by Pam Richter
After her recital both men thanked her and rose from their chairs. Their demeanor gave nothing away.
"Wait," Michelle said, standing up to escort them out. "I need to know how my experience matches the ones here in Hawaii."
The beefy lieutenant nodded. "There are several similarities. The knife. The clothes cut off. The violence and internal injuries suffered by each woman. The fact that there were no forced entries that we could ascertain."
Michelle nodded. She was frightened but didn't want to show it. "Is there a description of the man?"
"Superficial. In each case it happened in rooms that were dark. A large male. Very strong. One woman described large hands. The weapon was a sharp knife with a thick blade, almost like a butcher's knife."
The description of the hands scared Michelle most. And the knife. The kind used to carve turkeys.
"As for your personal safety, Ms. Montgomery, I'm going to request that your apartment building be watched closely. I know it's a security building, but two other attacks happened in buildings that had security guards."
The rapist/murderer gets into security buildings, undetected, and into locked apartments, like my hotel room was, Michelle was thinking. And each time he gets away unscathed with the most minimal description.
"I can't promise twenty-four hour surveillance, but we'll be watching closely. I would advise you to stay with friends or relatives if possible for the next few weeks. It's unfortunate that you told the man your name."
Michelle had a strange feeling that it wouldn't have mattered if she had or not. She had a dreadful sensation that the attacks were a personal warning, that the man would have found her anyway.
When the police left her office, Michelle buzzed Susan and asked her to see if Tom Mitsuto was in his office. Susan buzzed her back and whispered that Tom had left for the day. Nakamura was in Tom's office.
Michelle wondered if Nakamura had availed himself of Tom's auditory spying device. She knew that generally the Japanese regarded rapes as the woman's fault.
Nakamura had his head resting propped on his fists. He knew the significant details about Michelle's previous work experience. Heroshi Corporation routinely did a background check on each of its corporate officers at the time they were employed. He had read her file before leaving Tokyo. There, within the report, it was noted in one abrupt sentence that Michelle had been assaulted while working for her former employer. One sentence could not tell about the incident in any significant detail. Hearing the horror of the attack in Michelle's own voice made him grit his teeth.
He knew he should shut off the listening device, and his hand had hovered over the button, but he didn't move until the policemen had left her office. He had been compelled to listen to the whole conversation. He felt guilty that he had succumbed to one of the corporate tricks of power routinely employed at Heroshi.
He pushed the button compulsively to stop the noises which had been broadcast through the phone on Tom Mitsuto's desk. He felt sick. A sudden blinding headache was attacking his eyes, like fiery steel drilling through each eye socket.
His mind repeated the clinical details; the knife bisecting her flesh from the chest down to the pubic bone. Internal lacerations and protracted bleeding. Unable to bear children. Michelle had used clinical medical terms when she had described her injuries.
Nakamura got up and started pacing. He would have to apologize to Michelle for listening to a private conversation. He believed he would never be able to hide what he had heard. He should clear the air.
Susan buzzed the office and asked for Tom Mitsuto, which meant that Michelle was probably checking to see if Tom had been listening. She must suspect that he had heard the conversation.
Nakamura rushed down the hall to Michelle's office, but she had already left for the day.
CHAPTER 10
A plump, tender, innocent little pigeon, was Omar's thought when he opened his door. A rabbit blinded by fear of the hawk. A pudgy, succulent pullet. A scared little mouse. A dead sparrow.
"Hello, Suzanne," Omar said, ushering her into his home. "I'm glad you called. Please come in. I'll give you a little background on the Old Religion."
She was dazzled by the splendor of his living room and by his own dark, sophisticated charisma. He noted her looking around curiously, trying to exude the blasé‚ nonchalance of an older, more cosmopolitan woman. He almost laughed, feeling himself salivate internally. This was going to be fun.
Omar led the way into the kitchen as Suzanne told him she was on vacation from school at Stanford University. She had seen his brochure on beginners Witchcraft and couldn't resist learning about it.
"I'll make us some tea. Then we can sit down and really have a chat."
She was not too well educated to be a slave, Omar thought as he moved around the kitchen, feeling her eyes upon him. She was one of those so called modern, liberated woman who believed they were equal to men. He watched her carefully as he prepared the special tea. The brew had no effect on him because he used it constantly, but it would have a profound soporific effect on anyone unused to the special herbs. She was wearing a long Hawaiian skirt with a slit which reached mid-thigh in the front. She was really very cute and appealing. Omar was almost sorry she would have to be sacrificed.
Her large, doe brown eyes looked interested when she sipped delicately and asked him if it was licorice tea. He nodded and drank from the identical brew so she would be relaxed about the ingredients. Licorice was a powerful flavor. It hid the other elements. He could tell she was extremely nervous about the whole situation.
He had known the instant he saw her. The pigeon was just a snoop.
Omar was almost certain about the identity of the person behind this pathetic little girl. The chubby and clever professor who had dogged his tail for years. He would have to be taught a painful lesson. The idiot misguidedly thought he could delve into the darker side and end Omar's power.
Omar watched Suzanne, read the signs, and devised the worse revenge he could come up with on short notice. It would make him late for his rendezvous with Michelle. But this opportunity was too good to pass up.
