The Dirty Secrets Club (26 page)

"With your face covered, how did you ..."

"I have a tattoo."

"As one does."

"It was always visible on screen at some point. I was very limber. So I submitted a film clip with my CV, and at the interview I showed the tat." Her eyes were downcast. "It's a snake. I called it Original Sin."

She was embarrassed, yet couldn't keep from unveiling herself. Jo had never in her life met such an exhibitionist.

"At the time, it just seemed like fun. I was Sister Mary Erotica, or Mother Ignatius Rollova. I would chastise wayward altar boys with my rosary. Whip them or tie them up." She continued staring at the ground. "Hang them, sometimes strangle them."

"Actual autoerotic asphyxiation?" Jo said.

Zapata nodded and looked away. Her mouth crimped.

"Xochi?"

Jo sensed that there was more to tell, but Zapata had finally found the limits of her urge to strip.

The wind blew through Jo's hair. "I need to know how the DSC operates."

"I told you, it's a virtual confessional."

"So it's just a bunch of you sittin' around jawing? Do you whittle or quilt while you confess?"

"No. It's evolved over the years." For another moment she looked tense, and then fear replaced caution. She dropped her defenses again. "We've been playing Truth or Dare. Pulling stunts to gain points and get to the next level."

She opened her handbag and took out a small jewelry case. She handed it to Jo. Inside was a perfect black diamond.

"It was supposed to be Scott's," she said. "He made the cut."

It was beautiful. Though it refracted the sunlight, its depths were impenetrable.

"He carried out a dare last week. He and Callie . . . posed . . . on the roof of a skyscraper downtown. After the earthquake." She looked wistful. "Our news chopper actually got some footage. It was spectacular. It made my career in adult films look cheap."

Well, yes.

"Xochi, why is the club being threatened?"

"I think a dare went wrong. Somebody got hurt. The wrong somebody."

"And he's getting revenge?"

"Yeah."

"Who is he?"

"I don't know."

Zapata's cell phone rang. She turned away to answer it, and Jo heard, "I'll be right in." She hung up. "Developing story. I have to go."

"Will you give me the names of the other members of the club, so we can warn them?" Jo said.

"I don't know them. Like I said, it's a daisy chain."

"Will you please talk to the police?"

"No. Send them my way, and I'll deny everything. But thanks for warning me." She took the diamond back. "What am I supposed to do with this? Put it on Scott's casket at the funeral? What a waste."

Jo was walking back to the truck when her phone rang.

"Dr. Beckett, it's Gregory Harding."

She slowed. "How can I help you?"

"First, by accepting my apology. My behavior yesterday was inexcusable."

He sounded strained. Gulls were wheeling over the lawn, white against the morning sky.

"The situation overwhelmed me. But there was no justification for losing control of myself."

"Apology accepted. Thank you."

"I need to speak to you. I found some disturbing things at Callie's place."

"I'm all ears."

"Can you meet me? I'm in the city for meetings at the Fairmont— there's a restaurant with a rooftop terrace. In all seriousness, you should see these things."

She balked, but not for long. "On my way."

23

W
hen Jo pulled up at the Fairmont in her Doc Martens and jeans and dented pickup truck, the doorman didn't bat an eye.

The Fairmont Hotel monopolized the north side of Nob Hill. A magnificent white stone building, it could have doubled for the U.S. Mint. It had been built after the 1906 earthquake, seemingly from marble, gold leaf, and audacity. The style was Robber Baron Ornate. The vaulting lobby rang with echoes, some perhaps the ghosts of railroad magnates and dance hall girls. Jo headed for the stairs. She distrusted Gregory Harding's temper, but trusted the hotel to enforce decorum, deftly and ruthlessly.

Upstairs in the restaurant, Harding was sitting at a table overlooking the city. His blond hair shone white in the sunlight. His expression was veiled. His napkin was knotted in his left hand.

He stood and offered his hand. "I hope I haven't inconvenienced you."

"Not at all."

The view was astonishing. The sky was so sharp it seemed shellacked. The skyscrapers of the financial district were arrayed down the hill and the bay glimmered in the morning sun.

Harding's eyes were arctic. "Callie was into something weird."

"Define weird."

He took a compact leather-bound notebook from his shirt pocket and held it up. "The Dirty Secrets Club."

He ran his gaze over her face, seeking a reaction. She kept her expression neutral. He slapped the spine of the notebook against his palm.

"But that's impossible, because the Dirty Secrets Club doesn't exist," he said.

"Why do you say that?"

"Don't." He slapped the notebook again, harder. "Don't play games with me. It's bad enough that Callie did."

She kept her face calm. "Are you asking if I've heard of the Dirty Secrets Club? Yes."

Harding slapped the notebook against his palm another time. "That's why you asked me yesterday if Callie felt dirty."

He was testing her, like a suspicious spouse trying to trip up an unfaithful lover. She didn't like it. "I'm not playing games. You are. The club exists and you know it. Why don't you tell me what's going on?"

He looked away. He put his elbows on the table. After a second he rubbed his forehead. "Callie, dammit. What was she doing?"

"Tell me from the beginning, Greg."

He continued rubbing his forehead. "The club was a joke. Just a joke. A law school bullshit session, that's all," he said. "You know what law students are like?"

"Yes." No different from med students. Intense, intellectual, competitive. Anxious. Horny.

