by Lourey, Jess
“I suppose they did, in a way. They’ve told women to be on guard against strange men and uncomfortable situations.” She snorted. “Shows what they know about a day in the life of a woman. We’re at the front lines of that crap. They might as well tell us to avoid doing more than our share of the housework, or having our opinions second-guessed.”
I steered her back on topic. “But if all of the victims had online dating profiles, wouldn’t the media know?”
“Not if the police wanted to keep it under wraps. It seems like a good way for them to trap the killer, if they know that’s where he’s hunting.”
I opened the gas station door and walked out, my hunger forgotten. Mrs. Berns followed closely. “You know what we should do?”
“What?”
“Create an online dating profile.” I threw myself into the front seat, waiting until Mrs. Berns was inside to continue. “Do a little fishing. We won’t be in anybody’s way, and if we find something suspicious, we can turn it over to the FBI.”
Mrs. Berns buckled up next to me, a broad smile on her face. “There’s the Mira I know and love! I knew you were in there somewhere under all that chickenshit. Now drive, Jeeves. We’ve got a murderer to catch.”
Sixteen
The Paynesville Area Library on Washburne Avenue had one available computer. We signed in for it, planted ourselves in front of it, and called up the E-adore website. Plump, animated red hearts collided on the screen, raining a shower of tiny pink hearts upon the heads of a smiling couple straight out of central casting.
“Ugh.” I had a theory that one should never shop online for leather pants or men. I could see why other people did it. It was lonely in these parts, and if you didn’t fall in love at work or go to church, that left only bars and blind luck. There was just something about it that didn’t fit me right.
“Why haven’t I tried this yet?” Mrs. Berns shoved me out of the way to access the keyboard. “It’s a smorgasbord of single men!”
“Hold those horses, missy.” I wheeled my chair back in front of the screen and squeezed her out. “We’re making a fake profile for a reason, remember? You can build your own flytrap on your own time.”
“Party pooper.”
With Mrs. Berns watching, I first posed as a man looking for women, ages 24–44, within 30 miles of River Grove, Minnesota. Forty-seven hits popped up. One featured a photo of a lady who looked an awful lot like Tina, the woman from the wake who’d said she’d gotten only the orange begonia and lousy dates out of her online experience. In the photo, she wasn’t wearing the jeweled glasses she’d sported at the funeral, and she seemed to have better cleavage, but otherwise, she was a dead ringer. Lynne Bankowski posed a few profiles below Tina, looking less crazy-eyed than she had at the funeral. I scrolled down and flipped through a couple dozen more photos before I saw what I’d been dreading: a photo of Natalie, on a trip to the mountains somewhere, her friends’ faces blurred out so only her smile shone through. She looked young. Happy. Alive.
“That her?”
“Yeah.” I pulled my hands away from the keyboard. “I don’t feel very well. We probably shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Toughen up, buttercup. You’re looking at the reason we’re doing this.”
I swallowed past the lump in my throat and skimmed the rest of the photos of the women. None of the others stood out. “We should probably print these. If the other two women who discovered snowmen in their yards are on these pages, we can be pretty sure how the killer is finding his victims.” I moved my cursor over the “print” button.
“I’m on it. You start building us a profile.”
While Mrs. Berns went to the front counter to pay for printing, I searched online for a fuzzy, generic headshot of a long-haired brunette in her 30s and uploaded it. My plan was to create an imaginary profile for a River Grove woman who fit the killer’s MO. That would allow me to scope the men that Natalie likely viewed. If any of them set off our alarm bells, we could approach them via our imaginary online persona and stand them up for a date in a very public place to get a closer look.
Mrs. Berns plopped in the chair next to me, a half dozen sheets of paper in her hand. “I got the print-outs of the ladies.”
“Awesome,” I said. “What should our fake profile’s first name be?”
“Veronica.”