When Michelle got home from the office she found a large Bird of Paradise on her threshold. It was an enormous, perfect bloom with lush green leaves surrounding it. She smiled and picked it up.
Michelle put the orange flower in her hair, tucked behind her ear. It was almost too Polynesian and affected for the actual Hawaiian setting, but it looked beautiful against her black hair, which she wore loose and straight down her back. The flower matched the white silk sarong decorated with orange silk threads, with the high neckline, of course, that she had been planning to wear. Omar had picked the perfect flower, as though he had known in advance her fashion style for the evening.
Michelle rushed so she would have time to call Heather and chat a few minutes, but there was no answer. It was still early, so she ran down the hallway to Heather's apartment and knocked. She had a vague disquieting feeling and wondered if it had to do with the dream she had had of Heather screaming, in mortal danger. She had called Heather several times during the day, but the calls had not been answered. Michelle was worried as she went back to her own apartment to wait for Omar.
Michelle grabbed up her purse and hurried to open the door when she heard a knock. She felt her eyes open wide in shock. In front of her stood a hulking presence, at least six and a half feet tall. She was looking straight at his top collar button. She had to crane to see his face.
Michelle almost slammed the door. Then she noticed he was holding out a card. He moved it right in front of her eyes. It took all her nerve to take the card because she was mesmerized by the giant with the frightening, thick features before her. The man's nose was flat and wide, appearing as though it had been broken several times and squashed flat against his face. His mouth and lips were large and blunt. The whole visage looked like it had been carved from cement. The only small parts were his eyes, which were slanted and folded away in hea
vy lids. She guessed he weighed in at about three hundred muscle-bound pounds.
Michelle glanced at the card which read: Omar Satinov. Underneath it was the name, Samson Stoker, Chauffeur.
The man opened his mouth to smile and all Michelle saw was blackness and teeth surrounding the dark aperture. The smile disturbed Michelle and she shrank back because it was vacant, silly and wrong, as though the man was either emotionally disturbed or slightly retarded.
Michelle didn't want to be rude to someone with a terrible handicap, the inability to speak, but her heart was thudding in her chest and she could feel her hands become clammy as she handed back the card. She was also angry. Omar had no right to foist this man upon her without some prior explanation. The guy was just too scary, even though his brown hair was carefully combed and he was wearing a dark suit with a tie. If Omar could take the time to leave a flower, he could have warned her.
The giant made a motion with his hands like he was turning the wheel of a car. He gave that awful grin again, which was stretched out, but closed this time, so as not to shock her with the lack of tongue, she guessed. The smile was childlike.
"You're going to take me to Omar?"
The man nodded vigorously.
"Omar didn't mention that he would send a chauffeur."
The man waggled his head as if to say he didn't know what Omar had intended. The head movement mimicked a feeling of perplexity perfectly and Michelle thought her first impression might be wrong. He might not be as stupid as he appeared. Still, the idea of him behind the wheel of a car was foreboding. She just stood there because she didn't want to go with him and was trying to think of a rational excuse.
The man pulled car keys out of his pocket and waved them in front of her, as if she were the one who was a little slow. Then he pointed to himself and made the driving-a-car motion again with his hands.
Michelle nodded at the giant, and started to lock the door when the phone rang. She told him to wait a moment and ran back inside. It was Nakamura saying that he needed to speak to her privately. Could he come over? Michelle explained that she was just leaving. He was so insistent that she said maybe they could talk on the phone later that evening. She would probably be home by eleven. Nakamura said he could come over then, if that was okay. Michelle didn't want to agree but couldn't think of an excuse.
Damn, now she would have to be home early, Michelle thought as she locked her door for the second time and walked down the hall with the mammoth guy. Samson had crooked his arm and stood there, stock still, like he expected her to take it. When she put her hand on his arm it felt hard as marble. She suddenly remembered hitting a man who was so big and strong he felt like a cement statue. It was a monstrous flashback of fear and Michelle quickly disengaged her hand from the giant's arm. Then she smiled up at him apologetically. Poor man was probably used to people shrinking away from him.
Samson Stoker turned out to be a fine driver. He took her to the Sheraton Hotel, escorting her personally to an elegant dining room. He made sure she was comfortably seated and then left. She had to wait almost a half hour for Omar and she watched the people around her drinking lovely looking cocktails. She could almost feel herself drool in envy. This not drinking situation was uncomfortable, and it felt childish, as the waiter continuously came around to see if her soda with lime was adequate. She felt unsophisticated and chain smoked.
"The flower is lovely against your hair. It has a pagan quality, just right for the most beautiful woman in the room."
Omar was standing at the table and she hadn't even noticed his arrival because she had been worrying about Heather's physical condition, about how thousands of dollars had made its mysterious way into her office, the fact that common objects in her own apartment had been moved, (maybe she was going crazy or having a serious nervous breakdown), about a new job in a foreign country, but mostly about a murderer/rapist here in the islands with the same MO as the man who had attacked her. She was also worrying about what Nakamura thought was so urgent and private that he had to speak to her alone and in person.
