On The Edge

by Daniel Cleaver

  After she stopped chuckling Mia said, “As you said there’s been no physical evidence of a sexual nature.”

  “But you think he’s driven by sexual desire?” I asked her.

  “This is what I studied at university: it’s pretty textbook stuff, the need to dominate, stage the scene and the attention to detail. Even the selection of the victims would be a long-drawn-out process. He studies them, watches their movements, he knows their routine better than they do. He knows the positions of CCTV cameras and he knows just when to pounce. He’s meticulous and patient.”

  Mia was about to speak when the waitress brought over our main dishes along with various side dishes of onion bhajis and samosas: the smell of the strong spices made not only my mouth water but also my eyes. It was an exotic mix of smells and in the company of a beautiful woman. The waitress put her hands together as if in prayer, bowed slightly, said, “Enjoy,” and withdrew.

  “At last, I didn’t say anything offensive in front of her. It’s funny because I was just about to ask you about the vaginal piercings –” I stopped dead. I knew, I just knew, that the young waitress was behind me.

  Mia nearly broke a rib trying not to laugh as the waitress inquired if we needed anything more to drink. I held up two fingers unable to form words and she left. We tucked into the feast in front of us and Mia said, “I still think we should shake down Bruce Matherson.”

  “He’d fall under Vice, not Robbery-Homicide.”

  “But we think they’re murdering the runaways after they’ve had their fill,” she sighed and asked, “Weren’t you in Vice?”

  “Sure, but I’ve gotta feeling that I wasn’t so good. I didn’t have a clue about him or the size of his network, or the enormity of the child porn industry.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “Nibbling around the edges.”

  “Like what?”

  “Arresting hookers mainly.”

  “What’s the point?”

  “Yah, well, it was like a factory assembly line: we’d catch ’em, book ’em, turn ’em back on the streets and they’d be doing tricks again within the hour.”

  “Why bother?”

  “Orders,” I said flatly.

  She snorted her derision.

  “It came from the Mayor’s office; thought it was bad for business, hookers hanging around the bright lights of the tourist attractions, so we’d harass ’em until they moved further down the Strip.”

  “Just the tip of the iceberg,” she said with a sigh.

  “Don’t I know it and the drugs trade is even worse. We’d nab the pushers while all the big money at the top got away scot-free.”

  “What’s the answer, will it ever stop?”

  “How can it? Sex and drugs are what people want and they’ll get it one way or another. I mean, we’re badly underfunded, but even with more resources, we’d still be fighting a losing battle.”

  “So what do you do?” she asked.

  “That’s why I transferred out. It was futile. It was like during Prohibition – ban something and the folk’ll wanna do it even more.”

  “Homicide is different,” Mia agreed. “There’s a beginning and an end. It’s a one-off crime. The perpetrator is normally someone known to the victim and quite often gives himself up.”

  “True, but that’s why I concentrate on the serial killers,” I said.

  She nodded and took a mouthful of vindaloo and then choked. It was my turn to laugh at her expense. She took several glugs of the beer, which seemed to make matters worse. The ever-present waitress spotted her distress and came over with a glass of milk to dampen down the effect. I noticed some of the Asian servers suppressing grins and I tried to do the same.

  “Therefore,” I continued, “I track down the worst of the worst, the truly evil that can do such damage to a fellow human.” I tentatively took a mouthful of the curry. “By the way, I’ve been thinking about the time delay, do you think it could be two people?”

  She wiped a tear from her eyes with a napkin, then bravely continued with her vindaloo. “You’re saying that maybe he died and someone else has taken over: the killings are escalating, these latest slayings make the first wave seem tame.”

  I pondered this and it had merit.

  She said, “He’s a sexual predator. From his commentary we know he has a hatred of women, on those he considers the very worst, those spreading filth and disease.”

  “And he chooses them how?” I asked.

  “The piercings,” she said as if it were obvious.

  “Ah, now there’s something we ain’t followed up, who would know about a woman’s body modification, her doctor, a nurse, a clinician?”

