Good To The Last Kiss

ONE

Julia Bateman couldn’t help herself. She stole another glance. The object of her curiosity was Thaddeus Maldeaux. He sat across the table from her, down one seat. He was more striking in person than he was in the photographs published by the newspapers and magazines. She was not usually awed by celebrity or overwhelmed by the presence of another human being. It was a feeling that – at the moment – caused her discomfort.

David Seidman sat on her left chatting with matriarch Helen Maldeaux. Helen, most people in San Francisco knew, controlled the family who controlled large chunks of the nation’s banks and investment institutions and media, not to mention a few powerful politicians, many of whom had already passed by the table and engaged her in flattering conversation.

It was impossible not to know about the Maldeaux family. Thaddeus – Teddy to his friends – was son of Helen. Someone less rich and less charming, who behaved as he did, would not have been allowed too near polite society. At thirty-eight, he’d been married four times – each to an innocent, young heiress or social celebrity. His extra-marital affairs were, however, the most tantalizing. The women were media savvy and rarely innocent. You would find Teddy’s name in all the trendy magazines, often in Vanity Fair and Interview and Tatler. Occasionally in Time and Newsweek. Teddy’s cast off girl friends often ended up as shooting stars themselves – bright and brief luminescences in the night sky – for all of the media mentions.

A few kissed and told.

‘The frightening thing about Thad,’ one said, ‘is that he appears both masculine and intelligent.’ She also said that he had perfected the ‘dress-down’ look – the slightly frayed cuffs on his slightly over-sized shirts and the slightly wrinkled fabric of his shirts. One would have easily recognized the names of those who designed his clothing, but these were not off the rack and you wouldn’t see anything just like them on anyone else. ‘He spends a great deal to look like a handsome peasant,’ she told the magazine. ‘A handsome stylish peasant of course.’

Julia already knew that Thaddeus and David Seidman were friends, though Julia had not met him before this evening. Julia sensed that David wanted to protect her from him – perhaps wisely so. David and Thaddeus graduated from Stanford and received law degrees from Harvard in the same years. They were fiercely competitive, though there was no real contest. Teddy outperformed David in sports, spending, womanizing and intellect. David was from a wealthy family as well, though one would never know it. Few knew that the Seidmans possessed even more wealth, perhaps because they wielded their power and influence less publicly and with considerably less flourish.

While neither of them had to work, David chose public service whereas Teddy seemed to choose public spectacles.

Julia wasn’t comfortable. She wasn’t comfortable last night at the opera and she wasn’t comfortable here in the grand hotel. Sitting in its heavily chandeliered ballroom, a huge space filled with huge people – San Francisco’s finest, oldest and most unreachable families – she felt as if she were Daisy Mae on a polo pony.

What brought them all together was the 2000 Maldeaux Dinner, a HIV/AIDS benefit. The others joining Julia, David, Thaddeus and Helen, were a famous cosmetic surgeon and his wife, a notorious designer and his friend, a San Francisco Chronicle columnist and the columnist’s bored husband. Also at the table were a small intelligent looking man from Zurich and a novelist.

Robin Williams had just made an unsurprising guest-appearance and had gone. Pavarotti had spoken. Eloquently and humorously.

Julia used the passing of speakers to excuse herself. She felt suffocated. The new speaker, another one of the famous San Francisco names, a member of an immensely rich oil family not usually known for generosity, climbed upon the dais to discuss the importance of contributing to an organization trying to create housing for those with HIV and reminding the audience that recent medical advances shouldn’t mislead people into thinking there was nothing left to do.

‘I thought women always traveled in pairs,’ Thaddeus said, intercepting Julia’s journey.

She couldn’t help but stare back at the green eyes. His presence was nearly hypnotic. He moved close. His breath was on hers. ‘David speaks of you often,’ Thaddeus continued, ‘but I’m guessing you give him only a little more than the time of day.’

Even in the dim light, she could see his eyes dance. His words weren’t said to chastise, but meant as a spirited assault designed to both engage Julia and test her spirit.

‘Then he’s gotten a little more than you will,’ Julia said without breaking stride.

The low-growling Camaro with the smoked windows cruised Taylor, Jones, Turk and Eddy streets.

The driver knew he was doing something wrong. Very wrong. If he’d believed his mother – what she’d said during those religion-infused moments between alcoholic binges – he was not just wrong. He was not just bad. He was evil. He was ‘evil’ before he’d done anything. And so maybe she was right. He didn’t think about things that way. But if she was right and she didn’t know the half of it, he was the devil incarnate. And there was absolutely nothing he could do about it now.

