The Soul Hunter

by Melanie Wells

  “You still there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here,” I said.

  “Cruiser still outside?”

  I checked. “Yep.”

  “Would you like the officers to escort you to a hotel?”

  “Not really. I’m making chili.”

  “Good day for chili.”

  “Want to come over?”

  I’d just invited humorless Detective Jackson over for chili. That’s how sad my life had become.

  “I’m on duty.”

  “Have you talked to Maria today? Is she okay?”

  “I believe she’s decided to stay with a friend for a few days.”

  “Do you have a number for her?”

  I wrote down the number he gave me and thanked him for calling.

  I threw a little bit of crushed habanero pepper into the pan, just for grins. Might as well make the chili hot, since I didn’t have anyone to breathe on. Besides, I’d read somewhere that really hot chilies cause the body to release endorphins, producing an opiatelike effect. I could definitely use an opiate-like effect.

  I threw some ground beef into the pan, watching the grease splatter onto my stovetop as the meat started to brown. I began contemplating my clean-up strategy even as I made the mess. I’d take the whole stovetop apart later and scour it down with Antibacterial Soft Scrub with Bleach. It would give me something to do with my brain. The stove needed a good scrub anyway.

  I dug in my rodent-defiled pantry for cans of crushed tomatoes and green chilies and for chili powder and cumin. I disinfected the containers with Clorox and opened them up.

  I finished browning the meat, helped myself to a spoonful, added more salt and pepper, then stirred in everything else, put the lid on the skillet, and left the chili to simmer.

  At my desk, I fired up my computer and started searching for information on Drew Sturdivant. Maybe Pryne’s buddy was someone she knew. It didn’t take long to scare up her phone number and address. She had lived pretty close to SMU, in a huge village of apartments populated almost entirely by college students. I wondered if any of her neighbors were aware of how she made her living. I wrote down the address.

  Next I looked up El Centro College. I perused the website and was surprised to discover I knew a couple of faculty members. El Centro is a community college, not a four-year school. Professionals in the community sometimes teach at this level because it allows them the stimulation of teaching college-level courses without the mind-numbing hoop-jumping involved in a full-time academic career.

  Community college professors are doing it for fun, in other words, and make real, actual money at their day jobs. They drive better cars than we do, are genuinely interested in their courses and their students, and are hardly dull at all, unlike most of my colleagues.

  My accountant was teaching as an adjunct in the business department. And one of the psychology instructors had been a graduate student of mine a couple of years ago. He was a crummy student, had a pretty dynamic personality, and had figured out quickly that he wasn’t cut out for academic life. I’d heard he was doing well in private practice. He’d asked me out a couple of times. I’d always dodged the issue by hiding behind the professor/student thing.

  I’m sort of afraid of my accountant. He’s always demanding receipts I don’t have, and I never get my tax stuff in on time. So I decided to try my ex-student first. The school was closed today, of course, but I shot him an e-mail anyway.

  Since he was in private practice, I thought it was possible he might be seeing patients today. No play, no pay, as the saying goes. I looked up his office number in the business pages.

  A woman’s voice answered.

  “May I speak with Mitch Dearing, please?”

  “He’s with a patient.”

  Bingo. I checked the clock. It was twenty minutes before two. He’d be out in ten minutes if he worked on the hour.

  “May I take a message?”

  “Would you have him call Dylan Foster when he gets a minute?” I gave her my number.

  “Are you calling for an appointment?” the woman asked. “I can help you with that.”

  “No.”

  “May I ask what this is regarding?”

  Nope. “It’s a personal call.”

  “Of course. I’ll give him the message.”

  I hung up the phone and decided to do a perimeter check of my house. I checked the locks on all the windows and doors, peeked into the backyard to make sure there were no murderers or demons lurking in the bushes. I checked the garage door to make sure it was down. And double-locked the door between my bedroom and the garage, since I knew Peter Terry preferred this exit route. I even looked in the closets and under the bed, just to satisfy my burgeoning paranoia.

