“Yes, I’ve seen your picture before.”
“You’ve…you’ve seen…” Mrs. Klein’s brief swell of fighting spirit died. Her shoulders slumped forward and Rachel wondered if the woman was about to cry.
“Why don’t you come in?” Rachael opened the door wide, as if she welcomed her clients’ wives into her home every day.
Tentatively, Mrs. Klein stepped into the apartment, eyes darting, possibly looking for something to make herself feel superior to her husband’s mistress. Rachael’s apartment was of modest size, but tastefully decorated. She steered the other woman to a seat in the living room and moved into the kitchen to make a pot of tea.
Soon they sat across from each other on matching couches with cups of tea steaming between them. Rachael waited for Mrs. Klein to speak.
When she did, she asked, “Are you in love with him?”
Rachael resisted the urge to laugh, only because she knew it would make things more awkward. “No, I’m not in love with your husband. He’s a client.”
“A client. I see.” Mrs. Klein smoothed the fabric of her pants. “May I ask, how long he’s been a client of yours?”
“Three years.”
She made a tiny, high-pitched noise in the back of her throat. “And, how old are you?”
“I’m thirty-six.”
“Thirty-six?” She gripped the edge of the couch. “Thirty-six? That’s only five years younger than I am! That bastard doesn’t even have the decency to sleep around with a girl in her twenties like a normal man going through a mid-life crisis!”
Rachael picked up her cup of tea, blew gently across the top, and took a long, satisfying sip.
“The way things stand, Mrs.…” She stopped short of calling the woman “Mrs. Klein.” “Ma’am. You have three options.”
The other woman blinked watery eyes at her. “Three?”
“One, you can do nothing. Go on living your comfortable life and hope that your husband will stop seeing other women eventually. Although, we both know how likely that is. Men are creatures of habit, bordering on addicts.” Mrs. Klein seemed like she needed a little more distance right now so Rachael stood and walked behind the couch. “Two, I can terminate my relationship with your husband, and you’ll at least be rid of me. Of course, then we’re back to the creature of habit theory, he might be faithful for a while but there’s no guarantee. If he doesn’t change you could always ask for a divorce, although I have a feeling that would hurt you more than help. I assumed you signed a prenuptial agreement?”
Mrs. Klein didn’t reply, but the skin around her mouth tightened.
“Option number three,” Rachael leaned both elbows on the back of the couch. “I can set him free.”
“Set him free?” Mrs. Klein blindly picked up her own cup and put it back down without drinking. “How is that any different than breaking things off with him?”
Rachael studied the woman sitting across the room, studied her designer handbag and her clothes that no doubt came from a wardrobe that, if sold, could feed a small country for a year. What Rachael saw when she looked at this woman, what she saw in all of her clients’ wives, was the person she could have potentially become. Rich, handsome men had promised her the moon if she’d only commit to them, but that commitment always seemed to be a tad unbalanced. At least in her experience.
Rachael enjoyed having a few of the finer things in life, she just didn’t see the point of giving up her freedom to get them.
“Have I mentioned that my mother was a pharmacist?”
“A what?” Mrs. Klein frowned.
“A pharmacist.” Rachael smiled, returning to her seat across from Mrs. Klein. “Not a common practice for women in her day, but she was determined to finish school and build a reputable practice.”
“What does that have to do with any of this?”
Rachael crossed her legs and settled back into the cushions. “Did I also mention that my father was another victim of habit? I do believe he tried to stay faithful to my mother, to our family, but he just wasn’t good at monogamy.”
Mrs. Klein shifted in her seat, smoothed the fabric of her trousers again. “What exactly are you trying to say, Miss Barrow?”
“When I was fourteen, they found my father dead in a room at the motel he used to meet one of his girlfriends. Heart attack. Of course, they questioned my mother because he was being unfaithful, but the autopsy didn’t show anything out of the ordinary. He was an overweight man in his late forties who spent an inordinate amount of time trying to screw women half his age. His heart was bound to give out at some point.”
Rachael waited.
Either Mrs. Klein understood the options Rachael gave her or she didn’t. Either she’d make a choice or she wouldn’t.
