CHIMERAS (Track Presius) (20 page)

She didn’t reply. Satish sighed. “Ms. Kelson. If there’s anything we should know about what happened, anything that could help Mr. White—”

“No,” she cut him short. “Jerry didn’t do it. There’s nothing more to say on the matter.” She gazed at us, her lashes tingling on my skin. “Not all crimes are punishable, Detectives. Our world is very much imperfect. Justice, when and
if
it happens, is the exception, not the rule.”

I sank back in my chair, her statement as unexpected as a lazy eye in a pretty face. What was it supposed to mean? That whatever White was, a killer or a victim, she didn’t care? What about Conrad, did she care he’d died? Kelson unfolded the glasses she had left on the table, slid them back on, and then waved at the waiter. The show was over.

*  *  *

The air was cool when I stepped out of the Glass House. Dusk came quickly. The earlier haze melted away and thick clouds cluttered the sky. Up on the foothills, crickets smelled rain in the air and quieted down. Shadows grew longer and blurred into the landscape.

The best time to go hunting
.

I merged into the ramp to the One-Oh-One wondering if Nelson and the others would be at Abbey’s already, getting intoxicated over the first round of schooners. One mile later I merged onto the One-Ten west (because it was Friday), then detoured on the Four-Oh-Five north (because I didn’t want it to be Friday), and finally exited on San Vicente (because the name was stuck in my head). I entered an anonymous parking lot crossed by a row of sickly
shrubs—the illusion of a shadow to fight for on a hot summer day.

It should be around here
…

As if answering my question, the streetlights flicked to life and a well of light bathed the walk-up ATM machine at the far corner of the lot, the name of the bank wavering in red and blue at the top of the stand. October 6, eight fifteen p.m.: Jennifer Huxley parks her Ford and walks to the ATM. She has little time, working one job during the daytime, and secretly fiddling with another project at night
. Some additional data she was going to obtain
. When? From whom? Yet that night she finds the time to come here and withdraw five hundred dollars in cash. She doesn’t go back to work, and it’s not until eleven p.m. that a neighbor hears her car pull into the garage.

Where did you go from here, Jen
?

The sound of bells chiming made me startle.
It’s a recording
, I realized, scanning the modern design of the building across the lot and noticing it lacked a bell tower. The building was circular, with high walls sliced by stained windows, and skylights peeking through a conical roof. At the very top, a cross stood against wine spattered clouds.

Two ladies came out of a side door and crossed the parking lot.

“Father Jonathan looked tired tonight, don’t you think Linda?” one said.

“All Souls’ is coming up,” the other replied. “I bet Father was up late listening to the confessions of a lot of widowers I happen to know.”

“Oh, Linda!” The ladies giggled and then shuffled away arm in arm. I walked to the entrance and stared at the glass door, a new thought slowly forming in my head. I raised a hand as to touch the handle but before I could reach it the door swung open.

“I’m sorry,” a distinctive man in an old fashioned suit mumbled. He stepped back, held the door open for me, and then disappeared outside.

My steps echoed in the wide hall. The silence was deep yet warm, lulled by the last rays of light filtering through the skylights. Wax, incense, and pinewood—my mother’s smell, the day she came to see me in juvie.

Rows of concentric pews departed like rays from the altar. Two philodendrons flanked the tabernaculum, their lobed leaves drooping down like asking hands. The scent of incense and votive candles unearthed long lost memories.

“Can I help you?” The smile was welcoming, chiseled in a surprisingly young face. “It’s okay,” he added softly as my answer failed to come. “We all falter before God.” He walked past me, a breeze of fresh smells swooshing behind—Marseille soap, laundry detergent, beeswax, incense, Luke’s favorite aftershave. He clambered up to the altar and blew out the candles. The pungent zest of burnt wax and paraffin coiled into little curls of smoke that took their time before wafting to my nose.

“Father Jonathan?”

“Yes?” Kind, watery eyes hidden behind round lenses.

How old are you, thirty, maybe thirty-two
?

“When was the last time you saw Jennifer Huxley?”

CHAPTER 23

____________

Friday, October 17

The key clicks into the lock and the door opens. Inside, the air smells stale and warm: the comforting familiarity of her own place. Diane Kyle steps inside, turns the dead bolt, and slides the security chain. She drops the keys into the woven basket on the console, kicks her shoes off, and heads to the kitchen, flipping on the light switches as she goes. It’s dark, it’s late, and she’s tired. She turns the radio on and pop music fills the air. The living room is scented with the fragrance from the air freshener plugged in a corner. It gives her a sense of home, and it makes it easier to pretend she doesn’t feel lonely at night.

