“You’d think my stepfather would be this great savior. After all, he tolerated mom’s affair. But I watched him, and he fucked my sister while I watched. I was about 11. My mom started living out of the basement. I found out about her affair when I was 16 or so.
“That’s it. I guess it’s kind of typical. I was cute and charming, even as a kid, and I used it. I milked it.”
He paused for a while, smiling in a strange, nostalgia-dripped absent way before continuing: “I started this early, and by the time I was in college, I got fairly good at it. But I haven’t killed as many as you have, you sick little bitch.”
“Where do you put them? Are you going to tell me about Beth?”
“I don’t have a consistent spot. Some are in ditches. A lot are out in the Pacific. Beth was dismembered, as you recall…or do you?” Paul sneered. “Don’t worry about what I did with her. She’s taken care of, no thanks to you. Quite the chore. Good thing I work out.”
“Did you kill a woman named Tamara?”
Paul wrinkled his nose. “No. I told you I only like girls. I’m not gay, Sophia. I know who you’re talking about. She lives over in the Haight District. I did have her over here once…she was with some friend. I only planned to tie them up and scare them a little. If you have those kinds of fantasies, you’re on your own. Why are you asking?”
She shook her head and stared off into the distance.
“Sophia. What?”
She hesitated. “We may have a little bit of a problem, then.”
Paul didn’t say another word. He only glared at Sophia, waiting for the answer. When she failed to provide it, he strode across the room, quick as a flash, and jerked her up out of her spot. She yelped, powerless. He shook her.
“Talk.”
“I think Claude is following me.”
“Oh, you wish, Sophia. You’re way too pathetic to follow. Why do you think he would, huh? Tell me.” He shook her again to make his point and she winced. The grip on her shoulders was getting unbearable.
“Claude’s always used me for something---sex, starting up his little business, cover-ups—but it’s just us. He’s come up here to check on me before, and it’s possible he knows about you and is jealous. It’s happened before.”
Paul let her go and paced up and down the steel grey rug in his living room. Sophia had a brief flash of him wearing it down quickly, as if in a cartoon. She felt like she needed caffeine or pot. She didn’t know which. Just something to fill the hole again. She could feel it in her stomach, burning like acid.
Further and further down the hole. Sophia thought about what started this new turn of drama in her life and frowned when she thought about spying on Paul. How had she come to be so obsessed with him?
The beach. That’s what started the flood of the new cycle. She was sitting on the beach when she saw him, enjoying the quiet. She went to that same spot every day she thought he’d surf, always blended in well, yet somehow catching a glance or two like she'd hoped. Or so she thought. Apparently he’d also noticed her, so she wasn’t really spying so much as blatantly admiring him. How embarrassing. She was supposed to be in her own veiled and undercover world, where no one could see or notice her. She might as well have put on some obvious costume that screamed, “Here I am, look at me” while she waved some kind of flag. Her weakness, something that she had always used to pride herself as something she kept under chains, was slowly breaking free from Pandora’s Box and rearing its ugly head. How she wanted to crush it and stuff it away, but the spring was broken. It just kept popping back up. She felt like she had lost control.
Fueled by that thought, her mind shifted to her childhood.
Her mother had given her a toy. A doll that was supposedly worth a lot of money.
“Mommy spent all this money because she loves you, you know that?”
Sophia’s memory was fuzzy, but she distinctly remembered that part of the conversation. She couldn’t take the doll out of the package. She very badly wanted to.
“See how perfect she is?”
Sophia remembered that part, too. Don’t break her.
She had, though—but she’d figured out how to put her back together again. That’s when the lies to Mother began.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Ti: Ghosts from the Past
Ti lit a cigarette. She had quit several years ago, but as she passed a shop on the way home, she decided to start again. She missed the feeling nicotine rushes gave her and decided she needed some sort of comfort now. Besides, it felt good holding on to something.
She’d called John and told him what happened and he begged for her to come home. She said she would once things settled.
