Bad Girl and Loverboy

by Michele Jaffe

  “We have authorization,” Benton started to say, but stopped when Imogen shook her head slowly.

  She pushed her hair behind her ear and said to him, “Professor Kidd doesn’t mean from the warden. She means authorized by Loverboy.”

  Martina smiled. “She speaks! Very good. Yes, you were his little gift to me last time, but this time I made you come all on my own. Tell me, Imogen, have you figured out what the R in Loverboy stands for yet?”

  Imogen just looked at Martina.

  “You haven’t, have you? It’s nearly the centerpiece of the word.”

  There was a tap on the door and Curtis came in. He made a sign to Imogen, who pushed her chair away from the table. Benton did the same.

  Martina looked up at them, genuinely confused. “That is all?” She clicked her tongue. “Where has civility gone? I suppose after all of this, you won’t even leave those magazines because I haven’t done what you wanted. Such a selfish generation, yours.”

  Imogen said, “Actually, you can have them, Professor Kidd.”

  Martina tilted her head to one side. “Why?”

  Imogen smiled. “When I was here last time you told me I was asking all the wrong questions. This time you are.”

  “Aren’t we coy! What do you mean, dear?”

  Imogen ignored her and said to Curtis, “All done?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Martina said, “What games are you playing with Mother, you naughty children? Come back here and tell me.”

  At the door Imogen stopped. “You shouldn’t have been asking what I brought you, Professor Kidd. You should have asked what I can take away. Good-bye.”

  CHAPTER 47

  The boxes of papers they had confiscated from Martina Kidd’s cell sat in front of the empty seat between them on the flight back to Vegas, and Imogen sat as far from them—and Benton—as possible.

  The papers held their only chance of learning how Martina had been communicating with their killer, and what he had said. When Imogen had finally managed to get Dirk on the phone, at four that afternoon, she had agreed not to mention anything to the disciplinary committee if he would honestly tell her how Martina was talking to Loverboy. Dirk had sworn up and down that he had nothing to do with it, and she believed him. There had been cowardice in his voice.

  That meant that they were in touch more subtly, and the only way to figure out how was to go through Martina’s papers minutely. There were several notes from journalists requesting interviews, which they would follow up, and there were quite a few letters from Elgin, Imogen’s boss. But according to the postal log, all the letters were there and accounted for and none of them seemed incriminating.

  Which left as possibilities only the contents of the cardboard box with the fake wood graining below her. The box contained some clippings from different fashion magazines, all over a year old, every American Association of Bridge Players newsletter printed since Martina’s imprisonment, and two books of collected New York Times crossword puzzles.

  “Games,” Imogen said. “More damn games.”

  Benton looked at her. “What?”

  “Sorry, I was thinking out loud. Or not thinking.”

  Benton nodded. “I didn’t want to interrupt you before, you seemed deep in thought but I was wondering. You learned something during the interview, didn’t you?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “You have a tell just like Martina does.”

  She frowned at him. “I do not.”

  “Yes, you do. You push your hair behind your ear when you are excited.”

  “I do?” She caught herself doing it. “I guess I did get something, but not much. Just confirmation of what I suspected, that Loverboy sent us to see Martina that first time we went. And that it wasn’t just to show his control. That he did it because Martina asked.”

  “Why?”

  “Payback is my best guess. But I don’t know for what. Hopefully something in one of those boxes will help.”

  “She told Leslie Lite that there was nothing in her papers.”

  “She also told Leslie that she was a charming girl.”

  Benton glanced at the scratches on his hands Leslie had inflicted the night before. “Good point.”

  Imogen looked at his tray table, which was covered with papers. “What are you doing?”

  “Bridge problems. I’m not as brave as you are.”

  “Brave?”

  “I didn’t want to think. But now I’m stuck. I can’t find the next newsletter to check the solution to the problem I’m working on.”

  “Do you think it’s missing? On purpose?”

  “It could be.”

  “Is it the only one?”

  “So far.”

  Imogen got it then. That he had not really just been doing bridge problems, that he was sifting through the evidence, and she felt completely exhausted. She did not want to believe that a missing bridge newsletter had anything to do with the case. Not another quirky clue, not another game. She sighed and reached for the air phone.

  “I’ll have Bugsy request a copy from their headquarters,” she said.

  “I hope they get it soon. I hate not knowing if I am right.”

  “You’re Benton Arbor. I thought you always knew you were right.”

  Benton chuckled. “Do you really think I am that pompous?”

  “No,” Imogen admitted. “Not anymore.”

  “Progress,” Benton declared, rubbing his hands together. “Two champagnes please, stewardess.”

  When it came, they toasted to progress.

  Neither of them mentioned it, but it was lousy champagne.

  CHAPTER 48

  Only six days left, J.D. kept repeating to himself as he drove the long way to his place. As of the next morning, there would be only six more days.

  He was sitting at Rachel’s desk, using her computer, when she came over to tell him that Imogen had called from the plane saying she and Benton were going to come by there when they landed to look at the files on the taxi. Was there anything he wanted her to hold on to? And he’d said no, show them everything. Not telling her he’d already taken away anything he didn’t want them to see.