  I knew it was a stupid decision to stay in my house. Any idiot would opt for the safer choice and leave. But I’m not just any idiot. I’m a stubborn idiot.

  Honestly, I just didn’t want to make the concession. It’s my house. I’d fought to regain this ground the last time Peter Terry came sniffing around. I didn’t want to cede the territory. To Gordon Pryne or to anyone else. Especially if Peter Terry was the one stirring this brew in the first place.

  I was betting all my chips on something a friend once said to me: As children of the King, we’re entitled to protection. I would have felt more confident in the veracity of this little ditty, of course, if I’d bought myself a gun before the ice storm hit, like Detective McKnight suggested. Just in case the Lord Almighty Himself needed a little help keeping me protected.

  The phone rang as I stepped back into the kitchen to check the chili. I looked at the clock. Ten till two. Right on time.

  “Dr. Foster, Mitch Dearing,” he said.

  “Thanks for calling me back, Mitch. How are you?”

  “I’m well, thanks. Enjoying private practice. You?”

  “Not bad,” I said. “I’m calling to ask about an El Centro student. Drew Sturdivant.”

  “The murdered girl.”

  “Did you know her?”

  “No, but a colleague of mine had her in class this semester.”

  “Is she a psych major? Was she, I mean?”

  “Design, I think. Had she applied to SMU or something?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “She wasn’t a patient of yours, was she?”

  “No. My interest in her is more…indirect.” I wasn’t about to elaborate. “Do you think your friend would talk to me? I’d like to find out more about Drew if I could.”

  I heard him clicking his electronic data thingy.

  “Got a pencil?”

  “Yep.”

  I wrote down the name and phone number of Drew’s psychology instructor, thanked Mitch, lied about what a great student he’d been, and got sucked into an invitation to lunch. All in about thirty seconds. My boundaries needed a little work.

  I phoned the instructor on her cell phone.

  “Catherine Keene,” she answered.

  I made my introductions, explaining that our mutual, close personal friend, Mitch Dearing, had given me her number and got right to the point.

  “I’m calling about Drew Sturdivant. I understand she was a student of yours.”

  “She was in my Intro to Psych last semester.”

  “How was she? As a student, I mean?”

  “Extremely bright. Very conscientious.”

  Not what I was expecting.

  “I understand she was a design major.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Interior or fashion?”

  “Fashion. Very talented,” she said. “She’d landed a summer internship in L.A. Prada or something. No, that’s in Italy. Someplace. I can’t remember. It doesn’t matter. She was due to graduate from El Centro this spring. Early.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. She had a very bright future. Which makes her death even more tragic, I think. It’s rare that a student makes such a positive impression. At least in the community college system. Most o
f our students are there because they don’t know what else to do. Or because they’re cleaning up some mess they’ve gotten themselves into.” She paused. “Juicy something. Juicy Fruit.”

  “Juicy Couture?”

  “That’s it,” she said.

  “Speaking of messes, did you know how she was supporting herself?”

  “You mean the stripping?”

  “Yes.”

  “No idea whatsoever. I read about it in the paper like everyone else. But she was an odd bird. Quirky. Ran with a strange crowd.”

  “Can you elaborate?”

  “What’s your interest, Dr. Foster? Do you mind my asking?”

  I did, of course, but needed to offer up something or this woman was going to stop talking to me.

  “A friend of mine knows the suspect.”

  “The police have a suspect? Who is it?”

  “His name is Gordon Pryne,” I said, hoping I wasn’t breaking any sort of police investigation rule or anything. “Does the name sound familiar?”

  “No. Was he a student at El Centro?”

  “I don’t know anything about his academic interests, but I think it’s pretty safe to say he never attended El Centro.”

  “How did she know him?”

  “The police think maybe through her work.”

  “The strip joint?”

  “Right.”

  “Which one was it?”

  “Caligula. Down on Harry Hines Boulevard.”