As Ti smoked the cigarette, she paced around her apartment, thinking about what “once things settled” meant. Finally, she decided to put on some coffee and think about it some more.
Tamara was missing. That much she knew. Ti’s mind had been running in circles trying to think of who might have a motive to break in, kill her and drag her body away. She thought about the first time she’d met Tamara and tried to come up with a list of things she knew about her.
They’d met not long after Ti signed the lease on her apartment. John had given Ti Tamara’s name and number. If he knew her or the owner well, he didn’t mention it. Why had he insisted she come home after she telephoned him and told him about it? Ti had never met the owner. Tamara said that as long as things ran smoothly, he wouldn’t be making any surprise visits.
She had an impromptu interview with Tamara and they both agreed that Ti could start as soon as possible. Coffee shop work was easy enough. She’d worked at Café du Monde in the French Quarter. She was used to juggling several tables and utter mayhem. Working behind the safe barrier of a counter almost seemed like a vacation. Ti started just after New Year’s Day and she and Tamara became quick friends.
Several months had passed. She knew that Tamara had had sex reassignment surgery years ago, and she had said something about leaving New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. Tamara didn’t talk about life before that, but Ti got the impression there weren't many positive things to chat about. She also got the impression that Tamara’s life before opening the coffee shop was rather dramatic--she told Ti about working in the “sex industry” which mostly meant she was paid to be in S&M shows and was a dominatrix of some sort who had a substantial list of clients.
“I’m too old to do any of that shit now,” she’d often say, with the flick of a wrist like she was throwing something away. Ti assumed she now managed the coffee shop to get away from a dramatic life beating up prominent lawyers and doctors.
She supposed she could call detective Black and tell him about Tamara’s past, but for some reason, she dismissed that thought. Even if one of Tamara’s old clients had the red ass about something and decided to get revenge, would the police really do anything?
Probably not. Especially if the police were anything like the ones in New Orleans.
Ti lit another cigarette. She sat in her bay window and looked out onto the street. It was about 1:00 in the morning. The streetlights glowed like strange yellow orbs. She wasn’t the least bit tired. She thought about the police in New Orleans again.
She thought about how many times she'd had run-ins with the law. She frowned at the thought. The last time was when she had first met Danny.
They met at a party held by some local dyke. The party was in the French Quarter and Ti went although she didn’t know but maybe one or two people there.
She had a great time nonetheless. Got trashed. She’d noticed Danny across the room and in a near instant, they were all over each other, kissing and groping.
The party was wild--so wild that a fight between two ex-lovers spilled out onto the muggy blacktopped streets. Somehow (and she could never remember how), Ti and Danny both ended up in the depths of the street fight and Danny had a busted lip. Ti pulled her to the sidewalk, stripped off her t-shirt, and tended to the wound.
She nearly pi
ssed herself when the two shadows appeared. Before she even looked up, she knew they were cops. Danny was drunk and blubbering, not making much sense. The cops wanted to cuff Ti, but a well-meaning partygoer cut that short. Ti clearly saw her slip the more arrogant cop a Ben Franklin and was in awe. The cops backed away, shouting something about breaking it up.
She could not believe how easily they backed off. She’d heard stories all her life about police corruption in this city, but had never witnessed it firsthand. She always thought those stories came from would-be criminals who had sticks up their asses about the law. What if she’d actually beaten the shit out of Danny? What if anyone had beaten her up? What then?
Needless to say, the incident left a bad taste in her mouth. Cops were not helpful. They hadn’t been helpful at all so far in Tamara’s case, either.
Ti had her mind made up. She looked at her alarm clock across the room. It was 2:30. She could be at Tamara’s apartment before 3 a.m.
The streets were dark and slick with rain and oil. Ti felt she could slip at any moment, always in a precarious situation with her worn Converse. It was strangely quiet, but this was San Francisco. Everything damn near shut down at midnight. It wasn't like New Orleans, where one could grab a po’boy at 4 o'clock in the morning or more beer. Thinking of New Orleans made her think of Danny again. She let her fingers grasp the contents of her pocket for comfort's sake.
