by Kim Falconer
My call went straight to voicemail. He was probably studying, or in class. Conjuring a breezy tone for the message was beyond my abilities, so I went with real: scared shitless. ‘Hey, Tom. It’s me.’ My throat tightened. ‘Look, a little thing’s come up.’ No point freaking him out yet. ‘I need a place to crash. Just for a night. Maybe two. Hope that’s alright. Couch free?’ I tried to laugh. ‘Don’t tell anyone. I’ll explain at yours. Heading there now.’
The phone beeped. ‘Your message has been recorded.’
I tapped, ‘End call.’ Headlights flashed by, and a few blocks later, we hit 110 South and stalled in rush hour traffic. I let the air conditioning blast my face, giving me goosebumps. My phone rang and I jumped. Lee looked across at me. ‘It’s Tom,’ I said and answered.
‘Ava. What’s happened? You missed our study date Monday.’
‘I’ll explain. I just need a place to stay.’ Heat flushed my face; it pissed me off, how much emotion was running through me. What was I so scared of? Oh right, a murderer who left messages on my mobile. ‘Can I?’
‘You’re full of mystery.’
‘That’s me.’
‘Of course. Come on over.’
‘See you soon.’
* * *
Half an hour later, Lee dropped me at Tom’s student housing block. I took the well-lit stairs up to the second floor, knocked twice and let myself in. Still had a key. He’d never asked for it back. Like I said, good friends. But as soon as he looked at me, my shoulder in a sling, bruises fading on all visible surfaces and possibly wild-with-worry eyes, his posture changed. I started to explain. Midway through he was sending death threats my way with the bluest eyes in the world, a real summer-day-in-the-country blue. Tom. My ex. Rugged good looks, smart and growing angrier by the second.
‘You were hospitalised and I didn’t even rate a call?’ he said with his jaw clenched.
‘I was slightly unconscious. Made it hard to tap speed-dial number two.’ I crossed my arms in front of me.
‘I’m number two now?’
‘Second only to Cate.’
He seemed to relax at that. ‘But you were attacked? What if this guy is a murderer?’
‘I’m pretty sure he is. That’s why I’m staying here, if it’s alright?’
‘Of course it’s alright.’ He let out his breath. ‘Sorry, was I shouting?’
‘Yeah.’ I shrugged out of my pack and took a seat on the couch. It felt like a second home here. Hell, I’d practically lived with Tom two years ago. I guess our relationship had been more on than off, now that I thought about it. The domestic intimacy didn’t last, but being in his apartment, with the familiar sights and smell of books, coffee grounds, mandarin peels, recently burned toast and the faint trace of kitty litter, was soothing. Tom hovering over me was not.
‘How badly hurt are you? Rourke is looking out for you? Are you hungry?’
‘Not that bad. He is, and I just ate.’ I patted the couch next to me. ‘Tom, sit down.’ Mental note: way to make a Cancer sun sign happy, ask them for help. They love to feel needed.
He stood there, five foot eleven, fit as ever. He’d look good if he’d stop grilling me and unpinched his brow. Tom’s face wasn’t movie star attractive, in spite of the summer-day eyes and surfer-blond hair, but he had strong-featured good looks. Undeniable. Thomas Roth Macey also had more allure than most guys could muster on their best days. It came with the breeding, no doubt. He was from old-family DNA, where ‘old’ equals a ton of money that came over on the Mayflower, or something like that. Even though he rubbed shoulders with the rest of us common folk, his origins showed. I called it self-possession; others said arrogance. They couldn’t have been further from the truth.
‘Walk me through it again. You got out of work at Poseidon, you say? When did you start there?’
I gave him the short version, right up to the personalised text from the stalker-copycat murder suspect. When I was through with the story, he finally sat down.
‘You’re shaking,’ he said and draped a sleeping bag over my shoulders.
I pulled it around me. It smelled like him, desert cactus under a hot sun, hint of sage. There was something else there, too, a trace of girly-sweet bubblegum. I chose not to let on I noticed. In spite of the other scent, the warmth and sense of safety had me letting go. Tears welled up for a second, but that was it. I hadn’t cried properly since I was twelve. No way was I starting now. ‘I need to look at mugshots.’
