by Stone Kiss
“Terry, show him some ID.”
With shaking hands and downcast eyes, she pulled out her Illinois driver’s license and her Northwestern student ID card from a tattered wallet.
The faggot was instantly relieved. His concern was understandable. She looked around twelve.
He led her into the elevator to an upper-floor two-bedroom suite holding a panoramic view of the city’s skyline. The living area was furnished with several traditional-style couches, a couple of stiff chairs, some side tables, and a dining-room set—typical run-of-the-mill pieces for a hotel penthouse. But to her, the lodgings must have looked palatial—judging by the size of her eyes. He watched her walk over to a large ceramic vase filled with fresh cut flowers. Still clutching her belongings, she held out a finger and touched a lily. When he told her that it was real, she blushed at her stupidity.
After she had settled the kid into the smaller of the two bedrooms, he asked her if she was hungry, tossing her a room-service menu. Timidly, she requested a dinner salad—the cheapest thing on the list. He ordered a hamburger, and seeing her covetous eyes, gave her half. She ate so slowly as if each mouthful were her last; it was a torment to watch. When she was done—and it was clear that he was done as well—she took his leftover French fries and wrapped them up in a paper napkin, stowing the bundle along with the mini bottles of ketchup, mustard, and mayonnaise in her purse. He must have been staring because her skin went from pale white to deep crimson when they locked eyes. Instantly, he felt warmth suffuse his face, both of them embarrassed by how basic she had become.
In bed, she was all skin and bones, as shy as a virgin—as tight as one, too—and that only served to stoke his ardor. He was rough on her, all appetite and greed, but she treated him with proper respect and gratitude while still trying to retain some shreds of her massacred dignity. In the end, she couldn’t pull it off. After it was over, she broke down and wept openly, her soul broken and futureless. She had whored for half a hamburger and a night out of the cold.
He had quashed her completely, had humbled every cell in her body. It felt okay, but not as good as he had imagined.
In truth, it left him kind of hollow.
Because he still liked her. It bothered him to see her in such distress.
He tried being nice. He smiled. He made small talk. He mussed up her hair and stroked her face. He offered her more room service, but she claimed she wasn’t hungry—a bald lie. He sent out for the best champagne in the house. She dutifully sipped her one glass, but in the end, he drank the rest of the bottle by himself. Depleted, he fell asleep only to awaken at four in the morning to an empty bed. Sweat-drenched and in a panic, he bolted up and found her propped up lengthwise on the couch, a blanket over her lap and feet, her nose buried in her studies. She had drawn the window curtains open, and it was snowing briskly outside—a sea of white diamonds against a charcoal backdrop.
She greeted him with an innocent face and a radiant smile. She said she was warm for the first time in two months and that her mind was finally able to concentrate on the material. If it was okay with him, she wanted to take advantage of the situation. She was drinking clouded tap water and eating his cold leftover French fries. After much prodding, he convinced her to take a jar of mixed nuts and a bottle of orange juice from the minibar. She ate methodically, a sip and a nut every five minutes so she wouldn’t run out. He was leaden with fatigue, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her. If she was aware of his scrutiny, she was unperturbed by it, completely absorbed in her textbooks and notes. By his calculations, she hadn’t slept more than an hour or two, but she looked as fresh as if she were on vacation. Compared to what she was used to, she probably was. When dawn cracked the start of a new day, it was hard to tell who had actually gotten revenge on whom.
It had all returned to him… why he had liked her—no, why he had loved her so much. Because now, in the brutal light of morning, as he regarded her calm look and her cool demeanor, he realized that in the space of just a few hours he had lost his grip on her. He had smashed her, raped her soul if not her actual body, and she had sunk to bottom. What could he do to her now short of physical violence against her or the kid, a step he wasn’t willing to take? Right now, she had nothing left to lose.
This night wasn’t going to happen again. He had caught her off guard, had been given a small window of opportunity to act. Two months ago, she hadn’t been as bad off, only a couple of months’ arrears in her rent. Two months from now, in order to survive, she’d have to quit school and work full-time. Out in the job market, she’d find men who’d turn handsprings for her. But as of yet, she didn’t know that. Just the type of girl she was, so focused on her own end point of day-to-day living, she had never looked around.
How long would that last?
If he wanted her back in his power as well as back in his bed— and he really did want that—he was going to have to offer her something, entice her with her own dreams.
He gave her a proposition. She was in her third year of college, struggling to stay afloat. Her goal of becoming a physician was a solid one, but costly, therefore out of reach in her current financial state. Even with scholarships and loans, she wouldn’t be able to hack it. Her debts were substantial, and mounting with each passing day. If she expected to continue with her studies as well as raise the kid properly, she would require money and lots of it. So why not take it from the father of her son?
The deal was straightforward—sex for support—as banal as any American marriage out there. While it was true that she could bring a paternity suit against him—that the law was definitely on her side— it wouldn’t be to her advantage. He had the money and the lawyers to drag it through the court system for years. And he’d make demands—child-custody rights, weekend visitation, summer months, and holidays, too. There’d be lots of animosity…irreparable damage. No, it wouldn’t be good to get technical about it. It was much better to keep it friendly—more practical, too. His way meant she’d be in charge of the kid’s moral and ethical upbringing without his interference. His way meant anything she needed, no questions asked.
