by Edward Lee
“Not changed. Evolved. There’s a difference.”
Cristina smiled, but deeper thoughts made her feel something akin to lewd. “Changed, evolved, what ever. But all for the best.”
“Sex, too, huh?”
Cristina felt a blush coming on. “Especially that. I was a…dirty girl last night. And it was great.”
“Not just great but healthy,” Britt added. Now she was looking absently out the back window again, down into the sun-lit alley. “It’s just more proof of our wellness. Reversal of the ‘sexual nadir,’ is how we say it in shrinkspeak. Things are great with me and Jess, too. He’s a little selfish sometimes but—” She tossed a shoulder and laughed. “That’s what vibrators are for. Sometimes I think my rabbits are better than men—”
“Britt!”
“Oh, don’t give me that. Like you don’t have one.” Now Britt was looking back at the shelves of figurines. “I don’t even understand how these are made. You don’t actually sculpt them, do you?”
“No, no.” Cristina was grateful for the turn of subjects. “I sketch each character from various angles, input them into the computer, then a special program turns it into a three-dimensional model. Another program assigns measurements and other attributes. Then the manufacturing contractor makes the mold that the figures are cast from. It’s pretty high-tech these days.” She hit some keys on the keyboard. “Here’s what the first figurine in the next line will look like.”
Britt’s eyes bloomed at the screen. The bright cartoon-ish character revolved slowly, displaying itself. The angular black habit and hood, the white wimple, the blue-white pallor of the face set with the huge, fanged grin. White, black-nailed hands held the bowl of blood.
“The central image from your dream.” Britt shook her head, amused. “The Notorious Nun…”
“Noxious,” Cristina kept correcting. “Pretty vivid and cute, huh?”
“Cute’s not quite the word that comes to mind but I guess it’ll do.”
“Bruno says they’ll sell like hotcakes. I’m supposed to meet with him to night for dinner. He’s going to show me the new packaging.” Britt errantly stroked her sister’s shoulder. “That’s some wacky hobby you have. I guess I’m in the wrong business.”
Cristina looked up. “Say. What do you do for creative catharsis?”
“Have lots of orgasms.”
“You’re impossible!”
“I know, but it is fun.” She glanced at her Lady Rolex. “I better get going. Jess wants me to get the Mercedes detailed. You sure you don’t want me to mail those letters?”
“I’ll take them,” Cristina insisted. “There’s a post office right up Broadway, near the Imax. Besides, I like to walk.”
“Okay.” A quick kiss on the cheek. “See ya soon. Oh, and Paul said you’re having us over for a house warming dinner soon.”
“That’d be great, but I hope he also said that I’m a terrible cook.”
“Shun Lee Palace carryout, sweetie,” Britt scolded with a laugh. “We’re upscale cosmopolites now, which means we never cook. We’ll all get drunk on plum wine in your new hot tub.”
“What ever you say.’ Bye.”
Cristina laughed as Britt sashayed out and down the stairs. She’s a trip, but I don’t know what I’d do without her. Eventually she went back downstairs, whistling, grabbed the letters and left the house.
Birds squawked overhead, high in the bright sky. Buildings loomed on either side of Dessorio Avenue, their windows white with sun. The skinny doorman at the condo building nodded to her. “Hello,” she said back and almost laughed. The man was a cliché in his red coat and gold buttons which, these days, looked ludicrous. Next, she paused to eye the sullen church across the street, noting its gothic aura, its fine gray stone, buttresses, and stained glass.
The church looked abandoned, however. No sign out front offered service times, just a bland brass plaque: ST. AMANO’S. When she finally commenced down the street, she found her eyes flicking back several times, for a last glimpse.
Two security guards, a man and a woman, were chatting in front of the boarded-up Banana Republic, which was actually connected to the annex house. It stood like a multistoried tenement now in its disrepair. Probably turn it into more condos, Cristina knew. The female guard looked Polynesian with her long, shining black hair and glowing dark skin. She grinned wide-eyed at the husky male guard who whispered to her with a hand on her waist. Hanky-panky on the job, Cristina assumed. They broke from their intimate pose when Cristina approached. Don’t mind me.
