Seven Suspects

by Renee James

  As soon as I enter my apartment, I secure the two deadbolt locks and collapse on the living room couch. I treat myself to several deep breaths and try to relax. I imagine myself strolling in a meadow of bright flowers, their stems and blossoms as smooth on my skin as a satin dress, their perfume hanging like an exotic lover on the light air. Birds sing in a hundred different voices, an unscripted concerto about grace and innocence.

  A shattering bang ends my reveries. It comes from above, like a gunshot. It sets my nerves on edge again. I flinch. I freeze, stop breathing, stare at the ceiling as if I could see the sound. After a moment, I realize it’s just my second-floor tenant. He dropped something. Jesus.

  I pour myself a glass of wine. As I sit down to sip it, the doorbell rings. It sets off my panic again. Who comes calling this late on a weeknight?

  It rings again, longer, insistent, like an impatient deity with an unpleasant agenda. I peer through the peephole. It’s Mark Mendelson. He’s so tense with fury he has to pace back and forth to avoid exploding.

  “What do you want?” I call through the door. I don’t open it, not even a crack. He would smash it in, I’m sure of it.

  “We need to talk.” His face is creased and taut. He spits the words.

  “Go home,” I call to him. He looks mad enough to kill.

  “Not until we talk.” His voice is louder and he punches the air with his pointing finger for emphasis. I try to glimpse his other hand, looking for a weapon, but he’s standing too close to the door for me to see anything below his chest. Then I realize he doesn’t need a weapon. Unlike some of my other villains, Mark is perfectly capable of reducing me to hamburger with his bare hands. And he’s definitely furious enough to do it.

  “Call me on the phone,” I answer. I just want him gone.

  He slams his fist into the door, his face purple with rage. “No!” he barks. He punches the air with knotted fists and lets fly a string of invectives.

  “Mark, I’m calling the police.” Which is what I should be doing, but for some reason, I don’t want to. Maybe the bluff will work just as well.

  “I want answers!” He’s loud. He doesn’t care about the police or anything else.

  “I want to be left alone,” I say.

  “So do I!” he screams. “How does it feel, goddamnit!”

  We freeze in a silence laced with electric anticipation. I watch him through the peephole, spellbound, certain he’s going to kick the door in. Not certain what to do. Then he leans one hand against my door and takes a deep breath, like the cork just popped out of his emotional bottle. His body is still tense, but the fury of a moment ago seems to have settled into something less lethal.

  I use the moment to dash to my purse and grab my Mace. I pop the top off on my way back to the door and make sure I have the spray nozzle pointed in the right direction.

  “What’s this about?” I ask.

  “About you fucking up my life.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “Let me in.” He doesn’t say “cunt” or “bitch,” but that’s implicit in his tone.

  “So you can assault me? Forget it. Go home.” Really, how stupid does he think I am?

  “I’m not going to assault you.” He says it like the notion is ridiculous, like I’m a stupid bitch to even think that.

  “Then we can talk on the phone,” I say.

  “No. I want to see you when I say this, and I want you to see me.”

  Before I can respond, I hear the thumping noise of heavy feet coming down the stairs from the second-floor apartment, then the sound of my tenant’s door opening into the entryway.

  “What the hell is going on down here?” My tenant’s voice echoes in the entry. I can’t see him, but I catch a glimpse of Mark. His body stiffens and he backs out of my field of vision with fear on his face.

  I unlock my door and peek into the entry. My tenant is standing at his doorway with a baseball bat in one hand, glaring at Mark who’s standing at the far wall, hands held in front to signal his peaceful intentions. The tenant’s name is Paul and he’s one of those big, soft, teddy-bear kind of guys, but if you don’t know him, he could look like an NFL lineman. Especially with a bat in his hands.

  “Is this guy bothering you?” Paul asks.

  “I’m sorry we disturbed you,” I say. “We’re having a disagreement.”

  “You want him out of here?” Paul asks.

