Riptide

“You don’t care much about the social niceties, do you?”

“Let me tell you about the social niceties. Last week I hooked up with this new guy in our sales office. We’re in the elevator and we just decide to go at it. So we hit the stop button, freeze the elevator between floors, and have a little ooh-la-la.”

“You didn’t.”

“We did. I don’t know about niceties, but it was nice, all right.”

“You have no shame.”

“I haven’t told you the best part. He’s just zipping up when I noticed the goddamned security camera in the ceiling. We gave somebody one hell of the show.”

“I would never be able to show my face there again.”

“The way I figure it, it wasn’t my face they were looking at. Besides, it’s L.A., the land of sunny hedonism- surf, sand, and sex, not in that order.” She regarded Jennifer appraisingly. “When was the last time you got the sweet end of the lollipop?”

“It’s been a while.”

“Maybe I should fix you up with the busboy. You need him more than I do.”

“You can have him. Besides, we don’t know anything about the guy. He could be crazy, for we all know.”

“Now don’t go acting prejudiced, kiddo. Just because Venice is a mecca for every psycho nut job and schizo head case …” She looked stricken. “Oh, crap. I’m sorry.”

“Not a problem,” Jennifer said stiffly.

“I wasn’t talking about him.”

“I know. We never talk about him. Do we?”

“Should we? Do you want to?”

Jennifer almost pursued the subject. Almost said she couldn’t entirely forgive Maura for walking out on Richard in the early months of his illness. No, it wasn’t as if they were that serious, and their relationship probably wouldn’t have lasted anyway, but there was something unseemly about Maura’s rush for the exit at the first sign of trouble.

But there was no point in saying it now. She other things to deal with.

“No,” she said. “Forget it. It’s not important.”

“Then how come you’re so pensive all of a sudden?”

“You reminded me of something that happened today.”

“Involving … Richard?” It was rare for her to speak his name.

“No, involving the earthquake. I checked for damage, and I–I found something in the cellar.”

“Buried treasure?”

“You’re half right.”

“So it’s treasure, at least?”

“No, but it’s buried. Bodies. Skeletons.”

She told the story, all of it, even the discovery of the diary and what it might mean.

“You’re pulling my leg,” Maura said when she was finished.

“Wish I were.”

“Jack the freakin’ Ripper?”

“Not so loud.”

“Come on, Jen. Things like this just don’t happen. Am I on one of those reality shows? Is Ryan Seacrest hiding somewhere?”

“It’s for real. I told Casey, but with the quake, the police are all tied up till tomorrow.”

“Well, you can’t stay there, not as long as those things are in the house. You can bunk with me. We’ll have a pajama party.”

“Thanks, but I’m not worried about being in the house. I’ve seen bodies before.”

“Dead bodies at a crime scene are one thing. Dead bodies in your crib are another.”

“Did you say crib?”

“Hey, I can talk street. I just keep it on the down-low. Seriously, you can’t stay at home right now. It’s just… icky.”

“They’ve been in my house all along, Maura. For years.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t know about it. It’s like, I’ve got no problem eating in a restaurant as long as I haven’t seen the kitchen. But if I saw what went on in there, with the rats and roaches and the waiters peeing in the soup, forget about it.” Someone at the next table had picked up on the last few words. She glanced at the eavesdropper and reassured him, “Not this place. This place is fine.”

Jennifer decided not to eat the last of her cheeseburger. “I admit it’s a little…unnerving. But I can deal with it.”

“I still say you should unload that house, buy a nice little bungalow in the Valley. I can get you a great deal on a fixer-upper with potential. This skeleton thing is a sign from God.”

“In the Valley you can’t smell the salt air. Besides, the house has been in my family forever.”

“I know, but-hey, wait a minute. How’d those dead guys get there?”

“You mean, which one of my forebears put them there? That’s what I’d like to know. It couldn’t have been my father. The bones are older than that. That leaves my grandfather, Frederick Silence, and my great-grandfather, Graham Silence. He immigrated from England and married here in the U.S.”

“You know your genealogy? Impressive. I can barely remember my mother’s maiden name.”

“After I learned how my father died-well, I needed to know as much as possible about our past. About whether the illness was hereditary. Turns out, it is.”

“So if one of these people wrote the diary, it would have to be old great-grandpappy Graham?”

“If we assume that the diarist really did live in England, and wasn’t just fantasizing that part of the story… then yes.”

“Did Graham come over to these shores in the right time frame?”

“It was sometime in the late nineteenth century, but I don’t have the date.”

“There must be a record somewhere.”

“Richard inherited the family papers. God knows what he’s done with them. Let’s change the subject, okay?”

“Are you kidding me? I hawk condos for a living. This is the most interesting thing that’s happened in my world in months. Makes today’s shaker look like a hiccup.” She took another swig of her Malibu Bay Breeze. “Tell me more about this diary. You think it’s for real?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, what do you know?”

“Ordinarily, if I’d come across anything like this in, say, an antiquities shop, I would figure there are three possibilities. The book might be a modern forgery. Or it might have been written a century ago by someone who followed the case at the time and deluded himself into believing he was Jack the Ripper. Or it could be the confession of the Ripper himself.”

“I take it we can rule out forgery. I mean, given the circumstances.”

“Yeah, he sure didn’t forge those skeletons. But the second possibility is a live option. Suppose the diarist lived in Venice and only imagined he was the Ripper. An overactive fantasy life isn’t uncommon in psychopaths.”

“But we know he was a real killer, not just a Walter Mitty type.”

“Even so, he might have begun by writing the diary as an exercise in fantasy. Later, he could have progressed to actual murders.”

“A copycat? Some psycho who idolized Jack so much he wanted to be him?”

“It could make more sense than thinking the real Ripper ended up thousands of miles from home.”

“We’re talking about the most wanted man in the world. He might have had good reasons to hightail it out of England.”

Jennifer was dubious. “I’ve never heard anything about Jack the Ripper operating outside London.”

“How much do you really know about him?”