The Ansonia clock sitting on Rachael’s mantel ticked the time away while she waited for Mrs. Klein to speak.
Mrs. Klein stood up, pushing her bag up onto one shoulder. Rachael followed her through the apartment to the front door.
“Thank you for the tea, Miss Barrow.” Mrs. Klein spoke softly into the door. Her grip tightened on the doorknob as she drew in a sharp breath. She opened the door. “Set him free, then.”
Rachael was at her vanity, carefully tracing the edges of her eyes with her new Chanel Noir Intense eyeliner. One of several gifts from her newest client, Mr. Chanel. A brand-new bottle of No. 5 now sat at the front of her perfume collection, the unopened box just waiting for their first official date.
With her makeup completed, Rachael reached for the half-empty bottle of Obsession and spritzed liberally until she was in a cloud of fragrance. She padded across the cool hardwood floor of her bedroom to the closet. Behind the built-in shelf holding her shoes, sitting flush with the back closet wall, was a slide-out panel. It held her birth certificate, Social Security card, a few photos of her mother, and a small lock box.
Rachael pulled out the box, dropping down on the floor of her closet, and flipped the rotating numbers until the combination lined up with a click. She lifted the lid and stared down at the five perfume bottles nestled inside.
Hermes.
Baccarat.
Bergdorf.
Gucci.
Dolce & Gabana.
All lovely fragrances, collected over the years. Some she’d liked more than others; none of them did she wear anymore.
She placed the Calvin Klein in its new home and locked the box.
“You look like you’ve had a good day, darling.” Rachael pecked Mr. Klein on the cheek when he stood from the bar to greet her. The Peninsula bartender had her tonic with a splash of gin ready for her.
“It’s been a fantastic day.” Mr. Klein squeezed her waist. It appeared he’d already had more than one martini before her arrival. “No client emergencies at work and the house will be done next week. Hell, even Helen’s mood has improved.”
Rachael smiled. She sipped her drink and responded at all the right moments. It wasn’t long before he paid the bar tab and they walked hand-in-hand through the lobby to the elevators.
Mr. Klein reached for her as soon as they entered their usual suite, but Rachael danced away. Crooking one finger, she guided him further into the room where her surprise waited. Champagne, chocolate-covered strawberries, even a small plate of petit fours in a kaleidoscope of flavors.
“How did I get so lucky?” Mr. Klein wrapped his arms around her from behind, nuzzled the hollow of her throat and breathed deeply.
Rachael lingered for a moment before walking to the table, hips swaying. She popped the cork on the champagne and poured them each a glass. Mr. Klein didn’t like champagne, she knew, but he’d drink a toast to make her happy.
They toasted, they drank, Rachael feeding him a strawberry and a petit four, or two. When he offered her one, she declined until they’d “burned off a few calories.”
Mr. Klein pulled her in close, ready for another breath of perfume and another night with her.
Rachael closed her eyes, thinking not of the man
kissing her neck, but of the four or five drugs now making their way through his bloodstream, helped along by a rush of martinis and champagne.
One was known as the go-to for colds.
Another was a godsend when you had a headache.
There was even a handy herbal supplement known for easing anxiety.
But put them all together, well, that wasn’t a very good idea.
The kicker? Each one was easily and legally obtained over the counter. Hell, the cold medicine was even buy one-get one free. It had taken some trial and error to find the right combinations. Poor Mr. Baccarat had taken forever to go.
Now, though, it worked out quite neatly. Rachael was never on the hotel’s registration, her drinks were never charged to the hotel bar. She might be picked up on a security camera or two, but did the managers of this prestigious hotel really want anyone knowing they catered to people in Rachael’s profession? Not likely.
Besides, no one would be all that surprised if dear Mr. Klein suddenly passed away from a strange combination of otherwise innocent drugs. After all, he was getting older, he probably just forgot he took one before taking the other, right? His wife could attest to his slipping memory, if she so chose.
Rachael wondered how long it would take for Mr. Klein to feel the effects. Maybe she had time to feed him another treat or two before taking the leftovers with her when she left.
