by Gary Starta
“Uh, Deborah, are you still there? Hello…”
Deborah cleared her throat. “I was just thinking about what kind of mischief we might get into.”
“I can’t wait to see you. Would you like to come over for a quiet dinner at my place tomorrow night? I’m quite a gourmet.”
“You’re a fast worker, too, aren’t you? I just hope you don’t do everything as fast…” Deborah was delighted with her own power.
Alison heard Deborah’s breathy voice fondling David over the phone. She could taste Deborah’s peppermint-flavored lipstick and smell her trashy perfume.
I don’t want to do this. He never hurt me; why should I hurt him?
The voices sang to her, rising up inside her and filling her up until she heard nothing but their song.
I have no heart and no conscience. I am revenge. This man wants to hurt me; I have no choice. I will finish what they have told me to do.
“Email me your address and time you want me – for dinner that is. Or shall we say, dessert?” She let him hear a throaty growl. Then she hung up, leaving him panting on the other end of the line.
Alison didn’t have a car, but hey, it was a dream. She’d make Jeannie drive her there.
***
Twenty-Four Hours Later
Alison fast-forwarded to the next night. While dressing, the voices commanded Alison to remember the way her father hurt her mother just because he could. Alison could see her now, curled up in a protective ball, afraid for her life, and begging him to stop. She could hear him shout, “You’re only good for one thing and even that’s no damn good!”
It was then that Alison admitted to herself she hated men and that they frightened her. When she dreamed she was Deborah, though, she felt sure of herself and as strong as any of them. Deborah loved the thrill of the hunt, but enjoyed the conquest much, much more. She would snare him, but Alison would be the one to step in and finish him off.
***
It sputtered and stalled, but Jeannie’s car had done that a million times before. Alison muttered unintelligibly to herself. Jeannie stopped turning the key, and glared at her. “O.K., so my car’s not new and doesn’t have a fancy, push-button ignition.”
“It sounds like it doesn’t have an engine. How can you ride around in this death trap?”
“I have a better question. How can you? Why don’t you cough up the money to have it fixed, your highness?”
“Sorry, Jeannie. I’m nervous, I guess.”
Jeannie shook her head, and her face softened. “I’m sorry too. I’m nervous for you. I feel like I’m going on the date, too.”
Jeannie tried the ignition again. Nothing…
“Just in case things don’t go so well, I’m counting on you to get me out of there. Look, your car won’t make it home and back again to pick me up. If I buy you some take-out and a bottle of wine on the way, would you be willing to park the car in his neighborhood and wait for me until it’s time to leave? For me? For love and adventure?”
“Oh, brother! Well…what will be our signal be if you need to make a hasty retreat?”
“How about a text?”
Jeannie’s eyes widened at the thought of adventure until she remembered it would only be if things went wrong. “O.K., text me the letter ‘E’ if you need to escape.”
Alison gave her a final instruction. “Then park a house or two up the street, and I’ll meet you there.”
Jeannie sighed and turned the ignition. This time the engine turned over. She hoped the heap of crap would make it there and back.
***
Ringing a doorbell had never been so exciting. Not even on Halloween.
“Hi, I’m glad you got here O.K.” David flashed her a winning, whiter-than-white smile.
Deborah extended her hand. David grabbed it and pulled her into an embrace. This wasn’t going to be as easy as Alison had hoped.
“I got here just fine.” Deborah’s eyes roamed the apartment. It was as roomy!
He’s either very successful or a thief.
David was off to the kitchen. “I have to check on dinner! Have a seat in the living room.”
He pivoted and whisked a bottle of red wine off the half-counter that served as a barrier between the kitchen and the dining room table. This was where she thought she might do it- right on top of that counter, with all its little bottles and containers swept to the floor.
“What do you do, Dave?” Deborah was in charge again. She wandered around the living room lightly fingering the brick-a-brack.
“A little of this and a little of that. I.T. stuff, mostly.” He tried his best to look self-deprecating.
