Digging deeper, I tried to find information about the Erikson Group by calling the company directly and going on the Internet, only discovered they did contract jobs. It wasn’t until months later at a company party that Yolanda finally started talking about herself. After a few sips of Sex on the Beach, I couldn’t shut girlfriend up.
Yolanda told me she worked for a contract company for five years. She didn’t go into detail about what she did there or the name of the business. Not that I needed the latter, my inherited nosey nature already dug up that bit of info. I kept that part to myself, though. She also told me that she had just gotten out of a bad relationship and wasn’t trying to begin a new start with her life--new job, new friends, new environment, new everything. I’d recently broken up with my man as well. That common bond had us going on for hours. Still, she hadn’t said much more regarding herself. I never heard so much talk about nothing in my life. Regardless, she was an interesting person and surprisingly we had a lot in common.
We declared our friendship that night.
Present day
I placed the TV back on mute and returned the phone to my ear. “Mama, Mama… Can you stop talking for a second? Thank you. I’m coming over, okay? Yes, right now. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
Mama talked for another ten minutes before I convinced her that I was really coming over. I swore that when I eventually had children, I would never be like my mother. Admittedly, she provided a momentary break from what was happening with all her badgering.
I needed to refocus my energy and find out what was going on in Yolanda’s head rather than figuring out where she was. Yolanda might have left more in the box with my returned gifts, maybe a note or something that she couldn’t say to me in person.
I grabbed my purse and ran out of the apartment determined to find the truth, one way or another.
The Bald Man
Hidden behind the dark tinted windows of his car the bald man watched Pamela Reeb with great interest as she left her apartment building. Her clothing was simple, geared more for comfort than fashion. She was dressed in skintight white denim jeans, a loosely fitted yellow tee-shirt, and white tennis shoes with yellow Nike symbols. Even her hair was practical, dark waves were pulled to the back of her head into a large tight bun.
The camcorder zoomed in on her so that he could get a clear shot of her face.
“She’s pretty,” he said aloud, stretching the words out sounding like a hiss. The bald man’s breathing became heavy and his heart raced in his chest. “So very pretty.”
A voice, not his own, boomed in his earpiece. “You need to keep your focus.”
The camcorder slowly pivoted on the woman’s body from head to toe, lingering here and there as beads of sweat ran down the bald man’s forehead.
She moved with the fluid grace of a dancer.
He could hear his own breath much clearer now. It drowned out the dogged voice in his ear. He wanted to get out and meet this Pamela Reeb personally, not peer at her in secret. He yanked his right hand away from the camcorder and dropped it to the passenger seat where the knife waited. His index finger gently, slowly, caressed the sharp edges of the blade. His fingertips were flawless against the steel, sliding back and forth along its six-inch length. The mere act should have been enough to draw blood, but he was careful with the blade.
“No, it won’t be my blood it spills,” the bald man said in a low self-gratifying groan.
“What’s that?” It was the voice in his ear.
The bald man returned from his reverie and wondered if he had been talking aloud again. “It was nothing.” He wiped the sweat from his brow. “The woman has exited her apartment building. She’s headed for her vehicle.”
The voice said, “Excellent. Once she’s gone you know what to do.”
He smiled. “I do.”
The bald man turned off the camera. Act I, of his masterpiece was done. Later, Act II in her apartment, where she thought she would be alone, safe and secure. He tried hard not to think beyond that. Things always got kind of crazy into the third Act.
Not crazy in a bad way, at least, not for him.
The pretty woman was in her black and gold Mountaineer, making a U-turn on the street. As she drove by, he blew her a kiss through the dark tinted windows. She saw nothing. Still, he knew Pamela Reeb desired him, wanted him so bad.
He wanted her too.
“Later,” he thought. “There’ll be time enough, later.”
***
Inside Pamela Reeb’s apartment the bald man began his work. He had much more equipment than his assignment required. It wouldn’t delay him. He’d be out of the place on schedule. The bald man had done this many times and it had become an art. He was only supposed to install the audio listening devices, but to film his second Act he needed to install video cameras as well.
Placing the silver case on a tabletop in the front room and opening it, he whistled, Pop Goes the Weasel. The sound made was a sick reverberation inside the apartment.
“You enjoy your work too much,” the voice said over the earpiece.
The bald man stopped his eerie whistle. “What’s life, if you can’t enjoy yourself?”
He looked around taking in the entire place, searching for the best placement of his paraphernalia. The apartment was picturesque, uncluttered, without unnecessary embellishments.
Adorning the living room was a medium length auburn couch, a matching glass coffee table, a stylist metal display case and in two flanking corners long slender lamps. Curved at the apex, with the yellow covers, looking like drooped over tulip petals yet to blossom. Large African vases stood to each side of the sofa. The polished wood floors gleamed with sunlight penetrating through long clothed blinds on the patio doors. The fragrance of fresh apple spice potpourri filled the room.
