by Edward Lee
Where’d guys this young get money for suits like that? These two were dressed to the max. Rich European daddy’s boys, Susan had concluded from their accents and mannerisms. By now Susan had heard every bar come-on line in the book. These guys, though, they had it down. “Miss,” the bigger one had said, “you may find this hard to believe, but I have psychic tendencies.” They stood on either side of her, smiling and beautiful in their crisp Italian suits. “Oh, yeah?” she challenged. “Tell me something about my life.” “You are a poet,” he said.
She’d been taken aback. It was true. She’d dabbled in poetry since college, had even had some published. Most of her stuff was clearly derivative of Anne Sexton (Susan preferred to think of it as emulation), descanting stanzas of free verse which depicted the finding of oneself through sexuality. Sex, she believed, was power, and her poetry detailed that power, often quite explicitly. Her favorite thus far was called “Female Utilitarian Coronation in Knowledge,” which had been published with some others in The Tait Literary Review.
“I am Fraus,” he said. “And this is my friend Philippe. He is also a poet.”
Susan found them immediately fascinating, these two beautiful suave boys. They’d talked for two hours, about theology, poetical dynamics, and the philosophy of sex. Philippe claimed to be published in Métal Urbain and Disharmonisch, renowned European art journals.
“What do you write about?” Susan had asked.
“La beauté des femmes.”
“What?”
“The beauty of women.”
Hmm, she thought. “And you? What do you do?”
“I sculpt,” Fraus said. “On the same theme.”
“Do women pose for you?”
“Not in the traditional sense. I do not sculpt by looking at a model. My models must be women I have loved. I sculpt by the memory of touch, from what my hands have touched in passion.”
Their approach refreshed her. So what if it was phony? It was different and unique. She drank Cardinals through their trialogue of creative innuendos. They drank beer called Patrizier Z.A., which was nonalcoholic. When she asked about it, Fraus replied, “Neither of us partakes in alcohol. The creative spirit is quickly corrupted through the flesh.”
“Drink is not a very edifying pursuit,” Philippe added.
“There are better things to do than drink.”
Now you’re talking, Susan thought. But this proposed a problem. Who would she go home with? Philippe or Fraus? Unless they were roommates, she couldn’t very well go home with both of them.
“Hurry up, please, it’s time,” Craig quoted T.S. Eliot to announce last call. “Or to put it more eloquently, everybody get the fuck out of the bar!”
Susan finished her Cardinal. Immediately she felt even more aroused — her panties must be soaked. Perhaps the pressure of choice spurred her libido further. They paid her tab and theirs, and looked at her, their faces forlorn, beautiful.
Which one do I want? she struggled.
Then came the simplest answer of all.
Both.
“Follow me,” she said. “The blue Miata convertible.”
She hadn’t quite made out their car. It was big and black, like a Caddy. The headlights behind her could’ve been the light of their expectations, which was fine with her. Her own expectations were beginning to drench her. She hoped she didn’t soak through her dress to the suede seat. Once on a whim she’d picked up a middie at the Rocks, whose own rocks hadn’t lasted long enough for her to get it in her mouth. Kids, she thought. They never last. The nut stain on her seat would last, though. For sure.
The complex was dark. In the elevator they’d assailed her, kissing both sides of her neck. Philippe played with her breasts while Fraus stuck his hand up her skirt. She giggled almost embarrassingly as her hands drifted to their crotches, then she giggled again. The elevator wasn’t the only thing going up.
None of them had wasted time on preliminaries. She’d never done two at once before, but as horny as she felt right now, she thought she’d do just about anything.
And that had been that.
Philippe’s pinky slipped out of her anus; she flinched. They bathed her with their tongues. Fraus went down on her like a famished animal brought to a full trough. She gasped at the abrupt avalanche of sensation. Her first orgasm went off like a bomb in her loins, and she shrieked.
“Shh,” Philippe whispered. He straddled her chest as Fraus kissed circles of afterglow around her sex.
The first one always flattened her; it made her feel run over. She lay back in descending bliss. She’d only need a little time to be ready again, and this thrilled her. Most guys would’ve been finished by now, but these two were just starting. Refraction, the sex books called it. After a first big bang she could start having multiples. And Philippe’s penis between her breasts would give her something to do in the interim.
Then, for the first time, the question occurred to her. “How did you guys know I was a poet?”
“Your aura,” Philippe said, gently pinching her nipples.
Fraus kissed the nest of trimmed black hair. “Creative people give off a light, like a halo. You have a beautiful halo.”
What lovely bullshit this was. Of course, she didn’t believe they were psychic. They’d obviously read some of her local poetry, and someone had pointed her out to them downtown somewhere.
“If you were for real,” she said to Philippe, “You’d write a poem about me.”
“I will. I’ll call it ‘Lady of the Halo.’”
“And I will do a sculpture,” Fraus added.
“Of me?”
“Of this.” His hand cupped her pubis. A finger ran gently up the groove. “I will call it ‘Adoration.’”
“And I’ll write a poem about you guys,” she said. “I’ll call it ‘Bullshit Artists with Style.’”
