Riptide

“Not much. Hardly anything, in fact.”

“That’s gotta change.”

“I intend to do some research, obviously.”

“Of course you do. And you’re going to start tonight.”

The Purloined Letter Bookshop was two blocks down from the cafe. The store specialized in mystery and true-crime, offering both new and used books, shelved together, with no discount on used editions.

“May I help you?” the proprietor asked as they entered. He was a small man with narrow shoulders and a narrow face.

“We’re looking for something on Jack the Ripper,” Maura said.

“Oh, I have plenty of those.”

The narrow man led them down a narrow aisle to a narrow bookcase where a special section had been reserved for Ripper books. Dozens, scores, of titles.

“Any you’d recommend?” Jennifer asked, bewildered by the array of choices.

“Depends on what you’re looking for. If it’s a straightforward, factual presentation of the case you’re after, Sugden’s Complete History is your best bet.” He handed her a thick paperbound book. “For the original documents reproduced verbatim, there’s Evans and Skinner.” He gave her an even thicker paperback, as chunky as a brick. “Then there are the letters attributed to Jack-another Evans and Skinner title, Letters from Hell.” He produced a large hardcover and added it to her armload of books. “Or there are the more speculative ones. Cornwell’s Portrait of a Killer-controversial, claims to have solved the case.” A smaller paperback was added to the pile. “Or we have The American Murders of Jack the Ripper, a book that says Jack migrated to the US for a time.”

Migrated to the US. Jennifer was happy to let him stack that book on top of the others.

“And The Diary of Jack the Ripper, another controversial title.”

Maura interjected, “They found his diary?”

“Some folks said so.” He set the book atop the pile in Jennifer’s arms, which was now both heavy and precarious. “The diary’s been examined, though-chemical analysis and whatnot. The tests show it’s a fake. Too bad. Be quite a thing, wouldn’t it? To find the real diary?”

Maura nodded vigorously. “Sure would. Wouldn’t that be something, Jen?”

Jennifer ignored her.

“Now I realize,” the proprietor said, “you won’t want more than one or two of these. I’ll give you time to decide.”

“No, that’s all right,” Maura said. “We’ll take them.”

He blinked. “Which ones?”

“All of them.”

“Okay.” He pronounced the word slowly in two distinct syllables. “Well, let’s ring ’er up, then.”

“You’re pretty free with my money,” Jennifer whispered when the man had walked away.

“Just saving you time, kiddo. You know you’d end up buying all of them eventually.”

At the counter Jennifer thumbed through the books while the owner wrote up the order on a clipboard. In The Ultimate Jack The Ripper Companion, she came across a photo section. Ghastly photos of the dead. She had seen autopsy shots before, but something about 19th-century mortuary shots creeped her out.

Maura pointed to a display bin near the register. “You know what? This is the guy you need to talk to.” The bin was stocked with paperback copies of A Hollywood Murder, by Harrison Sirk. “He lives in L.A., and he knows everything about local crime.”

“He’s a TV star. I can’t just call him up.”

“I can. He’s a friend of mine. Every now and then I spend an afternoon escorting him to high-end properties. He’s not in the market to buy. He just likes to snoop. But it’s cool, ’cause he pays me for my time. Anyway, he’ll take my call.”

“I don’t know.”

“I know. I’ll set everything up. Besides, he’d love to meet you. You have at least two qualities he’ll appreciate.”

“Let me guess.” Jennifer pushed her boobs together. “These qualities?”

“No, smarty. Number one, you’re into psycholing-whatsis, which from everything you’ve told me is an up- and-coming area of criminal profiling. And number two, you’ve got a mystery to solve. Sirk loves a mystery. Maybe he’ll see a book in it.”

“I don’t want a book.”

“Then be discreet. Don’t tell him anything more than what he needs to know.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Maura grabbed one of the Sirk books and put it on the counter. “She’ll take this, too.”

Jennifer frowned. “I will?”

“It never hurts to tell an author you’ve read his book.”

She looked at the photo on the back cover, showing Sirk posed on a balcony overlooking Sunset Boulevard, the smoggy cityscape stretching behind his obese but sartorially impeccable figure.

The proprietor read off the total. She paid with a credit card. He glanced at it. “Silence. Unusual name.”

“Yes.”

“Family from England?”

“Originally.”

“So was Jack, of course.” He smiled. “You two have something in common.”

“Maybe more than you think,” Maura said cheerfully, and Jennifer shot her a glare.

eleven

It was after ten PM when Jennifer e-mailed Draper her report on the Diaz case. She knew she ought to rest and take a fresh look at the diary in the morning. But she couldn’t leave the rest of it unread.

Carefully she turned to the last page she’d seen, marked with a dried splotch of blood “fresh out of whitechapel,” the word rendered in lowercase.

The blood, noted the diarist in a subsequent entry, had belonged to Annie Chapman.

A timeline of events was included in one of the books she’d purchased. The Ripper’s second victim was Annie Chapman, killed in the backyard of an East End home.

And the first victim was Mary Ann Nichols, known as Polly to her friends.

The names matched. Whoever wrote the diary either was Jack the Ripper-or thought he was.

She continued reading. Some of the lines were struck through-an increasing number as time went on. The handwriting grew more frenzied and illegible, the forward thrust of the cursive becoming almost savage. The man’s self-control was breaking down.

There were frequent references to the Met. It seemed to stand for the Metropolitan Police, who investigated some of the Ripper murders.

In other passages the word costermonger cropped up, straight out of Dickens. Street names were hyphenated-Hanbury-street, Aden-yard, Mile-end-road. Presumably this was good Victorian usage.

Throughout, the diarist’s rage became more palpable, his grandiosity more exaggerated.

Brainless blue bottles have no more chance of buckling me than of nabbing their own shadows.

They call me wicked, fiend, ruffian. Hypocrites, double-faced asses! I do what they desire to do. They would follow in my footsteps if they had the will.

Next one I do I’ll be up her arse and shoot sponk up her then tickle up her ovaries with my fine