Deborah loved it. She leaned into his ear and tickled it with her breath. His erection was instant. “I bet you’re a wiz, David. I just love successful men. They make me go all loosey-goosey. Would you mind pointing me in the direction of the bathroom, honey bunny? I just need a moment to freshen up.”
David was on full alert. It looked like he was going to have dessert first. “It’s the second door on the left.”
The handbag she carried was stuffed, but she wasn’t worried about that looking suspicious. All men knew that women carried everything from first aid to camping tents in their handbags. Deborah allowed Alison to inventory her handbag.
Smokes. Check.
Lighter fluid. Check.
Candle. Check.
Knock out drops…check. David must eat and drink very soon.
“I’m back.” Deborah stood behind David, watching him cook. The spatula flew across the room.
I am sooo liking this power trip! I should let Deborah out more often.
“Care for a smoke? I have some righteous weed with me.”
“Great!”
David reached for the joint. He was putty in her hands. He knew it, and she knew it, too.
“So, tell me, Davie, why on earth are you available?”
“She…she got sick. It was fast.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Deborah took a hit, but Alison decided David must have abandoned his sick girlfriend. This had to be his crime.
“I could ask the same thing. I bet you get all kinds of invitations.” David opened the oven door.
“So many invitations, so little time…” Deborah threw her head back and giggled. Alison, buried deep inside of her, was full of envy.
“Well, for better or worse, the first course is ready.” David grabbed a towel to lay over his right forearm. Then he bowed. “Right this way, madam.”
Alison was depressingly unimpressed.
Oysters! Could he have been any more predictable?
Deborah raised her wine glass and sipped. “Oooh. It’s wonderful!” She licked her bottom lip delicately.
David served her the best looking piece of chicken on the platter. He spooned vegetables with sauce onto her dish. “Don’t be polite. Eat like you mean it.” He stabbed a leg as if it might jump off his plate. “This is the best part of cooking.”
Deborah’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, you’re not done cooking, yet, David. I’m going to light your fire. How about I pour us another glass of wine?” She picked up the two glasses and went into the kitchen. With her back to him, she emptied the contents of a vial of liquid into his glass and returned to the table with it. They talked and laughed and sipped.
David emptied his glass, and asked for another refill. They got up from the table and moved into the living room to relax. Within a few moments David’s speech became noticeably slurred. He slumped forward on his chair. Alison slid the joint into his mouth. His eyes were as glazed as the chicken had been.
David coughed after the first drag and spit out the joint. “God…my lungs feel like glue.”
“Oh, honey, are you all right?”
He shook his head from side to side.
I’ll take that as a ‘no’.
She placed her handbag on the table, unzipped it and removed her candle.
David seemed mildly curious.
“The neurotransmitters gamma
- aminobutyric acid and glycine are starting to kick in, David, that’s all. There’s nothing to worry about.”
Imitating Deborah’s light teasing banter, she lowered the boom. “You wanted to go all the way tonight, didn’t you, baby? Your wish is my command. I think someone needs a…” She paused for emphasis, raising a lighter from her bag. “light.” David’s eyes widened but that was all.
The candle was hard to stuff down David’s throat. His paralysis made it damn near impossible, but she managed it. Pieces of food and liquid gushed up as she pushed it further down. David’s eyes had rolled to the back of their sockets and his lids fluttered furiously as if they could carry him away on the wind.
“And now for the big finish…” Alison poured lighter fluid and the rest of his red wine down the front of his body, making his white shirt look like a candy cane. She blew David a kiss and torched him.
Trapped inside the roaring flames, David appeared translucent. The fire consumed him quickly, but it must have been a long, agonizing death. Alison, rooted to the spot, looked on in morbid fascination.
I wonder if it’s morning yet…
She stacked the plates and glasses into the dishwasher, just in case the fire didn’t burn every trace of her D.N.A., made a quick inspection of the apartment for any other evidence she may have left behind, and slinked out the back door before the blaze set off a fire alarm. Dressed in black, with black stockings, black shoes, and a black coat, she walked around the block in the silence of night.
