LoveMurder

by Saul Black

  “I’m not worried about my conscience,” Valerie said.

  For a moment Katherine didn’t reply. Arden shifted in her seat.

  “Yes you are,” Katherine said. “It’s your one weakness. Well, that and love.”

  “Fine,” Valerie said, straightening, taking her weight back onto her feet. “You’re making the decision for me.”

  Katherine, who had been leaning forward on the desk, now eased back in her chair. Her white hands were like two rare and lovely flowers in her lap. She sighed, then looked at Valerie as if with an invitation to stop teasing each other. All right. Come on. I know we’ve been playing. Let’s be friends now. Valerie forced herself to give nothing in return, neither resistance nor concession. She just held herself still. A little backroom or subdepartment of her consciousness was, however, enjoying the discovery of a new working maxim: if in doubt, say nothing.

  “Sorry,” Katherine said. “It’s my fault. It’s me. I can’t resist baiting you.” She leaned forward again and put her cuffed hands on the mess of papers. “Seeing you makes me realize afresh how much less of myself there is than when I came in here. Makes me ramp up the paltry little bit of me that’s left. Which isn’t much, is it? Just a spiteful cat with blunt claws. I know I can still irritate you, but that’s nothing in comparison to what you can do to me. Which is to make me ashamed of the narrowness of my mean little scope. Whereas if you ask Agent Arden here, she’ll tell you: with her I’ve been absolutely angelic, the model of diligent cooperation.”

  Because she couldn’t help herself, Valerie glanced at Arden. All three of them understood—Arden with a slight delay—that Katherine’s last remark had been an insult to the agent. As in, she’s not worth baiting. Again Valerie thought: Bad choice, McLuhan. She’s too young for this.

  “The truth is it’s all here anyway,” Katherine said, indicating the papers under her hands. “I’m a good college girl. I have shown my work. Even the FBI should be able to follow it. I suppose I should have eaten every page, destroyed the evidence as I discovered it. That would have left me something to bargain with. But I’m sure Susanna would have prevented it, or had my poor guts opened up to retrieve it, like that awful nanny goat in The Wolf and the Seven Little Kids.”

  Outside the door, the two guards were talking quietly. Valerie thought she recognized Lomax’s depressed monotone in the murmur. Elsewhere in the building a buzzer sounded. She imagined the reduced aural life in here: doors slamming, a mop clanking in a bucket, keys jangling, screams. It made her grateful—deeply, simply grateful—for all the sounds freedom allowed her to take for granted: traffic, car radios, the wind, the ocean, birdsong. You couldn’t enter a prison without wondering how long you’d last if they locked you up in one. No time at all, she thought. Katherine had managed six years. It seemed impossible.

  “That said,” Katherine said, “we’re both winners here.”

  “Are we?”

  “Yes. Please believe me, Valerie, I’m not boasting when I say that there is no way on earth any third party would have understood the way this information works. It’s personal to him, as he said. You have to know him. More important, you have to know what I know about him. In fact, you have to know us, the bizarre little history we had. Take the Marquis de Sade, for example.”

  “What about him?”

  “You could research every last detail of the man, his life, his work, everything. But it still wouldn’t tell you what you needed to know. What you needed to know was that one night we were having a conversation about personal ads. Neither of us had ever placed one in our lives, but we were discussing the most economical way of finding what we needed, had we not been fortunate enough to find each other organically. I don’t have to spell that out, obviously, what we needed?”

  “You don’t have to spell it out, no.”

