by Susan Isaacs
“Is that all you kept from me?” he asked. “Or is there more?”
“You’re playing games with me and I don’t like it,” I said, my voice rising. “If something’s bothering you, tell me.”
“I’m playing games?” he shouted, taking a step toward me. “What about you? I trusted you. I discussed the case with you. Christ, I came right out and let you know how I feel about you, goddamn it, and you’re telling me I’m playing games! Come on, Judith. I’m investigating a murder. I have to know everything. I can’t play games, not even with you. Now come on.”
I walked up to him, put my arms around him, and gently bit his lower lip. “Don’t be angry. Please.” I kissed him, lightly at first, delicate little kisses, and then harder. “Please, Nelson.”
Putting his hands on the small of my back, he pulled me toward him. He began rubbing himself against me rhythmically, up and down, up and down. “Judith.” This is what is called committing oneself, I thought, and allowed myself a small moan of pleasure. “Judith.” His tongue was all over my mouth. And suddenly he pulled back. “No.”
I stared at him. “No?”
“No. Not now.” We swallowed simultaneously. “We have to talk.”
“We’re doomed,” I told him. “You know that, don’t you? We’re characters in some terrible Greek myth, assigned to a double bed in a dark corner of Hades, destined to be eternally frustrated. Whenever you’re ready, I won’t be able to handle it, and whenever I want you, you’ll want to talk.” I trudged over to the couch and sat down.
“We’ll get there,” he smiled, sitting next to me and kissing me gently on the forehead.
“No, we won’t,” I answered hopelessly. Here I was, ready to abrogate my nuptial vows, tear up my marriage contract, toss caution and guilt to the winds, and all I got was a raincheck. “All right, Sharpe. You want to talk business, let’s talk. What terribly vital snippet of information did I withhold from you? Come on. You’re angry with me, remember? I’m Judith, the immature one who likes to play games.”
“Not as much as your friend, Mrs. Mahoney.”
“Mary Alice!” I emitted a whoop of laughter, then clapped my hand over my mouth. “Oh, Nelson, she came to you. Fantastic!”
“Sure. Fantastic. Only you forgot to mention to me that she existed. And so, late yesterday afternoon, I dropped into my office, and there’s a message for me to call an assistant D.A. I called and guess what? He has in his office a fine, public-spirited citizen with her lawyer whom you just happened to recommend to her.”
“Claymore Katz!”
“The same.”
“But I didn’t tell them to go to you,” I said lamely.
“I know that, Judith. I appreciate the care you’ve taken to protect me from some of the more sordid aspects of the investigation.”
“Nelson!” I tried to sound indignant but, knowing I had no justification for that, managed to sound only mildly petulant.
“Did you think I wouldn’t find out? Who do you think is in charge of this investigation?”
“I know, I know. But she told me what she did in confidence. And if she came to you, it means that she passed a lie detector test. And that means she didn’t murder Fleckstein, so I wasn’t shielding a murderer or screwing up your investigation.”
“Lie detectors aren’t foolproof,” he said. “I don’t care what you’ve heard. I’m convinced a pathological liar could pass a polygraph test with flying colors. Christ, I’ve seen it happen.”
“Do you really think Mary Alice might have done it? Truthfully, Nelson, do you suspect her?”
“No, not really. For what it’s worth, she did pass the test, and she was pretty convincing about not having seen him for a while. But, listen, I want you to tell me everything she told you about her affair with Fleckstein. It’s his technique I’m interested in.”
“Yours is better.”
“Judith, cut the crap.” But he smiled.
“Okay. Well, he seems to have started with a telephone call, letting a woman he had just met know how devastatingly attractive she was—and could she have lunch?”
“You heard this from your friend?”
“Mary Alice. Yes. And another friend, too.” The moment I said it, I regretted it.
“What other friend?”
“Oh, just some woman I know.”
“The name.”
“What will you do if I don’t tell you?” He didn’t answer. “All right. It was Fay Jacobs. She teaches at Shorehaven High. But, listen, she never met with him at all. She felt that he was pure, undiluted slime. Evil, she said.”