  Then he’d grabbed his keys and gotten the hell out of there.

  He was not in the mood to see either of them yet, go through explaining his behavior again, talk about the car. He was so damn tired of having to justify himself to everyone, make excuses. Juggle what was going on inside him with what was going on around him.

  And then there was Wrightly Waring, hounding him on the phone, asking for progress reports, driving him crazy with his questions. He didn’t deserve Rosalind.

  Heading across town on Flamingo he remembered when Rosalind had called him to tell him about Wrightly. He’d said, “Hold on,” gone and put his hand through the wall, and come back. “What were you saying?”

  She explained that Wrightly wouldn’t upset Benton, that she could have a normal, calm life with him. “That’s all I want, J.D.”

  “I can give you that.”

  “No, you can’t. You’re not peaceful and I’m not peaceful with you.”

  “I thought you liked that.”

  “I do. I did. I loved it. But I can’t live that way.”

  He’d squeezed his eyes closed, remembering: Santa Barbara, that white cottage at the beach . . .

  It was a friend’s house right on the sand, the place deserted because it was winter, just the two of them. They’d had a week together, one-on-one, the best seven days of his life. He’d felt terrific, and so in love. She’d felt it too. Only she was nervous. Nervous that Benton would be upset.

  Him asking, “Who the hell cares what Benton thinks? If you love me, who cares?”

  She said, “I love him too. And he’s done so much for me. For Jason. I can’t.”

  Benton “Fuck You” Arbor.

  Martha’s Vineyard, sneaking into Cal and Julia’s house in the fall . . .

  Lying on their king-size
bed under the down comforter, listening to rain outside. She said, “The problem with you and Benton is that you are too much alike.”

  “Never say that,” he told her. Joking. Running his finger along the side of her ear, her head on his chest listening to his heartbeat, his hand tracing the length of her spine. He’d never been happier.

  “Really. You both have to be the boss. And two bosses never get along.”

  “I don’t want to boss you around,” he said. “I just want to love you. You can boss me around.”

  “I’m not talking about with me, I’m talking about with the world. You two are almost primitive, staking a claim, marking territory, and protecting it fiercely.”

  “If you’re talking about your heart, you’re right. I would do anything to protect that. I want to be with you forever.”

  And she’d looked at him with that sad expression on her face and put her fingers on his lips and said, “Let’s just enjoy what we have right now.”

  The inn in Arlington, Virginia, just around the corner from her house . . .

  Making love, holding each other like they couldn’t let go, eyes open, desperate. And he’d said to her, “Does Benton make you feel this good?” and felt her freeze. “What? I’m just asking.”

  She pulled away and sat up on one elbow. “J.D., this isn’t healthy. For either of us. It’s getting so that this isn’t about me or about us, it’s about him.”

  “That’s what it’s always been about. You trying to get revenge on him for not loving you enough. Don’t think I don’t know it.” Lashing out on purpose to hurt her.

  He still remembered the expression on her face. And the way he wanted to get on his knees and apologize. Cry and beg her forgiveness. Tell her he didn’t know what had come over him, that he was so consumed with jealousy and wanting her and love.

  But he couldn’t. He just heard his father’s voice in his head, his dad saying, “You’ll never change, you’ll always be a disappointment.”

  And Marcie saying, “Count on you to always do the wrong thing. Throw everything good away.”

  So he sat there and watched Rosalind pack, blaming Benton Arbor for it. All of it. Watched her walk out of his life like Marcie and his mother and every other woman. Choose someone else. Some other man.

  And he’d wished more than anything that he could do it all over. From the beginning. Learn to be better. Learn to be the boy, the man they chose. The man they loved and wanted to stay with. The man Rosalind wanted to stay with.

  Six more days. He hoped he could hold it together that long.

  CHAPTER 49

  Imogen and Benton went straight from the airport to the police station, where they were shown into a beige conference room and handed the preliminary reports from the taxicab that Loverboy had used. There were no prints inside or outside of the car, no hairs, no empty cups with DNA on them, no clues at all that could help them identify the killer. No evidence.

  At least there was no blood in the cab either.

  “Come on, I’ll give you a ride back to the hotel,” Benton offered at 11:30, but Imogen refused.

  She pointed to the files scattered over the table. “I want to go over these one more time.”

  “You’ve already been over them five times.” Benton’s tone was exasperated. “What are you looking for?”

  “I don’t know. But there is something here. Something I’m missing.”

  “I can’t tell if you are determined to find something so that impounding the taxi won’t have been a waste, or if you are determined not to so you can blame J.D. for making a mistake.”

  “We shouldn’t have gone to Ohio. It took too long and gave us too little.”

  “I disagree, and besides, we couldn’t have known that without going.”

  “Maybe. Look, I don’t have time to talk about this right now.”

  Benton leaned over the table toward her. “Why are you punishing yourself?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are. You cannot hold yourself responsible for everything that happens.”

  “This is my case. I am responsible.” She took a deep breath, stifled a yawn, and said, “I am not asking you to stay here, Mr. Arbor. In fact, I would prefer it if you got out of my way and let me do my job. I’m tired of having you around watching me all the time. I feel like I’m being baby-sat.” Some part of her knew she was lashing out at him, but she couldn’t stop herself.