  “Anyone who’d been strip-searched, the cops would know.”

  I cringed inwardly: back to the cops again.

  “The piercings in his mind signify the lowest of the low,” she said. “Anyone prepared to mutilate themselves like that is unworthy.”

  “I thought you dabbled in the wild side of life.”

  “I am a sexual person, but it can only be with someone I trust.”

  I felt a thrill run through me, thinking that this beautiful woman felt comfortable with me, and I was glad she wanted to experiment sexually with me and introduces me to new ideas.

  “You were never tempted before?”

  “In fantasy maybe,” I admitted.

  “Never in real life?” she asked, surprised.

  “I wouldn’t have dared ask anyone.”

  “Yet I could see it in your eyes, I knew you were capable.”

  “Yah, well, I guess, I was jaded by it all when I worked in Vice.”

  “Jaded how?” she asked me.

  “Day in – day out, arresting twisted deviants.”

  “What had they been doing?” she tried to ask innocently but I could detect she was more interested than she let on.

  “At the lower end of the scale would be orgies and group sex.”

  “That’s illegal?” she asked, surprised, as if I had suggested a dinner party.

  “Depended on where and when.”

  “What else?”

  “Simulated rape and snuff movies.”

  “Never real?”

  “We heard rumors. Some of it was very realistic.”

  “What would be the worst?” she asked with a smile on her face.

  “An eighty-year-old hooker.”

  “Oh my God!” she said too loudly. The couple at the table next to us stopped eating to look. “Was there much call for it?”

  “I shudder to think.” We came to the same conclusion at the same time and grimaced. The head waiter looked alarmed as if there was something wrong with the food and came over and I waved him away.

  “What would be the absolute worst?” she asked.

  “Too many that want the hookers to call them Daddy, some going to the trouble of bring their daughter’s clothes along for them to wear and then would record themselves having simulated intercourse with their own daughters.”

  She shook her head sadly.

  “You did ask,” I reminded her and smiled.

  “I see what you mean. I’m a modern woman with normal appetites, but I can see how it’d seep into your home life, spoiling things.”

  I finished my beer and Mia went on to wine.

  “Shall I continue?” I asked.

  She nodded as if this was nothing.

  “The hardcore S and M crowd.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “Sadism and masochism,” I explained.

  She nodded her understanding, “I saw that at a Bruce Matherson party. Bondage and spanking.”

  I wondered for a moment in a fit of what could only be described as jealousy if she’d ever been spanked at one of his parties: it made me want to track down whoever it was and give them a spanking of a different kind, one that they wouldn’t forget in a hurry. However, I had to accept that she was probably, absolutely, a consenting adult and had a past, a raunchy past before me, as in
deed I had before her, but mine was looking pretty pitiful in comparison. I’d always thought I was experimental, but I was looking more like a choirboy in comparison. I was going to have to start making up daring stuff soon or I was going to look like a right wuss, but I couldn’t help thinking however outrageous I made a claim that she would be able to trump me.

  “The purists go in for caning, birching, whipping. Mild S and M might leave bruises, but these guys need to draw blood and that’s where the Law comes in.”

  “But if they are consenting adults?” she said.

  “Not always, our past draconian laws mean what was considered indecent a hundred years ago is still against the law.”

  “They actually draw blood?” she asked and I was sure her voice was getting huskier, or was I imagining it?

  “Topping the list of public distaste were the ones turned on by bodily functions,” I said. She put down her fork and I thought I’d gone too far. “It’s more common than ya think and ya don’t wanna know what a rainbow kiss is.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Then you’ll have to Google it,” I said firmly. Enough was enough. “Imagine going on a date after that.”

  “That would dampen one’s ardor,” she smiled. “But you’ve never fancied a walk on the wild side?” she asked and her lips curled up.

  “Nope.”

  “Not even in your wildest fantasies?”

  “Nope.”

  “God, you are so vanilla.” She laughed gently.

  I assumed ‘vanilla’ was not good. “I’ve had my moments,” I protested, but couldn’t really back it up if she called me out.

