Click.
Can it be? Is this happening?
Breathe. Turn. Gun up. Step. Barrel to head.
“Hi, Sam.”
A pause, stillness.
“Dylan.”
“Yes, Sam. It’s me.”
I take a step back.
“Don’t move. No, no, Sam, don’t turn. Hands up. Slow. Like the movies. Pretend like the movies. Good. Down the hall. Slow. Good. You’re a little wobbly, Sam. You drink too much sometimes. Okay, good. Now sit. Sam, I will use this. Don’t fuck around. I will kill you, Sam. I don’t want to, but I will. Hands behind your back. I brought my own handcuffs. Might be a little tight. There. That’s good. I hate to do this, but I have to. It shouldn’t hurt too much.”
Sam’s out. I didn’t want to hit him. But, again, circumstances. I was quite menacing. Don’t fuck around. I scared myself with that one. I close the blinds, light a candle. I reach into my bag. Duct tape and a bandanna. I go to work, taping his legs and trunk to the chair. I unlock the cuffs and tape his arms to the arms of the chair. I tie the bandanna around his mouth. No, I won’t need that. Sam won’t yell. I wet a towel and pat the back of his head. A little blood. I struck him too hard. But the gash is not deep. He’ll forgive me. I wet the towel again and pat his face. So close I am. So close I have wanted to be to this man. I kiss his forehead, kiss his still lips. Taste the scotch, run a hand through his hair, study his face, nose, brow, the way he comes together around the eyes, like a painting. I kneel in front of him. There’s much to do. I light a cigarette, open a merlot I’ve brought, set out two glasses, and wait for him to wake. I flip through his vinyl collection and put on the Beatles’ White Album, smoke another cigarette, dance with my wine to “Dear Prudence.” The Beatles will go on forever, like Beethoven and the Pantheon. I haven’t listened to them in years. My father was a big fan. The Beatles filled our house on weekend mornings while my mother brooded in some room and my father and I made plans over coffee and juice, the way normal people do. He’s gone, my father. My last year at Stanford. Heart attack. A statistically normal death. But I loved him beyond numbers. I have his ashes in my bag. I haven’t been able to scatter them. How does one know the perfect place? I am an orphan and haven’t learned such things. Sam’s been out a while. I flip the LP. “Sexy Sadie.” I keep it low. I peek out the blinds. Esmeralda. I see you in your tarps and rags, your suitcases stacked against the abandoned Hotel Clark, another century’s architectural ghost. But once, Esmeralda, presidents slept there. It’s what Sam sees when he looks down. You. This street. He should move out of the city. I don’t think he will. He likes it here. I sit in his leather chair, the worn one. Here we are, Sam. Home. Like two lovers in the black of night, with your Afghan carpets and pictures of Sudan. Or is it South Sudan now? I read about it. Hacked limbs, women tied to trees, fires on grazing lands.
A breath.
“I didn’t think you were in the high desert.”
Ah, Sam’s awake. His voice. As I expected. Deep, but not too. You could float on it. His eyes open and close. Focus.
“You were sleeping.”
“My head hurts.”
“Sorry about that.”
He looks at my tape job.
“Is this necessary?”
“I thought you might go ballistic. A girl never knows.” I wink at him. “But you expected me, didn’t you? I can tell.”
“I’m not surprised you’re here. Now, cut me out of this so we can talk.”
“Oh, Sam, you’re so funny and cute. No.”
I push the leather chair by the window toward him. An inlaid box, the kind you might buy in a souk, lies exposed on the floor. I know what it is. I’ve read about it in his diaries. It’s his box of the dead’s possessions. I look at it. He looks at me. I don’t open it. I’ll leave him those secrets. I place it on the table and nudge the chair closer to him and sit.
