by M. J. Rose
That question had kept him awake long into the night. He really was tired of her disappearing on him. Of how her work kept getting in their way. Fine, if she didn’t trust him, he’d accept that. He’d walk away from her. He could take the hint.
A half hour after waking up, he was at the gym, where he worked out for as long as he could stand it, then he took a subway uptown. It was three blocks from the train stop to the station house. He trudged through the snow, kicking at it.
Anyone watching would have thought that he was, like millions of other New Yorkers, sick of the relentless storms, tired of wearing boots and climbing over snowdrifts. But that wasn’t it. He was annoyed that Morgan was avoiding his calls, and, beyond the personal disappointment he felt, the way she was acting reinforced his own conviction that Alan Leightman was lying about being the killer.
Damn. What did Morgan know about her patient that she wasn’t telling him? Damn her ethics. He needed the information she had.
At the office, Jordain listened to his messages and searched his e-mail at the same time. There were all kinds of reasons a woman might not answer her phone or return his calls. But he knew Morgan, and there was only one reason. She was avoiding him because she had found out something she wasn’t at liberty to tell him, and she was not going to give herself the chance to slip.
At that moment he was sure that he never wanted to see her again.
He picked up the yellow pad with his notes on the Webcam killings and read through them all again. There had to be something there. Something he’d missed. One tiny piece of information that would make a difference.
All the poisons—the one used in the lubricant, the one applied to the Band-Aids and the one mixed into the massage oil—were too easily obtained to be traceable. The Atropine in the lubricant was in eyedrops available in every hospital and by prescription, used by millions of patients. The nicotine on the bandages could have been brewed from a few ordinary cigarettes, or from plants. And the cyanide in the massage oil was used by dozens of professionals, including jewelers and gardeners. The tampered products themselves were all major drugstore brands.
There was nothing there.
All of the items used by the Web-cam girls had been found in their apartments, but the police hadn’t been able to find any boxes or envelopes, which might have yielded important information. They must have gotten the gifts weeks or days before and thrown it all out.
Tania, the only one of the girls who’d survived, didn’t know anything about the oil ZaZa had used. Yes, a fan had sent it as a gift, but she hadn’t asked any specifics. It wasn’t the first time that ZaZa had been sent gifts. Many of the girls had post office boxes—in fact, Global Communications recommended it. Clients liked to send presents and photos. It was good business to encourage them. Besides, it wasn’t unheard of for women to receive expensive jewelry from the men who’d fallen in lust with them online.
Butler stood in his doorway. “Hey, boss, you busy?”
“What’s up?”
“I just got a call. The computer in Leightman’s office at NYU is clean. No e-mail to any of the victims’ e-mail addresses.”
“What the hell? I thought Fisher said—”
She continued: “But we have found the computer the email came from. It’s in the NYU library.”
“So Leightman used the computer in the library?”
“Either that or someone who found out his password was in the library using his e-mail address.”
Eighty-Three
Dearest,
Happy birthday.
Ironic isn’t it? To even use the word happy? But truly, soon we will be happy because we’ll be together and then we’ll know some form of happiness, or if not that, then relief—maybe peace, at least peace.
Soon all just punishments will have been meted out and everyone will have been held accountable for the damage that they have done. There isn’t anything left that matters to me but this: that you, my sweetest heart, have been avenged.
I can close my eyes and I can see us, not at the end, not when I lost you, but before that.
There was one day at the beach, four, maybe five summers ago. It was hot and you were lying in the sun, soaking it up, and I was swimming, and when I got out of the water I stood over you and flicked drops of cold water on your legs and your stomach and your arms, and you laughed.
In my mind, in this memory, you are squinting in the bright sunlight, and you put your hand up to shield your eyes, and the drops of seawater flying through the air catch the light and shine like broken crystals as they fall onto your skin. Liquid light like your laugh.
I knelt down beside you and leaned over and kissed you, and you laughed again, telling me that my hair was tickling you, but you raised your arms and wrapped them around me, anyway.
It has been my punishment that I cannot remember every time I held you or you reached for me and there must have been thousands. How could I forget any of them? And damn to hell the people who made it so I would have to try to remember them at all. Just damn them to hell.
The bitch witches who thrust and wink and whisper and suck the men deeper, deeper, deeper. They fly through the black ether and weave through the Web, weaving their own web, black night twisted women. I’m helping them get to hell this way. I tried other ways for years and I didn’t get anywhere, but then I had something to lose. You. Now that you are lost to me, it doesn’t matter anymore.
No, it matters. The truth is it will be a relief to finish and to stop missing you. To give in to the hole in my chest that hurts as badly as if it had been made with a scalpel instead of your absence. Sliced right through, cut open, dripping everything that I tried to do, every bit of good I tried to accomplish, every change I tried to expedite. All discredited, all a giant cosmic joke.
You wrote that it wasn’t you I loved, but some idea of you. How could you ever think that? I would kill to show how much I loved you.
