Edge of Crime: A Collection of Crime Stories

by John Moralee

  Fiona trembled. “You love me?”

  “Yes.” Frank moved towards to her. It was so easy to turn on the charm, he amazed himself. To think he’d thought Fiona was just as devious as he was, when she was plainly just as crazy as Angela. She did not resist as he kissed her - or when he carried her up the stairs to the bedroom. In fact, she encouraged him like a hungry animal, eager for the attention.

  Later, much later, she brushed a hand over his chest and grinned lazily into his eyes.

  “Say you love me.”

  “I love you,” he said, and meant it.

  Until their honeymoon.

  Hollywood Asylum

  Money could not buy him peace.

  It could buy him a Beverly Hills mansion with the best in security protection, though. Griffin Parker stood on the balcony outside his bedroom, looking down at his beautiful terraced gardens and luxurious swimming pool. In the early morning light the gardens were misty with evaporating dew. Beyond them, the dark marble perimeter walls were topped with electrified razor wire and roving cameras. Their presence was both grotesque and reassuring. Only a madman would try to break into his home.

  Griffin calmed himself as his sweaty nightmare faded. There was no one there. He was safe. A noise had woken him, but he couldn’t see what had caused it. Maybe it had just been in his nightmares. The wrought iron gates were locked and the security system had not been breached, but still he felt uneasy. There was apparently no one there. But someone could be hiding.

  Someone or something had made a noise.

  Last night Griffin had dreamt about the murders again, the memories hard and vivid, just as raw as ten years ago, when he had been eight.

  But what he had heard was his new neighbours unloading furniture. He could just see the top of a grey U-Haul truck parked in their drive. Strange - he had not known anyone had bought the Hoffmann property.

  Curious, Griffin walked to the far end of the balcony for a better view. Four removal men were lifting a grand piano from the back of the truck. Griffin relaxed. There, see? An explanation. There was nothing to worry about.

  A canary-yellow Toyota Land Cruiser pulled up next door. An attractive dark-haired woman stepped out and went around to the rear, coming back with a wheelchair for the older man in the passenger seat. They approached the house together, the woman helping the man over the step of the door, something the electric wheelchair seemed incapable of doing. Was she a nurse or his wife? She looked too young for him, too pretty. The man was about fifty, but she was only slightly older than Griffin, in her early twenties. As she turned to close the door, Griffin saw her eyes were vivid blue, like the shimmering water at the bottom of his pool. When she went inside, he was left feeling disappointed. Nothing for the rest of the day could compare with her beauty.

  He stayed watching the house until the U-Haul drove off.

  It was a hazy morning, hinting a very hot day to come, probably over a hundred at midday. He could spend the morning lazing in the pool, maybe do some screenwriting in the afternoon. He was trying to get a screenplay accepted by a major studio, using a false name so his family background would not influence an agent’s judgement, but his career had not taken off yet. The truth was it had not even started. He consoled himself with that fact he had only been writing seriously for four months, since he left the clinic, but it irritated him that Orson Welles had been enormously successful at his age. Griffin felt incredibly ancient for an eighteen-year-old man.

  He headed inside.

  Without warning, the remains of the nightmare surfaced.

  He held onto the glass door, shaking.

  What if he had heard something?

  What if it had not been his new neighbours ... but something else?

  The old fears would not just leave him; he had to make sure there really was no one on the grounds. Dr Hanson would have a heart attack if he knew Griffin was still too frightened to go out of his home. He would die if he knew that Griffin’s nightmares were getting worse, not better. Griffin tightened his silk robes, feeling the cool breeze drying his sweat.

