Naked Addiction

by Caitlin Rother

  She shook her head. “You didn’t know that. I told you he could get physical. And come on, you even told me you wondered whether he could’ve killed Tania.”

  “That’s true. I did.”

  “So stop being so hard on yourself.”

  Goode looked at Alison smiling at him and wondered how he really felt about her. He had developed a strange obsession with a dead woman because it was safe. Alison was very sweet, but he didn’t know whether he was the best person for her to get attached to. He didn’t want her or anybody else depending too much on him. He suddenly felt claustrophobic. “Alison? You know what?”

  “What?” She must have guessed his thoughts because her face fell. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I don’t know. Maybe there is. It’s just that, well, I was thinking you should go back to your apartment. Now that this case is all wrapped up, you aren’t in any danger. I’ve got a lot of unwinding to do and I don’t think I’m going to be very good company.”

  Alison looked hurt. “Was it something I said?”

  “No, no.” He tried to sound calm, but it was hard when his nerves were so raw. “I think you’re terrific, but I’m really tired and I need to be alone right now. I hope you can understand.”

  “Sure,” she said. Still, he could hear the hurt in her voice. She got up from the couch and started gathering her things from the living room floor.

  “Now don’t go away mad,” he said, reaching for her.

  She pulled away. “Don’t.”

  Alison picked up her clothes, magazines, and tennis shoes and stuffed them into her backpack. “Thanks for letting me stay here,” she said as made a beeline for the door. “I guess I’ll see you around.”

  “Alison,” he called to her.

  She stopped for a minute, her hand on the doorknob. “What?”

  He tried to give her an encouraging smile, but he wasn’t sure he succeeded. All he could think about was lying down and sleeping for two days. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “Yeah, sure, whatever,” she said.

  Her departure left a leaden silence hanging in the air, thick with her pain and his guilt.

  Goode decided to take a bath, one of those relaxation techniques they taught in the stress management class that a sergeant had strongly suggested he take some years back during one of the Miranda episodes. As the tub was filling with water, he went into the cabinet under the sink to find a new bar of soap. In the back corner, he saw the bottle of bubble bath Miranda had left behind. He’d been unable to bring himself to throw it away for the past six years, testing his reaction to it periodically when he smelled her scent again. The label was so faded he couldn’t even tell what kind it was anymore. He undid the top, took a sniff, and smiled. He’d finally reached the point where he truly felt nothing, so he tossed it soundly into the small plastic trash bin next to the toilet.

  “You are dead to me,” he said triumphantly.

  After cooling the bath with a little cold water, he got into the tub. The temperature was just right, a tad hotter than he could stand.

  Goode leaned back, held his nose, and submerged his head under the water. As his mind replayed the images of his mother and then Clover stepping into the nothingness, he wished again that he hadn’t been so helpless to stop them. Then the words of the Camus essay he’d been reading came back to him:

  It is . . . hard to be satisfied with a single way of seeing, to go without contradiction, perhaps the most subtle of all spiritual forces. The preceding merely defines a way of thinking. But the point is to live.

  People defined life, thinking, and spirituality so very differently. Often, they didn’t even agree on whether life was worth living. Norman Klein was no Albert Camus, but at that moment, his words held a significance for Goode that was just as weighty: Some people just don’t want to be saved.

  Goode scooted back so his head rested against the wall, the words echoing in his head. He inhaled deeply, listening to his own breathing, and let it all out. Finally, as he visualized the guilt flowing out of his ears and into the sudsy water, his mind began to loosen and the tension slowly drifted away.

  Chapter 51

  Norman

  It was early evening by the time Norman got back to the office. He knew the editors would be upset that he hadn’t called to warn them he had a huge story coming, but he’d lost his cell phone somewhere on the cliffs. His upper body was sticky with sweat from the ordeal and his hair was stuck to his forehead in curly wisps. His appearance merely reflected what he’d been through: a near-death experience, perfect for Page One.