“I didn’t want it to be this way. I wanted us to meet at the Little Easy. I had it all planned. I’d come in the hour before last call and sit two stools from you. I’d turn and say something clever and you’d laugh and I’d move closer and you’d buy me a drink and we’d talk to Lenny. I would have been wearing this.” I stand and twirl in my black dress and heels. “We would have kissed. It would have been the best kiss. We would have finished our drinks and I would have walked you down Broadway—you know, before it was Broadway it was Eternity Street—and pointed out all the architecture. The little flourishes and hidden things people don’t see when they rush past. I would have shown you what was in the architect’s mind. You would have understood the city better. The beauty of details. We would have danced on the sidewalk, both a little drunk but not too, and you would have brought me back here and played me something on the piano, or you would have put on records and poured me wine. Like you did with her.”
“Who?”
“Susan from the Times. Your little girlfriend. You really should watch who you fall for, Sam. She’s not good for you.”
“She’s moved to Washington.”
“I know. Thank God, right? I know everything about you, Sam.”
“Omniscient.”
“You have no idea.”
“Have you been spying?”
I wink and step toward him.
“Have a sip of wine.”
I lift the glass to his lips.
“Dylan Cross.”
“Suspect?”
“A person of interest.”
“You’ve been spying on me too,” I say.
He’s quite calm. Maybe it’s the whiskey from earlier, or something they teach you in detective school when you’re in a compromised position.
“I saw the tennis picture in your office. John showed me.”
“My sport.”
“You looked like you were good. It’s the kind of picture people keep so they can remember.”
“Remember what?”
“Those moments when we see our best self.”
“Do you think that?”
“Yes.”
“Where is your moment?”
“I’m still waiting for that picture to be taken.”
Is he seducing me?
“Late bloomer,” I say.
“Maybe.”
“I could take one now.”
“Please don’t.”
“I’m teasing, Sam. Don’t be so serious. It’s a trait of yours. I’ve noticed. When you get to know me better, you’ll know when I’m teasing. I outgrew tennis, by the way.”
“You have other hobbies.”
“Ah, Sam. It’s our first date. Don’t go for the prize right away.”
I give him another taste of wine. A sip of water.
“How did you get in?”
“When you visited your mother. How is she, anyway? It’s hard when they live in that imaginary world, going bit by bit.” I stop and look right into his eyes so he knows I care. “I met with an efficient, happy man in the leasing office downstairs. I told him I was looking for an apartment. He showed me a few. Let’s not go into the whole leasing process thing, but I swiped one of the master keys. And, voilà, here I am. This was plan B. I told you I wanted to meet in the Little Easy. Circumstances, Sam. Circumstances.”
“You’re resourceful.”
“Thank you.”
“You hacked my laptop, didn’t you? Like you did Gallagher’s. That’s how you know.”
“You’re quite the diarist, Sam. All those files. Particularly on your father. Your father is my mother. The ones we couldn’t save. We thought we could. Children think a lot of things, don’t they? One of your parents beaten to death. One of mine set the house on fire. She was nuts, my mother. All over the place. Bipolar and other things. There’s never just one thing. My father called her ‘the butterfly.’ Perfect euphemism for a child to understand the crazy mind.
She fluttered. I don’t want to talk about her. She’s gone. Your father’s gone. Mine too. Your mother’s going. Soon, it’ll be just us. Or maybe just one of us.”
That last sentence was maybe a little mean. But it is still a game. My game.
“So, we’re alike?” he says.
“In some ways, very much. Do you feel violated?”
“Of course I feel violated. What do you think? I’ve been hit in the head and taped to a chair. My diary read.”
“Yes. But I think I’m more of an expert on violation, wouldn’t you say?”
He takes the bait.