  I’ll check just this time. Just to make sure. He felt in his pocket for his Sentinel. The Sentinel wasn’t on the market yet. It had cost $75,000, but it was worth it because he carried it everywhere. As well as operating as a multimedia device, the phone-shaped unit hooked into his security system. He used it as though it were an extra dozen eyes and ears. The screen was capable of showing television images, in this case it was receiving pictures from the motion activated video cameras, all digital-recording high definition Sonys. The portable picture wasn’t as clear as on the wall of Sony HDTVs he had in his study, but he could see there was nothing out of place. Nothing in the kitchen. Nothing in the bedrooms. Nothing in the halls. Nothing in his study. Nothing in the den. Nothing. It was his guardian and best companion. Saying “911 help” would voice-activate the device’s main alarm. It would automatically send a silent alarm call to the security company’s HQ and simultaneously inform the Beverly Hills Police Department that he needed immediate emergency assistance.

  So far he had never used that function.

  But that didn’t mean he was safe.

  An intruder would not break in at his convenience.

  Griffin had a 9mm Smith and Wesson in his robes, for extra-extra security. Pity the man who tried to break into his home. There was a soundproofed target range beneath the house where he practised every day with stationary and moving targets. He was an ace shot.

  He showered and dressed, and went downstairs and ate a breakfast of strong coffee and grapefruit. CNN was on the television. There was a story on about an actor being killed just outside his home by a stalker.

  The victim had just stepped out for the morning papers.

  And had been killed. Stabbed eighteen times. Never knew what hit him. Jesus.

  Griffin was glad he never left his home. The streets were dangerous. Crime was everywhere. Drive-by shootings happened any place, any time. Everything he needed - food, videos, books, clothes - were brought to the gate and placed in a steel box which could be opened from his side, without ever having to step outside. Griffin cleaned the house himself, not trusting cleaning staff. One man didn’t make much mess. Besides which, it gave him something to do.

  He was happy. Sort of.

  Griffin sometimes wished he could go out and meet people, but the fear just at the thought was a solid wall he could not climb. He used the Internet when he needed company, contacting other struggling screenwriters online. Just about everyone in California was an unpublished wannabe screenwriter. Some had more enthusiasm than talent, but that wasn’t the real point of using the writing groups. He could have conversations with nice people and know he was in no danger of physical attack.

  But he was lonely.

  He needed the real in-the-flesh friends.

  And someone to love.

  A girl.

  Any girl.

  He wished he could talk with Dr Hanson about his feelings, but then the psychiatrist would want him to go outside and experience the real world before he was ready. So Griffin had cancelled his sessions, saying he was fine. There was a point when he had to go it alone, he knew. He would conquer his phobia himself, when he was able. He had been institutionalised for nine years, so adjustment wasn’t something he could do overnight. He had to learn to trust people. Then he could go out and meet people. It was merely a matter of time. He told himself that every day. It was merely a matter of time.

  But when when when?

  He thought about the woman he’d seen.

  She was beautiful.

  A natural beauty.

  Not a peroxide blonde bimbo.

  She was a carer, a sharer.

  Griffin wanted to see her again.

  He entered his study. There was subtler control of the security system from there. With the steel door dead-bolted, he was safely locked in. The wall of screens came alive. He switched to the one on the roof. He used the joystick controls
to make it pan across the next house. He zoomed in on the windows, searching for her. He could not see her.

  Movement down below, outlined red by the computer software. He switched to track mode. The camera followed the movement. She was coming out of the house, walking past the Toyota, down the drive and onto the street. Moving out of sight. His view automatically cut to the gate camera, which was tracking her. She was walking towards it. Stopping. Looking in the lens. Looking sideways now, seeing the buzzer. Pressing the buzzer.

  He jolted upright. The bell resounded throughout the house, the ringing dying slowly.

  “Hello?” she said into the camera.

  Ignore her, he thought.

  “Hello?” she repeated, pressing the buzzer.

  The ringing was so loud he was sure his ears would burst.

  Swallowing a large quantity of phlegm, Griffin pressed the audio only button. He hesitated, afraid. She started to walk away.

  Don’t leave, he thought.

  “Yes?” he said in the strongest voice he could manage.

  Startled, she stepped back.