“Evil? That’s interesting.”
“Nelson, come on. She’s a terrific lady.” And I was a louse.
“I’ll check her out.”
“Please! She hasn’t told anybody else about this, and if you start questioning her, she’ll know you got to her through me.”
“All right. I’ll do it quietly. Now tell me more about Fleckstein.” I said nothing. “Don’t worry, Judith. Unless there’s a reason, she’ll never know a thing. Now talk.”
For about twenty minutes, we dissected Fleckstein’s methods. How long he usually took to score. How he was able to convince some of the women to let him take photographs. Why he apparently couldn’t convince others. Or didn’t he bother with all of his women? Was it a periodic kink rather than a compulsion? And the prospect of blackmail: Mary Alice seemed to have sensed the possibility, but had he actually attempted to force any of his women into a corner? Could the murderer have been some bland, anonymous woman who came into his office on tiptoes, stabbed him, and disappeared with the photographs? A Madame X who...And the doorbell rang. Ding.
“Who could that be?” I demanded.
“Why don’t you find out?”
“It could be the murderer.”
“Why would the murderer ring your front doorbell?”
“Why not?”
“Just answer it,” he said.
“I could be stabbed through the forehead with an awl. Awls are cheap.” Ding. “Just a minute,” I called to the door.
“I’m right here. I have a gun. Don’t worry.”
“You have a gun?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“But I don’t like guns.”
“Judith, I carry a gun because I have to. I’m a cop. I believe in gun control laws, okay? Look, should I answer the door?”
“No.” The bell rang again just as I tugged open the door. And there was Nancy, dressed all in white—slacks, sweater, fur jacket—a frosty, remote Episcopalian princess.
“You certainly took your own sweet time, Judith,” she declared loudly. “Taking a test flight on a new vibrator?”
“Shhh.”
“Listen, I have marvelous goodies for you. They found the murder weapon right in your sweet little neighbor’s storm sewer. Cupcake was just over, and he told me it’s in the police lab right now.”
“Why didn’t you call first?” I whispered.
“What’s wrong with you? You’re acting like a constipated chicken. I just decided to pop over. I’ve done that before, you know.”
“Nothing’s wrong with me,” I hissed at her, making a jerking movement with my head in the direction of the living room. “He’s in there,” I mouthed.
“Who?” she asked, lowering her voice.
“I’m Nelson Sharpe,” he said, as he turned the corner into the entrance hallway.
“Lieutenant Sharpe,” I amended. “Homicide.” Nancy was trying to appear only mildly interested in the proceedings. “He’s investigating the Fleckstein murder. Remember, the dentist who was killed?”
“Yes, I recall reading about it,” Nancy said thoughtfully.
“You recall reading about it,” Sharpe echoed and glanced at me sourly. “Look, I want to know what’s going on.” He turned to Nancy. “How did you know about the awl?”
“I’m a journalist,” she said, flashing one of her down-home friendly smiles. “Nancy MacLaren, Lieutenant.” S
he stuck out her hand and he shook it. “Nice to meet you.” Until that moment, she had never used her maiden name professionally.
“And where did you hear about the awl?”
“Now, Lieutenant, you don’t really expect me to tell you that. I have to protect my sources.” She turned away from and gave me a huge grin. “Sorry to have bothered you, Judith. I just wanted some historical background for an article I’m working on. I’ll get back to you later.” She turned and strode to the driveway.
“Judith,” Sharpe began.
“Nelson, it’s true. She is a journalist.”
“And she’s covering the Fleckstein case, right? Come on. I know every reporter assigned to this investigation. Who is she?”
“She told you. Nancy MacLaren.” A very smart person. She knew Sharpe couldn’t trace her without her last name and she assumed—correctly—that I wouldn’t tell him.