“The vid—”
“Let’s not go there yet. More wine? It’s from a small vineyard outside Los Robles. I discovered it when I moved here. I liked Los Angeles right away. Did you? The theaters on Broadway. French baroque, Spanish Gothic, art deco. It’s changing, though, isn’t it? All the new buildings. The schizophrenic new mixed with the old ghosts. I wonder if they can pull it off. I have my doubts about men. They’re mostly men, you know, with money and designs. All cities have ghosts, don’t they Sam? But here they’re scattered. I know by reading your files you like downtown. The ruin, the promise. That’s sort of the story of you, Sam. Am I overstating? Being too melodramatic? All your little thoughts on neighborhoods and crime. You’re an expert on ghosts. The bodies you’ve seen. All the trinkets you keep in that box.” I turn and look to the box on the table. I guess I didn’t leave him that secret after all. “But you like it still. That’s what I admire about you, Sam: your capacity to adapt. Oh, yes. You believe in the world despite the things it gives you. Am I talking too much? I feel like I might be. I’m a little nervous. I have lived for this moment for so long.”
“LA’s home now.”
“Yes, home.” I cross my legs and smile. The wine is quite good. “Confession. I saw you on my lawn. I was on the third floor, peeking through a shutter. I pretended we were married and you had just gotten home from work and went to the backyard to see the day end, like you’d done a thousand times before. We had dinner and we danced. Just you and me in my big Victorian. Do you like what I’ve done with it? It’s my labor of love, my endless weekend project, though I suppose it may be ending now, given, well, you know, what has … What’s that word? Transpired.”
I shoot him a devil’s grin. I rise and walk around him so he can see, take me in, wonder what it would be like to have me. To live in my house. I come up behind him and wrap my arms around his chest, kiss his neck, whisper in his ear.
“Welcome home, honey. Wouldn’t that be something? I couldn’t decide if we had children. I just saw us. What do you think?”
He looks at me. He has such tender, curious eyes. For a man who’s seen so much, how can his eyes be so gentle? Not naive—no, Sam is not that—but knowing. I realized it from the moment I read about him in the story that bitch (Susan—she lingers, I can tell) wrote, and that picture of him near the Bradbury. I want to cut the tape away and dance with him, put on Coltrane and dance the way they did in those old movies he likes: round and round, slow. But I can’t.
“You’re crying,” he says.
I reach up. I am. How unexpected.
“A little.”
“I can’t imagine,” he says.
I wipe a tear away, sip my wine.
“What?”
“That night.”
It’s natural, of course, that he’d keep edging toward there. He’s a detective.
“You saw,” I say. “You know.”
“I’m sorry.”
I don’t want his pity. Understanding, yes. But not pity. It cheapens me. You can’t love someone you pity. It becomes something else. Silence. We look at one another for a long time. Killer and cop. That’s what we are if anyone bursts in now. That’s all we would leave the world. A story half told. But nobody’s coming.
“Where’s Jensen?”
“You know what was the hardest, Sam? The not knowing for so long. To have it inside, creeping around, whispering in my head, giving me this feeling of something. But I never knew. When I saw the video, I pretended it was someone else. But your own body, even in a mask, cannot deceive you. It was me. Not like the tennis picture. Not a beautiful moment, as you say. And they were out there, you know, having their lives and sketching their designs, talking their shit. They probably never thought about me. I disappeared into their files. A nothing along the way. I couldn’t have that. Not once I knew. And so …”
“You acted.”
“Yes. I like that. I acted.”
“Gallagher.”
He’s clever, isn’t he? Steering me with his short little sentences. He so much doesn’t mind the empty space. Practically forces you to fill it. I’ll indulge for a while.
“Easy. That’s why he was first. A vile creature. You heard his laugh. That cackle. It was easy to end that sound. You found him. You know. I still remember the mint and gin on his breath after he came down from his whore. Smelled of a soap too. An after-the-fuck shower, I guess. Excuse my French.” I stand and hold my arms out, shoulders back, the tautness of me, rising. “Look at me, Sam. That runt was no match. I surprised him. I’m not confessing, by the way. I’m just telling you what happened. Hypothetically.”
I wink.
“Oh, Sam, don’t you love this game?”
“It was a perfect cut.”
“I practiced on meat. Rump roasts. Don’t you love Ralphs? I like it better than Whole Foods. I’ll bet you don’t know this. I took martial arts classes in Westwood. You’d be surprised. A lot of rich women out there are super tough. I clung to Gallagher like a cat.” I run a finger across my throat for dramatic effect. “Slice.”