  “I know that you like to live dangerously,” she said. “And we’ve seen much evidence that you like to play dangerously.”

  “I guess . . .” I wondered where this was heading.

  “We’re all driven by sex, right? We’re all animals underneath all this finery and sophistication, but take this meal, for example, it’s just a ritual, a preliminary to the main event, or am I mistaken?”

  I gulped at her brazenness but she spoke the truth. I intended to take her home to sleep with her and told her so.

  She grinned wickedly above her glass, “Why wait until we get home?” I felt her foot snaking its way up my leg.

  “Run!” Sheldon squawked. “Run for the hills!”

  I kept my face neutral as her foot snaked up my thigh and made contact with my groin. I let out a slight groan and gazed around worried that someone might have heard; thankfully they were engrossed in their own conversations. I glanced around furtively to see if we could be seen: luckily, the tablecloth was covering her antics, as her foot massaged me. She was enjoying the experience immensely, but I think it was more at my discomfort and the thought that we might be caught. On cue, the waitress came over and cleared away our dishes. She took one look at my face and offered me a glass of milk thinking that my red, screwed-up face was the result of the food.

  When the waitress left, Mia leaned forward and put her hand on my knee and reached as high as she could. “Have you heard of the mile-high club?”

  “Sure,” I said, my throat going dry. “It’s having sex in the bathroom on an airplane, why?”

  “Want to try the one-yard club?”

  “What’s that?” I asked nervously.

  She smiled and said, “Leave it a minute then follow me to the bathroom.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Totally.”

  She got up, smiled seductively at me, and said, “One minute.”

  I watched her swish away. I was hooked. I knew it was wrong but I was powerless to resist. Her daring streak was addictive. I had always been known for living recklessly, but not when it came to sex. I’d been fairly normal in my tastes, happy to make love in a bed, with a person of the opposite sex, that was good enough for me. I’d seen the dark side from my time on Vice and couldn’t fathom for a minute what goes on in other people’s minds.

  The next sixty seconds felt like an hour then I, too, sauntered off towards the bathroom. I felt like all eyes were upon me and they knew what I was about to do, but when I glanced around all the diners and staff were wrapped up in their own little worlds. I walked as casually as possible down the corridor that led to the bathrooms and as I was alongside the female bathroom Mia’s arms lunged out and pulled me into the bathroom then into a cubicle where we kissed frantically. Mia hitched up her skirt: there was no time for preliminaries, we were going to get straight to it, and we kissed furiously as if our lives depended upon it. Her hand slinked down my stomach and she popped open the buttons of my Levi’s. I was in her hand in moments, she broke away from the kissing and said, “I love you.”

  It was the best moment of my life. My heart pounded against my ribs. I had been having the same thoughts for a few days and couldn’t hope that she could feel the same way about me. Why would she? She had a wild, wanton streak that I couldn’t possibly fulfill.

  I couldn’t believe my luck. This fabulous, fantastic, beautiful woman was in love with me. We kissed more as I slid my hand up her skirt, she was not wearing panties and I could feel that she, too, was ready. I was drunk on her and my heart raced with the knowledge that she loved me. I stopped kissing her to say, “I love, you, too,” which sent her into a frenzy.

  She stared deeply into my eyes and said, “Do you trust me?”

  “Of course.”

  She turned around and leaned over the cistern and thrust her bottom out towards me, I didn’t need asking twice. “Damnit!” I exclaimed. “I ain’t got any condoms on me.”

  “It doesn’t matter, I can’t get pregnant where you’re going to put it.”

  “Oh. . . oh!”

  She gripped me as I was too hopelessly in love and lust to give it another thought.

  She thrashed and bucked beneath me, crying out “Yes . . . yes . . .”

  I was in a delirious, crazed frenzy and then all too quickly it was over. I gasped, “Wow.”

  She laughed delightfully, gave me a quick peck on the cheek, straightened her clothes, and left me in the cubicle. I shook my head; this woman was incredible, but dangerous, extremely dangerous.