Her thoughts were interrupted when he finally succeeded in removing her dress. He moved like a man possessed, so preoccupied with getting what he wanted that he didn’t notice he was already started to fumble.
Rachael liked Mr. Klein. But if she learned anything from her mother it was that if you like something, you just might have to set it free for its own good.
And that was fine with Rachael.
Because now she was addicted to the thrill.
Just like he was addicted to her, and to the Obsession.
Back to TOC
All Clear
Linda Johnson
My drive to work takes eleven minutes and forty-nine seconds, fourteen seconds longer than average. Three more cars making left turns onto Grant Street today. I pull into the parking lot and find my usual spot far from the other cars. I open my door and peer down, check for rats, spiders, snakes. One, two, three, four, five. All clear.
As I’m getting out of my car, Chris Turner pulls in next to me. Right next to me. Six empty slots on both sides of my car and he pulls in next to me. Asshole. I grit my teeth. My mind flashes red, my eyes bleed into my brain.
“Hey, buddy. How’s it going, man?” Blond hair in a man bun, blue eyes, big grin showing off his dimples. I want to smash my fist into his perfect GQ face.
He yanks my lunchbox out of my hand and shakes it. “What’s for lunch today?” He closes his eyes and puts his hand to his forehead like a fortune teller. “Let me guess: peanut butter and jelly sandwich, potato chips, apple.” He opens his eyes. “Am I right?”
Of course, he’s right. It’s what I pack every day.
He hands my lunchbox back. Another big grin. “Just messin’ with you, man. We’re cool, right?” He drapes his arm around my shoulder and I break into a sweat. Breathe, breathe. One, two, three, four, five.
“What’s Melody doing here so early?” I point to my dream girl, the girl he stole from me. She’s smart, beautiful, funny, and a thousand times too good for him. I was going to ask her out, but he pounced first. When he turns to look, I duck out from under his arm.
“She’s flexing today. Leaving early for a dentist appointment. I’ll catch you later, buddy.” He trots off. Gray mid-thigh shorts and a tight, black T-shirt flaunt his Ken-doll body, ready for his morning workout. When he’s not coding, he lives at the company gym. Mornings, lunch break, after work. Get a life, dickwad.
I would never step into that germ-ridden petri dish of a gym: the sweat-soaked equipment, the chlorine-doused pool masking urine and saliva and God knows what other bodily fluids. I shudder. I don’t need to exercise anyway. Stress-induced adrenaline jacks up my metabolism to supersonic levels.
I walk to my office building and, like a rat in a maze, make my way to my cubicle. Exactly ten-by-ten. When I moved in, I measured it. One side was off by three inches, so I insisted they adjust the partition. Gray fabric walls, bare and clean, not like Turner’s cubicle next to mine. He’s covered his whole office in posters of mountains he’s hiked. I fantasize about him falling into a crevice and starving to death.
I power up my computer, pop open a Red Bull, and take a swig. I open the file I’m coding, crack my knuckles and go to work. I’m the best programmer in the department. When I’m in the zone, the world disappears. Nothing can hurt me.
I don’t hear Turner sneak up on me until he sits his ass on my desk. “Hey, buddy. How’s it going? You working on the Baxter project?” He picks up my open Red Bull. Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it. One, two, three—he takes a gulp. Fuck, fuck, fuck. What a prick. He stands and peers at my monitor. He picks up my pen and points to the screen. “There’s a better solution.” He kneels in front of my desk, deletes sixteen lines of my code, replaces it with his, and hits the save button. He stands and slaps my shoulder. “Awesome, right, man?”
He’s gone before I can respond, leaving behind my now-contaminated drink and pen, and his shitty code. I pull an antibacterial wipe from my drawer, rub down my keyboard and pen, and use it to pick up my can. I head to the men’s room, pour the rest of my Red Bull down the drain, and toss the can into the recycling bin. I wash my hands and dry them on a paper towel.
