The Waterfall, page 34
‘What we got?’ repeated the local guy in a voice deeper than Ken would have expected, given that he was about five foot six. ‘What we got is you bozos way outta your area!’ He sounded as exasperated as Jakes looked, and Ken thought they must teach them that at cop school.
Ken pushed himself away from the grave and approached. He was tired of watching cops bicker. ‘Look, tell us what you know, and we’ll be on our way,’ he said.
‘Vic is Maria Spiteri. We got that from this bath house ticket. We called her husband. He doesn’t speak great English. Seems they’re—’
‘Italian,’ Ken interjected.
‘Yeah. How’d you…’
‘I’ll tell you when I’ve got a month to explain.’
The local officer accepted this. He would have been happy if none of this had ended up on his plate at all. ‘Well, the husband said – we think he said – that his wife was offered a job. All she had to do was bring flowers to the cemetery. This grave, I guess.’
They all looked down at the rectangular mound of earth, grass and weeds and the carved stone that spelled out George Berwick Faulkner’s name, the dates he came into and left the world. Nothing about what he had done, who he really was. Or that he had written a book, it seemed.
‘Poor bastard,’ Ken muttered.
‘The vic?’ Jakes asked.
‘Her. Him. Frankie Angel. Riley Tithe, while we’re at it. Whatever’s going on, this guy’s not behind it.’
‘That’s for certain.’
The police medical officer, a bearded Irishman with a heavy accent and nervously fluttering hands, was finishing up. ‘It’s just as it looks, officers. Strangled with a ligature. From behind, I would say. No other marks on her body that I can see. Between two and four hours ago.’
The local cop nodded his thanks, and the body was removed.
‘Go away! Go away!’ It was a female voice, screaming from a distance.
Ken turned to see two young girls dressed in white blouses and black skirts running towards them.
‘Who’re they?’ Jakes asked, sounding mystified.
‘I’ll bet anything you want they’re George Berwick Faulkner’s daughters.’
‘Ah, jeez. That’s all we need.’
‘Go away!’
Jakes and the local cop went to intercept the two girls, taking gentle but firm hold of the children.
‘Girls, we’re cops,’ Jakes said.
‘Get off his grave!’ shrieked the taller of the two.
‘I’m sorry, miss, but we have to do this.’ The girl bit him on the hand. ‘Ow!’
‘You need to brush up on your restraint technique,’ Ken called over.
‘Ah, shove it!’ He loosened his grip on the girl but stayed blocking her path and squatted down to speak to her. ‘Who told you to come here?’
‘Our brother. He said you were taking Dad out of his grave.’
‘No, sweetheart,’ Jakes said, struggling for a reply. ‘We just came lookin’ for him.’
‘Why?’
‘Why? Well.’ He hesitated. ‘We just did.’ The younger girl began to cry, and Jakes looked ashamed. ‘I’m sorry. Look.’ He beckoned over a couple of uniforms. ‘Go with these gentlemen, okay?’
‘Or what?’ demanded the older girl defiantly.
‘Or we’ll arrest you. You want that?’ His tone was harder now, though Ken knew that Jakes would just as likely turn backflips as arrest a couple of young girls. ‘Okay, then jus’… let us do our job.’
‘Gabriel…’
‘Gabriel what?’
‘He said we had to stop you.’
And Ken realized that their search had been directed to the wrong member of the family. ‘Your brother’s called Gabriel?’ he asked quickly.
‘Yes.’
‘Is he a writer?’
‘Yes.’
Ken stopped to work out how their brother knew they were at the grave. He must have been keeping tabs on them in one way or another. ‘He told you to come here?’
‘We have to do as he says.’
There was something in her face that made Ken concerned. ‘What if you don’t?’ he asked. The girl looked at the ground and rubbed her left arm. Ken stooped and gingerly pulled up her white blouse sleeve. She tried to stop him, but he gently moved her hand away. As the cotton lifted up, it revealed a number of bruises. Some brown and old, some red and new. Ken slipped the sleeve back down and stood up, looking into the distance and wondering.