All three of them laughed.
Soon it would be time to play sandwich. They’ll be the bread, and I’ll be the cheese. She’d seen it in a movie once, Room for Two, not exactly an Oscar winner, but the idea had always titillated her. Many things did, in fact. She felt alight with lust; nothing occurred to her then but her desire, not condoms or morality, not danger. Just the pinpoint, knife-sharp edge of the sensations that demanded to be loosed.
She pressed her breasts together and let Philippe stroke between them. “I’m a little disappointed, though,” she joked. “I was hoping you guys really were psychic.”
“Are you ready to go on?” Philippe asked.
“We’ll be the bread,” Fraus said. “You’ll be the cheese.”
Chapter 24
Jack woke up in his clothes. Aw, Jesus, not again. He staggered to the bathroom, groaning, and threw up. Only when he staggered back did he notice Faye sitting there.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Her detached gaze was the worst response he could fathom.
“I broke my promise.”
“You sure did,” she concurred.
“Something happened. I…” Only shreds of memory flitted back. He sat down on the bed and rubbed his eyes. “Somebody told me something about someone. I guess I couldn’t handle it, and I got drunk.”
“It’s that girl, isn’t it? Veronica?”
Jack nodded.
“You were calling out her name in your sleep.”
When Jack Cordesman fucks up, he thought, there are no half measures. How could he explain this? “I’m an alcoholic, Faye. I have been for a while, I guess. When I’m faced with something I can’t deal with, I drink.”
“That’s supposed to be an excuse? How long do you think you can go on like this? This was the second night in a row you’ve had to be brought home. You’re not in control of your own life.”
“I know, I can’t help it.” He said. “I’m a drunk.”
“If that’s what you think, then that’s all you’ll ever be.” Faye got up and walked out of the bedroom.
He followed after her. “Why don’t you give me a
chance!”
She turned at the door with her briefcase. “A chance for what?”
“You know.”
“No, I don’t know. What are you saying?”
What was he saying? “I thought that when this Triangle thing is over, we might, you know—”
“Don’t even say it, Jack. Three nights ago you told me you still loved Veronica. Now you’re saying you don’t?”
Jack sat down in the middle of the stairs. “I guess I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m trying to get over it, that’s all.”
“So what am I? The consolation prize?”
“That’s not what I mean at all and you fucking know it. You ever been in love, Faye, and have it not work?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Once.”
“And all you had to do was blink and you were over it?”
“No, of course not.”
“How long did it take you?”
She looked at him. Her anger fizzed away. “A year,” she said.
“And if something happened to that person, say he disappeared, say he got in some kind of trouble, wouldn’t you still be concerned about him, even if it happened after the relationship fell apart?”
Her pause drew out. “Yeah, I’d still be concerned.”
“All right, fine. That’s what’s happening with me right now. So why don’t you cut me a little—”
Faye left and slammed the door. Outstanding, he thought, chin in his palm. He went down to the kitchen, drank some orange juice, and threw up again. Then he dialed Craig’s number, to find out what he’d forgotten about last night. Craig’s roommate answered.
“Craig there?”
“No,” she said. Jack could never remember her name; all he knew was that she rented him a room up the street. She sounded distressed. “The police took him,” she said.
“The police? What for? He get in trouble or something?”
“No, they just took him. For questioning, they said.”
“Questioning about what?”
“I don’t know!”
“Calm down, will you. I’m a cop myself. I might be able to help him out. But I need to know who took him.”
“I told you! Police!”
“What kind of police? City cops, state? County?”
“It was those county assholes.”
Jack frowned. “All right, I’ll—”
She hung up. Questioning? he wondered. But before he could make another call, the phone rang.
“Jack? Randy. We got another one.”
“Holy mother of shit,” Jack muttered. He felt faint, sick, and enraged all at once.
“And we’ve also got something else,” Randy added.
“What?”
“Two witnesses.”
* * *
“That’s it!” Jan Beck shouted nasally. “There’s too many people in here! Everybody out!” Jack and Randy stood behind three uniforms at the door. She pointed at the uniforms. “Out!” she pointed at Randy. “Out! You too, Captain. Out!”
“You heard the lady,” Jack said. “Everybody out.”
It was a cramped sixth-floor apartment, one bedroom, but nice, in a nice location. Jan Beck needed room to do her thing; Jack had only glimpsed the bedroom, but that’s all he’d needed to show him what he’d already seen twice this week. A room vibrant in red streaks, redecorated in blood, the pale victim lashed to the drenched bed. Red everywhere. Red.
Everything was the same, Randy had informed him upon arrival. No forced entry, exit off the balcony. Neighbors on either side had reported hearing a commotion at about 2:15 a.m.
“Susan Lynn,” Randy said in the living room. “Real estate broker, thirty-five. She owns the place.”
“Same kind of rep as the other two?”
“Yeah, only she got around more.” Randy flashed Jack a promo picture the brokerage had given him. Elegant face, short black hair. Big crystal-blue eyes and a pretty mouth.
“I’ve seen this girl,” Jack said.