From the display case, he picked up a picture frame with a photograph of pretty Pamela Reeb and two other people, Anthony Holman and Yolanda Blakely. The bald man stared at the trio for a long time, studying their every detail. He placed his gloved thumb atop Yolanda’s image. He wanted to press his finger through the glass and frame, poking her out.
An ache in his right leg throbbed; a recurring throb from a wound that never fully healed.
He spun the frame around to its backside and examined its black vinyl spine. Laying it back on the display case, he retrieved a small circular device from his equipment bag, pressing it on the spine. The bug matched the dark texture perfectly, it was seamless. Careful to place the picture back in its original position, he again looked at the images and once more his pain returned.
He’d thought Yolanda was pretty once. Not anymore.
He didn’t know how long he stood there staring, hating.
The voice said, “What’s your progress? Have you gotten to the phones yet?”
The bald man blinked, and then looked at his watch. His face twisted into a distorted angry mask. He’d lost ten minutes.
He growled. “Keep your shirt on, I haven’t been in the apartment that long. I’ll be done, when I’m done.”
He hated being under anyone’s leash. He liked to work alone.
Had Rembrandt been overseen as he painted? Had someone been watching over Shakespeare’s shoulder as he wrote? Had Luther Vandross been towered over as he sang?
No. Artists should be allowed to do what they do best alone, in their own time and in their own way.
The bald man was an artist too.
His canvas was human flesh, his paint, blood. His pen was his knife. His voice was the soulful wails of his guns.
Yes. He was an artist; an artist of pain and death.
Part Two: Anthony
“Oh God, Wanabe!”
I looked away repulsed by the sight of Wanabe’s mangled carcass in the kitchen garbage can and the strange foul odor I smelled as I entered her apartment, but now it was much stronger, putrid. Cuffing my nose and mouth with a hand, I choked back the vomit that tried to work its way up my throat. With my
other hand I held the garbage can lid in the air chest high like a shield as though I could fend off what had happened.
Suddenly it struck me that Yolanda might be in the apartment, somewhere hurt or worse. I slammed the lid back on the can and rushed from the kitchen. “Yolanda!” My shout echoed in the small apartment. I began another search, this time more thoroughly, checking behind furniture and looking inside closets.
After fifteen minutes, I stood outside of her bedroom closet, propping my forehead against the door frame. There was no sign of her. I had discovered that a lot of her clothing was missing, along with several suitcases. I hoped she made it out before whoever killed the cat had entered. Wanabe’s death changed everything. This wasn’t just about my fiancé running away.
My mind raced with unanswerable questions because someone dangerous might be after her: To do what, hurt her? Kill her? Did she have a craze stalker? Was she out there, alone, unaware that someone may be threatening her? I slammed the side of my fist against the drywall. It gave under the impact, leaving a fist sized hole. My thumb throbbed with pain. I stared at the injury. Luckily, I didn’t break the skin.
The sting gave me the opportunity to think straight. Lifting my head from the door frame, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Yolanda once more. My heart skipped a beat when I heard a familiar sound come from the front of the apartment.
It was Yolanda’s phone.
My fear morphed to hope as I raced out of the bedroom running toward the sound. She must have come in moments ago. In the hallway I had a clear view of the front room.
It was empty.
But I could still hear the ring-tone playing John Legend’s Heaven. She bought me his CD for my birthday. I hadn’t cared for his music at first. It’d grown on me sometime later after she had played his music and played it again and again in her car. My birthday present became her present.
Eventually, I found her cell phone under the couch. Had she ditched it there rushing out of the apartment? I flipped it open and looked at her messages inbox. Pam and my name filled the display.
All were unanswered.
I continued to scroll down the listing and saw something odd. There was a PRIVATE number. Yolanda was vigilant about who she gave her number to. Someone with a PRIVATE line never would have been added to her short list. A severe violation like that would have definitely been ignored by Yolanda. This particular caller had tried to reach her several times since nine this morning. Counting, I came up with seven times. Whoever it was seemed to really want to talk with her but left no messages. That was a serious mistake. Perhaps if this person said something, the message would at least have been heard.
Yolanda had a single landline with a private number that she’d only given to Pam and me. She had no computer for Internet access. It took Pam and me months convincing her to buy the cell phone. Even then, it was under my name on the contract, not hers.
I sat on the couch drained of all my energy. If she didn’t have her phone on her, there was no way to contact Yolanda unless she decided to call. The stench in the air reminded me that she may be in danger. I dialed the police and prayed that I hadn’t waited too long.
***
Initially, a uniformed officer arrived at the apartment to verify my story. She questioned me for about ten minutes before being convinced there might be a real threat to Yolanda. She made the call to her department. Because Wanabe had not died of natural causes and because there was the possibility that Yolanda was in mortal danger or dead, the Police Department sent two Missing Persons detectives to investigate, Sergeants Larry Madden and Paula Dixon.
Knowing the detectives came from Missing Persons made me feel even more jumpy than I had been before I called the police. I sat on the living room couch as Madden questioned me. His partner, Dixon, was searching around the apartment being careful not to touch anything.
Madden asked, “You entered the apartment an hour ago correct?”
