“Here you go,” she announces with less enthusiasm than her earlier attempt.
“Thanks,” he mumbles, slipping her a note which is more than required for the amount, and when she goes to make change, he holds up his right hand, “Keep it.”
“Thanks,” she grins, resolving back to the temptress with this gratuity.
He doesn’t have a lot of cash to spare, but the appearance of nonchalance is more of his lack of concern for things outside the pull of his obsession. He glances past the stripper on the small stage nearest him, eyes moving to see another sitting in a customer’s lap, trying to seduce into further transactions. He has seen others walking into more secluded areas, some booths where he sees the unmistakable bobbing of heads in the midst of fellatio. Still others have disappeared through the side door, and he figures they’re getting the full treatment in the rear of the place.
Another of the girls walks by, her bleach blonde hair tied into two long pigtails on either side of her head, the darker roots of her hair visible at the part. Her blouse shows off her belly, the somewhat puffy garment clinging firmly to her small chest, giving it some lift, then leaving her shoulders bare to travel about her biceps. She also wears similar high heels as the others and a very short skirt, one which barely manages to cover most of her alluring behind. Though she looks attractive enough, perhaps one of the overall better looking ladies in here, that is not what catches his sudden attention. She notes this, almost as though the girls here have built-in sensors, as her eyes go to him, peering from within the heavy, dark make-up. She alters her course quite obviously, sauntering over to him.
“Hi,” she says, giving a sort of half-grin, seductive smirk of her lushly colored lips, the liner about them to make them appear even fuller, more inviting, “Want some company?”
He peers at her legs, seeming transfixed by the slender, coltish appendages. She notices this, of course, posing herself in such a way as to better display them.
“What’s that tattoo?” he asks, getting closer, eyes squinting to enhance his focus.
“Oh, that,” she says, grinning more openly, even emitting a very short, almost silent giggle, and she turns to better display her left leg, raising up her skirt, thus showing off her entire hip, and the suggestive stretch of her g-string, angling herself in such a way as to also give up the luring curve of her rear end.
She has moved closer for this, and he leans in even more, peering with a great intensity. She continues to grin, not at all bothered by his scrutiny. With this closer inspection, he can tell the tattoo is fresh, some of the nearby skin showing pink, the thing shining with ointment, likely just received in the past couple of days at most. It is of an intricate pattern, almost chaotic, abstract, with many intersecting lines, some straight, some curved. The design is also mostly black, though some coloring blossoms out from intersections of lines. It covers a decent portion of her upper left thigh, having shown itself peeking out below her skirt.
“Do you like it?” she asks, still grinning, shifting her hips so as to sway into a slow luring motion.
“Where did you find this design?” he asks, oblivious to her question, even reaching up with his hands to gently place them at her waist, trying to stop her movement, so he may better study the marking.
“I dreamt it.”
He looks up at her, slowly moving back into his chair as he straightens up from having been somewhat bent forward, thus diminishing the relative distance between their eyes. She just keeps smiling at him, though the degree of the expression does lessen some from his behavior.
“You dreamt it?” he asks, his face pinching inward, something a very careful observer might note as dread.
“Yeah,” she nods, pursing out her lower lip, giving a subtle shrug, “I had a strange dream, and when I woke up, I remembered it, so I sketched it out and went to the tattoo shop. Do you like it?” she tries again, smiling up to a greater luminescence, showing her teeth, back to the gentle sway of her hips since he has dropped his hands.
“I understand it,” he replies, and this gets her to fully stop moving.
Her smile drops, traded for bewilderment, “Huh?” she says, brow furrowed.
“It’s makes geometric sense, though it is definitely not conventional, non-Euclidean,” he expands, his voice sort of turning to a musing murmur toward the end.
“Uh,” she wrinkles her top lip, “I thought it just looked kind of like a strange, neat web.”
“You sketched this?” he looks back up at her, speaking more clearly. “From the memory of your dream?”
“Yeah,” she nods, her smile back, interpreting his attention as something positive directed at her.
“This is rather complex,” he says, looking at it again.
“Well, I used to draw and paint when I was younger. I kind of wanted to become an artist, but … here we are,” she presses her lips inward, eyebrows perked, hands moving out upon bent arms, presenting herself and making a joke of her own lot in life.
“This is just remarkable,” he comments, back to looking at the tattoo.
“Well, thanks,” she says, perhaps having finally reached her threshold of indulgence, “I’m glad you like it. I’m working here, so,” she leads, looking down at him.
He does not look up, still transfixed on her body art, so she playfully taps him on the top of his head. Her lengthy nail does not feel the unwashed greasiness of his hair, the shine and angles of it done with a casual application of cheap styling gel he managed to acquire, using the travel sized bottle sparingly. He peers up at her.
“You want to go have some fun together?” she pitches, putting on her best, seductive smile, thinking this is his last chance.
He gives this some thought, much more so than the flippant negatives given to the other girls who tried before. He feels a swelling of the compulsion and opens his mouth to answer.