The pink lights of the gay strip joint’s marquis and those of the liquor store reflected on the car’s new wax job. The car slowed, pulled to the curb. A girl, who was making her own corridor through a teetering crowd of winos stopped, went to the passenger window of the Camaro. She shook her head ‘no,’ started to back away, but changed her mind and moved again to the window. She giggled. Her casual indecision was an obvious act. She looked in the window one more time, then got in the car.

Brushing him off had little effect on Thaddeus who kept glancing Julia’s way, grinning.

‘I think he’s flirting with you,’ David said.

‘He’s your friend,’ Julia said. ‘Can’t you do something with him?’ She thought she’d be more impressed with the guests than she was. On the other hand, in spite of herself, she was very taken with Thaddeus.

‘Not Thaddeus. No one except Helen can do anything with him. And that’s because her fingers are curled around a fountain pen which in turn is poised above the signature line of her will.’

‘Constantly poised,’ Julia said.

‘Eternally poised, I suspect. Much to Teddy’s chagrin.’

‘Are you saying he wants her dead?’

‘Julia!’ Seidman said in mock shock. ‘Oh, I don’t know. He says he does, but I think he’s just trying to be fashionably cynical and dark. She gives him whatever he wants, but he must ask each and every time. He’s on a very short chain.’

‘I have trouble imagining you two being friends.’

David smiled. ‘Oh yes, I know. The dashing, swashbuckling Thaddeus Maldeaux and the old stick-in-the-mud David Seidman. Am I going to have to do something daring to win my lady’s affections?’

‘Maybe you already have. Looks as if you’ve just slain a fish of some sort,’ Julia said, nodding toward a plate carrying a bug-eyed, fan-tailed fish gently, almost surreptitiously landing in front of David.

‘Not exactly a dragon,’ David said.

‘We have to walk before we can run,’ Julia said.

‘He’s not really as arrogant as he appears.’

‘The fish?’

‘Amusing. Teddy isn’t really arrogant.’

‘What would you call it, then?’

‘Maybe an excess of confidence?’ David said, smiling.

‘I like that.’

‘My charms are more subtle than Teddy’s.’

She had been thinking the same thing, but also wondering if, at times, David’s charms weren’t a bit too subtle. ‘Teddy is a childish name.’ She glanced over the table. Thaddeus Maldeaux was looking at her. She couldn’t make out the expression. She wondered if he could hear. Surely not.

‘He is childish.’ David produced a phony smile and nodded toward Thaddeus.

‘Do we have to talk about him?’

‘Certainly not,’ David said. ‘The less the better. I’d rather talk about us.’ He put his hand on hers, kissed her ear.

‘David,’ she said softly, almost sadly.

‘I know.’

‘I know too. I don’t feel good about this part of it. I’m just uncertain about things and I really don’t like this feeling that I’m leading you on.’

‘You’re not. You’ve let me know where I stand. I’m leading me on. And I’ve been damn good at keeping me dangling. Why do you put up with me?’

‘Because I like you. I enjoy being with you. I’m comfortable with you.’

‘Mmmn hmmn. Comfortable. Like an old shoe.’

‘We’ve had this talk, David.’ Several times, she reminded herself. Was she leading him on? Was she being prudish? No, she didn’t want him as a lover. And at this point in her life, she didn’t want to have sex with someone unless it was a lover. Not out of prudery. She wasn’t a virgin. She just didn’t want to develop empty emotional baggage.

‘Yes, we have.’ He smiled, patted her hand and turned toward the conversation, dominated it seemed by the novelist. ‘I know,’ he said grudgingly. ‘You’ve been honest with me. Friends?’

‘Friends,’ she said, turning her attention back to the table.

‘The fact is if you are not in New York, you will not be taken seriously,’ the novelist said.

‘Time will determine who is a master of the craft,’ said the little man from Zurich.

‘You see, it’s driven by the Times,’ the novelist said. ‘I don’t mean the times we live in, but the Times we read. The New York Times. They seat and depose.’

‘For now, perhaps. If it is fame you seek, then I understand.’

The novelist was quiet for a moment. ‘Quite frankly it’s readership. I want to be read.’

‘You are published. I’ve heard of you,’ the man from Zurich said.

‘If he gets the Times’ blessing, he will sell more books and make more money and people will grovel at his feet,’ Thaddeus Maldeaux said.

‘Ah, groveling,’ the man from Zurich said. ‘That is something different altogether.’

The novelist tossed his napkin down in disgust and picked up his wineglass, doing what had to be difficult – sneering and drinking simultaneously.

‘Used to be just south of Market,’ the designer said. ‘Now, it’s everywhere.’

‘What?’ asked the man from Zurich.

‘Groveling,’ said the designer. ‘It’s so wonderful. I’m so glad it’s popular again.

The main lights dimmed. There was a white spot on stage. Someone important had been introduced. Julia turned. A golden candle flickered strobe-like on Thaddeus Maldeaux’s face. He turned toward her, his eyes catching hers.

