by Kris Ripper
When you jumped out of a plane, were you thinking about the state of having jumped out of a plane? Or were you just thinking Please don’t let me die, please don’t let me die? Did Honey beg whoever had attacked her to let her live? Had she screamed and no one heard her?
I pressed the coffee to my lips again.
My brain ran ceaseless circles. Was I losing it? If I pitched this to Potter, he’d roll his eyes and send me to a church luncheon for a feel-good story.
Damn it. I had to stop thinking. I tried to get some knitting done, but before I’d finished a row I was teary. Honey had taught me how to cast on. How to knit and purl. She’d put her hands over mine and showed me what to do.
When I first met her, before I started on T, when I was still trying to be vaguely transmasculine, she’d told me that there was no “right” way to be trans. That whatever I was, I could be that. Without worrying I wasn’t trans enough. Or that if I transitioned I wouldn’t be trans until I passed, completely, a hundred percent of the time. In a way, I guess she’d taught me how to be myself. And now she was gone.
It would have been one thing if I saw her all the time. But as it was, I still sort of expected to see her soon. My mind hadn’t fully caught up with the fact that she was dead.
I shoved my knitting back into my bag and wiped my tears away.
I finally pulled out my phone. I couldn’t focus enough to read, but I could look at things. Togg hadn’t updated the Stephanie Hawkins post, and I nobly avoided the comments.
Maybe I’d been watching too much Criminal Minds, and in the real world people attacked whoever they wanted. Maybe the beatings were unrelated. Maybe they had nothing to do with Club Fred’s.
Nothing else on Togg’s site. I tried, again, to remember the people who’d been at the waterfront after Honey’s death, attempting to cross-check them with the crowd at Club Fred’s. Now that I knew Togg had been at both places, surely I could figure out who he (or she, or they) was. Who had been there? A couple of joggers. A dog walker. Random people attracted by police cruisers and the promise of drama. Togg had blended in perfectly, in no way betraying his mysterious identity.
I opened a search tab, but had nothing to search for. Google was good, but I doubted it could answer Is there really a killer hunting queer people in La Vista, CA?
Pictures, then. I regularly went through phases of taking more pictures. The current batch was all Alisha. Alisha over dinner, Alisha lying in bed, Alisha’s braids in the sun. Alisha over drinks at Fred’s, smiling at me like I was the only person on earth. My photo stream had been somewhat desolate before Alisha. I wished I had more of Honey, but there were a few. Honey’s fingers demonstrating a stitch I hadn’t learned yet, which I’d tried to catch in a series of pictures until I’d given up and taken video instead.
The video would have her voice. I didn’t watch it. I couldn’t bear to hear her voice right now, soothing, assuring me that it wasn’t nearly as complicated as it seemed.
Random shots I’d taken for stories. A lot of pictures of the blind cat. Pictures I’d tried to be artistic with to send to Star for the social media sites: signs around La Vista, a panoramic of the Rhein, capturing the entire marquee.
A series from Come As You Are at Fred’s, right after I’d gotten this phone. I’d taken slow motion videos and panoramas of the bar, used every filter Instagram had on offer (just to see if it looked different on this phone than it had on my last). I’d gone by myself and ended up talking to Cameron for most of the night. I had pictures of his nails, which he’d painted an uncharacteristically gaudy rainbow of colors for Pride. Then I’d taken pictures of him looking at me disapprovingly for taking pictures of his nails.
There were only a few more, mostly because Cam didn’t like being caught on film. Funny thing for a guy who runs a movie theater.
I skipped back a few photos before my brain told me to return to the ones of Cameron. At first I didn’t realize why, since I’d seen them a minute ago. But something needled me and I looked again, a little more carefully, trying to figure out what.
Cam’s nails, meticulously painted. The bar counter. Used coasters. A glimpse behind the counter at glasses drying, lemons in a little bin. Close-ups on different bottles, which I’d then cropped, telling myself I had interesting angles. Another few of Cameron—eyebrows raised above the wire frame of his glasses as he tried to give me the kind of look that would make me put my phone away. A blur of people behind him. A bright light causing a flare in the upper left corner.