Sharpe grasped my wrist and led me into the living room. “Judith, this is serious. I’m supposed to be in charge of this case, and suddenly everyone is an expert. You. Your friends. The investigation is leaking like a goddamn sieve and I’m getting nowhere. Now, please, will you tell me everything you know from beginning to end—I’m willing to let you go along for the ride, but only if you help.”
“Okay. But before I waste too much time talking, don’t you want me to look at the pictures?”
“All right. But this is only a temporary stay of execution. As soon as you’re finished, we’ll talk.” He reached into his inside jacket pocket and extracted a small manila envelope. “Here they are.” He handed the envelope to me across the coffee table. Squeezing the two metal tabs together, I opened the envelope and peeked in. Outstretched legs and pubic hair. I closed it.
“Feel awkward?” he asked. I nodded. “They’re kind of raw. Have you ever seen any pornography?”
“Sure. That’s the strange thing,” I tried to explain. “I’m positive there’s nothing here I haven’t seen before, but I feel like I’m unlocking Pandora’s box.”
“I don’t think he ever photographed Pandora,” he said.
“Nelson, please be serious.” He walked over to me, and for a moment I thought he was going to grab me, inflamed by the recollection of the contents of the envelope. But he just put his arms around me and hugged me, gently, asexually. But I pulled back and demanded: “Are you trying to protect me? Because if you are...”
“I’m just trying to hug you.”
“I don’t have to be sheltered, you know.”
“I know,” he said. “Did you think I was being condescending?”
“No,” I answered. “But I am a little edgy. It’s odd, I’ve seen movies of all sorts of things, of women getting it in every imaginable orifice, of lesbians, animals, you name it. And it never bothered me. I’ve even been excited by some of it. But this is different. It’s in context, if you know what I mean. These are women who might be my friends—even me. They have kids, they squeeze cantaloupes in the supermarket. And suddenly I’m looking in on their inner life, which they never thought would go public. Aren’t there aspects of your life, your imagination, that you wouldn’t want anyone to know about?”
“I guess so.”
“So?” I gave him the envelope.
“Judith, you talk about the photographs being in context, right? Well, consider the context. Someone murdered Fleckstein. I have to find the killer. That’s my context. Look, I could sit back and say he was a vile human being, a rotten, manipulative scum—and he was. But that wouldn’t stop me from doing my job, even if it means wading in the muck he created. Now, you’ve involved yourself in this investigation. Somehow, something about it hit a nerve and you responded. So you’re faced with a choice. You can follow it through to its logical conclusion—assuming there is one—or you can say goodbye, this isn’t amusing any more. It’s up to you. But I can’t do that. It’s my job.”
“Let me see them.” He handed me the envelope I had returned to him. I reached in and pulled out the photographs. There were a number of them, probably ten or twelve. “Let’s go into the dining room. It may be easier if I spread them out on a table.” I sorted the pictures out quickly, all over the table, as if I were dealing a fast hand of solitaire. “These three are the same person,” I said to him.
“Yes,” he agreed. The woman had long, straight brown hair that reached the middle of her back, like a Bennington freshman. Except this woman was in her mid-thirties. You could see from the deeply etched laugh lines that ran from the edge of her nostrils to the middle of her chin. And she was laughing. In all three pictures, she sat naked on a red plastic chair with wooden arms, chuckling away at something terribly amusing. In one of the pictures, her arms were crossed under tiny, almost nonexistent breasts; in the second, her hands were held, peek-a-boo fashion, over her eyes; in the third, she had folded her hands daintily in her lap.
“Well,” I said, “at least she doesn’t look exploited.”
“Maybe not,” he concurred. “But look at this.” He pointed to a shadowy corner of the picture that took in the edge of the bed. On the red carpeted floor lay a huge dildo.
“God,” I breathed, “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Wait till we get together.”
“Is that what they call the hard sell?”
“Absolutely,” he said. And then he was back to business. “Do you know her? Have you ever seen her?”
“Never. Even if she wore her hair differently and she was dressed. She has a very long, stretched-out face; I would have recognized her if I’d seen her before.”