Darn it, the fridge is empty
. She opens the freezer.
It’ll have to be pizza
. She retrieves the box, takes out the frozen pizza and tosses it in a pan. Oven on at 400 °F, she climbs the stairs while unbuttoning her shirt. Her thoughts drift to the long day and the weekend ahead.

If only Jim didn’t work so much
.

She gets to the top of the stairs and sighs.
If only
.  

The thought makes her uneasy. Ex-boyfriends, wasted relationships, too many regrets. At her age, she should be married with a couple of kids in preschool. Her therapist laid it out in one sentence.
You need to break the loop chain of abusive relationships, Diane.

A sound, sharp and unfamiliar, makes her freeze.

“Is anybody there?” she says, her voice shaking. The wind blows and a curtain rustles. Diane exhales.
Silly me
. She latches the bedroom window with slippery hands.
It was just the draft
, she realizes, heart throbbing.
The job is stressing me out
. She turns on the lights in the bathroom and starts the shower. The water pours out and billows of steam warm up the air. Humming softly, Diane slides her shirt off and unzips her pants. The door to the closet is ajar.

Down to her underwear, she suddenly gasps. Did she just imagine that sound? Or was it really there, a sigh, or a groan maybe, barely audible, and yet unmistakably human. She bolts out of the bedroom and looks down the stairs.

“Hello?” she calls. “Jim, is it you?” Maybe his meeting got canceled and he decided to surprise her. “Jim?” she calls once more. “It’s not funny, you know?” The question falls unanswered. She shakes her head and returns to the bedroom.

Damn it
, Rhesus thinks. He got too excited, craned his head to see better and hit a hanger. A belt fell with a soft clink. Crouched behind a long dress and concealed by the box of a voluminous comforter, he spies through the slit of the closet door. He enjoys the sight of Diane’s breasts wobbling like firm jell-o in her black bra. And when she removes her lingerie, Rhesus caresses the weapon in his holster and smiles.
One more minute
, he thinks. He wants to see more. Diane steps into the bathroom and under the shower. Now she will no longer hear. The water jetting out of the faucet and her loud off-key singing muffles all noises. Rhesus slides out of his hiding spot, the steam from the hot water disguising him. He can take her by surprise, and she won’t feel a thing. This is not how he wants to do it, though. He stares at her breasts rocking gently while she lathers the shampoo on her head, and at her hips, round and inviting, trickles of water bending around them and caressing her curves.

He clutches the pistol. Cool, comforting. So easy to take her now.
Would she still be beautiful frozen in the stupor of death, a trail of blood spilling on her white breasts? Would she scream or would she go peacefully, almost grateful for the quick end? He could take her then, like that. And then he’d steal a lock of her hair. Auburn has always been his favorite hair color.

Next time
, Rhesus thinks. And then leaves. 

*  *  *

Half an hour later, wrapped in a pink bathrobe, Diane opens the oven and whispers little ow’s of discomfort as she pulls out the scalding pan with potholders too thin for the job. She tosses away the potholders, cuts out a slice, and drops it onto a plate. The shower calmed her down. Singing to herself, she walks to the couch with the plate in one hand and a glass of white chardonnay in the other. Her eyes fall on the door, making her tilt her head and frown.
It’s weird
, she thinks
. I thought I left the security chain inserted
. She puts the plate and glass down on the coffee table and walks to the door. A quick rush of adrenaline makes her heart jump. The chain she couldn’t swear, but the bolt—the bolt should have been turned. She
always
locks the door. 

CHAPTER 24

____________

Friday, October 17

The tea bag plunged and then floated up again as hot water poured into the cup. Billows of steam rose from the surface, carrying the aroma of bergamot. The place was small: a single guy’s dwelling, only tidier. The only decorations displayed on the white walls were a crucifix above the door and a wall calendar hanging next to the fridge. The mismatched furniture fulfilled the sole purpose of functionality. On the table, a checkered tablecloth was spattered with old coffee stains. A
pothos
plant crept down from the top of a cupboard and brushed its leaves against the window fixtures. Like an alien from a different time, a desktop whirred on a small corner desk while unfolding geometric shapes on its screen—solitary witness of the current times in an unusually anachronistic space.

