Michael Prescott - Riptide

“He cheated on me. And he didn’t much care if I found out. Actually I think he wanted me to find out.”

“That’s crazy. Richard’s not like that.”

“Yeah, kiddo. He is. And it wasn’t a one-time thing. A few months later I ran into another gal who was with him before I came into the picture. Guess what? He cheated on her, too.”

“You’re saying it was a pattern?”

Maura nodded. “He wasn’t interested in a long-term relationship. In fact I’d say he was terrified of it. Didn’t you ever wonder why he went through so many girlfriends?”

“He was popular-a good-looking guy, smart, a doctor-”

“Amen to all that. But he was also a guy who never had a relationship that lasted more than three or four months. Am I right?”

Jennifer thought about it. “Probably. I mean, it’s not as if I ever quizzed him on his love life.”

“I didn’t have to quiz him. I lived it. Here’s the deal, Jen. He sabotaged his relationships. When they started to get serious, he went out and found himself a new girl, and made sure it didn’t stay a secret. And as long as I’m being brutally honest, I’ll tell you something else. He enjoyed it.”

“Enjoyed…what?”

“Humiliating me. And the others. He got a kick out of it.”

“No way. He would never…”

“Your brother has issues with women, and they started long before he showed any symptoms of schizophrenia.”

There was that word again, the word Casey had used in discussing Draper. Issues .

But of course Richard had issues. How could it be otherwise? Growing up fatherless in the House of Silence, enduring constant run-ins with their mother, hiding in his room and nursing grudges…

Throughout his life he’d dated women who were slightly older. Mother figures. With each new relationship he was trying to heal the breach with his mother. And failing each time, because it was a breach that couldn’t be healed.

Then lashing out, finding a new lover and humiliating the one who’d disappointed him. A compulsive pattern.

She was trained in psychology. She should have seen it long ago. Only, she hadn’t wanted to see it.

When Richard’s illness began to change him, did his resentment of women metamorphose into rage? Into violence?

“I’m sorry I had to tell you,” Maura said. “I never wanted to. But with all that’s happening, maybe it’s for the best if you know.”

“Nothing about this is for the best.”

“You need to bring in the police.”

“Not yet.”

“If he’s dangerous, he could come after you .”

“He wouldn’t,” she said, thinking of the open gate, the shoe print on her windowsill, the misplaced files.

“You don’t know what he’s capable of. You don’t know him. You only know what you want him to be. Not what he is.”

Jennifer felt a sting of tears. “Stop.”

“Promise you’ll go to the cops.”

“Not until I’m sure.”

“By then it could be too late.”

“He won’t hurt me. He would never hurt me. He saved-he saved my-” She couldn’t talk about this. “He’s not a killer.”

Maura took her hand. “Kiddo, I hope you’re right.”

The TV studio was on the twelfth floor of a Sunset Boulevard high-rise. The receptionist cleared Jennifer and Maura, then directed them to a small makeup room, where Sirk was seated grandly in a barber’s chair, “enduring the ministrations of my cosmetician.” The cosmetician in question, a petite redhead, was dabbing liquid foundation on Sirk’s face. “She is a genius in her way,” Sirk added. “With her charms and spells this wee sorceress can almost conceal the ravages of my debauched life.”

The makeup artist showed a diplomatic smile, but her eyes were flat. Jennifer had the impression she didn’t like Sirk. Given his behavior yesterday, it was easy enough to guess why.

“Hi, Harrison,” Maura said cheerfully. She, at least, genuinely enjoyed his company.

“Good morning to you both. I hadn’t expected to be graced by your dual presence.”

Maura spread her hands. “You know me. Always up for an adventure.”

“Yes, you are the Marguerite Harrison of our day. Remarkable woman, Marguerite Harrison, and I don’t say that merely because we share a name in common. Have you heard of her? No? What about you, dear?”

The question was directed at the makeup artist, who shook her head and busied herself rubbing in the foundation, perhaps a bit more aggressively than necessary.

“Marguerite was an explorer who ventured into Kurdish territory, following a nomadic tribe’s migration. Before that, she served as a spy, an actual spy , twice imprisoned by the Russians, once nearly executed for her pains.”

“I doubt I can match her exploits,” Maura said, “though driving in L.A. is a little risky.”

Jennifer wasn’t interested in Sirk’s banter. “Maura says you found something.”

“Why, yes. I have news .” He pronounced the word as if he could taste it and liked the flavor. “What you told me-and even more so, what you declined to tell-put me on the scent of a good story. Another book, perhaps.”

“I’m not interested in a book.”

“But I am. Books are my bread and butter, and”-he patted his ample lap-“I require considerable quantities of both. And so I investigated the early years of Abbot Kinney’s Venice for news accounts of missing women. Actually, I should not say that I investigated it. Grunt work of that sort is what archival researchers are for. I put two of them on the case, combing through microfilm copies of old newspapers.”

“What did they find?”

“There was a series of unexplained disappearances of young females during the appropriate time period. Of course, careful records were not kept back then, and police resources were limited. Few inquiries were made. It is quite likely that some of the women in question simply left town for one reason or another. Flighty creatures, women-Marguerite Harrison to the contrary notwithstanding. They are always getting it in their empty heads to run off somewhere.”

The makeup artist managed to brush some powder a little too close to Sirk’s eyes, producing momentary irritation. “Sorry,” she deadpanned.

“At any rate,” Sirk continued when he had wiped his eyes with a pocket square, “I can’t vouch for any criminal implications to these disappearances, but some of them could be deemed suspicious. You’ll see why when you read the reports.”

“You have them with you?” Jennifer asked.

“My researchers printed out the relevant pages and made copies. Said copies are in my attache case. Unclasp it and you’ll find a manila envelope.”

Jennifer retrieved the envelope. It felt disappointingly light. There weren’t many pages inside.

“They didn’t find much,” Sirk said as if reading her thoughts. “The stories were not given much play. There was a great deal of crime in Venice and surrounding areas in those halcyon days, and only the juiciest tidbits made the headlines. A missing woman, who was inconsiderate enough not to leave behind any bloodstains or shredded undergarments for public titillation, was strictly small beer. Still, you’ll find names, locations, and dates. Take a look. And keep them in order, please. They are arranged chronologically.”

Jennifer pulled out the contents of the envelope. Eight pages in all. The articles, brief items from the inside pages of the newspapers, were circled in red ink on the photocopies. She read the first one.

The Los Angeles Examiner, January 16, 1908. Venice-of-America. Police authorities are making inquiries relative to the unexplained disappearance of Marianne Sorensen, a waitress presently employed at St. Mark’s Hotel. Miss Sorenson is described as twenty years of age, with dark brown hair, regular features, and a compact figure, standing slightly below medium height. She was last seen boarding a northbound electric car at about five o’clock Tuesday evening. The car was to have delivered her to the vicinity of Dimmick Avenue, where she had been staying with friends. She did not arrive, and has not been seen in subsequent days. It is conjectured that because she had a recent falling out with her boyfriend, she may have done herself harm….