  Norman saw Al and Big Ed, sitting at their computers, sharing a big bag of chips as they both were reading Jerry’s story about the press conference. At first, Al refused to acknowledge his presence. Norman stood patiently, waiting for him to look up, but Al was playing his usual power game. He was going to make Norman wait until he was good and ready to stop what he was doing. Big Ed, too.

  “So glad you decided to join us,” Al said, finally looking up from the screen. “We saw you being interviewed on the news and we’ve only been calling you for the past two hours. Why the hell didn’t you call in? Don’t you know it’s our story before it’s theirs?”

  “I lost my cell when that woman tried to kill me, but I’ve got tons of stuff they won’t have on TV. It’s an amazing story,” Norman said, trying to restrain his enthusiasm.

  Dammit. I deserve to gush. But the editors don’t seem to care that I was almost been pulled over a cliff to my death.

  “Yeah?” Big Ed said. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  “Clover Ziegler jumped off a cliff. And she almost took me with her,” he said in desperation.

  “Yeah, we know,” Al said. “But even so, you’re going to have to pull yourself together. It’s getting close to deadline and we need a story. Are you up to writing it? Or do we need to have Jerry interview you and insert it in the story he’s already turned in?”

  “No, I’m fine,” he said. “This is my story and I’m going to write it.”

  “Fine,” Big Ed said. “Then get the hell to it. Since it happened to you, you won’t need to worry about getting yourself to go on the record. Ha.”

  Norman felt relieved that they were finally joking with him. “I’ve got it all right here,” he said, tapping the side of his head.

  “Well, I should hope so,” Al said. He paused for a moment. “So what’s your lead?”

  “Maybe we can work one out together,” Norman said, hoping to make Al feel a part of the story and draw him in. Big Ed gave him a salute, as if to say, You two go for it.

  Norman made a few more calls to check some facts, then Al shooed everyone away so the two of them could sit together at the computer and craft the story. Norman told his tale, and for the first time ever, he captured the city editor’s attention. It was better than sex, no question about it. Al even blew off Jerry, who came over at one point to see if he could help.

  “Go home,” Al told him. “We’ve got it under control here.”

  When they were done, Norman had to admit that he couldn’t have written it as well without Al.

  Afterward, Norman invited Tommy to celebrate at the Italian place next door to the Tavern. He could hardly hold in his ego, it had expanded so much. He was looking forward to a late dinner of antipasto salad, spaghetti bolognaise, and at least one bottle of Chianti. They arrived just after nine thirty and were seated right away.

  “Do you know if Lulu is working at the Tavern tonight?” Norman asked the waiter.

  “Lulu? She quit today. Something about a baby on the way.”

  Norman felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. “You’re kidding,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Who’s the father?”

  “You know that guy she’s been seeing, the prison guard?” The waiter, who knew Norman from his many meals there, leaned over and whispered, “Well, from what I hear, it’s not his.”

  Norman gulped, a difficult task given the huge l
ump in the back of his throat. “Give us a minute, will you?”

  “Sure.”

  Norman turned to Tommy. “Can you believe that? He’s got to be lying. She’s not that kind of girl.”

  Tommy put his hand on Norman’s shoulder. “Buddy, I didn’t want to burst the bubble you’ve been blowing for months, but, yes, she is.”

  Norman shook off Tommy’s hand. “Yeah, whatever. We’re supposed to be celebrating, here. Forget the Chianti. Let’s get something serious, like some Jack Daniels. Where’s that waiter?”

  Chapter 52

  Goode

  Once Jake’s attorney realized that the police had his client cold, he tried to make a deal with the DA’s office to try to save Jake from going to death row at San Quentin.

  “When you hear his story, you’ll see that a life sentence is really more the way to go,” the defense attorney said to the prosecution team in the jailhouse interview room.

  “I’m not making any promises,” the prosecutor replied, “but I might be more lenient if Jake gives a full confession and holds back no details. The nation is waiting to hear why he killed those people.”

