Then he was looking at Raymond’s back as Ray returned to the table and got another one of the pictures, which were now being circulated like snapshots of a wedding. Raymond made his rounds, careful to keep himself between the other cops and the window.
Ann swinging open the chain-link gate at the preschool while a gust of offshore breeze lifted her hair back from her face. Work — February 25.
Ann walking down the sidewalk along the bay with two large grocery bags clutched to her chest. Groceries — March 2.
Ann on the same sidewalk in her short work skirt, an old sweater, her purse slung over her shoulder; Ann amidst her children at the preschool — similar, thought Weir, to the shot that Innelman had found in Emmett’s Costa Mesa apartment; Ann and Raymond, in uniform, chatting through the chain-link fence of the play yard; Ann and Ray and Phil Kearns — a night shot this time — walking arm in arm down Balboa Boulevard just past the theater; another shot taken the same night of the three of them standing outside the entrance of the Studio Café.
The last three were the ones that hit Jim hardest, however. The first was a shot of the window of Ann’s and Ray’s apartment, taken at night, from an angle below the glass. Ann was staring out, with a vacant expression on her face. She wore dark lipstick, and a string of pearls around her neck. Her hair was up, and her shoulders were bare to where the dark material of her dress covered them, her dangling earrings throwing stars of light toward the camera. She looked, to Jim, lost. Window Thoughts — March 14.
In the next shot she had her back to Goins, stopped in an alley that Jim recognized as the one behind her apartment that led toward the boulevard. The alleyway glistened with puddles and the asphalt shone in the aftermath of a storm. The sides of the buildings were slick and reflective as mirrors. Goins had managed to get the moon in there, a forlorn sliver peering down from between two apartment structures. Ann was framed in the middle, not walking, legs together, up on her toes just a little, looking down, an umbrella visible in her left hand, apparently deciding how best to negotiate the puddles that looked from this angle to have penned her in. Ann in Moonlight — February 25.
In the last, only her legs and shoes were visible, where they were about to disappear behind the door of a limousine being held open by a stout man in a dark suit. His back was to the camera. No license plate was visible. Joyride — March 21.
“Woowee,” said fat Tillis. “Goins is a definite fan of hers. Definite fuckin’ whacko. But they let him out. Don’t they always? What do they think, it’s a way to keep us busy or something? Chief ought to see this shit. Hey Parrot, get the chief back in here!”
Led by Paris, Dennison came gliding in a moment later, his brow furrowed, a fresh sheen of sweat on his face. Backing away from the glass, Jim could hear him mumble something about three locals and three networks.
Paris brought him to the corner by the refrigerator for a confidential chat, right in front of Jim.
“The news crews can use one of those photos as an insert, sir.”
“What good would it do?”
“Up to you, sir, but it will set this story aside from all the other homicides they have. It’s a nice piece of airtime and it’s free. If Becky Flynn could get this kind of coverage, she’d climb to the top of PacifiCo Tower naked and set herself on fire. Which, come to think of it, is a scene I’d like to see. Take advantage, while you can.”
Dennison was silent for a moment. Weir could see the line of his linen jacket through the slats, the way the lapel folded back over his big chest. Paris’s wrist turned over, exposing his watch.
“Better get on it, sir.”
Dennison’s coat shifted back now and his hands slid into his pockets. Weir could see the worn patch on the elbow of the jacket.
— What about the feds?
— This would be an excellent time to mention them, if you can work it in.
— I still don’t see why. It implies we’re not doing a good job in our own backyard.
— Either we co-opt them and imply we invited them in, or Flynn uses them against us. Take your pick, sir.
— No.
— No what?
— Nobody needs to see these pictures. I run one and every shutter nut in the state’s gonna see it and send us his candids of pretty blondes. No.
Paris was quiet for a moment.
— What about the handle?
— I’m working on that.
— I still think the Bayside Slasher is strong.
— He didn’t slash her, he stabbed her.
— Stabber’s not a good word — too focused, gory but not graphic in the right way. We need something with motion in it, something they can see.
Another pause. Weir could hear Paris sigh.
— Any word at all on Goins, Chief? If we could announce the arrest it would—
— You think if we’d caught him I’d be standing here talking about fuckin’ handles?
A muted light came to the glass as Dennison moved away from the window. Paris’s back then crushed up against the blinds. Weir heard Paris mumble, in a poor caricature of Dennison, “...talking about fuckin’ handles?”
Weir, Raymond, and Phil Kearns leaned against the outside wall of the El Mar Motel — VACANCIES, REFRIGERATION — and watched Interim Chief Dennison give his interviews to the TV news. The crowd had pressed up close to the crime-scene ribbon and the SWAT team provided security, an idea that Jim overheard Paris suggest to Dennison when the news crews were setting up.
“How’d it go down?” asked Jim.
Kearns shrugged. “I got lucky. Went to the realty people and the lady sent me here. I called Brian and he ordered me to hold off. That’s how SWAT got into it and the whole circus started.”
Dennison sweated intensely in the tepid overcast sun. The minicams pressed in close, spotlights glaring, technicians linked umbilically to their machines, jostling for the best angles. Dennison was talking down Goins’s prior offense — already treading lightly on his way to the courtroom — but he adamantly linked the MO to Ann: “...waitress here, waitress in Ohio... knew his victim... swampy area, in this case the Back Bay... apparently a photographer who had been ‘aware’ of her for some time.”
Weir turned to Kearns, who was looking to Dennison with the expression of an on-deck hitter. “What did his room look like when you got in?”
“Neat. The furnace was on. There were two pieces of white bread on the kitchen counter, like he was getting ready to put them in the oven.”
So, Weir thought, Goins was home all right, gathering up his things and heading for the back door while Dennison’s production got going. Was that part of the plan? “Any idea what spooked him?”
“I don’t know. It could have been me. I waited across the street where I could see his front door. I thought I was cool, but if he was watching...”
Raymond shook his head.
“Dennison called SWAT, not me,” Kearns snapped.
“Dumb,” said Raymond.
“Fuckin’ dumb is right,” said Kearns.
Dennison had launched into a law-and-order spiel, focusing on the peninsula here, where “the overwhelming majority of crime in our city is committed.”
The implication, thought Weir, was that the whole place would be better off torn down and built again, but Dennison wasn’t mercenary enough to mention the Balboa Redevelopment Project. Paris, his hands stuffed down into an overcoat, lurked behind Dennison like a bad conscience.
“What makes Newport Beach a great city is great people,” the interim chief was saying. “And these people deserve protection from the less fortunate, like Horton Goins. This city can no longer afford to provide an environment that encourages violent crime. The citizens of this peninsula deserve more.”