In fifteen minutes, Jeannie picked her up. “Come on, spill.”
Alison laughed. “It was one hot night.”
The car chugged along Ashbury Lane in the first chill night of autumn, its taillights bright and merry. A tall, young man with dark hair read the license plate before it was swallowed up and gone.
Chapter Six
Today Carter was busy unpacking boxes in their small, exorbitantly expensive apartment. Stumbling over a particularly heavy one, he decided to sit down, unpack, and organize as many as he could while Jill was out at the lab.
Jeez! There must be fifty boxes of junk to go through, and everything’s thrown in together. How’d we ever collect all this junk? Look at this - my blender and her books. All ten boxes of them.
Our life is kind of like that now; everything’s happening to us both at the same time. Yeah, but this is the bigtime, Carter, and all you have to do is close the case by Christmas. Piece of cake.
Carter filed it under “change and pressure” and closed the lid firmly on that line of thought. He often confused denial with peace of mind and then wondered why he had no peace of mind. Carter believed that the basic tenant of a serene existence was to accept that what he did not understand now would be revealed to him when the time was right. Until that time came, Carter gladly ignored issues that would better have been better off examined and addressed.
He bent down to open another box of books and lifted one out to look at.
I remember this. Jill gave it to me when we first met. We even had lines from it quoted at our wedding…
It was a beautiful hardbound copy The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, its thousand-year old quatrains a death sentence in the place and time they were written. Carter felt drawn to the poetry because it was a not-so-subtle reminder to live in the moment and to accept the joy of earthly pleasures as much as he embraced spiritual ones. Carter re-read the lines he remembered so well:
“A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread – and Thou…”
It all boiled down to that one idea, didn’t it? Our everyday hustle and bustle and all our burning desires and ambitions were meaningless without knowing the comfort and contentment of simple, quiet moments of peace and companionship and bread and wine.
I want more of those moments with her. But that’s not the reason she wanted me to read it. The lines also meant that I should always try to recognize and celebrate those moments whenever they presented themselves and that if they didn’t, it was because I wasn’t looking hard enough. She’s all the shade and bread and wine I need.
The ring of his cell phone brought Carter back to the present.
***
Seacrest had some news on the museum murders, but she couldn’t send it to him by text message or email. She wanted Carter to come to the lab. He knew how much Seacrest enjoyed his look of perplexity as she presented her lab findings and how impatiently he waited for the bottom line. He loved that about her and wouldn’t rob her of one moment of her big reveal. He grabbed his coat and raced over to the lab.
***
Jill held up a grey sneaker with streaks of white and maroon on the sides. “For those of us not so athletically inclined, this is a Stridewell.”
“The killer wore sneakers inside the armor? Stridewells? Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. The pattern of the bloody shoeprint on the floor matches this exact make and model. We lucked out, Carter. There’s not much call for these shoes anymore. If you can put some men on it, we need a list of all the places in the tristate area that sell these Stridewells in a men’s size 11, and if they have it, a list of people who paid with a card. The register tape will tell us what time each purchase was made and at what register, so we can use in-store videos to spot any purchases made with cash.
“Since we know our man likes the Upper West Side, I think we should start with the stores there, don’t you think?”
“Yup. He definitely wore the sneakers after he took off the armor but before he walked out the door.”
“He’s an amateur, then.”
“You think this was his first kill?” Jill placed the shoe carefully back in its evidence bag. It was being shipped to Washington for a more complete forensic analysis. Seacrest wanted to get some blood samples for D.N.A. testing before she sent it off.
Carter focused on the shoes. “I do. These babies look expensive, Jill. He likes to live well or he saved a long time for them. I’ll bet he still has them.”
“These sneakers, which we have to prove he purchased or has in his possession, along with a positive D.N.A. identification for victim and killer, ties this man to the scene. Definitely. We just have to find the man.”