Back in my cube, I use another wipe to clean my hands, then delete Turner’s code. I stare at the monitor, willing myself to get back into the zone, but my brain is in deep-freeze. Those lines of code he deleted took me hours to write yesterday. They were perfect and now they’re gone and I have to reconstruct them.
I try to work, but all I can think of is Turner. How he stole Melody from me, how he rewrites my code, how he laughs at me, how he embarrasses me in front of the other programmers. I want to wipe that fucker off the face of the earth. First it’s just a flicker of thought, but then it takes hold. Why not? Why not rid myself and the world of this piece of shit?
The more I think of it, the more consumed I am. But how? No guns or knives—I hate blood. Other solutions: lure him to the rooftop and push him off, poison his coffee, tamper with his car brakes. Then it hits me—the most elegant solution: clean, bloodless, and painful.
My brain goes into the zone like I’m designing an algorithm, click, click, click, click, click. I have the who and the what, now the where: his office, the cafeteria, the bathroom, the gym? The gym, click.
I lean back in my chair and a sense of calm cradles my body. I will be free of my nemesis forever. I savor the moment, open a new Red Bull, take a swig, crack my knuckles, and go back to work. I reconstruct my code in a fraction of the time it took me to create it.
I watch for my opportunity. When I see Melody and Turner head to the cafeteria, I duck into her cubicle. I open her purse, grab her gym pass, and sneak out before anyone sees me.
On my drive home, I stop at a Home Depot. I hate to shop, to mingle with strangers, but I don’t want to order what I need online. This way, there will be no record of my purchases and no wait for delivery.
Inside the store, my senses go haywire. Bright lights blind me, products in every size and color are stacked to the rafters, loud music pounds my ears. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. One, two, three, four, five. I can do this. I have to do this. I open my eyes and count one step at a time.
I find the Sani-wipes and scrub the shopping cart handle. I locate the aisles with the items on my list: a compact microwave with maximum voltage, a non-GFCI outlet, and several power cords. I keep my head down and make it to the check-out line.
“Hi, sir. Find everything you need?”
I glance up and register female, nose ring, chomping on gum. I nod and look down, breaking eye contact. Keep my eyes lowered
until she calls out the total. I count out my cash. I want to count it again, but don’t want to call attention to myself. I hand it over, take my change, and grab my shopping bags. I count the steps to the door. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Outside, I look around. All clear. I count the strides to my car, load up my packages, and drive off. Halfway home, my hands stop shaking.
The next morning, I launch myself from bed even before the extra early alarm goes off. I’m totally pumped. I have no second thoughts. My life will be so much better without Turner. Maybe I’ll be normal again. I used to be, until Turner showed up and started needling me and needling me, like a tick sucking my life’s blood. But now, all I have to do is get rid of him, and my life will be peaceful and calm and normal.
I drive to work and park in the adjacent office building’s parking lot. I use Melody’s pass to unlock the gym doors. I find the closest electrical outlet and swap it out for my non-GFCI outlet. I string the power cords together until there’s enough play to reach the hot tub. The smell inside the pool equipment room makes me gag, but with the door cracked open, I have a perfect view of the pool and hot tub.
Turner shows up at five-thirteen, jumps into the pool, and swims laps for thirty-three minutes. Then he hops out and makes a beeline for the hot tub. I gaze around the pool area. All clear. I check my power cord connections to make sure they’re tight. The microwave clock light is blinking so I know it’s alive. I press the five-minute cook button so it’s humming full-strength.
I push the door open and with no hesitation walk to the hot tub. Turner doesn’t even notice me until I’m two strides away. “Hey, man. What’re you doing at the gym? Going to try to put some meat on those bones?” He laughs. And then he registers the microwave, and his eyes widen. “What the hell?”
I hold it up over the hot tub like a trophy. Let him get a good look. “Adios, asshole!” I toss the microwave into the water. There’s a splash, then an explosion, then a sizzle. Turner thrashes, then everything is still. His head dangles over the side of the hot tub, his mouth ajar. One, two, three, four, five. My mind is peaceful, calm, like a field of clover in the early dawn. I relish the moment, before I sprint into action.
Carolina Crimes Page 10
