Michael Prescott - Riptide

“Who’s Josh?”

“My surfing busboy. Come on, girl, try to keep up.”

“You just met him last night, and already he’s buying you presents?”

“He didn’t exactly buy it. A former girlfriend left it at his place. But he did give it to me.”

“How sweet,” Jennifer said dubiously.

“I thought so. It’s amazing how a little thing like a blow job can bring out the romance in a man.”

Despite Jennifer’s misgivings, they reached the third floor without incident. The manager was standing by Richard’s door, a heavy set of keys jingling in his hand. “I shouldn’t do this,” he said.

“Of course you should,” Maura countered. “This is the guy’s sister. And I’m a big wheel in the neighborhood. You should do whatever we say.”

The man thought about contesting the matter, then seemed to decide he didn’t give a shit. With a shrug he unlocked the door.

Jennifer entered first. “Richard?”

“He ain’t here.” The manager made a phlegmatic noise. “Ain’t been around since the last time you saw him. If he abandons the place, I’m entitled to sell his stuff.”

“You’re not selling anything,” Maura warned.

“He don’t come back, I can rent out his unit. That’s all I’m saying. He still owes me for this month’s rent.”

Jennifer pulled out her wallet and found a blank check. “I’ll pay it.” She plucked a pen from his shirt pocket and filled it out. “There. Satisfied?”

“That covers March, but what about next month?”

“We’ll cross that bridge if we have to.”

The manager blew out a wheezy sigh. “My luck, he’ll show up again. Just when I thought I was rid of that freak.”

Maura’s face was hard. “Get the hell out of here.”

“I should stay with you while you-”

“ Go .”

He went. Maura closed the door after him. When she turned back, Jennifer caught her expression, the shocked sadness in her eyes. This was the first time she had seen the way Richard lived now.

“Pretty bad, huh?” Jennifer said.

Maura dropped her gaze. “Yeah. Pretty bad.” Her voice was small. “Is he…happy? I mean, ordinarily?”

“I don’t think he’s ever happy. I don’t think he can be.” She picked up a book from a disorderly pile, glancing at the cover. Something about government conspiracies. “Schizophrenia tends to dull the affect. Cancels out the pleasure center in the brain. The patient feels fear, rage-negative emotions. But not happiness. It’s called anhedonia.”

The book was from the Santa Monica Public Library-the main branch, some distance away. He really was more mobile than she’d thought.

“So where are these papers we’re looking for?” Maura asked.

“No idea. I’m just assuming he keeps them here. I don’t know where else they could be.”

Jennifer opened drawers in the living room and kitchen, finding nothing. From the bedroom Maura called, “File cabinet in here.”

The bedroom was neater than the living room, but the musty smell was worse. And there was another odor, one Jennifer couldn’t identify.

The file cabinet stood in a corner. Maura was tugging on the handle of the top drawer. “Locked.”

“That’s got to be where he stashed them. We just need the key.”

A thorough search turned up no keys in the apartment. “How about this?” Maura lifted a butter knife from the kitchen sink.

“What good does that do us?”

“It gives us leverage. Give me a lever long enough and a place to stand, yadda yadda.”

Maura inserted the blade between the cabinet drawer and the frame. She pushed up, straining. Jennifer thought of the lock on her gate, the tool inserted into the keyhole.

Maura gave a final push, and the drawer clattered open. It was empty.

“Shit,” Maura murmured.

With the top drawer open, the bottom offered no resistance. She slid it forward. Nothing was inside.

“We’re coming up snake eyes, kiddo. But he had something in here.”

Jennifer saw wisps and shavings of paper scattered inside the drawer, and a few loose paperclips and bent staples. “He must have moved them.”

“Why would he do that?”

“We talked about the papers the other day. He was very paranoid about them. And last night, on the phone, he evaded my question when I asked about them.”

“You talked to him on the phone? Is he okay?”

“He’s never okay.” She looked around the bedroom, trying to imagine what Richard would have done with the documents. Her glance fell on a metal wastebasket used as a doorstop.

The bottom of the basket was dark with a coat of ash. Slivers of charred paper clung to the sides.

“He burned them.” The unidentifiable smell was the lingering odor of smoldering paper and scorched metal.

“All your family records? A whole file cabinet’s worth?”

“Looks that way.”

“Just because he was paranoid?”

“Or because he was covering something up.”

“Like what?”

Jennifer looked at her. “Crimes,” she said.

She sat with Maura in Richard’s living room, explaining it all. She left nothing out. She talked about the note on her windshield, the unsolved murders, Richard’s paranoia about the wanted posters. The contents of the diary, and the confirmation of the essential elements of Edward Hare’s tale by an online source. The family history, and how Richard’s illness and her father’s might be traceable to Edward Hare.

“So you’re telling me,” Maura said when she was through, “you’re Jack the Ripper’s great-granddaughter?”

Jennifer rubbed her forehead, fighting a headache. “I hadn’t thought of it exactly like that.”

“I don’t know, kiddo. Sounds like you’re reaching.”

“You didn’t read the diary.”

“The diary might not be what it’s cracked up to be. And you can’t be sure your ancestor wrote it.”

“The house goes back a long way in our family. I know my great-grandparents lived there.”

“Were they the original occupants?”

“I don’t know. The family papers might have told me. Why would Robert burn them unless there was something in them he needed to cover up?”

“He’s irrational. He could’ve torched the papers for any number of reasons. He could’ve done it just because you were asking about them.”

“So you think I’m overreacting?” She hoped so. She wanted to believe she was making too much of this.

But Maura disappointed her. “Given everything that’s happened-and especially that creepy note you found on your car-I’d say you might not be reacting enough.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means it’s time to call the cops.”

“No, I can’t do that.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because if I’m wrong, I’ll have exposed Richard to all kinds of trouble. Legal trouble. They could lock him up. If not for any crimes, then just for being a danger to himself and others.”

“Maybe he is a danger.”

“But we don’t know that. Not for certain. And there’s a chance he’d resist arrest. He’s not thinking clearly, he’s sure everyone’s out to get him. He could fight the police if they try to bring him in. He could be killed.”

“If he’s responsible for even one of those unsolved homicides, then you need to get him off the street before someone else is killed.”

“He’s my brother. I’m supposed to take care of him. I’ve always taken care of him.”

“It might be time you stopped.”

“That’s the second time you’ve said that today.”

“Yeah, and it didn’t go over so hot the first time, did it? Even so, loyalty to your bro only goes so far.”

Jennifer touched her left arm. “Not for me it doesn’t. For me it goes all the way.” She took a breath, knowing she had to ask the question she’d been dreading. “Why did you leave him?”