*****
Death has come to this building, the pale stucco walls of the small complex like slowly decaying bone, the ‘L’-shaped structure holding just less than two dozen rooms, all small, cramped, but possessed of the minimum requirements to get by. Every one even has its own shower, which is more than most might expect from such a place. This is luxury, some have said, but they say so in order to manipulate, control, indebt.
Each of the residents is a prostitute, answering to the local crime ring, though allowed the “freedom” of a private living space, occasionally doing business out of her apartment, some working at the nearby club, a short walking distance away, no more than four blocks. Some of them keep their quarters clean, some do not. If they are too clean, it may even catch notice from the men in charge, and that is not good. If most time is spent working, partying, doing drugs, sleeping, then who has time to clean?
Cleanliness was not a concern for death. The killer did follow a scent here, but that particular smell was of vibrancy, a dazzling array like underwater light reflected by a metal fishing lure, but this fish has proved a shark. The shark swam in, its sensitivity practically overloaded from all the headiness, these waters clouded with a richness that might give one to swoon in so many ways, but rules are rules, and all of these other temptations had been ignored. Many other potential lures were hardly seen, worthless to this killer.
The one had been marked, chosen, and she had been rent, laid open and now devoid of life, her gruesome remains waiting to be found, the door carelessly left ajar, as if the killer does not try to hide in any expected way, thus expediting her discovery.
The other girls would express their own selfish luck, some even feeling a small twinge of guilt, at having been spared, but there was no luck involved here. This had been a choosing as sure as any act of Will. The timing had finally dawned, birthed unto this night like a screeching, blind babe come to announce a presence of evil, something known, felt, even if not seen. Each death like a sacrifice, a feeding, all meant to convey a transference of energy, an emergence from change.
Rules are rules.
*****
He reclines in the antique French gilt Aubusson upholstered armchair, one of a pair in this exquisite sitting room, three of the four walls bearing of expensive works of art, each canvas rather large, held in thick, gold-painted, wooden frames, the corners pushing out further, somewhat bulbous. He relaxes, looking over the comprehensive list on his touchpad, most of the information there having little to no value to him. He had already run a search on the names, and the title he seeks had shown up, and so like a beacon, that one draws his attention. He sits there in the expensive chair in this fine house he has rented for his hopefully short stay in the city, and he runs a lengthy, polished nail across his bottom lip.
She lied to him.
Why did she lie, he wonders.
He ponders this calmly, not letting it anger or otherwise disrupt him. It is far too interesting to figure out why than to take personal offense. Though he does wonder if it is personal. Personal for her, or perhaps personal toward him? Either way, whatever the reason, he wants to know.
He sets the slim device on the nearby rich cherry wood end table, the legs of the Victorian piece curved in a gentle shape, the gilt bronze accentuating it, culminating in the intricate face of a gargoyle as the centerpiece.
He delicately takes up the handle of the bone china tea cup. He sips of the creamy tea, hints of lavender wafting up. The vessel is very ornate, the bowl of it like the outer tracing of a fully bloomed rose. The top inner edge of the cup is a deep blue, gold designs of a very intricate nature extending throughout. A softly painted rose, also of the same blue, holds place at the center of the saucer, a no doubt matching flower also at the bottom of the cup’s interior.
He savors the taste of the tea, letting it help to calm him even further, giving willingly to its embrace as he ponders more on the situation. No, the revelation.
The book is there. The second one of the Three. And the curator of the collection, Ms. Lilja Perhonen lied to him about it. Why? What is she protecting? Surely not the book. It is under lock and key and quite the robust security system, he has discerned. It is, of course, not proof against all efforts, but still, it is a quite valiant effort that could offer sufficient deterrence. He does not think this is exactly the case of some guardian having gotten too drunk with power. He could even go over her head, if he wished to take that somewhat complicated route, and gain access to the book, but that option does not seem the most attractive at this time.
What does she know, he then wonders.
Could she possibly be aware of the powerful secrets the book holds? But if so, why lie to him about it? She’d have to somehow perceive him as a challenger, a threat. Could that be possible? He blinks into a very slight furrowing of his brow, following the thread of this thought.
She would have to know that he intends to possess the book, if he is able, but still, it needs be more than that. If she knows he wishes to have it, then she has to figure he knows it is there, so lying of its presence seems foolish. She must think this sophomoric deflection would actually throw him off the scent, and if so, then she has no idea who he is, no idea of what he is capable, and if that is the case, then why would she know he wants it as he does?
He briefly entertains the idea that perhaps another collector has offered her some tremendous bribe to purchase it, and she might be considering breaking the law and selling it. He almost as quickly discards this idea, for though he is not psychic, he can read people fairly well, and he does not think she is the type to do such as that. Besides, the other potential competitors for this book would not likely take such an avenue for its acquisition.
And what of the other interested parties? Is it possible they have also learned of the tome being in this city, perhaps even in the school’s collection of rare books? He ponders this more, but measures have been taken to alert him to such things. These are, of course, not full proof, but he feels fairly confident he’d know. Unless … no, he decides to remain confident.