“Most people can practice it, play it in the mind, but not do it.”
“There’s nothing most about me, Sam. Please say you know that. You must at least know that. A little more wine. There, that’s good. Let me cool your face. There.”
I kiss him on the forehead. I am so bold. But I must be. Time is ticking. I step back and sit down.
“Jamieson.”
“I was thinking theatrical. He loved opera, after all.” Wink, wink. “I couldn’t ambush him like puny Gallagher. He was big and in shape. Normally not a bad combination.” I smile so Sam sees my humorous side. “He used an escort service, as you probably know. What is it about some men? Gallagher had a wife. Jamieson certainly didn’t have to pay. I think it’s naughtiness. I think some boys never grow out of their little-boy naughtiness. It perverts them. They like things hidden. Dangerous dirty, hidden things.”
I lean back, go quiet, so we can ponder this. Sam says nothing.
“I hacked the escort service website. It’s amazing how much hacking has been part of my game. Hypothetically, of course. I admit to nothing. If I did admit, well, I hacked him, intercepted his desire, and, presto, I am a hooker for the night. You know they charge fifteen hundred dollars? Before tip. You know the rub, though, right? I’m still me. He knows me. Well, we hadn’t seen each other in years, and I never registered, anyway. Just flesh he once fucked. Pardon my expression. Jamieson makes me foulmouthed. I needed a disguise. I went shopping. It’s quite devious to shop for killer clothes. Ha, ha. I am funny, Sam. I can be quite funny. Bought a blond wig, changed my skin hues, as they say at the makeup counter, to a lighter shade. A trans at Nordstrom’s taught me how. I looked like me but not. Enough to trick him. You saw the surveillance video. Long, breezy coat. Fedora. I was quite the Ingrid Bergman.” I sigh. He likes Bergman, but I don’t mention his prepubescent celluloid crush. “Oh, Sam, do we have to keep talking about this? It’s getting late.”
“The surveillance video doesn’t show what happened inside the apartment.”
“You found him. I’m sure you can guess. Knife under the rib cage, up to the heart.”
“The room had the feel of a ceremony. A ritual.”
“Like t
he Mayans. Do you know Frank Lloyd Wright designed a house in Los Feliz that looks like a Mayan temple?”
“The blue bow, the mascara. Why was he naked? How did you do it? We know you shot him with a mix of ketamine and neuromuscular blockers. But when? How did you sneak up on him?”
“It’s a delicate science, paralyzing someone. All those little molecules. I read for days. Billions of chemical compositions out there. Quite the questioner, aren’t we, Sam?”
“My job.”
“Of all the jobs in all the world, you had to pick that one …”
He gets the allusion. Touché for me.
I walk to a window, open the blinds a peek, and stand over the street, like … maybe an angel. Yes, an angel in a black dress, looking down. I know Sam’s watching me. His eyes over me, legs, back, shoulders, the way my hair falls, shines. I am tall, and men have to take me in parts, in pieces. Like a slender building rising unexpectedly on a street. I see it in their eyes, the way they look at me. Sam too. But not like the others.
“How long have you known her?” I say.
“Who?”
“Esmeralda.”
“She’s there?”
“Same spot.”
“She’s getting weaker. She can’t pull all her bags and things like she used to. I’ve known her for five years. I bring her tea and scotch. A five or a ten every now and then.”
“She’ll die. Right there, probably. Under her tarps.”
“She’s resilient. Must be close to seventy. Maybe younger. Her skin is so weathered, it’s hard to tell. She keeps asking me why people want to put her in a shelter. Walls frighten her. She told me once that being inside was like being buried. She thinks there’s monsters in this building.”
I turn and give Sam a wink. I mean, how could I resist?
“Psychotic?”
“Sometimes, two or three voices inside. All yelling to be heard.”
Voices. Whispers. Voices. And back again.
My Detective Page 22
