fucking hated her.” He handed back the photo.

“You won’t help me?”

“I think you should get going, lady.”

“If you could just give me some idea — ”

“Get lost.” His teeth flashed, yellow against his purple skin.

She wasn’t going to argue, not when she was surrounded by men with hate in their eyes.

“Thanks for your help,” she said bitterly. She turned away and walked directly toward the three men in front of her. This was the moment of maximum danger. If they refused to let her pass, she would be embroiled in a confrontation.

She was close enough to breathe the ripe tang of their body odor when they stepped aside. She kept walking, her heart pumping hard. She passed a few more tents and a shaky cardboard fort, and then she was in the clear. She kept going at a steady pace, afraid to run and perhaps draw pursuit. When she was a safe distance away, she glanced back and saw the same five men standing amid the tents, staring after her.

She’d taken a big chance. A stupid thing to do.

But she thought the man with the port-wine stain did know Richard, and maybe even knew where he was.

At home, she reviewed her notes from the interview with Sandra Price. She detached the pages from her notepad and spread them across the living room floor, organizing the cases by type: homicides, assaults, disappearances. The first homicide was eighteen months ago. That was around the time Richard stopped driving and sold his car. He had retreated into his apartment, or so she’d believed. But maybe not. Maybe even then he had started riding the bus or walking the streets.

But was it possible for someone without a car to carry out a series of attacks in different parts of town?

Of course it was. Edward Hare never had a car in London, and he’d done just fine. The Devil’s Henchman was believed to have traveled on foot, as well.

A man dripping with blood could hardly board an MTA bus. But these crimes weren’t bloody. Mary Ellison was dropped with a blow from a blunt instrument. Elizabeth Custer was strangled. Marilyn Diaz was asphyxiated by a plastic bag.

She still didn’t think the Diaz case was related. The other two were more worrisome, as were the assault on Ann Powell and the disappearance of Chatty Cathy.

It was possible that all four women were victimized by the same assailant. But nothing definite linked the cases. At times she almost thought she saw a pattern….

The phone shrilled. Richard could be calling again. She snatched the handset from the cradle on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Hey, kiddo.” Maura’s voice.

“Oh…it’s you.”

“You know, with greetings like that, a girl could get the feeling she’s not wanted.”

“Sorry. I’m kind of distracted.”

“Just messin’ with you. By the way, our surfer busboy hangs ten in the sack. And I mean that literally. I measured.”

Despite everything, Jennifer laughed.

“That’s it,” Maura said, “chortle at my love life.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it love .”

“It’ll do till the real thing comes knocking. Look, I just got a call from Harrison. He would’ve called you, but he misplaced your number. Which is typical. He can remember every detail of the Hillside Strangler case, but not where he left his car keys.”

“Why did he want to reach me?” she asked warily.

“Why the note of suspicion?”

“It’s just-I’m not sure I want to see him again.”

“You’re kidding. He’s a hoot.”

“I think by the end of our interview he was trying to feel me up.”

“Oh, sure, he’s a lech. But harmless. Anyway, this wasn’t a booty call. Whatever you told him got his curiosity piqued. He did some research and found disappearances of local gals in the right time frame.”

“Really?”

“He’ll be at the TV studio from eleven to two, taping his show. Said you should stop by, and he’ll hand over the goods. Be warned, through. He’ll probably grill you for more info. He’s like a bloodhound on a scent.”

Or a shark in the water, Jennifer thought. “What studio does he work at?”

“Some independent facility at Sunset and Cahuenga. If you don’t mind, I’d like to tag along. I want to see what Harrison’s found.”

“Okay. I’ll head over. But there’s a stop I have to make first.”

“Anyplace exciting?”

“Richard’s apartment.”

“To check on him?”

“Not exactly. He’s…well, he’s run away. I think he’s living on the street.”

“Then why are you going to his place?”

“There’s something of his I need to look at. Family papers. I’m hoping he keeps them there.”

“You have a key to his apartment?”

“No, he’s too paranoid to share. But I can get the manager to open up. At least I hope I can.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

“It’s not necessary.”

“If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s making people cooperate. The manager will be happy to let you in when I’m through with him.”

Jennifer gave her the address, hearing a sad little sigh. Maura had recognized it as an address in Dogtown, of course, and if Richard was living there, it meant he had fallen farther than she’d feared.

“You know, kiddo, I understand your feelings and all, but you do spend a hell of a lot of time looking after your brother.”

“And you think I shouldn’t?”

“I’m just saying family loyalty is not a suicide pact. At some point you have to live your life.”

Jennifer felt something inside her pull tight. “What do you know about loyalty? You abandoned Richard as soon as he started having problems.”

“Whoa, hold on.”

“I guess it wasn’t convenient for you to be with him anymore. His illness was cramping your style . What the hell, there are always more busboys to fuck.”

“Calm down, Jen. You don’t know what went on between your brother and me.”

“I know you walked out on him.”

“It’s not as if he didn’t give me a good reason.”

“What reason?”

“Look, I don’t want to talk about this over the phone.”

“Are you saying he abused you?” Until this moment the idea had never occurred to her.

“He never hit me, but…”

“But what?”

“There are other kinds of abuse.”

“What does that mean?”

“Why don’t we talk about it when we get together? That is, if you want to talk about it at all.”

The words lingered in Jennifer’s mind as she fixed breakfast, showered, and changed. She checked yesterday’s mail and found two business matters that required her urgent attention. She ignored them.

She was on her way out when the doorbell rang. Casey, in his street clothes.

“Hey.” She smiled, hoping his resentment had ebbed by now. “Shouldn’t you be at work? Or is this your day off?”

He didn’t return the smile. “I’m working the mid-PM watch. Ten to six-thirty.”

“Come on in.”

“No, thanks, Short Stuff. I don’t think I’m very welcome in your house.”

“Casey, I already apologized. And don’t call me Short Stuff.”

“I’m just here on business. Got two pieces of news. One good, one not so good.”