Think about it, he had told her. No more debts hanging over her head, no more creditors beating at her door or writing intimidating letters that threatened homelessness if she didn’t pay up.
Think about it.
An apartment with heat and air-conditioning, a real stove instead of a hot plate, a shower and a bathtub, for God’s sake. There’d be money for food, money for clothing, private schooling and music lessons for the kid, and, best of all, no more menial labor for her. Any job or work that she’d take on would be for her own personal growth, for her own personal bank account—money that would be hers and hers alone, funds not needed to fill stomachs or put a roof over heads.
Think about it.
Five and a half years from now, people would be addressing her as doctor. She’d have a time-honored degree and the respect that went along with it. Then there was the income that went with the profession, a surefire guarantee of self-reliance.
Think about it.
Holidays. He remembered what a good cook she’d been. There’d be a Thanksgiving table loaded with food—a big fat stuffed turkey, glazed yams with marshmallows on top, plates of fresh cooked vegetables, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie for dessert. How about new clothes for Easter mass? And what about a real Christmas with a big tree dripping in ornaments, dozens of presents underneath for her and the kid? Because this wasn’t only about her, right? Didn’t Gabe deserve to know his real father, not just some guy who pretended to like the kid when in reality all he wanted to do was get into her pants? He had things to offer Gabe. He knew that their son was gifted musically. From where did she think he had gotten the talent? He had attributes, things he could share with his son. But, of course, he’d never get in her way. She’d be the final decision when it came to Gabe’s upbringing.
Think about it.
For her, he was erasing the past and all the bad feelings that we
nt with it, replacing it with a secure future instead. And all he wanted from her, all he needed from her, was a few days every couple of months. Not too steep a price to pay, considering that there had been a time when she had done it for nothing. It wasn’t too much to ask, was it? Some… flexibility in her attitude toward him? Because, c’mon, be honest, there were still sparks between them. This wasn’t just about sex; this was about a relationship.
She listened intently. She listened without interruption. But she didn’t answer him. No matter. He took her silence for acquiescence.
The next day, he went to work while she was in school and the kid was in day care, making his offer a fait accompli so she couldn’t change her mind. He found a modest but clean two-bedroom furnished apartment complete with pots, pans, dishes, and utensils, and within walking distance to bus stops and the El. He went shopping for her, stocking the cupboards and refrigerator with food, filling the dresser drawers and small closets with needed clothing: winter apparel for her and for the kid—sweaters, pants, coats, boots, and scarves. He found a Gulbransen spinet piano in a thrift shop. It fit perfectly against one of the living-room walls. When he picked them up in the limo that evening and showed her what was possible, he was 99 percent sure it was over. Then when the kid went over to the piano— wondrous awe in those saucer mint-green eyes of his, tiny fingers tapping out the first couple of bars of Mozart’s Piano Concerto in C Major—man, he knew he had her. He gathered up her mail, took it back with him to New York, and began the arduous process of sorting through her numerous bills.
For five and a half years, she would be his property—his chattel and concubine. And in the process, he figured he’d eventually fuck her out of his system.
A serious miscalculation.
Because it wasn’t getting better. If anything, it was getting worse. Every time they parted, it was another knife slicing through his heart, and the knife kept getting bigger and bigger…the voices growing louder and louder. He didn’t just want her; he didn’t just crave her; he needed her. When they were together, she silenced his demons: her face, her voice, and her touch more soothing than any drug he had ever taken, more effective than any therapy he had ever gone through. She was his personally designed opiate, and he was addicted to her as surely as if she coursed through his veins.
Two and a half years left.
The thought of her being financially independent, that one day she might leave him yet again, only this time she’d take from him his own flesh and blood, seized him with heart-thumping anxiety. And now she was talking about marriage—theoretically—to someone else. His anxiety receded, evolving into uncontrollable rage.…
What the fuck was on her mind?
His breathing quickened, and he knew what was coming. Slowly, the veil of deep depression would lift, converting its energy into unbridled frenzy. Then the urge would overwhelm him. By now, he didn’t even try to stop it, knowing full well that there was only one way to quell it.
He reached under his mattress and pulled out one of his many firearms—a Walther semiautomatic. Holding the weapon ameliorated some of the feeling, but that was only temporary. Something more permanent had to be done. With sudden force, he shoved the magazine into the chamber.
Fuck the promises—tacit or otherwise.
He had a job to do.
First come, first served.
31
Despite the cold weather and the threatening clouds, there were more than a few joggers in Liberty Park, men and women in sweatpants and jackets, exhaling rapid puffs of mist like fire-breathing dragons. Beyond them lay the steel and glass structure of the Quinton Police Station, all sparkles in the dull sunlight, but as welcoming as a computer chip. Though the van’s motor had been turned off for only a minute, the interior temperature was dropping quickly. Decker wrapped his fingers around the chilled metal door handle. He paused before tugging it backward.