He has another sip of his drink, slurping it very lightly, eyes off in some other realm than the corporeal one in which he sits. Whatever it is he may see, he still travels within the maze of his thoughts, thinking of the book, of its sentinel, of its other defenses, and why she has done as she has. Her actions almost seem desperate to him, knee jerk, but again, he is not sure why he picks up on such threads. Her control appeared almost impeccable, and that does not mingle with being reckless.
She is quite the enigma. He will have to find out more about her. And he thinks an “accidental” rendezvous may be in order.
He sips further of his tea. Nothing outward changed, but then a very slow curl takes his lips. Yes, he has come to a conclusion, a course of action, another domino to gently push and see what falls – the expected or the chaotic? He appears rather satisfied with his decision.
*****
“Lots of blood missing on this one.”
Officers Pasztor and Mahler are again getting a report from the coroner, and both look at each other, then to McNeese.
“How can you tell?” Mahler asks her. “The prior two were pretty much completely gutted.”
“Yes,” she says, “but our analysts on the scene are generally able to make a decent determination, looking at blood spatter in addition to what is left in the victim. The state of this one was actually less of a mess, and there is a sufficient lack of blood volume for what is expected in the human body.”
“Wait, what?” Pasztor rumbles. “The killer took the blood?”
“I am not saying that,” McNeese tries to be patient, speaking slowly, emphatically, eyes peering at the detective like a frustrated teacher with a headstrong, ignorant student.
“Then what are you saying?” he persists.
“There is sufficient lack of blood volume for what is expected in the human body,” she repeats.
He throws up his hands, scoffing, turning away. The other gives her something of a sympathetic look. She is not needful of either reaction.
“Detective Pasztor, I am the coroner. You are the detective,” she reminds him.
“I know that,” he snaps, turning, glaring at her, “What did the killer do with it? Are we dealing with a vampire?”
Mahler, generally the diplomatic one of this duo, loses his composure at this, letting lose a few chuckles, looking at the floor and bringing a hand up to somewhat cover his face, in a mostly symbolic effort to conceal his amusement. He receives a look from his partner, but before he may speak, the coroner does so.
“I do not know if the killer consumed the blood. I am also not a profiler,” she reminds him. “What I can tell you is that sufficient lack of blood volu-.”
“Yes, yes, I heard you!” Pasztor interrupts, throwing his hands up again, then looking at the other officer, who is jittering with the diminishment of his chuckles. “Shut up,” he delivers, not amused in the least.
Mahler wonders if the two ought to get back together, or at least have a few good, savage rows. The tension between the ex-lovers is always so palpable. He looks between them, Pasztor still looking challengingly at him, the coroner rather exasperated.
“Let’s continue,” he leads.
“Similar wounding, same weapon,” McNeese falls right back into her role, certainly no lack of professionalism on her part, “Well, weapons,” she points out, emphasizing the plural. “This one had an approximately five centimeter cut across the throat, which was effectively the cause of death.”
“Effectively?”
She spares a single shooting glance to Pasztor. “It was the cause of death ... as best I can tell. There is another, very deep puncture wound, just underneath her sternum that pierced the heart, causing enough tissue damage to disrupt normal rhythm. If she were alive at that time.”
“Well, can’t you tell from the arterial spray from when her throat was cut or something?”
“I am not a field blood spatter analyst,” she repeats to Pasztor, “And the documents are being studied to determine better information, but as I said about the
lack of blood volume at the scene …” she sends a narrowed gaze his way, making her point.
“Wait,” Mahler bids, getting two pairs of eyes on him, and he looks up from his pondering, showing surprise to have so gained the attention of the other two, “If the victim was dead prior to the throat being cut, then there would not be the arterial spray, and if there was a lack of blood at the scene …”
“That is a good point, Detective,” the curvaceous woman concedes, “But the lack of blood, and arterial spray,” she says, looking pointedly at both, “at the scene just tells us that there is a lack of blood at the scene. One reason for the lack of blood could be that the victim was killed elsewhere then deposited where found.”
“Ah, right,” Pasztor chimes in, “So, the killer may not have taken blood as trophy or some sort of bizarre fetish but just killed the girl in one place and left her in another.”
“Yes, Detective,” McNeese nods, and Pasztor looks up at her, not sure if she is being sincere of patronizing.
He will remain unsure, as she has turned to the corpse in question, gazing at the cleaned and autopsied remains atop the table, consulting the touchpad in her right hand. She extends the ballpoint pen, a constant tool of hers, using it mainly as a pointer rather than a writing instrument, and raises the covering sheet.
“I thought you two might be interested in this,” she says, revealing the victim’s left leg.
The two move closer peering, noticing the intricately designed tattoo high up on the corpse’s thigh. It looks rather fresh, an abstract pattern, and left entirely untouched by the brutality which has taken her life.
“That’s an interesting tattoo,” Mahler remarks.
“Yes, something that looks very unique,” Pasztor adds, both serious and focused now. “I am sure we could check the sort of parlors that these girls frequent and get some leads, help us with identifying her.”
Dance of the Butterfly Page 17