Riptide

She spun around, not interested in more repartee. “I already said goodnight.”

Draper stepped up to her. “Actually, you didn’t.”

“Okay, well-goodnight.” She started to turn away.

“I trust you,” Draper said.

The words caught her in mid-turn. “What?”

“I know you wouldn’t betray a confidence. I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise.”

“You did more than suggest.”

“I’m only worried about how other people might look at it, if this gets back to them. The higher-ups. I don’t want to see you blackballed.”

“What difference does it make to you?”

“I think you know.”

She paused, registering this. “Do I?”

“You ought to,” Draper said, and he leaned in and kissed her, a hard, hot kiss like a branding iron. “If you didn’t,” he added, “you do now.”

With that, he turned and walked back inside the restaurant.

She stared after him, astonished.

twenty

Three more comments were waiting on the Ripperwalk thread when Jennifer got home. The first two were dumb jokes left by idiots. The third was different.

Someone calling himself Abberline, whose avatar was a male face in silhouette, had written a single line.

If you’d like to discuss Mr. Edward Hare, please IM me.

An ICQ contact name was provided.

It could be another joke. If Abberline had anything serious to contribute, why not post it publicly? Still, she was intrigued. And she already had an ICQ account, though she hadn’t used it in a while. She couldn’t even remember her password, but she had it written down in a little spiral-bound notebook she kept in the top drawer of her file cabinet.

She found the notebook and was closing the drawer when she noticed something odd. The folders in the drawer seemed to be out of order.

They were filed alphabetically, or should have been. Now D came before C. She could have misfiled it, of course. She removed the folder and scanned its contents. Old cases for the LAPD and Santa Monica PD. All cleared now, of no interest to anyone.

Nothing of hers would interest anyone, except the diary.

But the word diary began with D, didn’t it? Someone looking for the diary might think to find a clue in this file.

Silly thought. No one had been in here. If anyone had come looking, the house would have been left in a state of disorder.

Unless she wasn’t supposed to know someone had searched.

She riffled through the rest of the folders and found two more out of sequence. R and H.

Ripper.

Hare.

Her archival boxes were stored inside a nearby cabinet. She looked them over and saw that two of the lids had been improperly replaced.

Someone had been here. Had looked through her files and the boxes.

In the pantry she pushed aside the row of household cleansers and found the hidden metal box. The diary was safely inside. The intruder hadn’t thought to look here.

Could it be Richard? He knew the old house, knew its weak points. The side window, the one that could never be properly latched. Or the back door, which lacked a dead bolt. Its latch could be slipped with a credit card or knife.

She checked the door first but saw no sign of tampering. The window was a different matter. It was open a crack, though she knew she’d shut it completely, and there was a scuff mark on the sill, left when the intruder climbed in or out.

She doubted he was still here. Most likely he wouldn’t have closed the window till he left. Even so, she explored the house room by room, turning on all the lights. She even opened the trapdoor and peered into the cellar with a flashlight.

She was alone. But someone had come earlier. It might have happened during the day, while she was visiting Harrison Sirk, but more likely the break-in occurred while she was at the rally, or afterward, when she talked to Sandra Price.

It was a funny feeling, to know someone had been in her home, pawing through her things, looking at the photos on the walls, the clothes in her closet, the books on the shelves. And yet the traces left behind were subtle. She could never prove a B amp;E. A few misplaced files and a dirty windowsill would establish nothing to anybody else.

But she knew.

Richard had come-it had to be Richard-looking for the diary. He knew about it somehow. Knew about the Ripper…and Edward Hare.

She remembered Abberline’s comment. Returning to her office, she logged onto her ICQ account, entered his name into her contact list, and was told he was online. She sent him a message.

What can you tell me re: Edward Hare? — Jeneratrix.

In moments he responded. You’re the first person I’ve encountered who knows that name. How did you come across it?

It came up in an old document, she answered.

A document I’d like to see.

Prefer to keep it to myself for now.

As you wish, Jeneratrix. You’re female, I presume?

Last time I checked.

I might have to double check.:)

Even with the smiley face, this comment struck her as weird. But there were a lot of creeps on the Net.

American? he asked.

Yes.

What part of the States do you hail from?

California.

Rather far from the Ripper’s territory, isn’t it?

His legend is everywhere, she wrote, thinking that California might not be as far from Jack’s turf as Abberline thought.

Yes, it has even reached sunny California. You must have a lovely tan.

She didn’t know how to respond to that.

I hope there are nude beaches in your vicinity, he continued. A tan is never satisfactory unless it covers all of you.

She definitely needed to get the conversation on track. He’d referred to America as “the States.” It sounded like something a Brit would say.

Are you in England? she asked.

London.

There was an eight-hour time difference between London and L.A. She typed, Must be nearly 5 a.m. there.

I’m an early riser. The curse of old age.