  “So seedy. I can’t imagine how she ended up there.”

  “Hard to imagine how anyone ends up there.”

  “You know who you should talk to, Dr. Foster? Her roommate. Her name is…what is her name? Carla, I think. No, Charlotte.”

  “Charlotte what? Do you know a last name?”

  “No, wait. Sharlotta. With an S-H.” She spelled it out for me.

  “She might be able to help you out. I don’t know her last name. Sorry.”

  “That’s okay. Thanks.”

  “I hope they catch the guy,” Keene said. “Drew was a special young woman. Sad and a little lost. But really quite extraordinary”

  “Any idea what the sadness was about?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Thanks for your time, Catherine. You’ve been a big help.”

  “Good luck.”

  I hung up and dialed Helene again. This time she answered.

  “Where were you?” I asked. “I called you an hour ago and you didn’t answer.”

  “I went to the grocery store.”

  “You took your Mercedes out on the ice?”

  “I took a cab.”

  Southerners never think to call a cab. We’re not into public transportation.

  “Cabs are running?” I asked.

  “Of course they are.”

  “How?”

  “Ever hear of snow tires?”

  I invited her over, but she didn’t want to get out again.

  “Cold weather hurts my knees,” she said. “And your house isn’t really very warm.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud. It’s not that bad.”

  “You really should get some friends,” she said. “And central heat and air.”

  Like it was that simple.

  She thanked me for the invite and hung up.

  I dialed Drew Sturdivant’s home number and had a quick conversation with Sharlotta. She agreed to see me. I hung up the phone feeling victorious, put the chili in the oven on warm, and called myself a cab.

  18

  The cab ride from my house to Drew’s apartment, which in good weather would have been about a ten-minute excursion in my trusty Ford, was more like a white-knuckle crossing over the River Styx on a greased rope bridge. Backwards. And maybe blindfolded.

  The cab reeked of hashish. My cabbie’s dreads were so heavy in the knit cap on his head that he looked like he was carrying a watermelon in there. And the dude was clearly from the Caribbean, from the lilt in his patois. Which would be irrelevant if it weren’t for the ice. This guy no more knew how to drive on ice than he knew how to fly.

  Well, come to think of it, he clearly knew how to fly. He was flying right at that very moment. Soaring, as a matter of fact. Right there in the front seat. Miles high in the Dallas sky.

  Daylight was fading, leaving the city twinkly with ice and streetlights and the occasional leftover Christmas display. I tried to enjoy the view, thinking it might be the last thing I ever saw. If the streets hadn’t been deserted, I’m sure it might have been.

  But after sliding through at least half a dozen red lights, skidding against several curbs, and shattering one expensive ceramic planter filled with frozen pansies, we made it. I tipped the guy because I’m weak and guilt-motivated in such situations, and because he knew where I lived. I called another cab as he drove away, figuring it would take at least half an hour for it to arrive, then slid my way to Drew Sturdivant’s apartment and rang the bell.

  No answer. I checked the address and rang again. Still nothing. I leaned in and laid my ear against the door. It sounded like she had an entire orchestra in there. Playing something serene and swannish.

  I slid down the walk and peered at the lit rooms from a distance. I definitely saw movement. Someone was home. I knocked this time. Hard.

  At last the door swung open and I was looking at a young woman of maybe twenty-two, with gorgeous chocolate skin, a head bursting with wiry braids, and a blistering white smile. She wore ballet gear, all limp and soggy with sweat: lavender leotard, pink tights, and striped leg warmers, with a little black chiffon skirt. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on her. She was stout for a ballerina, but one solid muscle. I fought off a thigh-shame relapse.

  I gave her a little wave. “Hi. Dylan Foster,” I shouted over the music.

  Sharlotta stepped back and let me into the apartment, holding up a finger for me to wait while she snapped the music off.

  “Tchaikovsky?” I asked.

  “You know it,” she said. She held out her hand. “Sharlotta Dumaine.”