  “Can I help you?” he said.

  “Hi,” she said. “I’m Marisa Davello. I’ve just moved in next door with my husband ...”

  Damn. Damn. Damn. She’s married.

  “... I was wondering if you’d like to come over for dinner and drinks later? Sort of like a house warming party?”

  “Oh, I think I might be busy.”

  He saw her disappointment. “Tomorrow, then?”

  “Um -”

  “We don’t know anyone around here. It would be great if we could make friends.”

  “Okay,” he said, the word slipping out.

  “Tomorrow. Around six.”

  “F-fine.”

  “What should I call you?” she said.

  A coward. A wimp. A loser. “Griffin. Griffin Parker.”

  “Nice to meet you, Griffin Griffin Parker.”

  “N-no, it’s o-only once.”

  She laughed. “I guessed that. Bye.”

  “Um, uh ... bye.” He watched her leave. He liked the sway of her hips in her tight-fitting Levis. He zoomed in on her pert bottom, imagining his hands on it.

  She’s a married woman, Griff.

  So?

  So she’s unavailable.

  Maybe not.

  What?

  Maybe she’s looking for an affair.

  Don’t even think it.

  But he did think it.

  And he felt guilty.

  And excited.

  And scared.

  *

  Drenched in sweat, Griffin woke. Panicking, he reached under the pillow, grabbed the Smith and Wesson, then turned on the bedside lamp. The Sentinel showed a green light. The room was empty. As he sat up he noticed that his underwear was soaked.

  He’d urinated during his sleep.

  He got up to put the sheets in the wash.

  He took the Sentinel and the gun with him.

  It was 4 a.m.

  The same time those madmen had broken in, killing his parents.

  *

  Griffin prepared for his dinner appointment twelve hours early. He removed one of eighteen tuxedos from his wardrobe and placed it ready for wearing. Then he picked a silk tie to go with it. He ordered by phone some expensive cologne, which arrived at ten in a little leather box with a ribbon. He tested the cologne and compared it with others in his bathroom cabinet. He wanted to look and smell good for his new friends. He spent two hours in the wine cellar, trying to select a bottle to take as a gift. His father’s wine collection, worth a quarter of a million dollars, had been untouched since the murders. Griffin’s head throbbed with an anxiety headache; he didn’t know what type of wine to take. Unable to decide himself, he used his computer to call up an online expert living in Paris. Eventually, Griffin chose one that would impress, but not suggest he wanted to impress. The decision was agonising, and he wasn’t satisfied with it.

  He paced up and down the gardens for the rest of the morning, worrying. He could imagine the situation if he turned up appearing too formal, or too informal. His new neighbours would laugh at him.

  The afternoon contained one panic attack after another. He wasn’t ready for this. He was ready for this. He wasn’t. He was. He could not stay in one place for ten seconds. He bathed and showered and bathed and showered.

  It was five o’clock before he knew where the time had gone.

  He dressed in a rush. He combed his hair one way then the other, finally back combing it. God, he thought, looking in a mirror, I look like a Mafia thug. So he combed it forward. Too Elvisy. Down the middle and to the sides. Not good, not bad. It was ten to six. This will have to do.

  He was as ready as he would ever be.

  He looked at his Rolex. Five minutes. Don’t want to turn up right on time. Must be slightly late, just to give the right impression. Don’t want to look like I’m lonely.

  The phone rang.

  He flipped opened the Sentinel. “Griffin Parker speaking.”

  “Griffin? This is Marisa.”

  “I’m just -”

  “I’m sorry, but we have to cancel. Antonio - that’s my husband - he has invitations to a première. He only told me a minute ago, the big dumb fool. I’m terribly sorry, but we can’t miss it. I hope this doesn’t inconvenience you?”

  “No,” he said, stiffly. “Not at all.”

  Sounding apologetic: “I should have called earlier.”

  “Don’t worried about it. Bye.”

  He sank down onto the carpet and wept.

