by J. R. Rain
It was mid-afternoon. The east-facing window was in shadows, the sun hidden somewhere west of the house. The soft glow from the desk lamp highlighted her sharp chin and equally sharp nose. I wanted to nuzzle that chin, sharp or not.
“I think that, if my own twin had lived,” I heard myself saying, “I think—maybe—I would have done anything for him, too. Anything to make him happy.”
“That is often the case. Twins will do anything for each other.”
“Even share a girl?”
“If that’s what it takes to make the other happy, yes,” she said.
“The twin that is lacking feels entitled to what the other has.”
“Exactly.”
“And this has been your personal experience, as well?” I asked.
“Yes, but you outgrow some of it, although not entirely.”
“But a high school student...”
“A high school student would still be in the thick of it, and still be confused and prone to make poor decisions.”
“Like allowing his brother to have sex with his girlfriend.”
“Yes, that would be a poor decision.”
The clock above me ticked loudly in the darkened office. I knew that Dr. Vivian lived alone. I knew that she had never been married and I knew that her twin was indeed married. I wondered if Dr. Vivian felt entitled to have sex with her twin’s husband. I decided that it was probably best not to ask.
“His twin was murdered,” I said.
“So you’ve said.”
“What will happen to him now, being the surviving twin?” I asked.
“He’s in serious trouble.”
“What do you mean?”
“We might lose him. Drugs, depression, suicide. Pick one. His brother’s loss may be too much for him to bear, too much to deal with. In the least, he should probably be under careful supervision.”
“What would you do if you lost your sister?” I asked.
“Mr. King....”
“Aaron,” I said.
She closed her mouth and tilted her head a little. Her jawline looked sharp enough to cut paper. Sharp but delicate. Her thick glasses gleamed.
“Aaron, that is an awful thought to think, perhaps the worst I can imagine.”
We were silent. We watched each other.
“Do twins kill each other?” I asked.
“It happens, but it’s rare.”
“What would provoke a twin to do that?”
“The usual reasons, but more often than not it stems from jealousy. One twin has amounted to something great, while the other has fallen off the map, so to speak. Even still, something must trigger the killing. A fight, an argument, something. Like I said, it’s rare.”
“But not out of the question.”
“Nothing is out of the question.”
“And the twin who does the murdering...?”
“Is screwed forever. The grief is off the charts. The guilt is unbearable.” She looked at me for a second or two. “Do you think this boy killed his brother?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But either way, he’s in trouble.”
She nodded. “The suicide rate for surviving twins is off the charts.” She looked at me steadily. “And this should give you some indication as to the depth of your own loss, Aaron.”
Ah, my own loss. Little Jessie....
“But I don’t remember him,” I said.
“Yes, you do,” she said with surprising urgency. “The memory of your brother is within you, stored away, and can be triggered by any number of techniques.”
I knew of a technique, although I sometimes wondered if it was just my imagination. Sometimes when I am alone—especially in bed and especially in the wee hours of morning—I can hear a tiny, frenetic heartbeat, a beautiful sound that surrounds me and fills me. And when this happens, I just lie there and close my eyes and recede deep into my subconscious and slip into a tiny and warm and inviting place. And sometimes...sometimes I have the ghostly sensation of little fingers exploring my little body, touching my head, my cheek, my arm, my leg...and if I am lucky, if I am really lucky, sometimes I can feel this loving little creature hold me close, wrapping his tiny arms and legs around me, and our hearts beat as one and I can feel all the love in the world radiate from this perfect little angel....
And then the sensation would pass and I would lie there in the morning, alone and in agony and weeping.
“I miss him,” I said to Dr. Vivian. “I miss him so damn much.”
She said nothing, but there were tears in her eyes.
Chapter Forty-three
The package was once again delivered via UPS. It was left on my doorstep, propped against my apartment door. UPS and I have this agreement: they keep my signature on file and leave all packages at my door when I’m not home, and I don’t throw a shit-fit. It’s a nice agreement.
Once again, the package was addressed to E.P. I studied the writing. Small, neat writing. Could be anyone, but more than likely my gig was up, unless I found this person. Unless I convinced them to keep this secret of mine under wraps. The convincing part could turn ugly.
I unlocked the door, tossed my keys on my kitchen table, and immediately opened the small package. Inside was a compact disk. I pulled it out and turned it over.
Son-of-a-bitch.
It was my daughter’s latest album. In fact, it wasn’t even in the stores yet. A pirated copy, perhaps. A red disclaimer in the bottom corner read: Advanced Copy—Resale Strictly Prohibited, followed by penalties and fines, which included more money than I had in my savings and checking combined. Oh, and jail time, too.
So who had sent it? And why? Obviously someone who worked within the music industry, right? Or perhaps the CD had been stolen. In fact, more than likely it had been stolen.
My heart thumping loudly in my chest, I looked at my daughter’s picture on the CD cover. God, she was beautiful. And she was certainly my baby. We had the same eyes and lips, only my eyes and lips looked far different now. She looked happy in this picture, real joy in her eyes and in her smile. Daddy was proud.