The next picture was virtually the same shot, but slightly shifted to avoid the flare. Now I could see Tom in the background at the other end of the bar, pouring drinks for someone with purple hair who was probably Zane.
I skipped one more and froze.
The camera had gone out of focus, turning Cameron’s crisp lines into a slight smear. Instead it had focused on a beer tap right where the counter curved around. Beside the tap a boy sat talking to Zane’s group, grinning, caught in profile, face tilted just enough toward the camera so I could see his features.
Steven Costello. I’d swear it on my mother’s life.
I zoomed in, then exported the picture to an app so I could make it lighter and save different versions. If the focus hadn’t shifted, I’d never have been able to tell I was looking at the same kid. But I’d stared at his photo in the newspaper article long enough to know it by heart. He had a cowlick in the front of his hair, which made it flop on the side facing the camera. I’d noticed it in the straight-ahead ID card shot, but it was even more obvious when I zoomed in.
Could that be a different kid, a different white boy with floppy hair? Was I making this up? Togg was getting to me. Clearly. I was just inventing this, right?
But no. I was almost certain it was him.
The Times-Record website was no help; it had the article, but no photograph. I hit Google again, but Costello’s bizarre lack of social media pages meant I didn’t have any better luck there.
I wasn’t about to go in to work on a Saturday, but there was one other chance. I picked up my coffee and headed home.
The house paid for a subscription to the paper, but I didn’t think anyone read it. The subscription predated everyone currently living there, but it was rolled into the rent, so no one seemed to mind. What was a few more bucks a month? I’d seen the paper used for gift wrapping (because nothing says “great boyfriend” like “wraps with newsprint”), and to Windex the windows. The porch roof leaked in April and a bunch of the newspapers sopped up the water.
Hopefully, the one with the Costello story hadn’t ended up being domestically recycled yet.
I pulled all the June editions and spread them out on my floor. It only took a few minutes to find the right one.
They’d found his body on a Monday. Monday, June 20. Three days after the picture I’d taken at Club Fred’s. Three days after Come As You Are. If I slotted Steven Costello into my list, he’d fit perfectly.
It was him. I folded over the paper until the Costello article was front and center, then put it beside my phone for a comparison. Despite the grayscale and the lack of resolution in the blown-up photo, it was clearly the same kid.
Someone barreled down the stairs and slammed into the kitchen. Not David or José, which left Troy or JP. I tugged the page with the picture out of the rest of the paper and brought it into the kitchen.
JP looked up. “Whoa. Totally didn’t know you were up.”
“Sorry. Can you help me with something?”
He shrugged. “Sure, man. What’s going down?”
Was “What’s going down?” some kind of new slang I was too old to understand? I spread out the paper and put my phone next to Costello’s ID photo.
“Is this the same guy? I’ve been staring at them, but I can’t tell.”
JP leaned all the way down, squinting, bringing his face right up against the table. “Same dude. Right? I mean, there’s his hair, and look, he’s smiling more in the one on your phone, but
it’s kind of the same smile, isn’t it? Like, it’s the natural progression of the smile in the other picture.”
I exhaled. “Okay. Thanks.”
“Sure. What’s this about?” He nudged my phone out of the way and whistled as he scanned the article. “Shit. You have a dead guy’s picture on your phone, Ed? Fucked up.”
“I don’t remember ever meeting him, but I’m pretty sure that’s him.”
“Who’s the blurry dude?”
“Oh.” I took back my phone. “That’s Cameron. He owns the Rhein downtown? He’s a friend of mine.”
“Uh-huh.”
Cue awkward pause. I refolded the paper carefully.
He shifted on his feet. “Listen, uh, I wanted to apologize. For David last night. Or all of us. We totally meant no disrespect to your lady, you know?”
“She took care of David,” I said. “It’s no problem.”
“Okay. Just wanted to make sure she, like, feels comfortable here.”