The call came into room 450 of the Thomas J. Cahill Hall of Justice at Seventh and Bryant. A body had been found on San Gregorio Road not far from the General Store off Highway One. That wasn’t SFPD business, but there were strong indications that the death of this girl was linked to the deaths of the others, most of whom had strong links to the city. This would interest inspectors Gratelli and McClellan. But it would wait until morning.

All but two of the fourteen paired, Formica-topped desks were empty. One of the two on-duty homicide detectives would relay the message.

The girl had been dead for a few days. The local authorities didn’t know exactly how long. According to the message, the girl was found in a ditch, hidden in the tall grasses. A dog had discovered the corpse.

Julia was having difficulty shutting out the thoughts stealing uninvited into her brain. Each one was related to Thaddeus Maldeaux. Each one seemed to lend progress to a fantasy that was becoming more vivid, more dangerous.

‘What are you thinking about?’ David asked as the Wilkes-Bashford-dressed black mayor entered the tenth eloquent minute of his speech.

‘Nothing,’ Julia said, suppressing a grin.

‘Oh, right,’ David said. He looked over the table to see his friend’s eyes dart away. ‘Are you two flirting?’ he asked Julia.

‘What two?’

‘You have this rather blissful grin on your face and he is spying on you every chance he gets.’

‘He’s a little too full of himself for my taste,’ she said.

‘Um hmmn,’ David said.

Julia had a moment alone outside. David had gotten caught up with friends and Julia had artfully slipped away before introductions could be made and before she’d have to explain what she did for a living and that she lived in a little studio on Hayes Street, though no doubt they would all think that was quaint.

‘Now, now,’ she told herself. This was her own, private little game of insecurity. ‘Grow up,’ she told herself.

She walked further out toward the sidewalk. The huge, dark private club was before her. Then the delicate little park. Behind it was Grace Cathedral. She looked around. The hotels – the Fairmount, the Mark Hopkins, the Huntington. Up here was where the power was, well before the turn of the century. The titans of banking and railroads. Even Levi Strauss – a single, shy man who smoked cigars and invented blue jeans – had been one of the kings of the hill.

Down the hill meant that you descended into the glittering edifice complexes of the financial district; or the swarms of touts and tourists at the piers; or the Peking duck and ginger scents of Chinatown; or back down into the Tenderloin, the tattered bottom of the safety net, where the more base acts of humanity were committed less privately.

‘Where have you been?’ David asked, coming out and finding her staring at the cathedral.

‘I was thinking about getting away.’

‘Are you going up to the river tomorrow?’

‘No. Friday.’

‘Why not go early? I could meet you there – for one day anyway.’

‘I’ve got an investigation to complete,’ she said.

‘Let Paul do it, that’s why you have an assistant.’

‘Paul has to help as it is. Stakeout. And two of us aren’t really enough.’

‘What is it this time?’

‘A guy is suing my client over some on-the-job back injury. Says he can’t walk. He may be telling the truth, but the insurance company wants to be sure before they cut the check. The guy stands to collect a bundle.’

‘So you are standing in the way of this poor man and happily ever after?’

Julia ignored what might have been a deeper insinuation.

‘How about I come up Saturday afternoon?’ David asked.

‘Why do I always end up having to say no? I want to escape everything.’

Thaddeus Maldeaux and his mother brushed by them on their way to a waiting car.

‘David? Handball?’

‘Sure,’ Seidman said.

He had ignored Julia. Her stomach pitched. She was shamed by her schoolgirl reaction.

The Camaro was parked on the right, facing down the hill. It was the girl’s idea to come up there. It was her idea to get out of the car. She stood in front, her back to him. The entire city of San Francisco – pulsating with light and energy – unfolded below them. She was more than willing and had even suggested that they could make out up there, way above the Haight. She told him he reminded her of someone.

‘Eminem?’ he asked. He’d been told that before. But he had a better build than the rap star and resented the comparison.

‘No, someone darker.’

‘Darker?’

‘Inside darker.’ She liked him. She would make him happy, she told him. She was so glad to be away from the city. Here, there was electricity in the air. ‘I forgot how beautiful the world could be,’ she said.

He moved closer. She leaned back pressing her body against him. It was quick. She didn’t really have time to resist. He was so quick and so strong.

He lifted the limp body and carried it down the other side of the hill, the vast ocean down there, out there somewhere. Fewer lights dotted the far hillsides. It was lonelier here. Even so, this was the most daring he had ever been. He could see well. It was as if he had a special night vision. He coldly scanned the area for joggers or lovers. No one. He found a spot down the hill, a small plateau on the gradually sloping earth.

He calmly and expertly undid the buttons of her dress. It wasn’t until she was fully naked, that the cold, sharp perception gave way to a deep melancholy – a rich, sad ecstasy.

