Inconstant Moon - Default Font Edition

by Laurel L. Russwurm

  What a waste, she thinks as she gets a whiff of rich leather as she steps inside. Old fashioned venetian blinds cover the window, admitting bright stripes of sunlight into the room. The contrasting shadow seems all the darker because the sunlight is so bright. A drafting table leans against one wall, a desk and several file cabinets against the other with a long desk in between. The young man seated there looks up from the video game he's playing. He's hard to see in the harsh strips of light, so Lewis moves to the window and adjust the blinds. The young man watches her warily. Wolfrom pulls the door behind him closed and extends a hand with a badge.

  “Mr. Molony, I'm Detective Wolfrom, and this is Detective Lewis. We have a few questions for you.” Molony nods, waving away the badge after a cursory glance, and Wolfrom perches on a corner of the desk. There are no other chairs in the room, so Lewis leans up against the cabinet beside the window.

  “What can I do for you, officers?” asks Molony haughtily.

  “You own a late model red Schwinn bicycle.”

  Molony nods, not sure where this is going. “It's more of a burgundy, but yes, It's a 2009 Classic Seven Deluxe.” He looks at them and frowns. “It hasn't been stolen has it?”

  “No,” Wolfrom tells him, folding his arms across his chest, “But it was spotted on the Christie campus.”

  “At Christie?” Neil Molony goes very still. Then, “But that doesn't make any sense.”

  “It was seen there Mr. Molony. It's a very distinctive bicycle.” Wolfrom watches him.

  Neil splutters, “I never went there. That school is for losers. I went to UCLA. Even my bike wouldn't be caught dead at a dive like Christie.”

  Very softly, from behind, Lewis leans in and says into his ear, “It was used by a flasher, Neil.” Molony has almost forgotten she's there, and nearly jumps out of his skin. Twisting around to face her, he insists “It wasn't me. Wasn't my bike. It had to be somebody else.”

  Wolfrom asks in a neutral tone, “When were you in college Mr. Molony?”

  Molony swivels back to face him. “Uh, oh about five, no six years ago.”

  “And that prepared you for this job here, did it?”

  “Uh, well, no, actually. I decided to help out here until I can find a suitable job in my field. This is really just a stop gap, just until I can put something better together.”

  “And your job here is?”

  “I pull press clippings and keep the publicity files.” Wolfrom nods, glancing around the spacious office. Although somewhat sterile, this office is far too grand for the job description. The guy is connected.

  Again from behind Lewis asks, “What did you take?”

  Without jumping this time, Molony swivels back to look at her. He's starting to feel more confident now. “I majored in film. That's where Spielberg and Lucas went too.”

  Wolfrom looks suitably impressed. “Wow, I'll bet that's hard work to find.”

  Neil haughtily explains “I'm an auteur, I don't work for some schmuck doesn't know from nothing. I intend to direct, which entails putting together a project and packaging. I'm not sure why you're here, though. I do have work to do, you know.” Neil is trying for an imperious dismissal.

  “Well,” says Lewis as she comes around the desk, crossing her arms authoritatively. “What we want is for you to come downtown for a line-up.”

  Trying to hang onto imperious, “A line-up? That's ridiculous!” he says, now visibly nervous. Clenching her jaw, Lewis pins him with her flinty-eyed stare. Neil tries to keep it up, but cracks. “Uh, when do we do this?”

  “Right now.” Lewis hold Neil Molony's eye, then he swallows and nods and Lewis turns and makes for the door. Molony glances nervously back up at Wolfrom, standing by the desk, immobile, waiting. Molony looks away, then stuffs the game machine into a desk drawer and gets to his feet.

  Wolfrom keeps his gaze neutral as he watches the creep come around the desk. Wolfrom feels the thrill. This is a wrong guy all right. Now to find out if it's the right wrong guy.

  chapter 97 . . .

  The taxi arrives at the police station, and Maggie looks pale as she climbs out, so Oscar says, “It'll be fine.” He holds the door to the building open, doffing an imaginary hat for Maggie. She tries a smile, then shrugs and squares her shoulders, marching through the door and heading for the front desk.