Electric yellow caution tape roped off Tamara’s apartment, but it didn't deter Ti. She had a brief flash of Robert Black (she felt her lip curl in disgust as she thought of him) spying, but put it out of her mind. From what she'd noticed so far, he mostly drank himself into an alcoholic infused coma when he wasn't on the job.
During all the excitement of Tamara's disappearance, Ti had been dumb enough to leave the key in the lock. She supposed someone else had it, maybe Black, so she decided to put the contents of her pocket to good use. She pulled out a shiny black lock picking set, slipped on gloves and plastic booties over her wet Converse. Every drop of water caused her to turn her head, but it only took her about thirty seconds to pick the lock and swing the door open.
The apartment hummed with electricity despite Tamara's absence. She crept through the living room. Tamara had decorated the apartment in a kaleidoscope of wild colors, now nearly opaque in the dark. To the left was a worn pink chair, and to the right was a fish tank providing the only light in the room, its contents still bobbing with various colorful specimens. She absently wondered when Tamara last fed them.
Ti didn't dare turn on any other lights, but she knew where she was going. She headed past the kitchen and bathroom and straight down the hall to the bedroom. She tried not to think about finding the bloodstain.
An old portable heater stood proud and stout under the bedroom window. These archaic things were all over California apartments. Few people used them though, especially in San Francisco, where the temperatures were usually mild. Ti had one in her studio but didn't even know if it worked. Ti stared at it, remembering the time she came over and offered to help Tamara move it. She had this look on her face, sort of like I busted her for something. She knew had a feeling Tamara used it to cover something up. I hardly ever use it, she had said.
What are you hiding in there?
It was really just an inkling, but Ti's inklings were usually spot on. She lugged the heater to the side.
Bingo.
A trace of a faint outline from the heater. A small piece of wood that was obviously not part of the floor. Ti pushed on it. It wiggled in response, so she carefully pulled it up.
Stacks and stacks of letters, papers and hand written pieces of paper greeted her. It would take a while to go through all of this. She scooped up as much of it as she could and began stuffing the paperwork in her backpack.
She was ready to put the piece of floor and the heater back into place when she noticed an envelope she'd dropped. The name. The return address. From New Orleans.
The name. It made her stomach clench. Fear gathered there like a festering cesspool.
She hadn't seen that name in nearly a lifetime.
Claude Moreau.
She heard John’s voice: You can never really run away from your problems. They always come back to get you.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sophia: Big Fun
Paul had finally stopped pacing and was sitting upright on the couch next to Sophia. She could feel a huge, steel wall between them now.
"I think I know just what we need."
She looked over at him. His expression was completely different. He grinned ear to ear now, but there was something so practiced and controlled about it.
"I think we need a trip out of state. Just for a few days. To get out of here and take a break. Do you know what I mean?" He was still smiling. For the first time, Sophia noticed his eyes were the same as when he was angry. Sophia often had a blank expression when she wasn't trying to get something she wanted. Did her eyes crinkle around the edges when she smiled? She’d been practicing. She made a mental note to check later.
"Pack some clothes. We'll go to Las Vegas for a few days."
"I don't want to go."
"But why not?" She could see him subtly clench his teeth. He was getting pissed off again.
"Because there's no point. Because it would look suspicious to that detective if I just up and left. I have a real chance to put all this off on Claude. Let me handle things."
"Cops are dumb, baby," he replied, and that strange smile was back on his face. Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. "If you're innocent as apple pie, why wouldn't you go on a trip? For your own safety, of course.” He smiled wider.