“And her?” He pointed to a picture of a slightly pudgy woman. She was dressed in the best Forty-Second Street style—black bikini panties, a black bra with holes cut out in the center so her nipples peered at the camera, brownish pink unseeing eyes. And she wore a black rhinestone-studded mask; she looked like a racy guest panelist on I’ve Got a Secret. In her hand was a riding crop.
“I can’t tell with the mask. But the whip doesn’t go. I mean, she should be tall and lean and tough-looking.” I picked up the photograph. “No, I don’t recognize her. But he certainly had eclectic tastes.”
“And a passion for props,” Sharpe added. “We tried to trace some of them down. Checked with one of those sex-shop owners. But the guy said they were very common, the kind everybody uses.”
“Sure,” I said. “A dime a dozen. They’re on special at Pathmark this week. Two for ninety-nine cents, with a coupon.” I stopped suddenly. “Oh, God.”
“What? What is it?”
I was staring at a photograph of a woman and a large dog. “Nelson, this was taken in Fleckstein’s house.” Right on his living room floor, to be exact. The same green rug, the same profusion of lush, leafy plants, the same upholstery fabric. “And that’s Prince!”
“Who’s Prince?”
“The dog. The Nazi dog. I saw it at Norma Fleckstein’s.”
“It wasn’t around when I was there,” he said.
“Well, it was when I was. I mean, it’s not one of those nasty toy poodles or Yorkshires that you could step on and never see.”
“It certainly isn’t. Now, what about the Princess?”
“Who?”
“The woman with Prince.”
“Let me see.” I leaned over the table and studied the picture. The woman, lying next to the Flecksteins’ glass mask; I had seen one before in Gent or Oui or Penthouse or Stud, serious reading in the drugstore while waiting for a prescription to be filled.
“Does she seem at all familiar?” Sharpe demanded.
“Wait.” Her eyes were visible, but I couldn’t determine the color. The mask cast a shadow over them. “It’s almost impossible to see her,” I said. “Isn’t it strange,” I turned to Sharpe, “that all these women’s fantasies seem so predictable to me? There’s no real novelty. Maybe it’s the suburbs, maybe in Manhattan...”I glanced at the picture again, at the woman’s body. Small, slender, tiny-waisted, almost perfect except for two small s
cars on her stomach, one long one down the middle and a smaller one running parallel on the right side. “Nelson!”
“What? What is it?”
“Just a question. In the medical examiner’s report, did...”
“Judith!”
“Wait. Did the report indicate how tall the murderer was? You know, from the angle of the wound?”
“Shorter than Fleckstein. Now, come on, Judith.”
“How much shorter?”
“A few inches, probably.”
“Not very short, like five foot three?”
“No. The angle was less than twenty-five degrees. And from the position of Fleckstein’s body, we know the murderer was standing, not sitting in the dentist’s chair.”
“Could it have been done by a woman?”
“Yes.”
“But not a very petite one?”
“Goddamn it, Judith!”
“Nelson.”
“What?”
“This is Brenda Dunck.”
Chapter Seventeen
Sharpe stood utterly still, not breathing. Finally, he turned toward me and said: “I hope this isn’t your idea of a joke.”
“Nelson,” I breathed. “Are you crazy?”
“Not until now. But if you’re kidding...Look, I’ve been drowning in this case for weeks. I’m about five days beyond humor.”
“Nelson. It’s Brenda.”
“How do you know?” he snapped. “Her face is covered.”
I yanked out one of the dining room chairs and plopped down on it. “Sit,” I ordered. He pulled up a chair, placed it beside mine, and sat. “All right. I can recognize her because I know her body.”
“Would you care to explain?”
“We belong to the same health club. I was sitting in the sauna one day and saw her. She has this fantastic body with a teeny Scarlett O’Hara waist and those two incisions going down her stomach.”
“Probably a caesarean and an appendectomy. Very common. I checked with the medical examiner.”
“Not that common,” I insisted. “Nelson, there are millions of women walking around out there without two scars on their stomachs. And who else has a waist like that?”