  I look at Mark. He’s not cringing in fear, but his seething anger has dissipated. He looks from me to Paul, waiting to hear his fate. I come to an irrational decision, which I will surely live to regret.

  “No,” I say. “Thanks, Paul, I’ll take care of this. If you hear any more noise, just call the police.”

  “You sure, Bobbi?” He studies my face, making sure I’m not being coerced.

  “I’m sure.”

  “Okay then,” he says. He points the bat directly at Mark’s head and holds the position for a second. “I’ll be listening,” he says, and heads back upstairs.

  I gesture to Mark to approach, then gesture again for him to stop when he gets to my door.

  “Raise your hands above your head,” I command. I have my Mace pointed at him as I say it.

  “What the fuck?” He’s confused and angry.

  “If you want to come in, get your hands up. Otherwise, leave and don’t come back,” I say. I want him to feel as exposed as I do.

  His jaw muscles flex as he clenches his teeth in anger, but he raises his arms. I gesture for him to come in and sit on the living room couch. I keep the Mace poised every step of the way. I leave the entry door open, and sit in a chair facing him, the coffee table between us. If he charges me, he’ll have to get past the coffee table and by the time he does that, he’ll be blind and helpless. In theory, anyway.

  “Okay,” I say. “You can put down your hands and speak your piece, but be quiet and be civil.”

  “You have no business talking to my people.” The words pour out of his mouth in a heated torrent. He’s talking in a half-whisper to keep the volume down, but his fury comes across loud and clear. When I see him like this, I can imagine him stalking me.

  “Your people?” I echo. “Are you the leader of a cult or something?” I kick myself for being such a smart-ass as soon as I say the words. It’s insane—the guy isn’t exactly rooted in the rational world and here I am baiting him. On the other hand, it’s hard accepting swill from the hordes of self-righteous, egomaniacal jerks spawned by right-wing hate radio and sports talk stations. I shouldn’t have to listen to one in my own living room.

  “My neighbors. People in my building.” He’s spitting words again. I check the Mace can to make sure the nozzle is pointed with the tip of my finger.

  “What about them?”

  “You have no business talking to them about me,” he sputters. “You don’t belong there.”

  “I’m not good enough for high-rise society?” I can’t help it. He’s begging to be ridiculed.

  “You don’t own a place there. You don’t rent there. You don’t belong in my building.”

  “What’s the difference to you?” I ask. “I didn’t say anything about you.”

  “You told them you were my girlfriend,” he says. His face reddens.

  The cause of his fury clicks into place. “Oh, does that embarrass you?”

  “They all think I’m a tranny fucker now!” he exclaims.

  “Mark, you are a tranny fucker,” I say. “I prefer ‘transwoman’ but I suppose a fine man like you refers to all his conquests by the most derogatory slurs possible.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I’m not trying to be funny. You fucked me. You fucked me because I’m transsexual. Now you’re blaming me because people think you did what you did. That’s fucked up, Mark. You need to take responsibility for your own actions.”

  His face reddens and his jaws do that flexing thing again. People like him hate getting lip from people like me. “Is that why you did it?” he asks. “To get
even with me?” There’s just a tad less confrontation in his voice when he says this, like this might be something he fears.

  “No, Mark,” I say. I keep using his name, like a teacher talking down to a petulant student. I can’t help myself. This man needs to have his nose rubbed in his own shit or he’ll never stop crapping in the house. “I did it because I’m looking for proof you’re the cowardly bastard who’s stalking me and destroying my property.”

  “I already told you, I’m not. I wouldn’t do that.” His voice is filled with disdain, as though I’m crazy for not believing him.

  “You would do it,” I counter. “You’re a bigot and a bully and you don’t give a damn for anyone but yourself. You’d terrorize me just to entertain yourself.”

  “I didn’t do any stalking or terrorizing.”

  We stare at each other in the dim light cast from a streetlamp outside, and the refracted light coming from the hallway. My instincts tell me he’s not the stalker. Then they tell me he could be.