I raised an eyebrow but typed it in. “Okay, Veronica lives in River Grove, is 33, 5'6" and 140 pounds, has never been married, loves to travel, and is a nurse. I’m gonna say she also likes Disney movies even though she knows she’s too old, she enjoys crossword puzzles, naps, and her favorite holiday is Thanksgiving.”
“He wouldn’t be interested in her,” Mrs. Berns said, arranging the papers so all the edges lined up. “She sounds like she’s already dead.”
I felt my cheeks flush. Except for being a nurse and liking Disney movies, that profile pretty much described me. Okay, maybe I liked some Disney movies, too. “It doesn’t matter. We’re just looking for the men who come up as matches to someone with Natalie’s same physical characteristics, job, and region. I’m betting the killer, if this is how he’s tracking them, hasn’t pulled his profile down. It’d draw too much attention to a single person. Makes more sense to just let the profile wither.”
She was paging through the sheets in her hand. “Think he’d use his real picture?”
“Doubt it. He’d be caught by now if he did.” I ran a spell check of what I’d typed so far.
“You almost done?”
I nodded. “I think we’ve got enough for our profile.” I clicked on the oval that said “Go Live!” Another screen popped up. I groaned. “It costs $14.99 to join for a month.”
She rifled around her massive purse and came out with a credit card. “Do it.”
“You sure?”
“I’m going to make my own profile anyways. I can just change around this one as soon as we’re done with it.”
I plugged in the numbers. They were accepted, and I tried the “Go Live!” oval again. The computer hummed, and an orgy of hearts
capered on the screen. They popped, one by one, revealing our matches underneath.
Look!” I pointed at the screen. We had fourteen matches within 25 miles of River Grove. Only two of those matches hadn’t posted photos. Of the twelve profiles that did, one featured a familiar guinea pig-faced man.
Seventeen
“I know that guy! I saw him selling candy at the gas station in River Grove.”
“Like a Girl Scout?”
“For a company. Like it’s his career.” I leaned into the screen. “Look here. It says his name is Sharpie and he’s a traveling salesman who is living temporarily in the River Grove area and hoping to make it permanent.”
“What kind of name is Sharpie?”
“It doesn’t say, but he claims that he’s got a good sense of humor.”
“That’s handy, with a face like that. Print it out. What about the rest?”
I skimmed through the ones with photos and saw the usual: hunters who alleged they liked to cuddle and professionals looking for a woman they could talk to, size 6 and below only. It eroded what little faith I had in humankind, but none of the male seekers set off my radar, so I delved into the two without photos. Both were men aged 39, average height and weight according to their stats. The first, David, claimed to be a blue-eyed blonde looking for a friendship. He stated that he was a professional with a good career who enjoyed motorcycle riding. The second was a guy who gave his name as Craig and wrote that his hair and eyes were both dark. He stated that he was a well-read electrician who could make any date fun “in two shakes of a sheep’s tail.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Mrs. Berns said, pointing at the screen at the very sentence I was reading.
“I dunno. Maybe he likes to keep things lively? Everything else sounds normal. His favorite book is a John Adams biography, he watches the History channel, and he says he’s a good cook who doesn’t mind doing th
e dishes.” I sat back. “There’s only one thing to do now.”
“Set up a date with the pig-faced man and the two faceless gents?”
“Exactly.”
We typed a generic e-mail extolling Veronica’s imaginary positive qualities, trying not to snort with laughter when we got to the part about exercising:
Hi! My name is Veronica, and I live in River Grove. I’m an administrative assistant who recently moved to the area. I’m pretty athletic. In fact, if I don’t work out at least five days a week, I go a little stir crazy! I like going out to the movies, or just a night in. I’m looking for a man who makes me laugh, someone who can show me the area. I’m leaving town soon for the holidays, and I’m hoping we could meet for a quick cup of coffee before then. Please e-mail me ASAP. Look forward to hearing from you!
Before we had a chance to hit “send,” photo-less David came online and instant messaged us.
Hi! New here?
I jumped, then glanced at Mrs. Berns. She glared at me. “It’s not rocket science,” she said. “Type ‘yes.’”