I had to take back the shitty things I’d assumed about them. Maybe they were, mostly, entitled white boys, but they were trying.
“Really, JP, it’s cool. We normally go to her place because she’s got a studio, but she feels comfortable pretty much everywhere.”
He exhaled. “Oh. Good. Uh, sorry about that dead guy.”
“Me too.”
Three and a half hours before I could pick Alisha up at work. How early did Club Fred’s open on a Saturday? Did they have a lunch menu?
Fred’s didn’t have a lunch menu, but they did open at two. I slipped inside, not used to the shocking darkness because usually it was matched by the darkness outside. Somehow, during the day, the place looked a little more grim than usual, the silly fake “Club Med” decor not only dated, but shabby. The thick rope twisted around the walls at chair rail height was more frayed and dusty than I’d noticed before, and the fishing nets over the dance floor, which served mostly to cast cool shadows when Fred’s was hopping, just looked like someone had failed to clean up after some maintenance job that required netting.
Two cops passed me on their way out the door, and my stomach dropped. Should I call out to them? Should I show them the picture on my phone? But no. It still felt too much like a conspiracy theory.
I made my way to Fredi, who looked pale and angry.
“Have you heard this happy bullshit? Don’t tell me you’re here for the fuckin’ paper, Ed Masiello.”
“I’m not. At all.” I pulled out the paper and my phone again, setting them up on the bar. “Fredi, do you recognize this kid?”
She looked between them, squinted, then reached for a pair of glasses. “Huh. I don’t know. That the same kid?”
“I think so. But I don’t remember ever meeting him.”
“Hell, it could be any kid. The kids all look the same.” She pushed them back toward me. “Don’t tell me you’re buying into this crap. You know the cops think I have something to do with these deaths.”
“I don’t think you have anything to do with anything.” And probably neither did the cops. “But Fredi, four people have died after being here.”
Her eyes narrowed and she thumped her knuckles down on the grainy photo of Steven Costello. “This the fourth? The cops only said three.”
“Three for sure. But I took those pictures at Come As You Are. His body was found the following Monday, and he’d been dead a few days. If that’s him, then it’s four.”
She stepped back, lips pressed tightly together, leaning against the back counter. “I can’t believe it. I don’t want to fucking believe this. Someone’s using my bar to kill people?”
“It seems like they’re finding victims here and luring them away.”
“Jesus.” Fredi crossed thick arms over her chest. “That’s sick.”
“Are you sure you don’t recognize him? He was clearly at the bar.”
“I told you, all the kids look the same.”
“It was his birthday,” I added, hoping it would jog her memory. “He turned twenty-one that night, and came here to celebrate all by himself as far as anyone can tell. Even his parents didn’t know he was here.”
“Fuck. I remember him. Damn it. Looking like he was scared out of his mind to be here in the first place, and I remember thinking it was ironic that this frightened child turned twenty-one on Come As You Are night.” She took a slow breath and let it out. “Goddamn it. Talk to Cameron Rheingold. And Zane Jaffe. She’s the one who ordered his birthday beer, but Cameron bought him one after that. I don’t know if they actually talked—you know Cameron—but they definitely sat here for a while.”
“I’ll talk to him.” I was losing her. Fredi’s eyes were fading as she stood there, master of her domain, as if she were watching their ghosts walk past. “I’m really sorry, Fredi.”
“I can’t believe this shit.”
“Yeah.”
I got out of there.
Detective Green. I’d written his name down back when I asked Rodriguez about Steven Costello. I almost picked up the phone to call, but waited. I’d start with Zane and Cam.
Zane didn’t remember Costello. “I definitely remember we had a new recruit that night, but I didn’t talk to him, Ed. Sorry.”
“If you remember anything about it— I mean—”
“I know. I’ll call if I remember anything.”
Cameron’s phone went straight to voice mail, which meant he was in a movie, but I asked him to call me back later. If Cam remembered the kid, I’d call Green. Between him and Fredi, and the picture on my phone, this was beginning to feel less like a conspiracy I was inventing, and more like a real thing.