Jakes told the uniforms to take the kids away, and muttered something under his breath.
‘The brother,’ Ken said. ‘He’s the G. B. Faulkner we’re looking for.’
‘I guess he is.’
‘Hello, ladies!’ It was shouted from a distance. Ken wasn’t happy to see Detective Tadit flanked by his usual two subordinates. ‘We heard you screwed up again. Oh, look, another deceased! You girls really know your jobs, right?’ He came over and stood smirking by the grave.
‘Go back t’your precinct, Tadit,’ Jakes snarled. ‘You got no reason t’be here.’
‘And you have? What, to make sure more people die?’
‘Don’t tempt me.’
Chapter 22
The Faulkners – those still alive – resided in San Diego.
He kept it to himself, but Ken enjoyed the drive down along the Pacific Highway in the convertible Rolls-Royce Phantom III that Coraline had inherited from Riley. His arm over the side of the car, the radio playing honky-tonk, the sun beating down to sparkle on the waves beside the road, he could almost forget where they were heading and why. There had been times like that even when he was in Romania, when he could see trees and mountains and birds and nothing of what was going on around him. It would only last an hour, maybe two, of course, but that time was golden.
The two sisters, who were riding in Jakes’s car, directed the short motorcade to the family home, while the local cops had returned to their station to fill out the paperwork necessary for finding someone dead in a cemetery.
And then there was the house: a fallen-on-hard-times mansion built for a man who’d read too many books about ancient Rome. Jakes stepped out of his car and sceptically checked it out. He looked like his journey hadn’t been as pleasant as Ken’s: he had torn his tie off, his hat was nowhere to be seen and he was sweating hard.
‘The hell is this place? A mausoleum?’ asked the cop.
‘You worried about ghosts?’
‘Maybe I am.’
The girls led them in, past the busts of emperors, over the broken plaster on the floor. To the room where a man lay encased in a machine that breathed for him.
‘Gabriel Faulkner,’ Ken said, his eyes meeting those of the man inside the machine. The man smiled.
‘Are you Ken Kourian?’ The voice was slow and graceful.
‘Yeah.’
‘I thought you might favour me with a visit.’ He banged on the inside of the machine, and his sister scuttled forward to open it and bring his air canister. ‘And… who… might… you… be?’ he rasped, the effort contorting his face.
‘Detective Sergeant Jakes, LAPD.’
Faulkner waited for Coraline to speak, too. Eventually she did.
‘Mind if I smoke?’ she said.
‘Yes… I… do.’
In response, she opened her purse, took out her silver cigarette case and screwed a Nat Sherman into her amber holder. She took half a step back before lighting it. ‘Is that better?’
He smiled around the tube in his mouth.
‘You can drop the act. You know who she is,’ Ken said.
‘I… know… who… she… is.’
‘You’ve been watching us. Or your sisters have. It’s flattering, but why?’
Gabriel haltingly turned himself and the cart a quarter turn to his left. The girls looked up expectantly. ‘The… Chapterhouse,’ he told them. And the three of them made a gradual trip across the dusty floor, heading for a doorway flanked by dead potted plants.
Ken followed, then Jakes, with Coraline’s heels clipping on the dry boards. ‘Hey,’ Jakes muttered to Ken. ‘Guy looks like he died ten years ago an’ someone forgot to tell him.’
‘You’re not exactly a Greek god yourself, Detective.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ They stopped talking when they entered a long room full of rotting food and abandoned chairs. The only sounds then were their own breaths. ‘What’s this for, Mr Faulkner?’ Jakes asked, his voice aggressive with suspicion.
Faulkner moved on without an answer, the wheels of his cart squeaking like rodents.
And then they were in an octagonal library, with the art of salvation on the walls alongside a portrait of Faulkner’s father galloping past on a chestnut horse and copies of a book with a blue cover that read The Waterfall stuffed into every space. With an effort, Gabriel drew one from the nearest shelf and thrust it at Ken.
‘You… can… read… it… if… you… want,’ he rasped.
‘I’ve read it before,’ Ken said. ‘Both sides.’