So was this CD sent as a direct threat against my daughter? A warning? Was something going to happen to her? What the fuck was going on?
I went to the fridge and popped a Miller Lite and drank it right there in front of the open refrigerator. I tossed the empty bottle, popped open another, and brought it and the disk over to the CD player.
I inserted the disk and pressed play.
Chapter Forty-four
Hours later, long after I had listened to my daughter’s newest CD more times than I could remember, my feet were up on the old artist drawing table that doubled as my desk, and I was deep in thought.
Kendra the Wonder Kat was up on the desk, too, next to the keyboard, sleeping on an afghan blanket that I had folded there for her. She was curled in a tight ball, her black tiger stripes prominent against her gray fur. She spasmed slightly in her sleep, perhaps dreaming of chasing mice or rubber superballs.
Through my open sliding glass door, a mishmash of trees and plants and everything in-between swayed and swished on the hillside that rose up just outside my balcony. Beyond the trees, mostly hidden from sight, were Echo Park’s bigger homes. Beyond them was Elysian Park, and still further was Dodger Stadium.
I was trying to make sense of the facts of the case, and nothing much was making sense. I had a dead twin, a missing girl, a white van, an unknown driver, a bum, a grocery store clerk, a distraught mother, and little else.
Actually there was something else. I went online and found a number in the Yahoo Yellow Pages. I dialed it and while I waited, I scratched my sleeping cat between her ears. She mewed and stretched and then sort of curled under herself in a position that didn’t look entirely comfortable, but one she seemed fine with. The line picked up.
“Keys Agency.”
“Rick Keys please.”
“You got him.”
“Help, I think my wife is cheating on me!”
/> “I’m sorry to hear that, what makes you—”
“You were following me the other day, dickhead,” I said, breaking in. “I want to know why.”
Rick was silent, chewing on this. “Is this King?”
“You think?”
“Just doing my job, King. No hard feelings.”
“Who hired you?”
“You know I can’t tell you that.”
“I could threaten to kick your ass,” I said.
“You’re too old to kick my ass.”
“True,” I said, but I still thought I could take him. Keys was smaller than I, and he wore a mustache. I could kick anyone’s ass who wore a mustache. “Then what was the nature of the surveillance?”
I could almost hear him working through it on the other end of the line. I had, after all, tagged him. The gig was up.
“To follow you,” he said. “And give a detailed report of your activity.”
“And did you?”
“Emailed it this morning,” he said. “And about an hour ago I was called off your case.”
“Called off?”
“The assignment is over.”
“You must have filed a hell of a report.”
“Or that I inadvertently gave my client what they were looking for.”
“And you won’t tell me who this person is.”
“Not even if you beat me with your cane. Goodbye, King.”
He hung up, and I absently drummed my finger on my unsteady drawing desk, which promptly started wobbling. Someday I would get a new desk. Someday. But new desks cost money, and I’d become a miser in my dotage.
Wobbling or not, the cat slept soundly, although her ears moved independently of each other, no doubt honing in on police sirens, bird chirps and sounds unheard by human ears.
So who had hired Keys to follow me? I didn’t know, but I took it as a sign that I was getting close to the truth, and if I had to, I’d beat the shit out of Keys to get his information.
Better go buy a cane.
Chapter Forty-five
“Flip what’s-his-name’s murder and Miranda’s disappearance could still be a coincidence,” said Clarke.
“That’s no way to speak of the dead.”
“Coming from someone who’s supposed to be dead.”
We were in my apartment. I was sitting at my desk drinking a beer and absently flipping through Miranda’s case file. Clarke was making his rounds around my apartment again; meaning, he was examining everything, touching everything and generally acting a bit creepy. He did this sometimes, and I wasn’t sure why. I knew that Clarke had been a big fan of mine, but he usually kept his fan-like tendencies in check. Except on these rare occasions when he seemed incapable of sitting still, when he seemed possessed by a need to peruse my home, my belongings, my everything. I was certain—and this was a slightly disturbing thought—that he would have probably gone through my drawers if I were not around. Not that he would take anything, just that he seemed incapable of controlling himself, of reigning himself in.
At the moment, he was standing in front of my entertainment center, looking at the assorted pictures of my daughter and caressing the frames carefully. I wondered if he was even aware of his actions.
“Do the police have any leads on his murder?” Clarke asked.
“None yet.”
“Or none that they’re telling you.”
“Or that,” I said.
“So he gets murdered and four days later she goes missing. We still don’t even know if they were dating, let alone seeing each other. Might be good to know.”
I agreed.
Now Clarke was looking at my shot glass chess set carefully. Picking up each piece, turning the glasses over in his fingers, and putting them back exactly where he had found them. Disturbing as it was, I was used to this strange behavior, and just chalked it up as another bizarre oddity in the life and times of Aaron King and his attorney sidekick, Clarke.