I nodded. “Yes, that sounds right.” The words came out sheepish as I tried to hide my nervousness.
He looked at his wristwatch. “So, that would mean you came in at around seven o’clock.”
“Yes.” There was irritation in my words. “Why don’t you have a forensics team here or something? We’re wasting valuable time.”
He paused and looked me over. “I’m sorry, Mr. Holman, do you have a background in police procedure?” His voice was even but I sensed I might have hit a nerve.
I shook my head, no.
He continued, “Have you personally been involved in a police investigation?”
Again, I indicated, no.
His blue eyes narrowed to thin slits and he spoke through gritted teeth. “Then don’t assume you know how we should conduct our investigation, Mr. Holman. If we determine that crime scene investigators are needed, then we’ll send for them pronto. For now, I need you to answer my questions.”
Madden, stood over me in his dark grey two-piece suit that looked cheap, like it came off a JCPenny’s rack. His tan skin gave him an olive coloring. He was shorter than me by two or three inches, which put him around five ten or so. Still, as I sat, he towered over me giving him the appearance that he was much taller and intimidating. He looked a lot like Ray Liotta from that gangster movie, Good Fellas, which added to his tough guy persona.
I heard myself say, “I’m sorry.” But I wasn’t. I wanted these two to get off their butts and find Yolanda before it was too late. “I’ll answer your questions.”
“Thank you, Mr. Holman.”
I noticed he kept repeating my name. I wondered if he did this to commit it to memory. I couldn’t imagine how many suspects, victims and lawyers he spoke to on a day-to-day basis as he investigated various crimes.
Before he said another word, I said, “Tony.”
“Excuse me?”
“Not Mr. Holman. It’s Tony.”
He nodded politely, understanding. “Tony it is then. You said you arrived here at seven. Was Ms. Blakely expecting you?”
“No.” I decided not to elaborate. The less I said the less chance of me saying something stupid, especially out of anger.
“Hmm. So do you often drop by without letting her know ahead of time?”
“Sometimes, but not often.”
“Why this time?”
“Why this time, what?”
“Why did you come over without calling?”
“I had called her. Several times in fact.”
His left eyebrow shot up. “Did you now?” He folded his arms together. “Care to explain what you mean by that?”
I let out a frustrated breath. “We sort of had…” I tried to think of the right word but nothing came to mind. We hadn’t exactly had an argument. She slapped me and walked away. Finally, I said the only thing that came to me. “We had a disagreement.”
“A fight?”
“No. A fight takes two people.”
He gave me a wry smile. “One would think that a disagreement was much the same, Mr. Holman.” He snapped his fingers realizing his mistake. “Sorry, I mean, Tony. You said something about calling her several times. Was it because she wouldn’t pick up?”
“That’s right,” I answered guardedly. I was starting to feel like a suspect.
“So, after you two had your… Disagreement, was it?”
I just looked at him.
The detective continued, “Anyway, after your disagreement, you came here to what? Make amends?”
“Something like that. Yes.”
“How did you get inside the apartment?”
“I have a key.”
“Did she give you the key?”
“Of course she gave me the key!” That upset me and I felt the anger well up. “We were going to get married.”
His partner, Dixon, chimed in. “I looked around. I didn’t find any wedding invitations or bridal magazines.”
Surprised by her voice, I twisted my head around and looked up at her stunned.
She made her way bac
k into the living room and stood behind the couch where I sat. She had a hard edge to her demeanor that wasn’t there before and gave her partner a stare that I couldn’t interpret. He, on the other hand nodded his understanding.
Madden in the front of me, Dixon at my back. The room suddenly felt smaller, claustrophobic.
My head darted from her to him and back to her.
Fighting the urge to shout, I asked, “What are you trying to say?”
She shrugged her shoulders in an ‘I don’t know’ fashion. “I’m just saying I didn’t see any proof of an impending marriage, that’s all. I mean, if I were engaged, I would have something to show for it. Wouldn’t any woman?”
My teeth were gritted now. “I asked her last night. She hadn’t had time for any of that.”
Madden asked, “Last night, huh?” I craned my head toward him. “Yesterday, you two were love birds and today, you two had a disagreement. Don’t you find that kind of strange?”
Dixon directed her attention to her partner, ignoring me all together, and said, “I do. Maybe, the husband to be chickened out and tried to back out of the marriage. Maybe that’s what started their argument.”
“Disagreement.” Madden corrected her. “It takes two to have an argument, remember?”
Dixon said mockingly, “Oh that’s right. How stupid of me.”
I bolted to my feet.
Madden put his palm against my chest. “Sit down, Tony!”
I had the feeling that if I refused, he would have put me down by force. I sat voluntarily. “I called the police remember? Why are you treating me like I’m guilty of something?”
“Are you guilty of something?” Dixon asked. “Maybe you killed the cat out a fit of anger.”
“What?”
“Perhaps, you broke off the marriage, because you discovered that your fiancé wasn’t as faithful to you as you might have hoped.”
Crossroads: An Anthology Page 28