  “He said he would have placed an ad containing only the following: Dolmance seeks Saint-Ange. That phrase and just that. The right woman, he said, would know exactly what that meant. Dolmance and Saint-Ange are male and female characters, respectively, in a little drama Sade wrote called Philosophy in the Bedroom. It’s hilarious and vicious in equal measure, but you wouldn’t like it, trust me. Or you wouldn’t like yourself for liking it if you did. But I digress. The point is no one would know that the portrait of Sade he included in the package referred to that specific phrase, a phrase which isn’t contained in anything the dear Marquis wrote. And even if, by some miracle or cosmic accident you came up with the phrase, it still wouldn’t help you. Because you wouldn’t know that when we had that conversation, I realized—in one of those wonderful sweet, trivial epiphanies—that ‘bedroom’ is an anagram of ‘boredom.’ It became a joke between us, calling the bedroom the boredom. Ironically, obviously, since whatever else might have been wrong with us, we were rarely bored in the bedroom. Without knowing that play on the word I wouldn’t have gotten anywhere near cracking the letter grids. And even with it I wasn’t completely right. Each of the clues provides a word or a series of numbers. The word is a cipher. The numbers take you to the letter grids. But I had the numbers wrong. The Greek alphabet symbols don’t mean anything. They’re just to throw you off. You know how I know that?”

  “How?”

  “Because we both derived a snobbish little satisfaction from knowing the origins of phrases people use every day in ignorance of where they come from. One of them—one of many—was ‘It’s all Greek to me.’ Meaning, of course, something is incomprehensible. Do you know where that came from?”

  “No.”

  “No. You don’t. I do. The consensus is it’s a direct translation from Latin, Graecum est; non legitur, or Graecum est; non potest legi, which means: ‘It is Greek; it cannot be read.’ Monastic scribes in the Middle Ages used it, because by the Middle Ages knowledge of the Greek alphabet and language was dwindling. A major headache for scholars copying Classical manuscripts.”

  Valerie thought of the look of careful delight on Katherine’s face, applying the cigarette burns to Danielle Freyer. In one of the videos, she’d said: Hold her still. I want these two exactly symmetrical. So she’ll look like she has four nipples.

  “Anyone can Google that information in seconds,” Katherine said. “I’m sure Agent Arden’s elves did. But it wouldn’t have helped them. They probably wasted days trying to integrate the Greek symbols into whatever systems they were working.”

  She paused to let it all settle in. Valerie was thirsty. Once again the minutes weighed like hours.

  “The fact is,” Katherine continued, “that for whatever reason, these things are addressed to me. I have no more idea why than you do. But we both know you need me. And in any case, you’ve got nothing to lose and everything to gain.”

  Valerie remained silent.

  Katherine rolled her head on her neck, as if to ease tension—and indeed Valerie heard a little tick in her muscles, as startling in its way as if a firecracker had gone off. It occurred to her that among the many things she couldn’t imagine Katherine feeling, tiredness and physical discomfort were two of them.

  “He’s probably getting off on the idea of you and me spending time together,” Katherine said. “In close proximity. When we saw you in the papers we both agreed you were sexy as hell.”

  Ignore it.

  Except of course she couldn’t. Katherine had said in the past that she’d had female lovers, and when she’d first told Valerie had followed it a few moments later with: Are you wondering if I’d go to bed with you? I mean, obviously my monstrosity ought to rule out you wondering if you’d go to bed with me, but all of us want to be desired, even by monsters. If you met the Devil you’d be a teeny bit disappointed if he didn’t want to fuck you, regardless of your not wanting to fuck him. Valerie had said: No, I wasn’t wondering that. But it had been Napoleon’s white horse again. Katherine—a more brutal version of herself in those days—had stared at her and said: Well, I would go to bed with you, for the record. You’ve got reluctant knowledge and you
’re not afraid of yourself. Plus the short upper body men love. You must drive Nick fucking crazy.

  Arden swallowed, audibly, and looked down at her hands.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Valerie said. “But it’s irrelevant. What we’re going to do is give all this to the Bureau. You can talk Agent Arden through the process if there’s anything missing from your notes.”

  “I’ve made you uncomfortable,” Katherine said. “And just this once I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry. I’m my own worst enemy. And Susanna, please don’t fret. You’re not my type. I haven’t thought of doing wicked things with you once the entire time we’ve been together. Oh gosh, now you’re blushing. I’m like the proverbial bull in the china shop. Valerie, help me out.”

  Valerie had an image, naturally, of Katherine masturbating, thinking about her. She let it all in, assumed the fantasies would be sadistic, murderous, as ugly as anything she’d seen on the videos. It ran through her head like a high-speed horror film. She found she didn’t care. For herself, she didn’t care.