  Goode didn’t see how the DA could withhold the death penalty on this particular set of murders and still get re-elected, but he was ready to take the statement. Only Jake didn’t really want to confess to cold-blooded murder.

  “It was an accident,” Jake said. “Tania and I had this hot night at a strip club a couple of weeks back and then to see her from the kitchen, dancing with that asshole, Friday night. . . It just ate me up inside. So, on Saturday night, I decided to go over to her apartment and warn her about what a womanizer and a prick Seth was.”

  Goode nodded. Sounds familiar. I thought the same thing as I read Tania’s diary. Why did she pick such jerks?

  “We were talking in her living room and she didn’t look well, so I asked her what was wrong,” Jake went on. “She said she felt groggy, but all she could remember was going next door with her neighbor and then waking up sometime later in his dark apartment. I told her I had just what she needed, and offered her some meth to perk her up. I was thinking I had a few other things to offer her, too,” he said.

  He was acting like this was a big joke. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink. Smart man to smart man. Goode couldn’t take his tone. “Don’t you have any conscience, you little freak?” he said, lunging at him across the table. He grabbed Jake by the collar of his orange jumpsuit and yanked.

  “Dude! Calm down,” Jake said, startled, as he tried to pull back in the chair. He couldn’t move much, though, because his hands were cuffed behind him.

  Goode let go of him and sat back down. “Show a little respect,” he said curtly.

  “Okay, okay,” Jake said, taking a deep breath before he continued. “So at first she wasn’t sure she wanted to do it. She said she’d never tried meth before and didn’t really want to be high when she met up with Seth that night. Well, it was my plan for her to hang out with me all night. So I told her about the incredible euphoria—not to mention the intense sexual energy—she would feel if she tried some.”

  Goode nodded. It sounded true so far.

  “But then, after doing like three lines, she stopped breathing all of a sudden. I freaked out, but then I got a hold of myself and started doing CPR. Only she just lay there. All I could think was that I couldn’t let my life end like this. I had big plans. I was going to medical school to become a surgeon. But I got scared that no one would believe she died on her own, and they’d blame me for overdosing her or something. So my first impulse was to make it look like someone else killed her. Everyone had seen her with Seth on Friday night and she was supposed to go out with him that night, too, so I decided he was my best bet. I yanked the lamp cord out of the wall and pulled it around her neck to make it look like she was strangled to death. Then I also thought I should make it look like a sexual crime, so I ripped off her panties and put them in the trash. Then I carried her down to the alley. I figured the coke on her table was left over from the night before, that you’d find out Seth was selling coke at Pumphouse, and that would be that. I remembered later that I’d left some meth on the table, but I figured coke is often cut with meth, and Seth would get blamed for it all anyway.

  “I went back to the alley on Sunday to check on the body and there you were. But I thought that all went pretty cool, so I wasn’t worried. Then on Monday night, I was taking a break at Pumphouse, when Clover came in and poured out this big sob story, that Seth did her, then he did Sharona, and then he did Tania, too, right in front of her. I’d been hanging out some with Sharona myself, and that didn’t sit too well with me either. So I went over to Sharona’s apartment to shoot the shit and get high with her. I was coming down hard from the night before and was feeling a little strung out. We were talking about what had happened and she was defending Seth, saying he wouldn’t do this because he was actually a good guy if I got to know him. She’d just done a couple lines of coke on the counter and I tried to kiss her, but she pushed me away, and I guess that just set me off. Things were so fucked up already and they just kept escalating. The next thing I knew I was strangling her and she wasn’t breathing anymore.”

  “Why Sharona? What did she ever do to you?”

  “It was the meth, man. I didn’t even know what I was doing. . . So then I started wracking my brain what to do next.”

  Goode tried to remain expressionless, but it was extremely difficult. Despite Jake’s claim of accidental death, and blaming his plight on methamphetamine, he did not sound even remotely remorseful. “Go on,” he snapped.