“Honey?”

“Sugar is fine, thank you.”

Father Jonathan pushed the sugar bowl towards me and then dipped his spoon into the honey jar. He had feminine hands that showed cleanness and attention to detail. Somebody who dusted frequently and confessed regularly, whose attentive eyes could pick a devout follower from a repentant soul, and tell a liberal from a conservative just by looking at their body posture.

“Do you believe in God, Detective?”

“No.”

He raised a brow. “Do you ever worry about the afterlife?”

“No. I’ll be dead by then.”

He stared at his tea and twirled the spoon. The clinking faded. “Well, I do. I worry about all my brothers’ and sisters’ afterlife. Including yours.”

I thought of the blonde, blue-eyed Christs handed to me on the street over the years, together with cheap propaganda pamphlets and one-day-only sale advertisements. Some people beg for money, some for listening ears, some for new adepts to share their afterlife with. “You said Jennifer came to see you the day before she disappeared?”

He nodded. “Yes. Last time I saw her was last Monday. She came here after work.”

“Why did she come to see you?” I fished the tea bag out of the cup.

“The same as most of my parishioners: confession.”

Crap
.
Confession is to a priest as HIPAA is to an MD
.

“Jennifer was a brave woman. Up against evil.”

I tinkled the spoon against the saucer. “An evil called Chromo?”

He squinted. His head wanted to nod but somewhere in between changed its mind and ended up cocking to the side. A shaving rash flared on his neck and stood out against the blackness of his shirt neckband. He slid an index finger along the inside of his clerical collar, easing for a moment the stiffness of the uniform. When he wrapped his hand around the cup again, the tip of his finger was floured in white. A soap-scented white.

Interesting
.

“Those are nice looking sneakers you’re wearing, Father.”

“Very comfortable,” he agreed. “They improve posture, and with all the hours I have to spend standing—”

“I bet they came in handy last night when you had to run away from a crowd of screaming monkeys.”

“Wha—I—”

“You know what we found in one of the cages you opened, Father? This fine powder called talc.” I stared at him, my nostrils instantly detecting the rush of adrenaline that flushed his face. His left brow twitched. He brought the cup to his mouth with shaking hands, and a few drops of tea spilled and dripped on the tablecloth. “My colleague kept saying it was glove talc, but you see, I happen to have a different theory. I think it was the type of talc used by the clergy, men like you, to ease the discomfort of the starched collar your uniform imposes. I bet we can match what we found at the scene with—”

“Stop.” His eyes flared.
Do not mess with my God. My justice
, I read in them. “You’re looking in the wrong place, Detective. The evil you’re after isn’t here. My conscience is clean.”

I smiled. “Father, the standing of your conscience is something between you and your God. Me, unfortunately, I care about human law. Right now, you’re looking at trespassing and felony vandalism, and I’m not even counting the fellow who ended up on the coroner’s table because of this—”

“I had nothing to do with that!” He banged a hand on the table, making the silverware rattle.

I waited for his pulse to come down a notch, then said, “I don’t doubt your good intentions, Father. Whatever happened last night, you had your reasons. Here’s where I start to get edgy, though. Because you see, if you happen to know important information that could help me bring justice to Huxley’s death and you don’t disclose it, that’s what I find really immoral, whether in front of God or man.”

He held my glare. “They’re playing God over there. With human life. Jennifer found out. They ruin young, innocent lives.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. Those monkeys, they inject them with stuff for their experiments.”

“Who gave you the passcode to enter the property?”

He sighed and shook his head. “I can’t—”

“We could be having this chat in downtown.”

“You only have human power…”

“Whatever I have, I’ll use it.”

“Jennifer gave me the passcode.”

“How did she get it?”

He flattened his hands on the table. They were no longer shaking. “I don’t know. She was scared. She gave me the passcode and said if something was ever to happen to her, I had to try to stop them from carrying on with those experiments.”

The statement, flat-out, made my blood boil. I raised my voice. “Something
did
happen, Father! And all you could come up with was to free a bunch of monkeys? How about come talk to us?”

He stared at me as if I’d completely missed the obvious. “I just found out about her passing. Her mother called me a couple of hours ago to arrange the funeral. Until then, all I could do was pray. Jennifer told me everything under the secrecy of confession. What else could I do without violating the sanctity of reconciliation?”

“It sounds to me you did a little more than praying, Father.”