Now I have to shower and dress and then pick up your birthday cake, the one you loved the best. A yellow cake with strawberries and whipped cream. Not with one candle for each year, but with only one candle for the year that I have lived without you.
This I do for you.
Eighty-Four
Nina came into my office after both of our ten o’clock patients had left.
“Have you heard from Blythe?” she asked.
I shook my head. “No.” I shrugged. “I’m not going to assume that means anything. She’s twenty-five years old. There are a million reasons that she might not have checked her machine since last night. But I called her again this morning and left a new message.”
“I heard from Stella. She just called. She’d be happy to see me. Well, us. But I didn’t mention you over the phone. I’m not sure how to handle that.”
“When?”
“One-thirty.”
“Where?”
“Eighth Avenue. Forty-fourth Street.”
“That’s near Dulcie’s theater.”
Nina nodded. “Stella’s part owner of a building there. I guess it’s been renovated. That’s what she always said they were going to do with it. Tear it down and turn it into offices.”
Eighty-Five
“I’m so glad you came.”
Blythe smiled and extended her hand. The older woman’s skin was very cold. But then this whole place was cold. Freezing. Why were they meeting here? It was a strange place for an interview.
Stella Dobson pointed to a chair. There was a single light shining down on it, creating a halo effect around it and painting long shadows on the wall.
Blythe took the proffered seat.
She’d been looking forward to meeting Stella for weeks. Even if it did mean talking about what she’d done and why she’d done it and what it had meant to her. Morgan was helping her with that and one day, she knew, she’d be able to put it completely behind her. Maybe today would even help her purge it.
“Are you comfortable?”
“Yes. But…it’s
so cold here. Aren’t you cold?”
“I know. I’m sorry. The heat hasn’t kicked in yet. But it should any second.”
Stella walked to the wings of the stage and pulled out a table on wheels that squeaked just a little as she rolled it over.
Blythe was not surprised to see a laptop on it. After all, this was an interview. She’d thought Stella would tape record it, but if she wanted to type notes, that was fine.
The notebook was titanium and looked much more expensive than the used one that Blythe had. But just like her laptop at home, there was a small video camera clipped to the top of this computer. Exactly the same make and model as the one she had worked with.
“That’s a coincidence,” Blythe said.
“What is?”
“The camera. It’s the same one I have.”
Stella smiled. “I’m going to film you,” she said as she turned on the computer and adjusted the minicamera. “I want to put portions of some of the interviews up on the Web when the book comes out, is that all right with you?”
“Cool.”
“Good. I didn’t think you’d mind being filmed. You did so much performing online.” She smiled. “I hope you don’t mind this, either.”
Stella reached into a shopping bag. Blythe saw a flash of color and knew what it was instantly. The cobalt-blue feathers had deep purple undertones and were tinged with lavender.
“That’s my mask,” she said with a combination of wonder and confusion.
Stella smiled. “Well, not your exact mask, but one just like it. So you won’t object to wearing it?”
Eighty-Six
Perez and Jordain were talking to Mrs. Johanson, the fifty-something head of the NYU library. It had been a frustrating half hour. There were more than fifty computer terminals in the library, which any student or faculty member could come and use. Plus, there were reciprocal privileges for faculty and grad students from other colleges and universities, as long as the visitor had the right credentials. In addition, there were dozens of carrels where students or faculty could plug in and use their own computers. And while you had to show an ID card to get into the library, you didn’t have to sign in.
“So, basically, what you are saying is anyone in the library on these dates could have used either their own or your computers and there won’t necessarily be a record of it?”
Mrs. Johanson nodded and her brown curls bobbed. She was wearing a cream-colored turtleneck and a pair of chocolate brown corduroy pants, with heavy snow boots on her feet that gave her otherwise small frame a solid base. “I’m sorry,” she said, sounding genuinely distressed.
Jordain smiled at her. “Not your problem, ma’am.”
“We appreciate your help,” Perez added.
The two detectives went downstairs, and on their way out walked through the high, open space. Jordain thought the library was poorly designed. You needed smaller areas—nooks and friendly alcoves—in a library. Places where you could hole up and study for the afternoon, where you’d be comfortable, have some sense of privacy and at least some semblance of silence.
“Look around,” he said to Perez.
“Okay, I’m looking.”
“You think you’d come here to indulge your predilection for porn? Nice cozy place to jerk off, don’t you think?”
“No.”
“Right. The person who sent that e-mail wasn’t here to go online and fool around and watch a few Web-cam girls while he had a free half hour. He was here working. Or doing research. Sending the e-mail from here was just convenient.”
A few minutes later they were back in Mrs. Johanson’s office.
“I’m sorry to bother you again,” Jordain said.
“It’s no bother.” She smiled. “Did you forget something?”
“No, but we do have a new question,” Perez said. “Do you think we could look through the call slips from three specific days in the past few weeks?”