"They're masters of bullshit and one-upmanship. Law is taught by the Socratic method—hypotheticals, case studies, questions thrown at you by a teacher. You play 'what if?' in class, going through an increasingly extreme series of fact scenarios." He clenched the notebook. "You argue and speculate. The temptation is to trash talk and flash your intellectual chops. Throw in late nights, this hothouse atmosphere ... it gets crazy."

A waiter came and poured coffee. Harding waited for him to leave.

"There was this Saturday night. The party went late. We were doing tequila shooters and some blow. The evening had a sharp edge, you know?"

"I have an idea."

"We got on the subject of secrets. Cover-ups, lies, the way powerful people will do anything to protect themselves."

"Callie was part of this?"

"Yes. But not doing cocaine. She was a Goody Two-shoes." He was holding himself as straight as a switch, and his face looked drawn. "We were talking about courtroom confessions. How some people get busted and they just can't help themselves; they spill everything to the cops even though they have the right to remain silent."

"You remember this very clearly."

He held up the notebook. "It's all I've been thinking about since I found this."

"Go on."

"In a criminal case, if you confess, you do time. Even so, some people still spill their secrets to the police. Why?" He raised his hands. "One, they just have to get the weight off their shoulders. Or two, they want to brag."

"Revolting but true."

"So we started talking about secrets. People love secrets. Secrets can be horrible, fun, deadly. They can weigh on the conscience. Most of all, they can be valuable. But only as long as they
stay
secret."

"By definition," she said.

"Withholding information is how Silicon Valley runs—on trade secrets. Limiting information lets you gain power over the market."

"Or over other people."

He pointed his index finger at her. "Exactly."

"Blackmail and extortion wouldn't be possible otherwise."

"You got it." He nodded. "But people love to tell secrets. Look at
The Jerry Springer Show."
He fiddled with his coffee spoon. "People who tell their secrets don't realize—talking destroys the very thing that was valuable. Tell all, and you lose all that power, all that control. It's out in the big wide world, for everybody to play with.

"When you tell a secret, you make a myth look small. Because ninety percent of the time, the things people disclose are cheap, sleazy, and eventually . . . boring."

She shook her head. "Revealing secrets in some societies leads to blood feuds and honor killings. In California it causes divorce, hysteria, and addiction."

"Boring
. Check out yourdarksecret.com. 'I messed around with my sister.' 'I love Bobby and he'll never know.' 'I pissed in the elevator.' The word
plebeian
is the only adequate description."

"Those people are confessing anonymously."

"They're cowards."

"That's an interesting judgment," she said. "Anonymity can provide safety. It frees people to speak their minds."

Harding spread his hands. "Confess online? Hide behind a screen name? Big deal. Who knows it's really you? Who knows if these supposed secrets are real? We decided that night, if you spill your secret anonymously online, you're a wanker. If you do it on
Jerry Springer,
you're trailer trash, a media whore. You ruin both the secret and your reputation. You lose power."

"What's your point?" she said.

Briefly he looked embarrassed. "I don't mean to sound excited. I'm trying to explain how it was. We were kids. Jackasses, full of ourselves. It was all just a joke," he said. "It wasn't even a real club. It was a massive bullshit session."

"Except that it's not."

"Here's the point. People like to confess. They do it to unburden themselves, to hurt their lovers, to show off. Even to help others."

"Granted."

"And yes, you can confess in private. You can talk to a psychiatrist— they're sworn to silence by the doctor-patient privilege. And you can confess to a lawyer—they can get tossed in jail if they spill your secret. Or you can talk to a priest, and he'll never tell, under pain of death. But priests demand something of you in return. Remorse. And they give you penance. Who wants that?"

Scott Southern.

"Plenty of people," she said.

"You're not listening. Yeah, you can tell any of these people almost anything, without fear of exposure or reprisal. But none of these professionals will give you what you're looking for."

"What's that?"

"Kudos."

He let the word hang in the air.

He spread his hands. "Praise. Recognition. Glory for one's achievement."

"I know what the word means."

"I'm not talking about passive secrets, like 'Uncle John touched me and told me not to tell.' I'm talking about actions that people have taken. Big decisions. Risks. Socially unacceptable things."

"Crimes?"

"Of course." His face looked taut. "Callie took this fantasy and made it real."

"You think she's the creator of the Dirty Secrets Club."

He handed her the notebook.

The spine creaked when she opened it. On the first page, handwritten in black ink, was
DSC.

She flipped through: page after page of neat, organized notes written in a narrow hand that dug hard into the paper.

Ethos of the DSC. Secrets are valuable. Don't waste them.

A chill spidered down her arms.

Page five.

Dirty Secrets Club: levels. (1) Entry level—white. (2) Enhanced— silver. (3) Premier—red. (4) Elite—black diamond.

It was laid out with the banality of a frequent-flyer program. She kept reading. On page six the handwriting became rushed.

Unburdening yourself is one benefit of the club, but confession gives you only so much satisfaction. Competition gives you more. Club members get extra points for returning to the scene of a crime without getting arrested. Or for carrying on with something brazenly without getting caught. For lying under oath with a smile or a sad shake of the head. For risking a high-profile job or political position. For getting done what they brag that they're going to do without ever leaving their fingerprints on the disaster.

Christ. They were treating the city like their personal game board.

"Why would she turn law school trash talk into reality?" Jo said.

"I don't know."

"What was Callie's dirty secret?" Jo said.

"She was my wife. For five years I slept next to her while she dreamed. And I have no idea." His chill gaze melted. "This game killed her, didn't it?"