  It appealed to me and I couldn’t help thinking I’d found my soulmate, together we were dynamite. I suddenly heard the door open and remembered that I was in a cubicle in the female toilets of an Indian restaurant on Sunset.

  I waited until I heard the door lock on the cubicle next to mine and guessed it was now or never and I made a dash for it. I was halfway down the corridor before I remembered to play it cool and strolled back as naturally as possible. No one was looking at us, no one could tell. I couldn’t believe what had just happened and wanted to brag about it to anyone that’d listen. Mia looked as demure as anyone could. It didn’t gel between what had happened in the bathroom and the innocent vibe she was giving off now.

  “Wow. . .” I said again.

  * * *

  We went to Mia’s home afterward as it was closer and went straight to bed as we were both bushed, although I had a fitful night, what with the braying coyotes and the memory of Candy’s severed leg hanging outside the bedroom window, and I thought I could still smell it decaying but probably couldn’t. I kept waking up. I know spicy food doesn’t agree with me although I love it so and usually put up with it, but I think it was more the disturbing dreams I was having involving the eighty-year-old hookers wearing saris working in Indian restaurants. It came with the territory, I guessed.

  Monday – July 4th

  Smit Drugstore, corner of Wilshire and Melrose, Los Angeles, CA 90036 – 7:30.

  As I left Mia’s early the next morning the air was still crisp and fresh and I rolled down the canyon with the top up and the windows down, breathing in the fresh air while I still could, and headed to my place down at Venice Beach. I stopped off at a convenience store near Melrose to pick up supplies. I’d offered to cook a meal for Mia that night. What was I thinking? My cookery skills start and stop at beans on toast, while sometim
es I substitute beans for spaghetti hoops and occasionally switch the toast for a bowl of tomato soup, so in effect three meals for the price of one. I could also fry fish sticks, which I’d also have on toast, so most nights I ate out, grabbing a Big Mac. I rummaged around the store looking for an inspiration, an inspiration that could be ‘pinged’ in the microwave. I paid for my goods and went into the drugstore with my prescription for my medication. I was next in line at the counter when I heard and then saw squad cars blast past the window. I left my shopping, ran outside, jumped into my Camaro, switched on the police radio, and quickly ascertained that Dekes and his team, our replacements, had been given a tip-off and were chasing the Hangman. He’d turned right on Santa Monica Boulevard and was heading towards the coast.

  I stuck my light on the roof and shot back along Sunset. Dispatch explained that there were squad cars heading south and others already chasing the Hangman westward. I thought my superior horsepower may get me ahead of the game and I could cross down one of the side streets in front of him. However, he was going like a bullet and the squad cars were hanging back so as not to chase him into a potentially fatal accident with innocent bystanders. It sounded like the Hangman was going to get away and I gunned my engine to the max as I swerved in and out of the cars ahead. It never ceased to amaze me how many people did not see me coming. I had my siren blaring and lights flashing, yet you could tell by the jerky reactions as I fired past that they were so concentrating on their cellphone or had the volume of their music up so high that they were distracted from all around – a dangerous combination. In nearly every case the occupants of the cars I overtook acted suspiciously, their guilt at doing something wrong evident in their faces, but I had no time to discover what minor infringement had been committed and charged on.

  I hung a left and went downhill, picking up speed and valuable seconds. From the description of the Hangman’s position, I calculated that I was slightly ahead of him. I assumed that they would be placing a roadblock further down the block, closer to the ocean and away from built-up areas and if I knew the Hangman, he would have guessed their plan and be looking for an escape route. I tried to guess what a devious mind might devise, but this guy was in a class of his own. I couldn’t get a read on him at all. Usually I knew with certainty, my famous sixth sense, I would know what he hoped, feared, desired and get under his skin and understand his cunning. But I was clueless. The Hangman was heading for a trap and I did not think he was that stupid and after all our efforts to capture him, they were chasing him after a tip-off, something didn’t feel right about that and I half-wondered if the Hangman was setting a trap for us instead.