Seeing Omar, splendid and immaculate in a beautiful light tan suit was delightful relief from all the anxiety, but she felt a little uncomfortable at the extravagant compliment.
"I'm sorry about being so late," Omar said as he seated himself. "I had to take care of some business. It took longer than I had anticipated."
The waiter was at Omar's side in a flash, practically quivering to take his order.
"You don't mind if I have a drink?"
Michelle shook her head, but she did. Especially when he ordered a Galliano gimlet, her very favorite drink. She reminded herself that she reacted to alcohol in a chemically different way than most people. It was nothing to be ashamed about. She certainly couldn't help it.
The evening was pleasant and Michelle enjoyed herself, but something seemed to be missing and she couldn't figure out what it was. Omar had laughed at her jokes and was an amusing conversationalist. He was endlessly polite. He spoke French to the waiter. He made all the right moves and there seemed to be powerful chemistry between the two of them.
That was when she realized that he was coldly clinical and detached. He was acting the charade of the perfect gentleman, interested in the lady he was with, but when she thought about it on the way home, with the giant driving, she realized that she had felt a silly infatuation over his dramatic handsomeness, but they really had nothing in common. She was chagrined that she was so superficial and shallow to have been mislead by his looks. She smiled at the thought that she was a female chauvinist, interested only in Omar's amazing physical persona. But there were advantages to this vacant relationship.
Omar liked her and she liked him. She was not love-struck. She was a woman who had lived without sex for too many years. Michelle decided she would have an affair with Omar.
While they were eating she had asked what had happened to Samson Stoker, why he couldn't talk. Omar just said that he had a terrible accident. When she tried to get information about his 'sisters' he seemed irritated for the first time. He said he had several. End of conversation. Period.
He was nice, courteous and very cold, almost calculating, the way he played his part. It was a subliminal perception that he was not interested in her even as a potential friend, but only as a bedmate. All and all, it was a good experience. She had not trembled once, alone in the presence of a man.
Michelle noticed that Omar's eyes no longer seemed fascinating because he was constantly staring at her. Really, the eyes were penetrating, disturbing and a little scary. Like he could see into her very soul. Also disturbing was the fact that he had retained the habit of touching her hand or arm as he spoke, and each time she received a tiny, unpleasant electrical shock. Once she even thought she saw a tiny spark fly from his hand before she felt the electrical jolt. She wondered with a little shiver of anticipation what would happen with more intimate contact.
Michelle closed the door to her apartment with relief, thankful that Omar had not tried anything physical with her. He had suggested she come to his apartment, have some tea and talk, but she demurred. He had not insisted or tried to induce her to come with him. She was so thankful at his un-pushiness that she believed he was a very nice man. She had decided to sleep with him, but she wasn't quite ready tonight.
Michelle had less than a half hour before Nakamura would arrive but she grabbed her purse, briefcase and a Polaroid camera. She got her car out of the garage and drove rapidly to her office building. Once inside the Heroshi suite she locked the door to her own office and checked her credenza. The bag was still there. She closed the draperies and emptied the contents of the bag onto the beige carpet. Afraid to touch the money packets with her fingers, she covered her hands with paper towels and moved the paper bands that encircled each pack, fanning the bills so that the serial numbers showed. She took several pictures of the cash and then put a sheet of paper in her typewriter:
TO THE POLICE:
THIS MONEY MIGHT BE
FROM THE ROBBERY AT THE AMERICAN HAWAII TRUST BANK IN THE LANAI BUILDING ON KALAKAUA AVENUE. PICTURES OF THE CASH ARE ENCLOSED. THERE ARE NEGATIVES AND OTHER PHOTOGRAPHS RETAINED BY THE PERSON WHO FOUND THE CASH.
Michelle believed the warning of more pictures might keep the policeman who opened the package from pocketing the money. It was depressing she would have to stoop to a threat, but this wasn't Disneyland. Merely paradise.
Michelle had to leave her own office for a zip-lock postage bag. She peeked out of her office to make sure no one had come inside before going into the storage room. She kept glancing at her watch and trying to rush because Nakamura would be arriving at her apartment in a few minutes. But she felt compelled to be rid of the money, now, tonight, as soon as possible.
She put the money, pictures and note into the postage bag and then used the telephone directory for the address to the nearest police station. She typed a label and attached it to the bag.
Her briefcase was large enough to hide the package when she left the office. She drove to a public mailbox and made her deposit with a feeling of immense relief. Nothing in the world was worth that much stolen cash. She wanted it out of her possession.
When she glanced at her watch she thought that Nakamura had probably already arrived at her apartment building. She was going to have a heart attack if she had to endure any more tension like this. She drove quickly home and saw Nakamura chatting with the security guard at the entrance to the condominium. Damn, she was late.
Michelle quickly parked her car under the building and ran up the garage stairs to the back lobby entrance, realizing she hadn't even had time to change from her silk dress. She still had the stupid flower behind her ear. She tore it out as she raced up the stairs and stuffed it into her purse.
Michelle took a few deep breaths, hoping she wasn't panting noticeably from her exertions and opened the door to the lobby. Nakamura was sitting on the lobby guest sofa. He looked up and smiled as she approached.