The mouth of the catty-cornered alley appeared, and without thinking, she entered. I’m never in a hurry…so why do I always take this shortcut? She did take a look first, to make sure the passage was clear. Just the same garbage cans and windowless metal doors cornered with rust. She walked along but then—
A sound flagged her attention from behind. When she turned to look—
What’s he doing there?
A man stood bent over, yanking on the security bars that covered the ground-level basement windows of Cristina and Paul’s house. She wasn’t alarmed, however, because the man’s appearance was plain.
A priest.
This certainly is strange. A priest/burglar? The notion was absurd. The man was portly and had a bald pate with short gray-white hair around the sides. Something seemed radiant about his black pants, shoes, and shirt in the bright sun. Cristina didn’t like to talk to strangers but how could she not make an inquiry? It is our house, after all.
“Excuse me, sir—er, Father.” She backtracked up to him and felt comfortable by the smile he immediately offered. “Can I help you with something? I happen to live in that house.”
The faintest accent adorned his words. “I’m sorry. Forgive my impulse. I’m Father John Rollin. I actually used to be the custodian of this house back when it was an annex for St. Amano’s.”
“The church across the street?”
“Yes. I’m the pastor there as well.” He shook her hand. His blue eyes seemed as bright as his smile. “And you must be Mr. Nasher’s wife.”
“Cristina. But we’re engaged, not married.” She noted the man’s white Roman collar. It was so clean it seemed to dazzle. “Oh, so you know Paul?”
“Actually, no, but I’d love to meet him.” A broad silver ring flashed on his finger. “The reason I’m apprised of his name is because the diocese related it to me yesterday. I’d been on a sabbatical for the past six months but I just returned. I wasn’t even aware that the annex house had been put up for sale much less sold. You must’ve done quite a lot of work inside before moving in. For the last decade it’s gotten a bit run-down.”
“Paul had the building rewired and rewalled, then he refurbished the first floor,” Cristina said. “Over time, we’ll get the rest in order. But—” Her gaze shot down to the iron window bar. “Why were you…”
Father Rollin laughed. “Perhaps it’s doting faith on my part, but in the past, vagabonds have been known to pry these bars out.”
“Really?”
“Yes, just a few times. Even though God promises to protect the faithful, I don’t know that he has time to ward off burglars as well. It was more of an old habit of mine—to check these bars every so often. Slipped my mind that the house belongs to someone else now. But I see your fiancé has replaced the old ones with a much better grade of metal.”
Had he? Cristina looked closer and saw not only bars that could only be steel but also alarm system labels. “Yeah, I guess he did. I hadn’t noticed. I always thought they were just the typical old iron bars you see on a lot of the buildings around here.”
“Like those,” the priest added. He pointed to the adjacent building, which possessed security bars that looked half-rusted-through. “I believe this building is a retirement condo—very pricey.”
“Yeah, that’s what Paul told me.”
Father Rollin chuckled. “If they can afford condos in this area, you’d think they could cough up the loot for some b
etter security bars.”
The priest’s callow choice of words made Cristina smile. “How long have you been the pastor across the street?”
“Decades.” He glanced up the building’s entire rear wall as if unconsciously. “But I don’t have a congregation anymore. They all went to Blessed Sacrament and Holy Trin ity now—for the air-conditioning.”
“Then why…”
“Why am I still the pastor?” Another chuckle. “It’s the diocese’s way of not quite retiring me. You don’t get pink slips in this business. We still use the church for ordinations, baptisms, and diocesan meetings. I guess they think I’m too old now to pound the pulpit, and maybe…too old-school.”
“I’m sure that’s an exaggeration,” Cristina offered.
“I hope so! But they keep me around to look after the place. It’s quite a historical building. The church needs money like anyone else, so they sell off old properties that can no longer be used for clerical purposes, like the annex house, for instance. I’m sure once I give up the goat, they’ll sell St. Amano’s, too. Someone’ll probably turn it into a Starbucks.”