“We’re off to the races, Jill. We’ll find him. Nice job.”
“Maybe you should tell my supervisor that. I’m already off on the wrong foot with him. I didn’t know I was supposed to get his signed permission to use tread-tracking equipment. Well, what’s the big deal? I have to do my job, don’t I? Honestly, what a baby!”
“Blame the shortcuts on me.”
“I already did.” Jill fought to keep a straight face.
Carter’s phone rang. He put his hand over the receiver and whispered to her, “It’s the deputy director. Another murder – this time in New Jersey. He wants me in his office in five minutes.”
Carter pecked her on the cheek. “Gotta go.”
Curious as hell, Seacrest watched him walk away.
***
Fischetti stood behind his desk, hands on his hips and a sour expression on his face. “What do you make of this, Agent Carter?” Fischetti flipped the photo around for Carter to see.
Carter leaned in from the opposite side of the desk to take a look. The victim was nearly eviscerated from the top, down. A headless corpse was seated on a chair. Its legs were in what looked like pieces of a pair of men’s slacks. The remains of its feet were disconnected from the body but under the legs where feet should have been. In the far right of the photo a skull rested on the stump of a coffee table, staring at what had become of its body.
Carter stated the obvious. “You think it’s a murder.”
“It’s not spontaneous combustion, Agent Carter.”
“It could be anything at this point, sir, unless you have some facts you haven’t shared yet. Have you ruled out accident? Suicide? And spontaneous combustion?”
Fischetti guffawed. “I appreciate your open mind, Carter, but the Department of Justice th
inks this is another thrill kill or a copycat, but they’re not ruling out the possibility of a serial murderer or a spree. Are you familiar with the difference, Carter?”
“Yes, sir. A spree killer differs from a serial killer in that he or she allows no cooling off period between murders.”
“We need hard evidence that shows a pattern of thrill kills and copycats, serial, or spree murders. The local P.D. wouldn’t know a murder if they saw one. The scene is compromised, and we’ve been asked to step in and clean up the mess. I need your team out there. Now.”
Carter turned to leave the office.
“Carter, do not, under any circumstances, share our theories with Agent Deeprose, at least, not yet. I don’t want her assuming anything because the D.O.J. is. She’s going to be trained by the book, but keep her reigned in. That’s all.”
Carter nodded, realizing that keeping this kind of secret from Deeprose wouldn’t exactly ignite a trusting relationship.
***
Carter felt Deeprose staring at him from the passenger seat as he drove. It was like being scanned by a laser. He cleared his throat. “You’ll meet Special Agent Seacrest today. She’ll be there to go over the scene for forensic evidence and gather lab samples.”
Deeprose eyed the photo of the charred victim. “Sounds like she was in on the briefin’ or had one of her own. Ah’m glad it’s all under control, sir.”
Ouch.
Carter peered into the rearview mirror to monitor his expression. He knew this was coming and better it was done sooner than later. “The scene is under the jurisdiction of the New Brunswick P.D., and the media is already all over the neighborhood. It’s going to be a long day, and we won’t have a chance to talk in private once we get there. You want to talk about it?”
“Yes, sir, Ah do. Why wasn’t Ah part of the briefin’?”
“There wasn’t much to the briefing, other than the photo you’re holding.”
“Ah’m not telepathic, sir, and Ah should have been with y’all at the briefin’.”
Fischetti wants this to be a training exercise for you. He figures the less you know beforehand, the less likely you are to have preconceived notions or biases. It also gives us a measure of control on the team – you’ll have a more objective viewpoint than the rest of us who’ve been doing this for years. I don’t think he meant it as a slight or a lack of faith in you. In fact, he asked me not to mention it to you, but there you go, the cat’s out of the bag. Anyway, I’m going to act be much more of a mentor than a partner on your first several cases. You’ll start out the right way using the right tools and methods before we analyze the evidence, develop hypotheses, and draw our conclusions. O.K.?”