He undressed, carefully folding his jeans and tee shirt as he had done her clothing. He looked at the unreal shadows and the paleness the moonlight cast upon her body and on his. He dropped to his knees. He felt the blades of grass against his calves. He felt the chilled air on his flesh. He looked up at the sky. There was no way to determine if the moment were real or a dream. Yet, it was the way it was. And he never felt more alive.

There was nothing about him now. Not the ground, not the sky. So calm, he thought. She was so at peace. He let his hands glide feather-like over her body. He was so at peace. There was just the two of them. Naked. Quiet. Still.

When the ritual was complete, he kissed her gently on the lips, dressed, gathered the small stack of clothing and shoes, and left. He drove around until it was light. Barely light. He put her clothing in a Goodwill box.

TWO

Gratelli was awakened early by the phone. Soon after he shook some semblance of morning into his head and plugged in the electric percolator. He retrieved his morning Chronicle from the hallway, then called McClellan. After that, he called Albert Sendak in the medical examiner’s office. Not one, but two bodies had been found, both linked to each other and to the rest of them.

One body was decomposing south of San Francisco on Highway One near San Gregorio. Not SFPD territory but the local police were sure the body would be of special interest to them. The local police wouldn’t touch anything if someone could start down immediately. The medical examiner would oblige them.

The other body was a fresh kill up on Twin Peaks. A jogger found the body just as dawn broke. That’s where the two San Francisco inspectors would go first – where the trail was the freshest – before heading south down Highway One. If the two slayings were connected, Gratelli thought even in his groggy state of consciousness, then the killer was getting anxious. The deaths were coming closer and closer together.

Gratelli rummaged through the stacks of operas – works by Rossini, Donizetti, Bellini, Verdi and Puccini. He was searching for something comedic. He picked a Donizetti to listen to while he sat at the small table in his tiny kitchen. He sipped his coffee and unfolded the newspaper. He’d been in Homicide enough years not to let a few dead bodies disturb his routine.

His thoughts were on the opera – the one playing and the one he would see this week. Because of a duty roster switch, he thought it wise to switch his tickets. It was some German composer – and not even Mozart – which lowered the priority. He could even miss it if he had to. He did not enjoy the Germans, or the French for that matter. But the Germans were the worst. He endured, rather than enjoyed, the endless and pompous Ring Cycle. He remembered the season when the opera house was infested with fleas and even that was more enjoyable than Wagner.

After the sports section, he got up, refilled his cup and sat again. He sighed as everyone does when faced with something unpleasant and inevitable.

The morning paper had three separate stories on the killings – and the media didn’t know about this new one. He and McClellan would likely spend as much time with the news guys as with the investigation.

Julia Bateman and Paul Chang split the day’s watch. A video camera nearby if they should suddenly see their suspect doing cartwheels on the street. So far, they hadn’t seen Samuel Baskins at all. He hadn’t even ventured out to limp and stumble to the corner grocer.

So she started the watch at six a.m. She would observe Samuel from the entrance to Mr Baskins’ building. Baskins, whose earnings probably placed him near the poverty level, was now a potential millionaire several times over – that is if he lived long enough to collect it – because his employer failed to have the machinery checked on schedule. A few hundred pounds dropped on Sam’s shoulder. X-rays revealed nothing. Exams revealed nothing except deep and what ought to be temporary bruises.

That he didn’t have something vital smashed or broken was miraculous. The insurance company claimed the miracle for their own. Sam contended that there were no miracles only the sad fact that medical science failed to explain why he couldn’t walk without a great deal of pain. He claimed to have neck and back pain so horrendous that he could not work, that he could just barely get through the day attending to his pain. Before Baskins found a lawyer, he had injudiciously sent several, hysterical, violence-threatening letters to the company and after that to the insurance company.

Julia sipped from a cup of coffee she got at McDonald’s on Van Ness and watched the building near Leavenworth and Turk.

What made her look up as the dark Camaro cruised by in the gloom, Julia Bateman didn’t know. All she knew was that in the darkened, smoked glass window, penetrated only briefly by the morning light coming through the buildings, there was an eerie stare; enough to make her shiver and encourage her to grab another sip of coffee to offset the sudden cold.

It was below the back half of a Victorian on Stanyan – a basement really, a cave – where the driver of the Camaro lived. Once inside it could still be night. Soon he would be asleep. He would miss a day of working out. And a day of work. That happened on the days following the nights of the kill.

He felt as he usually did. His mind was nearly blank. His eyes were tired. Very tired. But his body was still alive, feeling everything that touched it – the tee shirt against his chest, against his nipples. The denim against his thighs, his buttocks, his sex. He lit the candles. The CD he had just picked up at Tower Records was in place. He pushed the