  “I understand you beat up one of your girlfriends,” I say.

  “Bullshit!” he exclaims. Like it was total fiction.

  “The police were called.”

  “Oh, that,” he says. ”Sorry to disappoint you. I got drunk one night and picked up a hooker. She tried to steal my wallet when she left.”

  “Knock her around, did you?” I can picture him doing it, having an excuse to lay into someone smaller and weaker.

  “No I did not.” He says it emphatically. “I called the police and kept her from leaving with my wallet. I didn’t touch her. Look up the police report. Go ahead. I dare you.”

  “I will,” I say. I get the approximate date from him.

  “I’m still trying to live that down,” he says. “I did the right thing and my neighbors treated me like I was poison.” His jaw starts working again and his face flushes. “That’s why I don’t need your shit. Just keep away.”

  “You do the same,” I say.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “I never want to see you again. Hooking up with you was the worst mistake I’ve ever made.” He’s scornful and belittling, like I’m a disease.

  “You can do worse,” I say.

  “How?” he sneers.

  “You can keep stalking me.” I stand up, signaling that our meeting is done.

  “I’m not stalking you.”

  “Good. Because whoever it is, it’s going to end badly for them.” I gesture for him to leave and lock the dead bolts behind him.

  23

  CECELIA WAS HORRIFIED when I told her about bluffing my way into Mark’s building and talking to his neighbor and the doorman.

  “That’s a job for professionals,” she said. “You know, people who carry those ugly black guns and shoot people because the sight of blood doesn’t make them sick.”

  “Shooting the people I talked to would defeat the purpose.”

  Then she settles in to help me locate people who know the last two suspects better than I do. She’s almost as good at this as Phil because she has contacts everywhere institutions have records.

  Which is why I am now getting off a Metra train in beautiful downtown Des Plaines and making my way to a coffee shop to speak with Lover Boy’s ex-wife. I get there first, buy two mocha lattes, and pick out a table in a quiet back corner. She arrives a few minutes later, hustling like a person on a fifteen-minute coffee break, which she is. Her name is Lorraine. She’s about my age, medium height, straight hair cut just above the shoulder, just enough graduation to look neat. She wears no makeup, business-casual slacks and blouse, flat shoes. She’s a pleasant-looking, plump woman. Her manner is professional and brisk. She scans the room for a moment, then heads directly to my table—it’s not that hard to find the only transgender woman in the place.

  “I take it you’re seeing Michael?” she asks, after we exchange greetings.

  “Not exactly,” I say. I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask her if her ex-husband is the type to terrorize a woman, without having her get up and leave. I haven’t come up with anything that didn’t sound like I was a nutcase so, unrehearsed, I launch into the truth.

  “Michael and I had an encounter recently.”

  Lorraine’s eyebrows raise in question when I say “encounter.”

  “We met at a club and almost spent the night together,” I explain. “But it didn’t end well.”

  Again, her face shapes into a question.

  “We argued and left on unfriendly terms.” That’s all I’m going to say.

  “So?” she says. She says it like this isn’t exactly the story of the year.

  “So, since then, someone has been stalking me. They’ve vandalized my home and my business. I’m trying to find out if Michael is the kind of person who would do that.”

  Lorraine stares at me for a moment, then a small smile curls her lips at the corners.

  “Why are you smiling?” I ask.

  “It’s nothing.” She averts her gaze and sips her coffee, but a hint of the smile is still there.

  “Please, tell me.”

  She looks me in the eye again. “Are you transgender?”

  I nod yes.

  “Did he know?”

  Now I’m uncomfortable. I can visualize Lorraine trying to smear her ex-husband in court because he had a tryst with a transsexual. Betsy and I had an amicable divorce, but I’ve heard enough divorce stories to know that it’s often a blood sport, and I’m not interested in helping anyone bag a trophy.

  “I prefer to keep my affairs private,” I say. “I asked you here just as one woman to another—is your ex-husband someone who might pose a danger to me after a quarrel?”