The highways from San Francisco to Las Vegas were scenic at first, but as one descended deeper and deeper into the desert, the scenery looked almost mind warping. Joshua trees lingered, their nubby fingers reaching up in the air, and fairy-like sand swept the asphalt. As night descended on the earth, faint, the subtle outline of hills faded into the distance. Las Vegas was a smoldering fire of lights in the distance, its light pollution visible for miles around.
Sophia yearned to write in her journal. There were plenty of things she was now remembering about Claude. They weren't quite to Las Vegas yet when Paul stopped for gas. She reached into her bag and began frantically scribbling.
"What is that?" He startled her.
"I just write stuff down in it from time to time. How long are we going to be staying?"
"I don't know. A couple of days. Maybe more."
"Paul. I have to get back and feed my cat."
"Who cares about the fucking cat? It'll be fine. We'll stay as long as I say, alright?"
She already resigned herself to find some way back soon, but she nodded her head. They sped off down the freeway and towards the light pollution of Las Vegas.
"I have something like that. I'm not dumb enough to keep a journal, but I keep...things. From the girls."
"How do you know keeping things isn't dumb?"
"Because I don't parade that stuff around for everyone to see. Whatever's in there, you ought to get rid of it. If you mention me anywhere in there and someone finds it..."
She rolled her eyes but was glad it was too dark for him to see. "It's mostly childhood stuff. Don't worry. If anything, it'd help you. And no one will find it. It's always with me."
He looked over and smiled. She knew he was thinking about reading it or destroying it. Or both. Why was she beginning to distrust him so much? They were so much alike. She'd let herself analyze the situation over the weekend away. She was beginning to think he'd kill her in a heartbeat under the right circumstances.
"Anyway," she sighed, trying to change the subject, "are we going to gamble or something? What is it you usually do when you come here?"
"It's a surprise. I guarantee we're going to have a lot of fun this weekend. I have it all taken care of."
She couldn’t have cared less. The closer they got to the city, the more she wanted to jump out of the car and find a
way out, just out, anywhere. Even running amongst the towering Joshua trees and desolate rolling hills seemed satisfying enough. It didn't matter where.
Paul knew exactly where to go. He'd been here many times before. She could tell. Paul pulled up at a hotel that was off the main strip. The motel had one of those walk-up windows where you could slip your money and license through a drawer while the front desk attendant handled everything behind the safe bubble of Plexiglas. Sophia watched from the car while Paul paid in cash. The sound and background of a flickering fluorescent light ripped into the dry night air like lightning, consuming all her thoughts while Paul chatted bullshit with the front desk attendant.
He came back and motioned for her to follow him to room 213. Once inside, he immediately picked up the phone and punched numbers.
"I'm calling to see if Mercedes is available tonight. I'm a regular customer. William J. Dutton. If you don't have my card on file, I have it right here."
Sophia stared at him, but there was no question behind her eyes. Her stare was one of disbelief and anger. This fucker was ordering a hooker with a fake name, or possibly with a deceased person's name. He looked pleased as he hung up the phone. She didn't.
"What?"
"What do you mean, 'what'? You get on to me about writing in a journal, and you're having a fucking hooker over here to do hell knows what. Why aren't we just picking up someone on the street?"
"I meant to discuss that with you. Your habits are...” Paul wrinkled his nose. “Unsanitary, to say the least. I'm surprised you haven't picked up AIDS or something like that. These girls get tested. I only pick classy girls." That smug look again. She wanted to rip it off his face and stuff it down his throat.
"What about that girl in the alley? She didn't look so classy."
"You shut up," Paul said through his teeth as he strode across the tiny hotel room. She didn't see his hand, but when it connected with the back of her skull she was just as dazed as before. Her eyes swam in their sockets and the blow nearly knocked her off the bed. "I knew about her background." Sophia almost asked how, but part of her didn't want to know.
"You'll enjoy it. Don't worry."
A knock on the door. Must be Mercedes, she thought as she rolled her eyes. The girl had an expectant grin plastered on her face when Paul opened the door. The smile still stuck as Paul pulled her in.
What Lies Within Page 9