‘Did you bring your laptop?’
‘Not sure if it works since the ride in Joey’s truck.’ The hard drive had problems even before it flew off the seat.
‘Let’s try it.’ He motioned to the power strip under the coffee table. It had one space left.
I pulled out my laptop and plugged in the cord. It felt good to have something to do. Hell, who was I kidding? It felt good to be taken in. I switched the machine on and immediately it started beeping. ‘Time of death …’ I looked at my watch. ‘Six-sixteen p.m.’
He laughed. ‘I’ll find you a loaner.’
‘Really?’
‘Someone owes me a favour, and I have to go see them anyway.’
I didn’t miss the use of the pronoun ‘them.’ It was almost inevitably a cover up for ‘her.’ I wanted to ask right away, but he was all business.
‘Use mine until then. I won’t be long.’ He switched his laptop over to guest mode and turned it toward me.
‘Great. Thanks.’ I figured he was off to tell Ms Girly Sweet that Ava Sykes, the ex-girlfriend now BFF, was sleeping on his couch. ‘Good luck.’
He raised a brow. ‘Yeah, I sorta have a …’
‘Girlfriend? I know. Now who’s not being upfront with the cutting news?’
He shrugged, but I caught the blush. Blondies had trouble hiding it.
‘Long-term potential?’ I wasn’t letting him off the hook.
‘We just met. I’ll pick up something for dinner on the way back.’
I reached for my wallet and he motioned me to stop.
‘I’ve got it.’ Tom grabbed his keys and left.
As soon as the door closed, Sim, his Siamese cat, stood up from her lookout on top of the refrigerator and stretched. After twitching an ear in my direction, she sat and stared at some imaginary spot on the wall. We’d never hit it off, that cat and I. ‘Don’t worry, puss. Not here for long.’
At the sound of my voice, she pinned me with her sapphire eyes. So like her dad’s. ‘Bet you haven’t warmed to the new girlfriend either.’
Sim lifted her paw and licked it before rubbing the back of her ear.
I laughed for the first time in a while.
Tom’s computer hummed quietly, soothing my nerves. I went straight to my CloudBox and downloaded the file from Rourke. After half an hour of going through grim but unrecognised faces, I took a break and searched for Daniel Bane. He was first up in the biz section, looking handsome and somehow impenetrable. No messing with this guy. There wasn’t much on his personal life: single, no birth date, home in Beverly Hills, of course. Holiday home in Baja California. Ensenada, to be exact. Trendy place to own some real estate. I tore myself away.
Next, I went through my emails, and downloaded the lectures I’d missed. While they were heading to my Box, I googled Dr Miguel Rossi. ‘Why not?’ I asked Sim when she glared at me. Miguel Rossi’s faculty profile came up straightaway, along with a current image. Mesmerising eyes, wildly handsome … emphasis on the wild. Nothing I didn’t already know. His personal data was blocked, as expected. Anti-identity theft laws had tightened in the last decade, though appropriation was still rampant. I wondered if he was on any of the pop social networking sites — there were so many now, places to post your personal photos, thoughts and feelings, hook up with like-minded others yada yada yada. Probably not. He didn’t seem the type. A real bricks and mortar kinda guy. I scanned through Rossi’s published papers. He’d contributed to practically every scientific journal I’d ever heard of, co-publishi
ng on the breakthrough in blood typology a few years back. I bookmarked the page, and searched deeper. Whoa. He was into some crazy shit.
Rossi was instrumental in identifying many of the ‘newer’ blood types. No mention of mine, ABL+. That was L for Lividus, which meant black in Latin — not that my blood was any darker than norm, but black as in unknown, like a black hole. I read on, finding the notice of his recent position as head attending at South General Hospital ER. Saves lives, reviews grads, solves blood-typing mysteries … this guy had it all going on. Including a desire to put me under his microscope. Not going to happen. I swiped to move down his resume, checking out some of his papers on genetic and non-genetic blood disorders. I bookmarked them too, then jerked my hand off the trackpad. Shit! There, in bold, were the letters that had haunted me ever since becoming a ward of the State. CHI Tech.