  She looks away again. “I doubt it,” she says.

  “He’s not violent?” I want her to say it clearly.

  “Not really.”

  “Did he ever hit you?” I’m crossing the line, but all she can do is walk away.

  She muses about this for a moment. “Once,” she says, finally. “I was having an affair with another man. When I told him, he slapped me.”

  I stay silent.

  “Just once,” she says. “It was a reflex. I probably deserved it.”

  “No one deserves to be hit,” I say.

  She shrugs. “I was unfaithful. I didn’t have a good reason.”

  “Those things happen,” I say, trying to keep her talking.

  “It’s just, it was so unsatisfying with him.”

  It’s my turn to raise my eyebrows in question. Even though we never got intimate, our flirtation in the bar revealed that Michael was well endowed.

  “I know,” she says. “He’s big. But the rest of it was awful. He didn’t like to go out. He wasn’t a conversationalist. Even the sex. He stunk—his idea of foreplay was like being pawed by a robot. He was fat and balding. Along comes a good-looking, smooth guy who dresses well, asks me questions, tells me how great I look—and I looked pretty good back then. Voila, the affair begins.”

  She is releasing some emotion now, maybe something she’s never said to anyone before. She’s maybe ashamed of herself, or maybe just getting it out of her system.

  We sit in silence, sipping drinks. I can’t think of what to say next.

  “Want to hear the punch line?” she asks.

  I nod, yes.

  “I confess to Michael and ask for a divorce. He grants it. And as soon as I’m single, my lover moves on to another married woman. Sex without commitment.”

  We go silent again, until I ask the question that played on my mind from the start of her confession. “Did you ever tell him his hygiene was a problem?”

  She looks me in the eye. “No, did you?”

  She’s right. It’s so hard to say things like that to people, and so much easier just to condemn them. Shit.

  “I love your outfit,” she says as she serves tea and scones.

  Her name is Darla Ann Stevens. She’s a trim, fashionable woman in her late fifties, platinum blond hair in a graduated bob so precise it c
ould have been done by Vidal Sassoon himself. She’s wearing a designer suit that probably costs more than any five outfits in my closet combined. She and her husband live across the street from the hovel Cindy and Greco call home.

  Mrs. Stevens was a good choice for an interview. She is well bred and very wealthy. She and her husband occupy what would ordinarily be two expensive, three-bedroom apartments. The ground-floor rooms are huge, the walls adorned with what looks like original oils, at least a dozen of them, large and small. The furniture looks like the set of a photo shoot for Better Homes & Gardens, the colors soft and perfect, the spacing perfect, the sitting surfaces worthy of royal derrieres. The lamps rise like works of art from the tops of cherrywood tables. Sculptures grace the corners of the living room, each riding on its own pedestal crafted from fine cherry and walnut hardwoods. The small patch of ground in front of the building is set off from the outside world by a wrought-iron fence and tall shrubs. Within that barrier is a formal garden as immaculate and mathematically precise as a Japanese garden, each plant perfectly formed, each speck of dust where it belongs.

  It’s not likely the Stevenses are close with Greco and Cindy.

  Mrs. Stevens sits opposite me, sips and smiles. I thank her for the compliment on my attire.

  “It’s so hard to find such a good fit nowadays,” she says, cheerily. Very artful. She’s acknowledging that I have an odd-sized body, but with a compliment. She wants to ask me if I’m trans.

  “It’s hard for you and impossible for me,” I say. “Whatever I buy I have to get tailored by a brilliant dressmaker and she makes the rest.”

  “Have you always done that?” Again, very skillful.

  “Since I transitioned,” I say. Might as well cross this bridge. It’s staring us in the face. “I was born male and became a woman in my thirties.”

  “Oh, my!” Mrs. Stevens feigns surprise with polite deftness. “I would never have guessed.” A lie, of course, but not a bad one.

  We talk about clothes and fashions and hair for a while, me looking for a chance to change the subject, Mrs. Stevens changing the subject when she’s ready.