He couldn’t drag his gaze from the oil painting of the senior Faulkner. He went nearer and looked closely at it. Invisible from any more than two feet away, there were a series of little scores in the canvas, where it had been mended. Hairline slashes of a few inches or more. The repairs had been expertly done, but the marks couldn’t be hidden entirely.
‘But… I… want… you… to!’ Faulkner smacked his palm down on the book.
‘The Tookes are powerful,’ whispered the elder girl. ‘They caused our difficulties.’
‘What difficulties?’ Ken said.
‘It was to be Gabriel’s day of glory. A night of splendour.’
‘Be… quiet!’ her brother snapped, then had to grab hold of her to catch his breath. When he had taken three lungfuls, he pushed her aside and she fell hard against a bookcase. Jakes tried to help her up, but she pushed him away. ‘You are… here… to… gloat. That… her… brother… destroyed… my… book.’ His eyes burned into Coraline’s.
‘We’re here because someone is committing a series of crimes.’
His face lit up. ‘What… crimes? Tell… me.’ His hand shot out and gripped Ken’s shirt. It was forcefully knocked away.
‘Murders. You know anything about them?’
Gabriel’s face contorted. Then his chest panted.
‘Are you laughin’?’ Jakes demanded.
‘I’m… I’m… so… sorry… Detective. Do… you… want… me… to… confess?’
‘You need a lawyer?’ Jakes said.
‘My… lawyer… handles… movie… studios… not… murder.’
‘Maybe we’ll just set a watch on you.’
‘Beyond… your… jurisdiction… Detective.’ And he fell to his knees, shaking and panting, his face contorting with airless laughter.
Coraline spoke. ‘Enjoy this while you can. It won’t last.’ She dropped her cigarette to the floor, where it burned itself out.
‘The… Tookes.’ He thrust a finger at her. Pulled it back and thrust it again. ‘Damn… the… Tookes!’
* * *
They stopped the Rolls-Royce in front of Coraline’s glass home. Ken helped her out of the car.
‘Hey, Mr Kourian!’ He turned and immediately something flashed in his face. A Kodak 35 clicked. The reporter he had taught some manners at the press call was sitting in a Ford Tudor.
‘What do you want?’ Ken said. He wasn’t in the mood for a dust-up.
‘Anthony Willis. The Examiner. We met before.’
‘I know.’
‘Yeah. Well, I heard he’s hit again. In a cemetery, right?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Okay, I’ll tell you. And I’ll tell you something else: we’re calling him the Mannequin Killer on account of—’
‘How his nails are cut?’
The reporter looked confused. ‘No, manne…’ But then his face cracked into a smile, and he wagged his finger. ‘Okay, okay, you got me. You’re not some dumb flatfoot. Our readers have a right to know what’s going on. Can you fill them in? You might save a life.’
‘I’ll save one right now by telling you to get off this property before I shoot you dead.’
‘Okay, Mr Kourian. Mrs Tithe: a little birdie tells me the killer is a fan of your brother’s writing. Leaves his books at the scene. That so? You a fan of it yourself?’ She walked away without a word. ‘How about you, Mr Kourian?’
Ken thrust his hand inside his jacket, the reporter hit the gas pedal and the Ford was out of sight in seconds.
Chapter 23
The morning light bounced drunkenly off the iron lung as Gabriel Faulkner lay inside watching his younger sister read from the Examiner. Her face showed the concentration of someone who doesn’t want to get a word wrong. She had shown him the front-page headline: City in Terror of Mannequin Killer! Below it were police photographs of the murder scene at the Silver Waterfall Club. Someone on the force had been making a little money on the sly, by the looks of things. And below those pictures was one of Ken snapped the evening before outside Turnglass House.
Mr Ken Kourian with Mrs Coraline Tithe at the Tooke family seat, known as Turnglass. What is their connection to the crimes? read the caption.
Faulkner closed his eyes in pain. ‘Call for the car,’ he said.
A Caddy came, driven by a black man in a peaked cap. He looked like his natural character was to be jolly, but the atmosphere at the Faulkner residence had drained all the spirit from him. He didn’t look back as his three passengers crawled onto the cracked leather seats.