He’d worked for them? Was that why he wanted to run more tests? Had CHI Tech found me, after all these years? Because I had ended up in the ER under his care? It was too random, but my imagination started to spin out of control. I closed down the page. Too late if it tracked IP addresses, though that would take them to Tom, not me. My forehead beaded. Don’t be ridiculous, Sykes. I’d been on UCLA’s faculty website. It didn’t even have clickable links to CHI Tech, let alone any kind of surveillance. The screen would have gone blue if so. I tapped the browser’s settings quickly to check. Yep. Tom’s walls were up, running the latest version of Romulan, the anti-virus protection and cloaking device that cost an arm and a leg, but was well worth it. Feeling soothed, I went back to the relative safety of scanning mugshots.
Nothing jogged my brain, so I switched tracks and looked up the serial killer Rourke told me about, the role model for Mr Sicko Copycat. Plenty of info on the original unsolved cases from the 1960s. That killer made headlines. Well, the murders did. No eye witnesses. Hang on! I found an article from 1962, an editorial. Someone claimed to have seen the serial killer dragging a victim away. There was a sketch. His face was painted, dark around the eyes. Lines on the chin. It was inadmissible evidence because the witness was tripping on LSD. Still, it looked like the copycat believed it.
There wasn’t a whisper about the current wave of disappearances. I wondered how long the district attorney could keep the press locked out. I scrolled through some articles, including a psychological profile. If my stalker really was the copycat, there could be helpful info there, and oh boy, was there ever. I found more details, including descriptions of the ribbons tied gangrene-tight, and how he would keep his victims alive for weeks on end. Damn, I hoped he didn’t have Daina. That thought made me wonder …
I typed her full name, the kernel of an idea forming. If she blogged, or has active social media posts, there might be information the detectives missed. You’d think they had checked, but what if they hadn’t? We were only acquaintances, but I was pretty sure Daina had a site. Most in the artsy crowd did. I found it fast. Daina Fleming. Age twenty. Undergrad. Fine Arts major. Cute little page with an art-deco feel, bright colours, bold geometrical patterns, a black and white tuxedo cat for her avatar. She used her blog as an art journal, and posted nearly every day; that is, she had, until she disappeared. I double-checked the missing persons notice. She’d been missing for three weeks. Last known whereabouts, UCLA campus. The most recent entry told another story:
So excited. Celeste, Rachel and I have tickets to Poseidon’s midnight show. It cost a fortune, I know, but what a buzz. The art on Poseidon’s walls is renowned, a constantly changing expo, so this really is research. *wink* We’re going straight after the paleolithic show at the natural history museum. Double whammy. I’ll be reporting back, on the cave art and the night out. We all so deserve it. After that, it’s nothing but study until finals. Stay tuned!
For Daina Fleming, after that, it was zilch, nothing, nada.
Rachel and Celeste were linked to her blog. I sent messages to them both, saying I was investigating Daina’s disappearance. I included Detective Rourke’s name, giving my cell number underneath. So what if it looked like I worked for him? I was trying to unravel a mystery and save some lives, possibly my own. No harm in it. That done, I went back to the mugshots. While still only halfway through the files, the door opened and the light flipped on, sending me three feet straight up in the air. I realised it was Tom before my butt landed.
‘Isn’t this familiar?’ he said. ‘Me with the groceries; you sitting alone in the dark.’
‘Working alone in the dark,’ I corrected. ‘There’s a difference.’
He plunked a bag down on the kitchenette counter and, more gently, a laptop on the table in front of me. ‘Find anything?’
‘Not from the mugshots yet. Maybe a lead on Daina.’
‘Who?’
‘The latest missing coed. Ruby and Jane’s friend. You don’t remember?’
He shook his head. ‘Are you saying your attack is connected?’
It was hard not to spill my guts. ‘It’s only one possibility. Rourke’s working on it.’
Tom didn’t look convinced.
‘No one knows I’m here.’
‘Right.’ He went to the kitchen, making a big fuss over Sim and opening a can of cat food. ‘You hungry?’
Me or the cat? ‘Starving.’ I closed down his computer and fired up the new one. I logged in as guest and checked. Romulan protection was active. Cool.