“So you have my cell number, and I have yours.”
“Yes.” Jonathan rubbed a stiff neck. “I don’t feel good about this.”
“Don’t do anything to your relatives that you can’t live with,” Decker told him. “I’ll understand.”
“I’m not worried about myself. I have concerns about you.”
“Me?” Decker furrowed his brow. “Why?”
“You didn’t leave the police chief under ideal circumstances.”
“I’m just going to talk to the man.”
“Akiva, if he’s crooked, he’s not nice. You’re in his territory. That puts you at risk.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you?”
Decker mentally summarized the events of the past few days. It was more than a casual question. “I’ll be careful.” Then he opened the door and was out, waving to his brother as the van pulled away. He fast-walked toward the station, hands in his pockets—he had yet to pick up his gloves from Luisa—dodging the runners and the rollerbladers, wondering if he’d ever own the capacity to kick back and let go. It wasn’t just this case—although this was personal—it was any case he was on. After turning the big five-oh, he kept waiting for the inevitable diminution of drives. Yet, as much as ever, he was still a slave to his twin obsessions, sex and work, both keeping him vital and sharp witted, but no doubt fueling his overheated engine. It was only a matter of time until he hit maximum burnout.
Precipitation had begun to moisten his nose, dotting the hard ground with distinct wet circles. He put some speed on and made it to the station house before the sky decided to open up. It wasn’t warm inside, but the temperature was livable. Better still, it was dry. He went through the usual channels to get to Merrin, but because the town was so small, the red tape didn’t take very long. To his surprise, Merrin was in. To his greater surprise, the chief agreed to see him— a promising start considering that Decker had acted like a fool the last time the two had met up.
As he waited, Decker worked on his excuses, playing with the fine points and the details of what he should say and how he should act. When the big man appeared—bulging stomach leading the way— Decker had not only perfected his defense but had also attained, in his mind, the ideal humble look. A glance at the face, then the eyes— an expression that didn’t confront, yet held some dignity. He held out his hand as a peace offering. The big man took it, pumped it, then nodded for him to follow. The chief went over to the elevator and pushed the up button. Decker remembered that the office was on the third floor.
Merrin was dressed conservatively—blue suit, white shirt, blue-and-brown-striped tie. His platinum hair was slicked back off his forehead, his ruddy face had that wet look of the recently shaved. Underneath Merrin’s belly, Decker could make out the chief’s gun harness—a waist holster.
They strolled through the hallways silently, Merrin waving to his officers and detectives as he passed them. His secretary was on the phone, but he nodded to her as he took Decker into his office, closing the door behind. Because of the expanse of picture windows, the room was chilly, actually drafty in spots. Only half of the glass panes had been double hung. But the nip in the air was offset by the perfume of brewing coffee, sending up an aromatic steam that made Decker’s mouth water. To distract himself, he looked outward, at the rain pelting the hard brown earth of the pathways, drenching the loose soil of the flower beds. The surface of the lake had become pitted silver. The corner suite afforded Merrin a good view of the park. It was not only pretty, but also allowed the chief to take in most of the area in a single glance.
“Coffee?” Merrin asked.
“If you’re taking, so will I.”
“Black, white, sugar?”
“Black.”
He pressed the intercom on his desk and requested two black coffees. A moment later, his secretary came into his office, went over to the gurgling coffeemaker, and poured two cups for the chief—one in his ceramic mug, the second in a paper cup. Why the chief couldn’t go over and pour his own coffee was left to speculation.
“Have a s
eat,” Merrin told him.
“Thank you, sir.” He waited for Merrin to sit, then followed suit. “I appreciate your seeing me.”
“My imagination, Lieutenant, or do I detect a serious change in attitude?”
“I… believe that’s an accurate assessment.”
“That’s a good start. An even better start would be an apology.”
“I was embarrassed. I was an idiot. Does that suffice as an apology?”
Merrin smiled, his watery blue eyes crinkling at the corners. His mouth held bruised banana-colored teeth. “I accept.” A sip of coffee. “Now, what do you need, Decker? You wouldn’t come here voluntarily eating shit unless you required something in the way of help.”
Decker raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah, I ain’t as dumb as I look.”
“I’m from Gainesville, Chief Merrin. You know we’re not all that different. Matter of fact, I use it all the time.”
“Use what?”
“The accent,” Decker said. “Whenever I’m with a highbrow— someone I perceive as a slicker—the drawl gets thicker and thicker. The things people try to pull once they hear that twang in your voice.”
“Then you shoulda known better. Whaddaya need?”
“A girl’s been murdered. Brutally.”
“Brutally, yes, but in New Jersey.”
“I think the reason for her death originated here.”
“Go on.”
“Her death was a side effect of her uncle’s murder. And I’m not willing to rule out the family—yet.”
“You want me to investigate the family based on… what?”
“Sir, I don’t expect you to do anything. You’ve got a town to run. I, on the other hand, have a few more empty days to play with. If possible, I’d like the names of the north side kids whom Shaynda Lieber used to hang out with. Maybe she confided in someone outside of her community.”