  “I knew Jack wouldn’t snitch me out to the police about selling meth at Pumphouse, because we talked about it, and he said he thought this would all blow over once Seth was sent away and we could get back to the business at hand.”

  “Good thinking,” Goode said wryly.

  “Yeah, well, I thought I was in the clear. But then Keith comes to me in the Pumphouse parking lot the night after Tania’s funeral as I was going in to work and says he wants to talk to me. He says he had it all figured out, and the sucky thing—for him, anyway—is that he did. So I had no choice. I shot him. He said he was on his way to tell you all about it.”

  So Keith was smarter than I gave him credit for, the poor schmuck.

  “That’s when I decided to send a letter to Norman Klein at the Sun-Dispatch, and make it sound like Clover wrote it. I figured that since Sharona was Clover’s friend and Seth had just slept with her, you guys would have your hands full figuring out who did what to who and why, but you’d focus on Seth and then Clover, and not on me. So I turned on the charm for Clover’s maid and went upstairs to put Keith’s ring, Sharona’s hair, and Tania’s fingernails in that box. Dude, I thought I was golden.”

  Goode shook his head. The guy had been clever when he’d come up with this plan, but not clever enough, and being a meth-addled sociopath did not a defense make.

  “So, seriously. What was it?” Jake asked Goode earnestly, as if it were just the two of them in that room. He seemed to really want to know where he’d screwed up—as if this were an academic test that he could take again for a higher grade. “How did I blow this whole thing?”

  Goode paused long and hard, for effect as much as anything else. “You thought you were smarter than everybody else. And that mistake, my friend, is worth at least a life term. But I’ve got to tell you, if the prosecutor here asks the victims’ families for their input, a death sentence is more likely.”

  Chapter 53

  Goode

  The moon was just shy of being full as Goode walked the length of Crystal Pier, where the water glistened as the two-foot waves gently broke against the pilings underneath. It felt very peaceful there.

  When he got to the end of the pier, he kneeled and set his cappuccino—decaf—on the ground in front of him. Then he pulled his wallet from his back pocket and slipped the photos out of their slot. They were warm in his hand as he opened up the two folded ones and laid t
hem out in a row next to the faded shot of his mother. She really did have an uncanny resemblance to Tania. It was almost surreal. He put his mom back into her resting place, then after a few moments, also replaced the photo of Alison. As he stared at Tania’s smiling face in the moonlight, he could feel her presence there with him. He also swore he could detect the fleeting sweet scent of gardenias.

  “I hope you’ve found some peace, Tania,” he said.

  Almost as if on cue, he felt a warmth come over him and a sense of serenity.

  “Good,” he said. “I’m glad. Then my work is done.”

  Goode wished he’d brought a gardenia in her memory, but all he had was the photo. So he slowly ripped it up into little pieces, then tossed them over the side. He watched them flutter down to the water and sink, forming sequined bubbles that reflected the light of the moon.

  As the water swallowed the shreds of her image, Goode felt his obsession with her go down with them. Tania had died young but she seemed to have lived more than most. Even in death, she’d taught him that life was about taking chances. He also felt the guilt in not being able to save Clover recede as well.

  She wanted to be free and now, hopefully, she is.

  He pictured Alison’s cute, lopsided smile, her curly golden hair, and the scared-deer look in her eyes that had begun to dissipate as he gained her trust. He wanted to see her happy, but he wasn’t going to let her draw him into her problems and he also wasn’t going to try and save her from them. Not this time. He figured it would be best for both of them if they took it slow and kept it casual for a while, at least until they knew if there was a chance for something real. He didn’t want to be another man who hurt her.

  Goode never thought it would happen, but the dead feeling inside him had gone. All this real-life stuff still made him want to sprint home and hide. But he’d already decided he wasn’t going to run anymore. He was going to sit right there and watch the sequined lady dance.