I did.
I like your photo. Want to meet for coffee tomorrow?
“Well, that was easy.” We made plans to meet at the Fatted Caf, the coffee shop in River Grove tomorrow afternoon at 1:00, which would give me time to drive over after my PI class and make it to Natalie’s funeral afterward. We had no intention of actually meeting him, of course, but we wanted to see what he looked like, what he drove, and generally feel him out. Plans made, we logged off the IM and finished our e-mail, sending one copy to Craig and one to Sharpie. We printed out Craig and David’s ads and added them to the others we’d accumulated.
“I think that’s all for now,” I said. “Mind if I do some quick research for my PI class? It’ll only take twenty minutes or so.”
“Not as long as you use that computer.” Mrs. Berns pointed to one on the other side of the carrel that had just opened up.
“Fine.” I left her to monkey around on the computer we’d been using and signed up for the recently vacated one. I rifled around my jacket pockets until I came up with the folded sheet of paper containing my PI classmates’ names and addresses. The office worker really had been generous. The addresses would cut down on my research time significantly. I began by researching “FBI watch list,” something you only want to do from a public computer with no personally identifying information involved. I discovered that the list contained over four hundred thousand names, and that I’d have more luck being invited to the White House for dinner with the President than finding out who’d landed on that list. I gave up on that line for now and logged onto the online information database I’d bought a membership to last month.
Once in, I ran the names of my classmates. The search only confirmed what I already knew. Gene’s past addresses were all army bases. Leo was a naturalized citizen originally from Albania. No documents told me that Edgar was cheating on his wife, but a recent sale of a chunk of land up north suggested something was shifting for him. I was reluctant to look into Kent’s information. He really seemed like a decent guy. I pushed through my squeamishness and was happy to see that except for missing a recent mortgage payment, he was squeaky clean. The same couldn’t be said for Roger, who’d earned four DUIs in the past three years. I guess he was the drinking problem, which meant that I either was on the FBI watchlist or had a wooden leg.
Shit.
I backpedaled and tried to rationalize my way out of this. More than one person in class could have a drinking problem, right? Mr. Denny might have been trying to trick us with his assignment. Maybe one student owned three of the secrets, and two of us had none. Grasping at straws, I shut down my computer and strode over to Mrs. Berns. She closed out her screen as soon as she saw me coming.
“You’re not looking at porn in a library, are you?”
“Naw, they wouldn’t let me in. Those WWE sites are just as good, anyhow.”
I let that slide and, given where her head was at the moment, asked a dangerous question. “If you had six men and had to figure out which one of them had a wooden leg, how would you do it?”
“Hmm.” She squinted at the ceiling as if giving the matter serious thought. “I’d probably release a whole pack of squirrels in the room to see whose leg they crawled up first.”
And … I got exactly what I deserved. “You hungry?”
“I thought you’d never ask. We just have time for a bite before self-defense class.”
A thought struck me on the way out of the library. “I’m going to call Mom and see if she wants to meet us. She’s playing bridge with Luisa and some friends.” I went back in and requested a phone book from the librarian and permission to use her phone. Luisa picked up on the third ring. “Hi, it’s Mira. Can I talk to my mom?”
“Hello, dear. She’s not here, I’m afraid.”
“Hmm. Don’t you have bridge scheduled for today?”
“Heavens, no. Wednesday afternoons we have Ladies Auxiliary. Bridge is on Thursdays. Besides, everyone’s so shook up with poor Natalie’s murder that we canceled for this week.”
I held the phone stupidly to my ear. It wasn’t possible my mom had lied to me. Had she forgotten which afternoon she played cards? “So you haven’t seen her at all today?”
“No. Is something wrong?”
“Not really. We must have had our signals crossed is all. Sorry to bother you.” I hung up and tried my mom’s home number. No answer.
Mrs. Berns was leaning against the library counter, waiting impatiently. “You look like someone pickled your face. What’s wrong?”