  *

  In the morning Griffin was doing the breaststroke when the Sentinel, on the side of the pool, blinked red. Someone was approaching the gate.

  It was Marisa.

  “Hi,” she said, peering through the gate. “About last night, I’m sorry. You must think us incredibly rude. Can I apologise over coffee?”

  Griffin pulled himself out of the water. His legs felt heavy in the increased gravity. He wrapped his robe around himself, clutching the Sentinel. “S-sure.”

  He wished he didn’t stammer in front of people.

  It’s a fear of intimacy, Dr Hanson would say. After what happened to your parents, you don’t want to be close to anyone because you fear they may one day leave you. Your fear of the outside world is a manifestation of your childhood trauma. The only solution is to embrace that world, to prove to yourself it holds no danger.

  Yeah, right, Doc. Easy for you to say.

  Griffin trudged towards the gate. The water evaporated quickly, sapping the heat from his skin. He could see Marisa was wearing a short red dress. It set her blue eyes on fire.

  Sweating and shivering, he tapped the nine-digit code into the gate’s panel.

  It opened.

  She came in. “Nice garden.”

  “Th-thank you. I do it all myself.”

  “Amazing.”

  She headed for the house. He felt as if she were invading his space, but he also liked her boldness.

  “Wh-where’s you husband?” he said.

  “Oh, Antonio? He’s out all day on a shoot.”

  “He’s in movies?”

  “Antonio’s a movie director. He gets kind of intense when he’s on set, doesn’t like me around. He’s a bit old-fashioned; I’m supposed to stay at home and watch the soaps, while he ogles the young and pretty actresses. He’s Sicilian, so he thinks it’s his right.” She smiled. “The truth is I got bored in the house, and I was thinking about you, how you must have felt like we’d snubbed you yesterday, and I thought I’d come over, make up for it. You don’t mind, do you?”

  He shook his head.

  She invited herself into the house.

  “The kitchen’s through there,” he said.

  She sat down and talked as he made coffee. His hands were jittery.

  “So you’re husband’s a director?”

  “Antonio’s quite famous in Europe,” Marisa said, accepting a steaming mug, �
�maybe you heard of his last one? It’s called 1994.”

  He had. 1994 was a homage to George Orwell’s 1984, updated for the new millennium. He’d watched it many times.

  “It’s a classic,” Griffin said. “I have it on film.” There was a screening room along the corridor where he watched movies.

  She sipped her coffee. “So, what do you do?”

  “I’m a ... writer. Sort of. I write screenplays.”

  “Wow, I always admired writers. They’re so creative. Personally, I have no imagination.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “No, not at all. If someone says think of a story I just can’t. I’m like a blank. You must be really talented.”

  “Tell that to an agent.”

  “No, I mean it.”

  He could feel his cheeks burning. He stared at his coffee. “W-what do you do?”

  “I was an actress. But I’m too old to be discovered. Now I’m 26 and a never-was.” She laughed but the truth in her words showed in her face.

  “You’re not too old,” he said. “You’re beautiful.”

  Now she blushed. It was an endearing reaction, and he found himself liking her more and more. “Griffin, would you like do something?”

  Apprehensive, he asked what.

  “Well, do you play tennis?”

  “No.”

  “Squash?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t play sports.”

  “That’s a shame,” she said, “because I get bored in the afternoons. Most of the people in this neighbourhood are like old, you know?” She frowned, but then brightened. “I’ve got an idea, but feel free to say no. I’d simply love to use your pool some time, if you don’t mind?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  “Great! Tomorrow, then?”

  “Sure.”

  “Great!”

  *

  The following day Marisa came over wearing a tight white swimsuit. She swam while Griffin sat in the shade working on the second draft of a story he was writing. He could not focus on his work with Marisa swimming so nearby. Her swimsuit was practically transparent when wet. He could see so much of her it hurt. He thought about Antonio having Marisa all to himself with shocking bitterness.