Riptide

seventeen

When she got back home, the bones were still there, and so was the diary, and so was yesterday’s threatening note.

Everything Sirk told her dovetailed with the diarist’s account. She checked one of her Ripper books and found the murder of Carrie Brown covered in detail. It happened on April 23, 1891, in the East River Hotel. The murder of Frances Coles in London took place only two months before.

Hare wrote that he would take a steamship to the United States. The hotel was near the docks. He might have killed Carrie Brown on his first night in his new country.

The American connection meant Edward Hare quite possibly was Jack the Ripper. She couldn’t prove it, but she had no grounds to dispute it. For now, at least, she would have to accept it as true.

Sometime after his arrival, Hare headed west, somehow ending up in California. He could have gone on killing for years, under his new identity. Was it Graham Silence? All the evidence said yes.

If Hare was her ancestor, he must have passed down his insanity. To her father. To her brother.

And if her father had been the Devil’s Henchman-if, if, if-then Hare’s homicidal impulses had been passed down, as well.

To Richard also?

Where did he go at night?

There were unsolved crimes in Venice, of course. But as far as she knew, there was no pattern to suggest a serial killer. Unless the pattern was disguised. She remembered Draper saying that a crafty killer could vary his M.O., alter the victim profile, confuse the authorities. He was talking about 1908, but the same could be true today. Maybe there was a pattern, but no one was looking for it.

She went online and searched for “Venice, California” plus “homicide.” Too many hits.

One of the first items listed was a press release put out by Sandra Price. Jennifer had heard of her. She was a community activist who was always staging rallies and town meetings to demand more police resources. The local cops thought she was a pain in the ass. Maura disliked her for putting a negative spin on Venice and making it harder to move real estate. That’s the old Venice, Maura liked to say. Gangbangers and druggies-1990s stuff, off-message for today.

But Sandra Price didn’t care who she pissed off or what the official message was supposed to be. She only wanted results. If anyone would have the details on unsolved crimes in this locale, she would.

The press release was linked to the homepage of C.A.S.T., Citizens Against Street Crime. Founder and director: Sandra Price. A phone number was provided. Jennifer called it. A receptionist answered.

“Sandra Price, please,” Jennifer said.

“That’s me.”

Maybe community action groups didn’t have receptionists.

She hadn’t expected to get right through. Now she had to improvise.

“Sandra, my name is Jennifer Silence. I’m a psychologist in Venice who works as a consultant to the LAPD. I’m doing some background work”-that ought to be vague enough-“on local crimes that haven’t been cleared yet. I know that’s an area of interest to you.”

“Yeah, you could say that.” Sandra produced a throaty chuckle.

“I was wondering if we could get together and review the outstanding cases.”

“Review, huh? You’re a police consultant, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t you review the cases with your cop buddies?”

“This is something I’m handling on my own.”

“Uh-huh. So you’re playing Nancy Drew, huh?”

“I’m just trying to collect some facts…”

“You’re shining me on, is what you’re doing. Look, I got enough on my plate without fielding crank calls.”

“This isn’t-”

Dial tone. Sandra had hung up.

Well, that could have gone better. She frowned at the phone for a moment, then hit redial. After two rings she heard Sandra’s raspy hello.

“Me again.”

“I told you-”

“Here’s the thing. I really am a consultant to the police, but I’ve come across something that’s kind of…sensitive. Something I don’t want to bring to their attention yet, because it involves a person who’s close to me, and who may be-in fact I hope he is-completely innocent. You with me so far?”

“I’m still on the phone, aren’t I?”

“Good. So I need more information before I can make any decisions on what to do. And I thought no one outside the police department knows more about unsolved local crimes than you.”

“Now you’re just flattering me.”

“Is it working?”

“A little. I don’t get flattered too often.”

“I’d like to sit down with you for a half hour and get the lowdown on unsolved crimes in this area. Specifically, violent crimes.”

“How violent?”

“Assault. Homicide.” She thought of the bodies in the cellar. “And disappearances.”

“Sounds like you’re working on quite a theory.”

“It could be nothing. Of course, if you’re too busy, I can track down the info another way. Online or in back issues of the newspaper-”

“Don’t waste your time. The news stories never go into detail, and half of what they do report is wrong. And if it’s assaults and disappearances you’re after, some of them didn’t even make the news.”

“Really?”

“This isn’t Westwood, honey. A purse snatching there gets live satellite coverage. Dead body in Dogtown gets a stringer from the L.A. Times, who may or may not get a one-paragraph item on page B14.”

The reference to Richard’s neighborhood made her nervous. “Is that where these crimes are concentrated? Dogtown?”

“Dogtown’s where everything is concentrated.” A sigh. “Look, I can help you out. But I’ve got a little thing I have to do first. We’re holding a neighborhood meeting tonight at the Venice High School gym. Should last from six to seven. After that, I’m free. What do you say you meet me at the gym after the meeting, and we’ll take it from there?”

“Will do.”

“Okey-doke. By the way, you been to one of our community meetings?”

“Not recently.”

“Be warned. It’s a free-for-all. I’m just hoping Lady Godiva doesn’t attend.”

“Who?”

But Sandra had already ended the call.

She returned to her computer and checked the Ripperwalk site. She found three responses on the message thread she’d started.

Somebody with the screen name downinthedumps had posted, Just what we need, another suspect. Why does every newbie feel the urge to waste our time with a pet theory?

She wondered how he knew she was a newbie, until she noticed that her online identity, Jeneratrix, was credited with a grand total of one post.

The second respondent, ominously named AxMan, tried for humor. Edward Hare? He changed his name to Edward Scissorhands. A real cut-up. Could be our guy.

“Dork,” Jennifer muttered.

The third was a pedant named MSturbridgeMD. Are you by any chance thinking of William (not Edward) Hare, who partnered with William Burke? Burke and Hare were notorious body snatchers, but they predated the Ripper case by 60 years.

At least the condescending MSturbridgeMD had taken her seriously. There were no other replies.

It appeared her Web inquiry was going nowhere. Maybe no one had ever heard of Edward Hare. Which meant no one had ever suspected him of being the Ripper. No one in more than a hundred years.

Until now.