I gave up on distractions and played Minecraft until it was time to get Alisha.
She looked more exhausted than usual and sank into the passenger seat of my car with a sigh. “Babe. I had a day.”
“Me too. You tell me yours first.”
“I’m so glad to see you.” We kissed. “Same old stuff. I just— I have to quit. I can’t deal with Wing Tips and his bullshit.”
Wing Tips was the code name she used for her boss so she could talk shit about him in public without worrying it would get back to him.
“What did he do now?”
“Nothing! He did nothing. He sat on his ass all day and sniped at me, and when I ignored him he pulled on my hair, like a dick.”
I grimaced. “What the hell?”
“Yeah, it’s his way of getting my attention, since he’s basically twelve years old.”
It sounded a little more like sexual harassment to me, but I doubted Alisha needed me to point that out. “That’s pretty obnoxious.”
“It really was. And I had a client call and yell at me for seven straight minutes because the hotel I’d made reservations at for him and his wife didn’t allow them to have their dog in the room.”
“Um. Is that the kind of thing you check beforehand?”
“I would have, if they told me they were bringing their dog. Seriously, what am I, a mind reader? How would I know that? One time—one!—did someone ask me if their dog could come on their adventure with them. I made appropriate arrangements, you know? I even paid to have the hotel leave a doggie goodie bag for the damn thing!”
Which was so totally her that I kissed her hand as I drove, and held it in my lap after. “I’m sorry you had a crummy day. And that people are so unrealistic, what with their expectations of your psychic powers.”
“Right? It’s ridic. What’s up with your day?”
I shook my head. “I think I’m coming around to the conclusion that we have a serial killer targeting people who go to Club Fred’s on theme nights.”
“Wait. What?”
“I know it sounds crazy, but if you look at a calendar, it actually makes an alarming amount of sense, based on the dates and the fact that all four of the victims were at Fred’s right before they were killed.”
“Ed, oh my god, what?” She took back her hand.
“Sorry. Just, I’ve been tryi
ng to figure out where I knew this guy from—the one who died in June—and today I figured it out.”
“You knew a guy who died? Ed, you gotta start from the beginning, but not until I eat something. Nothing you’re saying right now makes any sense.”
“It might not if I start at the beginning, either.” I’d planned to stop by the Rhein to see if Cameron was in the booth, but maybe that wasn’t the best idea. “So, grocery store?”
“Yes! Please, yes. Do you know what we’re making?”
“I looked up like a dozen recipes and gave up. How does tacos sound?”
“Vegan tacos? I can’t wait. I didn’t know you could make tacos without cheese.”
“If I have good avocados, I don’t miss the cheese. Much.”
“Sounds perfect. And I gotta plan a trip tonight. Even if it’s just up the coast or something. I need to get the hell out of La Vista for a few days. Especially if there’s a serial killer.”
I shivered. I hadn’t thought about it quite like that. In my brain La Vista had splintered into two planes: the one where I kissed Alisha, and the one where people died. From my plane I could research and obsess, but I wasn’t afraid of anything. I’d been quick to buy Togg’s theory, but slow to apply it to my own reality.
The grocery store was comfortingly mundane, belying any notion of danger outside its brightly lit aisles.
Tacos were a hit. When we were done with dinner, I cleared everything away and Alisha got out her books and computer. I’d never seen her go full-on adventure planning, but something about it kind of inspired me. And washing dishes while she mumbled to herself about distances and reservations and weather felt charmingly domestic.
I finished up and sat down next to her. “So.”
“So basically I need to quit my job and travel full-time forever.”
I kissed her. “Sounds good.”
“It really does. Back here in the real world, I can maybe do a weekend up the coast. Point Reyes has a hike-in campground I haven’t been to yet. And if I want to drive farther north, there are a few good spots.” She sat back. “I wish we had the same days off, you know? I don’t mind going alone, but it’d be fun to take you along. You know. Bust your cherry, so to speak.”