  The duty sergeant looks up from his computer monitor expectantly. “Help you?”

  Maggie clears her throat. “I'm uh, here for a line-up.”

  “And that would be with which officer?”

  “Oh uh.” Suddenly flustered. “Oh right, Detectives Lewis and, er, Wolf.”

  “That'd be Detective Wolfrom.”

  Maggie nods, “Yeah.” The officer scrolls through pages of data, skimming until he finds what he's looking for. “Just have a seat over there and I'll get a PC to take you up.”

  “Okay.” Maggie turns and follows Oscar over to the bank of plastic chairs by the window. “PC? Personal computer?”

  Oscar smiles, “Police Constable”.

  Maggie nods. “Ah. Makes more sense than 'politically correct.' ”

  chapter 98 . . .

  Nick measures coffee beans into the hand grinder then sits beside Kate, hunched groggily over a bowl of porridge. Gripping the wooden grinder between his knees, Nick steadies it with his left hand and starts turning the crank.

  As the mechanical chrish-chrish-chrish fills the air, the scent of the freshly ground beans wafts up from the grinder. Kate smiles over at Nick, breathing in the aroma. Nick shakes his head, “You know you don't have to get up this early, babe.”

  “Then I'd almost never get to see you.”

  “Who're you kidding? Your eyes aren't open yet. You're not seeing me now.”

  “I just need coffee.”

  “Almost done. What'd you decide about the meeting? Is it on for tonight?”

  Kate sighs, “I don't know. Maybe.”

  “Did you hear they've caught the guy?”

  “What do you mean caught him . . . caught who?”

  “The cops brought the guy in this morning.”

  Kate says, “Yeah, but they brought Boris in too.”

  “Well, they let him go again too.” Nick shrugs.

  “After Natasha went down and made them let him out.”

  “Well, you know it wasn't Boris.”

  “No, I don't.”

  “Well sure you do.”

  “Honey, he's your friend. I don't really know him. It could very well be him no matter what Natasha thinks.”

  Nick shrugs. “Wait and see. I doubt it, though.”

  “Just 'cause you pump iron with the guy doesn't mean he couldn't be a rapist. I mean, come on.”

  Nick says, “I don't think . . . wasn't she badly beaten?”

  “She was, but Boris is her boyfriend. You know how it goes, they naturally assumed it was him. She checked out of the hospital to get him released.”

  Nick shrugs. “This one's a little different. The campus flasher apparently. Some guy lurking in the woods, Val said.”

  “Maggie's flasher?”

  “Probably. Val's taking the attack personally. He's annoyed nobody told him about the Christie flasher.”

  “You didn't tell him about Maggie?”

  “It never came up. I mean, it was just a funny story. Who knew?”

  “Don't worry babe, I won't rat you out.”

  “He's planning on going after the board of directors for a bigger budget so he can afford to hire guards with brains.”

  “It's about time. Sounds like he's got a handle on it, though.”

  chapter 99 . . .

  Peering through the heavy glass at a uniformed officer flipping the pages on a clipboard, Maggie twists her hands together nervously .

  “You're sure they won't be able to see me?”

  “They won't be able to see you,” Wolfrom assures her. “You're behind one way glass. They'll know somebody is here, but nobody can see who.” Maggie nods.

/>   Wolfrom doesn't tell her it will be different if it gets to court. He keys the mic. “Bring them in.”

  The officer opens the door and a half dozen men walk in and stand in front of the backdrop. Maggie thinks this is just like something on TV. Piece of cake.

  The officer lines the men up, positioning each under a number stencilled on the wall behind them.

  They all look roughly the same, white guys, under six feet, brown hair, glasses, no facial hair. Gee, they all do look alike, what's that all about.

  “Try not to look at them as a group.” Wolfrom suggests, as though reading her mind. “Just look at them one at a time, focus on each one, individually.”

  Maggie nods and turns her attention to the first guy.

  Wolfrom keys the mic again. “Number one step forward please.”

  As he does, Maggie looks at him. Tries to see a person. Okay, wide broad face. Looks a little like Boris maybe, only shorter. Not as built. The uniformed officer signals to the man to turn and he does. Maggie shakes her head. Not him.