Tom pulled a pizza base from the freezer. ‘You still in love with anchovies?’ His face turned sour.
As if that would deter me. ‘Put them on my half.’ Sure as anything his next line would contain the word ‘permeate.’
‘You know how they permeate the sauce, Ava.’
Ha! ‘Then why did you buy them?’ I went back to the mugshots when my phone buzzed.
Tom was already walking toward me. ‘Ava?’
My hands shook as I read the text. ‘It’s okay.’ My breath released in a rush. ‘Just Cate, checking up on me.’ I sent her a quick message saying that I was fine, getting back to studying and we’d talk tomorrow. No point in making her worry too.
Before the night was over, I had an email back from Rachel Paddington. She didn’t remember much of their night at Poseidon, other than it was ‘all kinds of fun.’ It sounded like drugs were involved. Expensive ones. When Celeste’s message came in, it was practically a cut-and-paste of Rachel’s. They’d had a great night. Literally amazing. Both girls assumed Daina returned to her dorm room, but when it came time for their lecture on Monday, she didn’t show. They searched her room. Empty. Bed not slept in. Police report filed. No word since. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was enough to take to Rourke. I was attacked near Poseidon, and that was the last place Daina had been seen alive. Maybe copycat was a patron who’d been to VIP and wanted to keep the party going? Or, maybe the guy had the place staked out for strays wandering home late at night? Both?
After that, I looked up underwater hallucinations as side effects of prescription drugs, in case anything Rossi gave me would explain my oceanic extravaganza. ‘Medication-Related Visual Hallucinations: What You Need to Know’ came straight up with so many possibilities I closed the page. Mystery solved. Damn. I finished going through the mugshots. No revelations there. I skipped checking my Date Night profile for messages. The last thing on my mind was meeting a new guy. I fell asleep, hoping the dreams would be anything but aqueous; definitely not the sea.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I woke the next day, Wednesday, with a kink in my neck and aches in my strapped shoulder. No big surprise. Tom made a fuss, bringing me coffee the way I liked it, and a big breakfast of free-range eggs and bacon, baked beans and gluten-free bread with sunflower sprouts. All organic. All radioisotope free. He didn’t spare expenses in the grocery shopping department. Had to love him for that.
I sent Rourke my thoughts on Daina’s last known whereabouts, in case he hadn’t seen it from that angle. I also sent the big zilch on the mugshots and the link to the face paint article. That would gain me point
s.
He texted back, If you’re recovered enough, go about your normal routine. Tail’s in place. We’ll catch this perp.
Got it.
‘You have classes today?’ Tom asked as he shouldered his bag and grabbed his keys.
‘None, I’m picking up lecture notes at the library.’
‘You want a lift?’
‘I’ll walk.’ I crossed my arms. ‘Go. Rourke has me covered.’
Tom still frowned. ‘Might see you there later.’ He gave me a hug and left.
I flopped onto the couch and closed my eyes for a moment, trying not to overthink anything.
When I woke, the apartment felt subdued, peaceful. The light was soft. I stretched, reaching toward Sim, who perched on the arm of the couch. ‘What’s up, puss?’ She allowed me to scratch her chin. Then I looked at the time. ‘Shit!’ It was late afternoon. I took off the sling, had a quick shower, ate toast and poured some cat crackers into Sim’s dish. It might have saved time to text a classmate for the missed lectures, but the camaraderie this semester sucked. I guess fourth year medical science students leaned toward extreme competition, making them generally unhelpful when it came to sharing resources. It’s what happens when there are hundreds more applicants than seats for research internships, let alone med school. Never mind. The library had everything archived.
I pulled the apartment door shut, leaving Sim sitting on the couch glaring at me. ‘Don’t even think about peeing on my pillow.’ I wouldn’t put it past her. Heading out into the world gave me butterflies. I guess I still felt rattled. When I reached the elevator, my phone went off, along with a shot of adrenaline up my spine. You’d think I was coming down off crack. After scoping the hallway, I pulled out the phone. The number on the screen was Dr Rossi’s, the one Cate had put in. Relief made me dizzy. ‘What’s up, doc?’