Cristina couldn’t help but be amused by the priest’s flippancy.
“I’ll be on my way now, Cristina,” he said. “It’s been delightful making your acquaintance.”
“Nice meeting you as well, Father.” Isn’t he at least going to Holy Roll me a little? she wondered. “Stop by any evening. I’d love for you to meet Paul.”
Father Rollin maintained the warm smile. “I will. Go with God,” he said, then turned and walked away.
Go with God, she repeated. I’ll try …
By the row of dented garbage cans, she stopped, noticing the ragged hole in the brick wall she’d seen the other day. Several magic markers lay on the stained asphalt along with an empty anchovy can. The closed Banana Republic …Could someone actually be living in there? She recalled the homeless girl who’d asked her for money.
Cristina got down on one knee and looked into the one-foot-diameter hole and then felt assured that no squatters could be within. The hole was blocked off by chunks of broken cement.
On the street she tuned out the city’s noise and motion. Most of the drove of passersby looked stone-faced, preoccupied. People-watching could be fun but then there was always the chance of making accidental eye contact. As much as moving here made her feel less isolated, she still preferred to maintain a sense of tunnel vision while out in public. I just want to have a leisurely walk …She mailed the letters at the main post office off of Broadway, then headed down past Lincoln Square and Dante Park. The West End YMCA loomed, people of all classes coming and going. Several ragtag-looking women left excitedly, hyperactive as children. Their heads were wet, hair hanging in damp strings. Poor people, Cristina presumed. They let them take showers there. One girl in grubby pink sweatpants and sopping wet black hair chased out after them.
That’s the girl I saw in the alley, Cristina realized.
Her cohorts all looked similar as they hustled down the steps. Old, dirty clothes, dim eyes, malnourished.
All at once, it seemed, the gaggle of broken-down women stopped.
And looked directly at Cristina.
She froze in her tracks. Are they really looking…at ME? Now two were whispering, one with large glasses, to another one with jeans and no shoes. Were they giggling?
Cristina didn’t like the feeling she got. Please tell me I’m not being mocked by a bunch of homeless women …She was insecure enough; the notion was the last thing she needed. I’m just overreacting. There was no reason for them to be laughing at her. She felt a little better when the girl in pink sweatpants waved to her. Then they all scampered away.
Strange.
Cristina knew she was imagining it. So what. I’m a little paranoid. All artists are. She tried to laugh it off.
She wandered around, considered maybe lying around Sheep Meadow or Strawberry Field to brainstorm, or maybe throwing a coin for good luck into the Bethesda Fountain. I need to think more on the next figures in the line, she knew. Details, to make them more unique and…creepier …Central Park was a great place to summon her muse. She was about to head that way but ducked into a CVS first. She had some paper in her purse for notes and sketches but had forgotten a pen.
Drugstores here sure are different. She was still getting used to that. Aisles stood higher and more narrow, and there never seemed to be enough employees working the register. She shouldered around till she found the school supplies. But at the end of the aisle…
Them again.
The four homeless girls all congregated at the area where the pens hung. Cristina thought one of them said:
“It’s her again…”
Four sets of eyes widened on her, and four broken-toothed grins. Then one of them grabbed something off the hooks, and they all disappeared around the end. A wave of giggles followed in their wake, which sounded childlike even though some of them might have been middle-aged for all Cristina knew.
This is ridiculous, she thought, her nerves fraying. Were they stalking her? Of course not. Why would they do that?
She shook it off with a frown, grabbed a Scripto fine-point roller, and went to the register.
But before she got there—
“You girls! Hey! Stop!” a man shouted.
A younger man at a register said, “Those bum girls again. Want me to call the cops?”
Cristina only had time to see the four homeless girls bang the front door open and race out of the store. An obese manager ran after them.
A woman in line sputtered, “Someone should do something about all the bums in this town.”