Miranda’s case file was now quite thick and filled mostly with my own hand-written notes, all stamped, of course, with the date they were filed and placed in chronological order. A private detective’s notes can potentially be subpoenaed and used in a court of law, and so I did everything by the book, just in case I was ever called in to testify, which I sometimes was. I generally made for a good witness, in part because of my meticulous notes.
And because you are a ham.
Now as I flipped through the file, skimming past notes and witness statements and tidbits of evidence collected no matter how small or trivial, I came across a tiny piece of paper that I had taped to a bigger piece of paper so that it wouldn’t get lost in the shuffle. It was the receipt I had found in Miranda’s jeans. I squinted at it now. A pub called Half Pint. It was in Hollywood, and I knew the place. The receipt was dated two days before Flip’s murder and, consequently, six days before Miranda’s disappearance.
Presently, Clarke was scanning the books on my bookshelf—the same books he had scanned a few weeks earlier, the last time he was here. He pulled one out, leafed through it, shoved it back in place. Now he was examining the DVD covers to Miranda’s movies. The movies were days late, but I didn’t care. I would add the fines to my final bill.
As I watched Clarke flip through the movies, an idea occurred to me, and as it did a familiar sensation rippled through me. It was my Spidey-sense, so to speak. It told me that I was in the presence of a clue, or perhaps something big. Either that, or I had eaten some bad shrimp for lunch.
“Clarke, you’ve seen all of Miranda’s movies, right?”
“Of course,” he said. He had already moved on to examining my dented brass world globe. “I’m an entertainment attorney, remember? I represent Miranda and her family, and I get free shit all the time, especially movies and CDs, sometimes even before they come out.”
“Fine,” I said. “What were the themes of the first two movies?”
“Themes?”
“You know, the basic through-line?”
He tilted his head, thinking, then moved away from the globe and re-read the back of the movies. “A bank heist and a serial killer.”
“Look deeper,” I said.
He did, then snapped his head up.
“She was kidnapped in both,” he said.
I nodded and stood. I ran my hand through my hair, my mind racing, and paced the small area in font of my computer desk. There was something here. Something important.
“So what are you getting at, Aaron?”
“I’m not sure yet,” I said.
“You think someone kidnapped her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Life imitating art?”
“Maybe. There’s something here. I can feel it.”
“You’re grasping at straws.”
“At least I’m grasping at something.”
“Millions of people have seen her movies, Aaron. That’s a lot of potential suspects.”
“So let’s narrow it,” I said. “What do we know about Miranda?”
“And that’s a rather broad ques—”
I cut him off. “We know that the men in her life tend to act oddly, irrationally.”
Clarke nodded, following me.
“She tends to attract stalkers,” he said.
“And those who appear to have a hard time letting her go,” I said.
“Like her ex-boyfriend,” said Clarke.
“Exactly.”
“So you’re saying some weirdo watched these two movies, developed an obsession with her, and decided to act out the movies and kidnap her?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“That’s a hell of a reach, my friend.”
I ignored him. “What if Miranda found herself in another situation where someone she knew or dated is having a hard time letting go,” said Clarke.
“By keeping her captive, like in the movies?”
“Maybe it’s a sick fantasy.”
“I’ll bite, but unless it’s someone she know
s, that’s a lot of potential suspects out there.”
“Then let’s work with who she knows.”
“Hey, you’re the detective, Aaron. I’m just a humble entertainment attorney.” He finally sat on the leather sofa, which he examined as well, running his hands over it and basically molesting the thing. “We know all about her past boyfriends. One’s dead, and one’s in New York. So who’s left?”
I had stepped over to the DVD cases and was flipping through them, thinking hard. “Is there anything else that connects her with these two movies?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Did she work with the same actors or director?”
Clarke shook his head.
“No, I repped her for both deals. Different directors and actors.” He frowned and stopped examining my couch. “But she did sign a two-movie deal with Alpha-Beta Productions.”
“So she worked with the same producers on both movies?”
“Exactly.”
“But not on her third or fourth movie?”
Clarke nodded. “Right. She’d left Alpha-Beta by then and was working with a new production company.”
That familiar tingle was back, that wonderful crackle that whipped wildly through my body like an electric current. Now I was about 90% certain it wasn’t the shrimp I had eaten at lunch.
“So maybe someone from her old production studio didn’t want her to leave?” said Clarke.
“Maybe,” I said.
“Another obsession?”
“Only one way to know.”
Chapter Forty-six
Half Pint was a small place in Hollywood. It was also gloomy and consisted mostly of a lot of tall stools and one long scarred oak counter. A massive screen TV hung suspended from the ceiling. Presently showing on it was a taped Joe Cocker concert. Lord, I love that man.
I sat on a tall stool at the long bar. The bartender was a young guy with a lot of hair and even more tattoos. He wore his jeans low on his hips. There was something shiny sticking out of his chin. A spike, I think. I ordered a Heineken and showed him the picture of Miranda. As he poured my drink, he studied the picture closely, squinting.