  Wolfrom speaks into the mic again. “Thank you. Number two step forward please.”

  Maggie looks at this guy.

  Beyond the superficial average white guy looks these men all share, this one has sallow skin, lank hair hanging limply. The glasses reflect a wicked glint in the overhead light, making it difficult to see his eyes. Could it be this one? Or is it just because he doesn't look as clean cut as the first one.

  “Turn please number two.” As the man turns Maggie gets a good look at his profile. From this angle his nose is much more prominent. Pointy.

  “Not him,” she says softly.

  Wolfrom nods, and tells the mic, “That's fine number two. Number three please. Step forward.”

  Maggie watches as number three looks around nervously.

  Okay, this guy is acting guilty. The question is, is it the guy? He steps forward. Another clean cut one, a hint of beard along the jawline. One of those guys needs to shave three times a day. If it was me, I'd grow a beard, she thinks.

  “Turn please.”

  Maggie purses her lips. Who the hell knows. He just looks like some guy. Like every other guy. So he's acting guilty. But she doesn't know him. She thinks. God. This is harder than she thought. Wolfrom is looking at her. She shrugs. “I don't know.”

  Wolfrom nods before keying the mic. “Thank you number three. Number four step forward please.”

  Oh god they all look the same. Like they were stamped out of the same mold. Wait. This one walks differently. There's something funny about him. Like he was assembled from parts. Wound tight. The way he walks. Tense. Lopsided. Does he look like the guy? Does anybody? Does she even remember after all this time?

  “Turn please number four.”

  As number four turns he clenches his jaw, and Maggie can see that his jaw is out of alignment somehow. Is it because he's clenching it or is he clenching because it's out of alignment. There's something. Meh.

  They need an artist or somebody who knows how to look. She doesn't know how to look at people. Or at least not how to see them. Or their parts, anyway.

  What's wrong with this picture? This guy's glasses are a bit smaller than the others. His eyes are glittery. Is she imagining this? Is she trying to make it be one of these guys so it will be all over? Maybe.

  “I don't know about this one either.” she admits.

  “Thank you number four. Number five step forward.”

  Gee, where do they get these creepy guys, she thinks as she takes in the half smirk on this one's face. Pointier chin. Glancing back at number four's chin for a comparison she thinks, gah, after that one anybody's chin would look pointy.

  Okay okay. Look at him. Number five, Really look at him. But Maggie doesn't want to look at him.

  He's making her feel uncomfortable. Look at him. Some wave in his hair. She doesn't remember his hair at all, it was under the pantyhose. No beard, not even stubble. Perfectly round glasses like Harry Potter. Looks a bit younger than the others. He's glancing around when Wolfrom says, “Turn please” and the guy startles. She sees the way he moves and she knows. It's him. Chills run down her back and she starts to shake.

  “That's him. That's the one.”

  “Are you sure? Take your time.”

  “That's him that's him that's HIM.” and Wolfrom draws back, while blood drains from Maggie's face and he thinks she's maybe gonna faint but then she bends down and grabs the waste paper basket.

  Wolfrom looks away as she throws up. When she's done he passes her the box of tissues, then keys the mic.

  “Thank you number five. Number six step forward please.”

  Maggie looks at him wanly. “But it's number five. I made the identification.”

  Wolfrom assures her, “Procedure.”

  chapter 100 . . .

  Oscar's arms are protectively wound around Maggie's shaking form as they ride home in the back of a cab. He feels a little guilty because he's enjoying it so much as Maggie snuggles in closer.

  It would be near perfect if the ruddy cabbie wasn't watching them in the mirror almost as much as he's watching the road. Oscar is going to say something, but then the taxi driver clears his throat, and says, “Don't worry, lady. You'll get through this. Look, I know this lawyer can probably help. I can give you his card, you want.”

  Oscar feels the difference in the timbre of Maggie's shaking, as she pulls her face away from his neck. Her eyes are red rimmed and her face is streaked with what used to be make up, but her lips are tightly clenched together to keep the giggles in.

  “No, that won't be necessary, thanks.” Oscar assures the cabbie as the cab pulls up in front of Fyfield House.

