Michael Prescott - Riptide

“What the heck is an electric car?” Maura asked, reading over Jennifer’s shoulder

Sirk answered. “A trolley. They were the principal means of local transportation at the time.”

The second article was on a new subject.

The Los Angeles Express, August 7, 1908. Venice-of-America. Questions have been raised pertaining to the disappearance of Annette Thurmond, a young woman commonly known in the strand as the “flower girl,” because she customarily sells bouquets of flowers outside the Auditorium…. The supposition is that Miss Thurmond, who had often spoken of plying her trade in San Diego, may have departed for that city on a whim….

“It looks like nobody really gave a damn,” Maura said.

“Quite right,” Sirk agreed. “In a bustling young community there were higher priorities then a few disappearances. Even if crime had been suspected, it would hardly do to advertise the fact and possibly damage the tourist trade.”

The first two items have been dated 1908. The third was the following year.

The Los Angeles Daily Times, March 18, 1909. Venice-of-America. There is much speculation among the idly curious about the disappearances of three or four young ladies of dissolute character over the past two months. Wild rumors and exaggerated conjecture have been patiently addressed by the police authorities, who are of the mind that such women are habitually on the move, rarely sojourning in one community for very long. With the regrettable decline of the strand’s business activity in recent months, it is hardly surprising that some of the parasitic class who require a steady supply of tourists and sightseers would seek out more hospitable climes….

“Three or four women,” Jennifer said. “And that doesn’t include the victims in the first two reports.”

“If they were victims,” Sirk observed.

The makeup artist powdered Sirk’s ears, then stepped away. Sirk untied the bib around his neck and inspected his countenance in the mirror.

“Excellent work, Helen. Whoever said the camera never lies must have been unfamiliar with your magic arts.”

Helen left the room without a word.

The next two stories were datelined Santa Monica and its southernmost neighborhood, Ocean Park.

The Los Angeles Herald, November 5, 1909. Santa Monica. The family of Mrs. John Wright are requesting the assistance of the public in determining her whereabouts. Mrs. Wright, known familiarly as Kathleen, was last seen at the fruit and vegetable market at the end of the Long Wharf, early on Wednesday morning. One witness says he saw her speaking with a dark-complected man of medium height, but as this witness is a vagrant known for his intimate familiarity with the bottle, the authorities are disinclined to credit his report….

The Santa Monica Outlook, May 17, 1910. Ocean Park. A woman’s screams were reported by residents of the 400 block of Pier Avenue last night at about 10 o’clock. Investigating officers found no signs of disturbance and believe the sounds in question may have been drunken laughter….

“That one could be nothing,” Maura said. Jennifer nodded. She flipped to the next pages.

The Los Angeles Sunday Times, October 16, 1910. Venice-of-America. A tourist from Cedar Rapids, Iowa, Mrs. Thomas Mayhew, has been reported missing by her husband. Authorities fear that Mrs. Mayhew, an inexpert swimmer, may have drowned in the heavy surf off Venice Beach. As yet, her body has not been found…

The Los Angeles Examiner, March 3, 1911. Venice-of-America. Employers of Miss Mary Hatton are concerned for her welfare after her repeated failure to report for her duties at the bathing pavilion, where she worked as a towel girl in the women’s changing rooms. Miss Hatton, described by her employers as “a little thing and rather delicate,” was well liked by the ladies who frequent the pavilion….

The Venice Vanguard, June 3, 1911. Venice-of-America. The police of this city are inquiring into the disappearance of Mrs. Ronald Paynter, wife of a businessman who recently purchased a home on Park Avenue after relocating from Glendale. Mrs. Paynter vanished more than a month ago, but her husband at first chose to retain a private investigator in hope of locating her. These efforts having failed, he has belatedly brought the matter to the attention of police. By now the trail is believed to be quite cold….

There were no other reports. The articles ran from the beginning of 1908 to the early summer of 1911. Viewed all at once, they suggested a rash of disappearances, but spread over three and a half years, in more than one community, and involving women of varying ages, backgrounds, and social positions, they would not have suggested an epidemic at the time-especially in an era when the very concept of a serial killer was barely understood.

It was doubtful that all these women had been Edward Hare’s victims. Perhaps the unfortunate Mrs. Mayhew really had drowned in the surf, and perhaps Mrs. Paynter had run away with another man-which would explain why her husband tried to keep the matter confidential. But it was a safe bet that some of the half-dozen skeletons in the cellar had been named in these newspaper accounts.

Marianne Sorensen…Annette Thurmond…Kathleen Wright… Mary Hatton.

Names for the moldering bones in the crypt. Names that made them people, not just relics.

Names…

“You see something,” Sirk said.

She glanced up and caught him watching her reflection in the mirror.

“No, not really.”

“You’re prevaricating, Jennifer. I saw it in your face-recognition. Of what?”

“Just an idea that occurred to me. I don’t know if it means anything.”

“Why not share it with the rest of the class?”

“I’m not sure it’s worth sharing.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

Abberline had said nearly the same thing to her. Perhaps Sirk really was the faceless man on the Internet. She wouldn’t put it past him.

“I’ll tell you when I’m ready.” She slipped the papers back into the envelope. “I appreciate your help, but this is something I need to handle on my own.”

“Oh, I hardly think that answer is satisfactory.” Sirk heaved himself out of the barber’s chair. “As Maura can attest, I never do anything out of the goodness of my heart. I believe I suffer from the same congenital malady as Dr. Seuss’s Grinch, who, as you may recall, was born with a heart two sizes too small. As with any good deed that emanates from my person, there is a quid pro quo. I’ve helped you, and now you are to help me.”

“Help you how?”

“By telling me the rest of your story, of course.” He stepped closer, and Jennifer smelled alcohol on his breath. “No more secrecy, no more evasions. You and I are partners now.”

Maura waved a hand. “Hold on, Harrison. All I ever asked you to do was talk to my friend. I wasn’t trying to midwife some kind of business arrangement.”

“And yet you have done so, without even trying. Such is your skill as a businesswoman.”

Jennifer stood her ground. “I’m not going to tell you anything more.”

“I didn’t engage my research assistants in a full day of work for a rather hefty fee merely to get nothing in return.”

Maura snorted. “You don’t pay your research assistants a hefty fee. You pay them squat.”

“How can you possibly claim to know that?”

“Because I know you . You’re a cheap bastard.”

“And you are a purveyor of dirt. That’s all real estate is, ultimately. You’ve built your life on dirt.”

“You’ve built yours on blood,” Jennifer said, while Maura stepped back, speechless for once.

Sirk wheeled in her direction. “I would be careful, Miss Silence, about leveling such an accusation. Given your family history.”