  And for Nick?

  “You’re beyond any help I could give you,” she said. “We both know that.”

  “What a lot we both know,” Katherine said. “I told you we were sisters.”

  “Agent, could I talk to you outside for a moment?”

  Arden got to her feet. With visible relief.

  “Wait,” Katherine said. “Am I still on the team? Tell me you’re not cutting me off. Please.”

  Valerie turned to her. She felt curiously light of being. “Has it ever occurred to you that we might catch this guy without your help?” she said. “Not to be old-fashioned or anything, but, you know, via police procedure?”

  “Of course,” Katherine said. “You caught me, didn’t you?”

  “It seems I did.”

  “But look how long it took you. Time is blood. Listen: you have the address for your latest, don’t you? This, whatshername … Raylene Ashe?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t tell me what it is. Give me half an hour more with this.”

  “For what?”

  “Because now that I know where I went awry with the letter grids, I’ll be able to work it out. If I get it wrong you can abandon me. I was too slow with this one. If I’d got there sooner she might still be alive. Next time I’ll be faster.”

  In the corridor, Valerie said to Arden, quietly: “Fine, give her her thirty minutes. Let me know if she delivers. Either way, get yourself out of here when she’s done. You don’t need to tell me this hasn’t been any kind of fun for you.”

  “Well, I’ve had better assignments.”

  “I’ll talk to McLuhan,” Valerie said. “It’s his call, obviously, but—”

  “No, don’t do that. I can handle it.”

  Valerie looked at her. Looked at her properly, human to human, woman to woman. Can you handle it? Really?

  “I know,” Arden said. “Don’t worry. She’s not getting in.”

  To my head, she didn’t need to add.

  “Besides,” Arden said, “I can’t afford it. Some jobs too tough for girls, etc. The Bureau’s still a fucking boys’ club, whatever The X-Files says.”

  Katherine didn’t need thirty minutes. Valerie had just got into her car and lit a cigarette when her phone rang. It was Arden.

  “Sorry,” she said. “She nailed it.”

  Nutty dreams again. I was with him. We were in a mall and everyone for some reason was in pajamas. We got separated and it was like being a kid lost. Then I realized I was carrying a baby in my arms and it was his. But when I looked properly it wasn’t a baby at all, it was a cat that looked like it had been in a fire. It was looking at me with big green eyes.

  He called me like he said he would to go over the stuff. I got it perfect. I wanted to see him but he said no, you know how it has to be for now. I do know but it’s hard sometimes. He said trust me and of course I do. I know it’s going to be worth it when we get to the island. I can’t believe I’ve got a passport!!!

  18

  On her way in to work the following morning Valerie got a call from her former neighbor in the Mission, Rita Sorenson.

  “Honey, I’m sorry to bother you, but I’ve still got this package for you from your mom. You said you were going to come by for it a couple of weeks back, so I’m thinking she’s probably had a handful of aneurisms by now.”

  “Oh, shit, sorry, Rita, yes, you’re right. I got sidetracked.”

  The luxury towels from Bed Bath & Beyond. She’d been going to collect them on the morning she and Nick were supposed to have their precious weekend in Calistoga. Her mother would have thought she’d received them and said nothing. It was dreary to Valerie that she knew how her mother functioned—a maddening combination of thoughtfulness and need. The generous impulses were genuine, but so was the insatiable appetite for having them recognized. In her most perverse self, Valerie believed, her mother preferred it if something kind she’d done went unthanked. Not because she exemplified virtue being its own reward, but because she loved the idea of herself as a wounded saint. You couldn’t win: If you were grateful it stroked her ego. If you weren’t grateful it stroked her martyr’s ego. She was a kind woman who ruined it by so nakedly needing to be thought kind.

  “I wouldn’t pester you, hon, but I’m going to Carlotta’s in L.A. for a week of debauchery, and I didn’t want it to be just sitting here, and then if you came by and I wasn’t home, that would be, you know: valuable police time wasted.…”

  “Very funny. It’s my fault. And thanks for holding on to it for me. Listen, I’m not far. How about I swing by and pick it up in ten?”

  “Sure, but don’t mess up your day.”