  Oscar pays the guy and opens the cab door. Giggling, Maggie takes Oscar's hand for help getting out of the car. She slams the door and watches as the cab pulls away. Turning back to Oscar she says, “Look Oz, I'm sorry I'm such a mess. I don't know why this is getting me so bad.”

  “It's fine Maggie. You just have too much imagination. Come on up, I'll buy you a drink.”

  chapter 101 . . .

  Tamara squints at the painfully bright light. Covering her eyes with her hands she pulls the blanket over her head. Blanket?

  It's a scratchy wool blanket. And it's heavy. Smells like flowers. Lavender maybe?

  Where's the duvet? Peeking out from under the blanket again, and the light is like needles stabbing directly into her brain. A lot of frilly pink shit. She hates pink. She's not home, it's gotta be Barbie's dream house.

  Meow, stop it girl. Barbie is a good friend, just cause you've got a hangover is no reason to dis the girl, not even in your own head. Not her fault her mom's so scary.

  Stop it . . . stop it . . . you're being a bitch again. You drank that shit all by your lonesome. Barbie was a saint, bringing you home. Uh oh. Didn't you throw up on her?

  God. And what day is it? What time? Can't risk missing any more classes.

  Sit up. Whoa girl, way too fast, the world is too damned unfocused. Except for the pointy bits stabbing directly into her brain. Gotta do something about the light.

  Tamara pushes the blanket off and lowers her feet to the floor. Sure as hell seems a long way down. And it's moving. How much did she drink to be still having bed spins in full daylight?

  Ohmigod. Move slow. Hold onto the bed til the world stops spinning. Oh boy. Gotta kill the damned sunlight or she'll never gonna get out of this world of pain.

  Stumble to the window, pull the heavy drapes. Much better. Now it's muted. Cell phone . . . where is it?

  Oh look. Her clothes are neatly folded on the delicate little café chair with the heart shaped back that sits so perkily in front of the vanity. Perched on top, like a cherry, is her cell phone.

  Flipping it open she sees there's only one line of power. Of course the charger is at home. Oh who gives a shit It says it's Friday and only nine thirty.

  That's something, anyway. No class til this afternoon. Thank god, time to get human. Might e
ven be able to think by then.

  Need the bathroom. Pull on the frilly pink — what else — kimono hanging from the back of the door.

  Open the door a crack and peek out: the coast is clear. Tamara shuffles down to the bathroom.

  Hanging the kimono on the hook, she kicks off panties and unsnaps her bra, dropping both on the floor and reaches behind the curtain to start the shower.

  Running water reminds her she has to pee. As she settles on the toilet she thinks that's such a coarse way of putting it in such a delicate bathroom. The only word that could possibly be appropriate in this environment would be 'tinkle'. The mists starts to obscure the sparkly unicorn wallpaper. Thank God.

  Tamara steps into the shower, standing under the nozzle and the waves of warmth stream over her head. She can feel the tension melting away. As the pounding in her head starts to ease off, she thinks maybe her life is starting to feel bearable.

  Until the tapping sound. It takes a minute to realize that someone is tapping on the door. She shuts off the shower.

  “Yes?” she says, wincing at the noise of her own voice.

  “Tam, it's me.” Barbie says through the door. “I'll be leaving for school in a half hour. You want a ride, be ready.”

  “Sure.” Tamara says. Head or no head, she doesn't want to stay here with Godzilla mom. No way no how. “I'll be ready.”

  chapter 102 . . .

  The doctor enters Natasha's room to find her asleep and snoring . . . no wait. The snoring is from behind the door where Boris sprawls in a chair. The doctor smiles, then pulls the privacy curtain around the hospital bed.

  The squeak and rattle of the rollers makes Natasha stir. The doctor picks up the clipboard hung at the foot of the bed and flips through the pages of the chart.

  Natasha's eyes snap open and the doctor hears the sudden intake of breath from her patient. Natasha relaxes as she realizes where she is. The doctor smiles at her. “Good to see you're getting some sleep Ms. Panov”.

  “It helps to have a bodyguard, Doc. Hey, where is . . .” the snore from behind the curtain answers her question and she smiles.