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with ’em,” a hard hat said. “They just don’t wanna work. Would rather steal and beg and take drugs.”
Cristina’s eyes narrowed at the oddity. “What happened?” she asked no one in particular.
A young, lanky clerk said, “They ripped something off. Bums and rummies and crackheads. Stealing stuff. We get ’em all day long.”
“We ought to deport all these bums and criminals and welfare trash,” the hard hat not surprisingly suggested. “Just air-drop ’em all into the middle of friggin’ Africa. Let ’em eat snakes and tree bark. And they sure as hell won’t be shoplifting ’cos there ain’t no stores!”
God, Cristina thought.
The manager came back in, huffing and red-faced. “The dirty buggers got away. Don’t bother with the cops. What’s the point?”
The clerk got back to ringing up customers. “Any idea what they pinched?”
“No. Didn’t see.”
Then a woman in line said, “It looked like one of them had several packs of magic markers in her hand…”
CHAPTER SIX
(I)
“Fleming, Virginia, K.,” Slouch read off the printout when he walked into the morgue in the basement of the Metropolitan Hospital Center. “No Jane Doe here. Thank God for DNA profiles.”
But would there be much difference? Vernon had already detached from the morbid spectacle they’d discovered behind the brewery. It usually only took a second after the initial glance; this time it took all afternoon. I’ve never seen a 64 like this in my whole time as a cop …His eyes scrutinized the thin, humanish form beneath the white sheet. “Fleming, Virginia, K.,” he repeated. “Where’d you get it?”
“Downtown at Evidence Section. When the D.C. heard it was an impalement, he put a rush on.”
“Good. What’s her story? She must have a rap sheet.”
“Longer than my ex-wife’s divorce demands,” Slouch said. He sat down and slouched, looking stark in his drab dark clothes against the room’s clean white tiles. “Thirty-six years old, no registered place of residence since 1995. Pasco County, Florida. Rap sheet goes back to joovie stuff in the mid-eighties. Shoplifting, possession, accessory GTA. Since ’98 she’s been collared on two counts of prostitution, couple possession busts for crack and heroin. All downhill from there. Just more homeless drug flotsam.
Fell off the People Radar completely three years ago.”
Flotsam. Vernon felt bad that they had to think in such terms, but there was really no other way. “Her tox screen was positive for opiates but that was no stretch.” Another one bites the dust, he thought. “The prelim’s already done. Her next stop is the autopsy suite.”
“What’s the cause of death?” Slouch asked with a short laugh. “I mean, besides ‘Death by big motherfuckin’ pole sharpened at one end and rammed from snatch to mouth?’”
Vernon huffed a sigh, then turned as the door swooshed open in dead silence. “Officers,” greeted a stunningly attractive blonde in the proverbial white lab coat. “I’m Dr. Anda Burg. I’m the deputy duty M.E.—I’ll be doing the post.”
Vernon frowned when he noticed Slouch’s eyes plastered to the medical examiner’s bosom.
“And to answer your question,” she continued without looking at either of them, “the official C.O.D as of now is multiple organ lacerations and dramatic perforations of viscera, trans-hemothoracic hemorrhage and pericarditis via acumenated wooden object, which entered the body at the vaginal egress and made its exit out the oral cavity. The victim weighed ninety-one pounds and was dehydrated; blood levels indicate low albumin, typical amongst the homeless. STD screen showed positive for HPV, HIV, chlamydia, and secondary syphilis. Radio-immune assay of hair root cells is consistent with that of a typified multiple drug user.”
“That’s what I call an answer,” Slouch chuckled. “A hype and crackwhore who was already at the bottom of the barrel.”
Dr. Burg rolled her eyes as she marked off boxes on a clipboard. “Any idea what this means, Doctor?” Vernon asked and pulled out a lab reading of his own. He paused a moment to wince, when he found himself, like Slouch, eyeing the attractive blonde doctor’s figure. How can a woman that good-looking cut up corpses for a living? He cleared his throat and went on. “We found a magic marker at the crime scene—”