  “It’s on my way. I’ll see you soon. And thanks again.”

  “Okay, hotshot. See you in ten.”

  A guilty detour, she knew. She wasn’t looking forward to work. Her surface mantra told her that she was dealing with Katherine, that she’d built up an immunity, that she was, for fuck’s sake, fine. But around her colleagues she had a queasy sense that she was being watched. For signs that she was succumbing to the woman’s gravity, that she was losing the plot, that she was once again in the goddamned Drift. McLuhan had been swayed by Katherine’s near miss with the name. Helena Ayres. Raylene Ashe. He agreed that if another package came she should be given the chance to take a look at it (as before, with the Bureau’s team running parallel), but Valerie knew he didn’t like it. His decision was based more on the fear of Katherine somehow making good on her threat that the story would get out. Even on death row she was entitled to see her attorney. Or to hire one friendly to the idea of making the authorities squirm. There were two nightmare tabloid headlines. One would be something like: DESPERATE COPS RECRUIT SATAN’S DAUGHTER. The other (worse) would hold them to blame for leaving Katherine out: THIRD VICTIM NEEDN’T HAVE DIED: ANGEL OF DEATH HAD VITAL INFORMATION. This is like fucking Christmas and Easter and her birthday have all come at once for her, McLuhan had said. The simplest thing would be if we just had her killed. At least then she wouldn’t be an option. When he’d said this, everyone in the room (Valerie, Will, Laura Flynn, Ed Pérez) had the same thought: Well, can’t we have her killed? McLuhan had read it, though no one had said a word. What he’d said in response was: Yeah. I know. Maybe. But not quite yet. Ed had said: Just so you know: If you need a volunteer …

  Valerie pulled up outside her old building on Capp Street. It was a beautiful morning, clean sunlight and a pale turquoise sky. Even the asphalt looked innocent. A gourmet grocery had opened up on her block since she’d left. From its doorway the smells of fresh oregano, cured meats, strawberries. She was naturally receptive to these things, but the recent visits to Red Ridge had sharpened her sensual appreciation. All the things Katherine Glass couldn’t have. Good.

  Rita was leaning on the sill of her open third-story window.

  “Hey, stranger,” she said.

  “Hi, Rita.”

  “You coming in—or are you
on a hot lead?”

  Valerie looked at her watch. “I’m on my way to work,” she said. “But I can—”

  “Stay where you are, hon. I’ll bring it right down. Burn some of these bastard carbs.”

  Rita Sorenson, a very attractive divorcée in her early sixties, lived in the apartment across the hall from the one Valerie had occupied and was aggressively active. Concerts, movies, art classes—a poker group. She’d left her husband fifteen years ago for a man ten years younger. It hadn’t lasted, but she had no regrets. The marriage had been stale for more than a decade, she said. The affair was, in her words, just the kick in the ass she’d needed. You know how it is, she’d confided to Valerie over homemade margaritas one evening. You stay in these things because you’re just plain terrified of Being On Your Own. But the fact was, my soul spoke. I told myself I was in love with Peter (the affair) but really I just used him as the dynamite to put under the whole static mess of the marriage. Sometimes you need to make your own apocalypse, then come out, blinking in the new light. I was dying, and I wanted to live. Thank God. Now look at me: I’m a walking bohemian renaissance! Valerie liked her very much. Granted, it didn’t completely fly—there were fractures of loneliness a keen neighborly eye could see—but Rita was reconciled to them. I might never be in love again, she said, but at my age there’s more to life than love. The world’s still farcical and ugly and beautiful and fascinating. I went to the beach at Santa Cruz the other week with my friend Juliette. You know that dusk light, when the sky’s dark peach and the ocean looks like mercury? I was just sitting there with my toes in the sand and there was such a feeling of tenderness. I’m aware that I sound like a fucking rambling hippie, by the way.…

  “What exactly is a luxury towel?” she said, when she greeted Valerie at the door.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Does it sense when you’re in need and turn into a man? Because if it does I’m hanging on to at least one of these. Jesus. How many are in here?”

  “Four, I think. Do you want a couple? I don’t need them.”