  Benton shook his head, said, “Fine,” and left the conference room. He did not ask her if she wanted to have breakfast with him at 7:30 the next morning, she noticed. Good. That phase of their relationship was over. She’d known whatever feelings he thought he had for her would disappear.

  She spread the crime-scene photos of the cab’s interior over the table and looked them over once again. Something in the cab was different from when she’d ridden in it. The taste it evoked was less lemony and had an undertone of pepper. Something had changed, but she could not figure out what. She’d had a tune going through her head for the past hour that she could almost but not quite identify. It hovered just outside her reach, on the tip of her tongue. Just like the answer to the collage. Just like the killer whose taxi she had ridden in. She almost but not quite knew everything, but the gulf between the two might as well have been a boiling sea of magma with the success she was having bridging it.

  An hour later, as she was sitting there, letting the images blur together in her head, there was a knock on the door and J.D.’s assistant Rachel came in.

  She tossed another manila folder on the table, saying, “This just came from the forensics lab. They said they missed it the first time through.”

  Imogen flipped it open. There was a photo of the latch of the glove compartment enlarged five times. In the corner, barely visible, was a tiny royal blue fiber. The report attached to the photo said it was a polyester blend. Another thread. She said, “What was the taxi driver wearing when you found his body?”

  “Green shirt,” Rachel said. “So this fiber could have come from something Loverboy was wearing.”

  “Or it could have been there for months.”

  Rachel nodded. “We’ll have someone go to the cabdriver’s house tomorrow and look over his things. Unless his wife has already gotten rid of them.”

  So many people die on your watch, Imogen heard Martina saying, and wanted to bang her head on the table, make it stop.

  Rachel yawned. “I’m going to take off to try to get some sleep. Can I give you a ride home? I’m heading in that direction.”

  Home, Imogen thought. Meaning the Bellagio. That was some home. She felt like leaving now would be giving up, betraying Rosalind, but she was also exhausted. And she had a strange need to see Rex, make sure he was okay. She looked around the Metro interrogation room, looked at the same things she had been looking at for hours, and yawned herself. She nodded at Rachel. “That would be great. I’d love a ride home.”

  As they drove toward the hotel Imogen looked out at the lights and asked herself which ones belonged to Loverboy. What he was doing to Rosalind.

  And where she’d recently seen something royal blue.

  CHAPTER 50

  He was standing somewhere near her, behind her, when Rosalind woke up in the dark, bound to the bed. She was disoriented from the sedatives he had been giving her and had no idea how long she had been asleep. From the sick emptiness in her stomach she thought it might have been a long time. She was wide-awake now.

  He was not moving, but she could smell him. Sense him. Feel his eyes on her.

  “Mommy?” he said in a little voice. Rosalind went completely cold. “Mommy, are you awake?”

  Rosalind lay still. This was new, but she should have seen it all along, she realized. Should have understood what the ear piercing and the hair in curlers and the lipstick slathered on her mouth meant. He was making her into his mother.

  It was new and it was horrible. Because she knew exactly how her captor felt about his mother. Inside the blue v
elour housecoat he’d dressed her in, her body broke into a cold sweat.

  “Mommy, I know you are awake,” he said. His voice was tighter now, the way it got before he punished her.

  “I am,” Rosalind tried to say through the tape over her mouth. It came out like a croak.

  “I had a bad dream, Mommy.”

  I had a bad dream, Mommy. How many times had she had this dialogue with Jason? Mommy, I had a bad dream. Mommy, I’m scared. Mommy, there’s a monster under the bed. Mommy—

  No! Rosalind’s mind screamed as she remembered how it ended, what came next. No, no, not—

  “Mommy, can I sleep in bed with you?” Loverboy said.

  Rosalind wanted to cry, but her eyes were so dry nothing came out. Until now there had been no hint of anything sexual, but she had been dreading this. The idea of having his hands on her like that, his—

  No, she tried to cry out. But of course, she couldn’t say anything.

  He climbed next to her in the small double bed and slid under the covers. Rosalind tensed every muscle in her body, waiting. She would do whatever she could to prevent this, she swore. It would not matter what punishment she got.

  A minute passed.

  Five minutes.

  Nothing happened.

  Ten minutes.

  She rolled her head over as far as she could. For the first time she let herself really look at him. She was not sure if what she was seeing was better or worse than she had imagined.

  His beard had begun to grow in and he still wore his button-down shirt. He looked like a grown-up. But he was clutching a blanket against his closed eyes. He was humming a nursery tune Rosalind knew too well.

  And he was sucking his thumb.

  Mommy, Mommy, there’s a monster in my bed! Rosalind wanted to yell. But she couldn’t.

  It didn’t matter anyway, she realized. No one ever believed you when you said that. And there was no one to hear her scream.

  Please, she thought, please just kill me now.

  CHAPTER 51

  6 days left!

  Imogen woke before it was light out with the taste of chalk in her mouth and the image of a taxi driver’s fingers reaching out to her. Brushing her palm. Not wearing gloves.