“Everybody has. She hangs out a lot in the local bars. Every single keep we showed this to has seen her. She made the circuit. Couple places—’Dillo’s, McGuffy’s, Middleton’s — have barred her.”
“For what?”
“Slutting around. It’s bad for business. One night she got plastered at McGuffy’s and started taking off her clothes. Bunch of other places caught her blowing guys in the men’s room.”
“She comes to the Undercroft every now and then.”
“We know, and that’s where we hit pay dirt. She was in the Undercroft last night.”
Very slowly Jack said, “I was there last night too.”
“So we heard. Your pal Craig is down at the station for questioning. He says he saw her leave with two guys after last call.”
“Two guys?”
Randy nodded. “You remember seeing her, Jack?”
Did he? I don’t remember seeing anything last night. “I got fucked up. I don’t even remember what time I left.”
The look on Randy’s face told all. Drunk again, it said. “We should have a good composite in a couple hours.”
“You find out anything about her background?”
“We’re working on it. All we know right now is she’s a local.”
“Same as the other two.”
“Right. And something else — she was a poet.”
A poet? Jack thought. “We found poetry at Rebecca Black’s too.”
“Yeah, some coincidence, huh? Susan Lynn was a bit more serious, though. She’d had some published, local literary mags.”
Jack rubbed a hand over his face. He’d forgotten to shave. “Maybe a coincidence, maybe not. We’ll have to check out what schools they went to, literature courses, poetry classes. It’s all a mutual interest.”
“But Shanna Barrington didn’t write poetry.”
“No, but take a look at what she did do.”
Randy shrugged. “She worked for an advertising firm.”
“Right, and don’t you see a commonality there? Shanna Barrington was the director of the—”
“Art department,” Randy remembered. “I still don’t—”
“Karla Panzram says the killers have some very definite artistic inclinations. So far they’ve murdered three women, and all three also had definite artistic inclinations.”
“I don’t know, Jack. Sounds like you’re digging in shit to me.”
“Maybe,” Jack said. “You dig in shit long enough, though, sometimes you find gold.”
“Make way!” someone shouted. Two techs rushed out bearing a stretcher. On the stretcher lay the familiar dark green transport bag full of the remnants of one Susan Lynn. Jack watched the woman leave her home for the last time. Several more techs came out next, holding boxes of relevant evidence. Last was Jan Beck, in bright red TSD utilities, walking briskly as she snapped off rubber gloves. The gloves were dark scarlet.
“This one looks different,” she said.
“How so?”
“I’m not quite sure yet, sir. Stop by the shop later; I’ll know more then.” She brushed by the uniforms at the door and left.
“Come on,” Randy invited. “Let’s talk to our witnesses.”
But Jack stood spacily in the dark apartment, his eyes wandering. This place didn’t feel like someone’s home at all. It felt like a robbed grave.
* * *
Craig looked haggard as he sat beside the composite artist in interview room No. 1. The artist herself, a heavyset woman with a dark ponytail, looked flustered.
“How’s it coming?” Jack asked.
Craig sputtered. The artist said, “It’s not.”
“What’s the problem?”
“Can’t get anything down,” Craig said, laxing back at the table. “I saw them, but I can’t remember what I saw.”
“Come on,” Randy said. “A small bar like the ’Croft, two well-dressed white males sitting with a regular?”
“They pay cash?” Jack asked.
“Yeah. Their
tab came to about forty bucks. They paid with small stuff, left a double-saw for tip.”
“They pay hers too?”
Craig nodded.
“What did they drink?”
“The guys drank Patriziers, three apiece. Susan was drinking Cardinals, her usual. She had four of them, and a sandwich.”
“Were any of them smoking? They leave any butts?”
“None of them were smoking. In fact, they were the only group sitting up at the bar that didn’t use their ashtray.”
“How about glasses? Did the guys pour their beers or did they drink out of the bottles?”
“Bottles,” Craig said.
Randy was smirking. “For someone who doesn’t remember anything, you sure remember a lot.”
“I told you, the thing I don’t remember is what they looked like.”
“Come on, they were sitting right up front at the bar. You were serving them for two hours, looking right at them. Did you know her at all?”
“Yeah,” Craig said, tapping a Marlboro. “I knew her pretty well.”
“How well?” Randy interjected.
“Not that well. She’d come in a lot and put the make on me, you know, flirt around.”
“She’d make herself available to you, in other words.”
“Yeah, you could say that. But I never—”
“Right, you never took her up on it, huh? A good-looking woman like that? Never?”
“Never,” Craig said. “I’m just saying I knew her. People come in on a regular basis, you get to know them, you talk to them, you know?”
“Sure,” Randy said. “You talk to her last night?”
“Yeah, I said hello to her.”
“What did she say?”
“The usual shit, how ya doin’, what’s new, that sort of thing.”
“And the two guys were with her then?”
“Yeah.” Craig lit his cigarette, sighing smoke. “And you’re gonna love this. She even introduced me to them.”
Jack and Randy leaned over the table at the same time. Jack said, “You mean you met these two guys?”
“Yeah.”
“She introduce you to them by their names?”
“Yeah.”
“Craig, what were their names?”