The elder girl gave him directions. He consulted a map, then put the car in gear and rolled over the threadbare gravel.
It was a long journey out to Point Dume. A hot day – a day like any other – and the two girls pressed their faces to the shut windows. They passed other children playing with balloons, riding bikes, tripping and grazing their knees. ‘I hate the Tookes,’ the twelve-year-old said. The other glanced at her, then back out to where an ice-cream shop had a line of people waiting. It disappeared behind them.
Three hours later, they stopped outside a house made of glass. Faulkner trundled to the entrance, gripping the cart that held his gas canister for support. He pressed the electric bell button, and a Mexican maid answered.
‘I… am… an… old… friend… of… Mr… Oliver… Tooke. I… have… been… out… of… the… country… for… some… years… and… have… only… recently… learned… of… his… death. I… understand… his… grave… is… here.’ The maid nodded. ‘May… I… pay… my… respects?’ The woman blinked three times like she had never been asked such a strange question in all her life. But when Faulkner reached into his pocket and pulled out a sawbuck, the maid checked over her shoulder, snatched it away and hurried out, leading them around to the back of the house. She pointed out into the ocean. About a hundred yards from the shore, there was a mound of rock rising up from the water as if it was trying to get dry. Something like a little white lighthouse had been built on it. ‘Ah… that… was… his… writing… tower.’
The servant checked again that there was no one from the house within earshot. ‘Yes. He wrote there every day,’ she confirmed. ‘They buried him there.’ The waves were breaking on the foot of the tower.
‘Fitting.’ He drew from his own pocket a copy of the book that was titled The Waterfall on one side and The Turnglass on the other. ‘We… wrote… this… book. He… and… I.’ He threw it limply in the direction of the tower. It fell to the ground no more than a yard from his shoes. The wind pulled a few pages up, then they flicked back into place. The maid looked nervous and backed away, slipping back into the house through the rear entrance and watching from a distance.
* * *
Jakes stood on the circular stage of the Silver Waterfall Club. It was ten in the morning, but all the lights were on. A few uniformed cops were standing around, poking around.
When the call had come in an hour earlier, he had taken the details wearily, no longer angry or amazed. ‘Another one,’ he had muttered to himself.
‘This like how it was before?’ he asked Coraline gruffly.
She gazed around at the walls. They had been painted with words, ‘had to bury those three himself’ over and over. A copy of the book they came from was open at Jakes’s feet. And this time an extra gift had been folded into its pages: an empty hypodermic needle.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Last time, the body of my husband was where you are standing.’
‘Yeah, okay,’ Jakes said quietly. ‘I guess he wanted to send a message again. But your house an’ his apartment are probably too hot right now. Too many people would ask questions. So he comes back here.’
‘Makes sense, I guess,’ Ken said, though he wasn’t a hundred per cent convinced.
‘Thing is, what the hell’s this for? Three stories in your book. Three murders. He’s done them all. What now? Do them again? An’ what’s with the syringe?’
The book showed a fine spray of grey dust. ‘You’ve checked this for prints, right?’ Ken asked.
‘Right. All wiped off, as usual.’
‘I’ll tell you what it’s for. Three stories, three murders. But those aren’t the only deaths in the book.’
‘What?’
Ken’s finger traced the red words on the wall: had to bury those three himself.
‘In “The Venice Murders”, three more people died before the story even began.’
Jakes looked ready for rage. ‘You sayin’ there’s gonna be three more? Three?’
‘That’s what it means.’
Jakes unbuttoned his collar. ‘Jesus. What the hell do we do?’
‘I’m pretty sure I know who’s behind it all. And they’re picking victims based on the names of the stories.’
‘So…’
‘We’ve got a shot to catch them. But you need to lock down Venice. Our Venice. Venice Beach.’
Jakes stared hard at the paint running down the wall. ‘You sure that’s where he’s gonna kill next?’
‘I didn’t say that. I said we have to lock down Venice.’
Jakes moved so that he stood face to face with Ken. His eyes narrowed. ‘What is it?’