“My mom. She’s not playing bridge like she said she’d be, and she’s not at home.”
“Oh no! And she’s been shrunk by a toddler gun, and now needs to be babysat and spoonfed?”
“Point taken. I’m just saying that it’s not like her to be so secretive.”
“Parents. You can’t watch them all the time. You just have to trust that you raised them right.” She cackled.
I rolled my eyes, but not too hard because she’d be buying dinner. After a modest meal of grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup at the Wishin’ Well Café, Mrs. Berns and I traveled the 10 miles to our self-defense class, where we learned how to take down an assailant attacking from behind or the front. Of course, we’d need some warning that’s what he was doing, like, “I’m about to grab you in a bear hug from behind,” but I was confident we could take it from there: deep breath and elbows out, then drop to the ground, kicking for the knees and neuticles. Frontal attacks required a combination of the wrist releases, sweeping, and focused pressure on the attacker’s breaking points. I wasn’t sure how well it all would work under pressure, but I liked the confidence it was giving me. The class culminated in us learning how to make a fist. It seemed like a simple enough exercise: keep your thumb out, connect with your knuckles, punch from the shoulder. Turns out many of us held back, though, or twisted our wrists at the last minute. Master Andrea would have none of it. She made us punch the bags again and again, until our knuckles were bruised and raw and our shoulders aching.
“Only punch when you mean it,” she said as we left for the night, “and don’t stop your momentum when you hit your target. Punch right through them.”
I was certain that Mom would be home when we returned, but the large bay windows on the front of the house were dark, and the garage was still empty. I was getting worried, but I didn’t know what to do about it. Mrs. Berns looked as tired as I felt. I tended to Tiger Pop and Luna while she got herself ready for bed.
I popped my head into the spare bedroom. It was a cozy setup with an air mattress in the center of the room, covered in soft blankets. Mrs. Berns was wearing footie pajamas.
“Do you have everything you need?”
“Everything except for dark,” she said. “I’m beat.”
“Me too.” Problem was, I couldn’t hit the hay until my mom was home.
“That was a hint, and not a subtle one. Turn th
e damn light off.”
“Oh, sorry!” I left her alone and washed my face, brushed my teeth, and lay across the couch, welcoming Tiger Pop into my lap. I had just decided on a Cheers rerun to distract me when the phone rang. “Mom?”
A second of silence met my ear, followed by the sexiest voice this side of the equator. “Hey, Mira. How’re you doing?”
“Johnny!” I sat up on the couch, blood racing to my extremities, a goofy smile on my face. My worries for my mom were temporarily forgotten. “How are you? How’s Texas?”
He chuckled at my enthusiasm. “Great. Mom is having the time of her life, and I’m learning some Southern gardening tips. I miss you.”
My heart flooded with heat. “I miss you, too.”
“I got your message.”
“Excuse me?” The excitement at hearing his voice was replaced by confusion. “What message?”
He coughed discreetly. “The night before last. You called around 10:30 and left a message on my home machine.”
Hell. On. Fire. I’d forgotten about drunk dialing him! What had I said? It was fuzzy, but I recalled something about saying I wanted him and us needing to consummate our relationship. Had I even sang him a bit of “Feels Like the First Time?”
He was breathing oddly on the other end of the line. I realized I needed to say something. “Oh, that message. Um.” His breath picked up, and I thought maybe he was nervous, or angry. Then I realized he was trying to cover up deep chuckling. “You’re laughing at me, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not,” he said, laughing. “I haven’t had a booty call in years. I’m flattered.”
“I think I might have had too much to drink.”
“I figured.” His voice grew serious. “Are you staying safe? We’ve been watching the news.”
“Yeah.” I didn’t want to tell him that I knew one of the women who’d been killed. He’d just want to comfort and protect me, and he wouldn’t be able to do either from across the country. “Mrs. Berns is here, and we’re enrolled in a self-defense class. I’m taking that PI course, too, so I’m learning all sorts of information on being safe and aware. Don’t worry.”