“It’s a long shot,” Jordain said, “but we think that whoever sent the e-mail was here because he was actually using the library.”
“Unless you threw out the court order you showed me twenty minutes ago, of course you can. Come with me.”
Eighty-Seven
Blythe couldn’t take her eyes off Stella. The woman was a legend. A fearless fighter for women’s rights. She’d almost starved to death for her principles. It had given Stella the aura of someone who would stop at nothing. And then she’d taken on Global Communications, hacking into their computer systems so she could contact the women who did Web-cam work and offer to help them get jobs outside of the porn industry. Blythe had gotten one of those letters, as had some of her friends. And Stella had helped some of them. Before she got sued. But even that had made her into more of a cult hero.
So, if Stella wanted Blythe to do the interview in her old costume, she would. But it was still strange. Blythe felt the feathers tickle her behind the ear. The smooth, silky sensation made her blood run hotter. She felt a thrill deep in her stomach. The instant reaction scared her. It was like stepping backward. The way she felt just holding a cigarette, knowing she wanted one but wouldn’t have one because she never wanted to go through the pain of quitting again.
“I was hoping you’d indulge me. That you’d return to your character, become the woman you were online. A Venus hiding behind a mask, willing to spread her legs and show her audience anything they asked for.”
Blythe didn’t know Stella well enough to be sure, but it sounded as if her tone was tinged with contempt. And yet, why would Stella be angry with her? She watched her carefully. Stella’s mouth was dry. There were deep circles under her eyes, rings of sweat on her red blouse. Something was wrong. Or was she overreacting?
Morgan had told her more than once that she had strong instincts and that she should trust them and rely on them. That it would help her with patients.
Stella pulled a thermos out of a shopping bag, along with two paper cups. “It’s hot chocolate. The theater gets so cold. I thought it would help warm us up.”
She handed a cup to Blythe.
Nothing was wrong. It was her imagination. It was this spooky old theater. The hot chocolate was delicious.
Stella turned on the Web cam, sat down opposite her and began the interview.
She started with the easy things: how much Blythe made, what hours she worked, when she’d begun.
Blythe answered all three questions and then yawned. “I’m sorry.”
Stella smiled. “Did you ever think about what kind of effect your work was having on younger men? On boys who weren’t even sexually active yet?”
“Effect? Sure. I was turning them on. It was safe and harmless.”
“You were setting up an impossible goal, weren’t you?”
That edge was back in Stella’s voice. “I’m not sure I understand,” Blythe said. She was slumping in her chair, she really was tired.
“You made it so easy for the boys. Just lie back and let me make you hard. Let me act out your fantasy. You don’t have to even think about me. I’m not real. I have no feelings. Do you understand how that affects young men?”
Blythe didn’t know what to say. She had talked about these issues with Morgan, but Morgan was her supervisor. She didn’t know if she wanted to talk about those things with Stella. Especially if it was going to be in a book. “This isn’t what I expected you were going to talk to me about…I thought this had something to do with working my way through school….” Her voice sounded thick in her own ears.
Stella got up and walked around Blythe’s chair and stood behind her. Blythe tried to turn, but her body was moving too slowly. Before she knew what was happening, she felt Stella’s arms reach around her waist, grab her by the wrists and pull her arms backward.
Eighty-Eight
“I told Stella that I needed her help with something and she said of course she’d do whatever I needed, but she didn’t sound like herself on the phone. Maybe you should wait for me in the lobby and let me go
in first and explain who you are and why you’re here with me. I’m worried. You know, now that I’m thinking about it, she did look stressed at the funeral last week. I should have called then.”
We were stuck in traffic on Forty-ninth Street going west. Somewhere ahead of us, a driver leaned on his horn, adding to the noise pollution. I felt my teeth clench and focused on relaxing. My cold was getting worse and my throat was still sore. I popped a cough drop. “You can’t watch out over everyone.” I smiled at her. If my issue is saving souls, Nina’s is being there for everyone.
“She’s had a hard time. First losing the lawsuit, then Simone’s death. It’s bound to have affected her.”
“The lawsuit, right. Did you know Alan Leightman’s wife was the lawyer who won that case for the pornography company?”
Nina frowned. “Yes. What a mess that was. Stella was devastated when she lost. I had dinner with her about a week later. She told me it was as if everything she had worked to achieve had been wiped out in one afternoon. It was a huge blow. And then only a month later, Simone died.”
“How did she survive it?” I forced myself not to think about Dulcie.
“I don’t know if she did.”
The traffic opened up and our driver sped ahead; five minutes later we pulled up in front of a building that I recognized well.
“What are we doing here?”
This was the abandoned Playpen Theater, near the theater where Dulcie performed. I hadn’t paid much attention to it before Alan had mentioned it, but since then I’d found myself staring at it every time I passed by, wondering why it was still standing, abandoned and forlorn: a memorial to a part of New York that no one wanted to memorialize.