  “Dylan Foster,” I said again. “Thanks for seeing me.”

  “No problem. I was about to juice some vegetables. Want something?”

  “No, thanks.”

  I followed her into the kitchen, seating myself at the dinette as she shoved carrots and celery into a juicer, just like those people on the infomercials. She flipped the switch and the machine started shrieking. Orange sherbet-colored liquid dribbled out of the spout and into a glass. She picked up the glass, swirled the juice around, and tasted it.

  She looked at me. “Sure you don’t want some?” she shouted.

  “Pass,” I said.

  She shoved more carrots into the machine until she got the juice the way she liked it and flipped off the switch. The abrupt silence was almost numbing. She sat across the table from me with a bowl of grapes and an apple.

  “Do you always eat this healthy?” I asked.

  “I’m a raw foodist.”

  “Foodist? Is that like nudist?”

  “A live, raw foodist, actually. I only eat raw foods. Live, if at all possible.”

  I tried to get a visual. “So, do you just cut a hunk out of the cow while it’s walking by? Or what?”

  “No animal products of any kind. No meat, no dairy, no eggs. One hundred percent organic.”

  “Are vegetables dead or alive?”

  “Depends. Sprouts and wheat grass and like that? They’re alive. Tomatoes and such, they’re dead.” She took another swig of juice and looked at me like she was making perfect sense.

  “Nuts?” I asked, going for the double entendre.

  “Nuts are dead. But like, almonds? You can soak them in water for 24 hours and sprout them. Then they’re alive.”

  “Don’t they resent your eating them after you bring them back to life?”

  “They’ve never said one thing about it,” she said, without missing a beat. She grinned at me with big white teeth.

  I thought about my chili in t
he oven and my BLT on toasted bread. Definitely dead, cooked food. Did that make me a dead cooked foodist?

  “How long have you been eating like that?”

  “Forever. I grew up on a communal farm.”

  “Where?”

  “East Texas,” she said. “Life of Christ Community?”

  “Life of Christ? You grew up in a Jesus commune? I never heard of such a thing.”

  She shrugged. “Check your Bible. Those early Christians, honey, those folks shared everything.”

  “Yes, but didn’t they eat little baby lambs? And a wide variety of goat products?”

  “Well, I didn’t say they were perfect, now, did I?” Her smile faded and she said, “Drew and I grew up together.”

  “You’re kidding. Drew Sturdivant grew up in a Jesus commune?”

  “Yep.” She took another swig of juice and studied me. “How about you?”

  “My parents were in the Peace Corps for a couple of years.” Why was I trying to compete over weird hippie childhoods? Mine had been traumatic enough without making a contest out of it.

  “No, I mean how did you know Drew?”

  “I didn’t.” I took a breath. “Her psychology professor gave me your name.”

  She waited for me to explain.

  “I’m looking into her murder.”

  “You said you were a shrink, I thought. Not a cop.”

  I nodded.

  She raised one eyebrow at me. She had a compelling, vibrant way about her. Maybe it was all that live raw food. I don’t like lying to nice people. I decided to shoot straight.

  “The ax that was used to kill her was left on my front porch after the murder.”

  She nodded, perfectly unruffled. “You’re the one.”

  “You knew?” I hadn’t seen anything about it in the news reports of Drew’s death.

  “That detective told me. Jackson.”

  “Pardon me for asking, but were you and Drew close? I mean, you don’t seem too broken up.”

  “Hard to break me up.” She got up to rinse out her glass. “We used to be close. But she’d gone off in some direction. Something nasty I didn’t know about. She was a real private girl. Real private.”

  “What do you mean by that—some nasty direction?”

  “Stopped calling her friends. Started getting things pierced and tattooed. I got no problem with that sort of thing, you know. But there are things that shouldn’t be pierced and tattooed, is what I’m saying. And then going on down to Caligula. That strip place. That wasn’t like her. Wasn’t like her at all.” She shook her head. “She wasn’t herself. No, she wasn’t.”