Naked Addiction

by Caitlin Rother

  “You can’t go. I won’t let you.”

  “What do you mean, you won’t let me?” she said, turning toward him and glaring. “Let go of my arm.”

  This was not going the way it was supposed to. Paul had to use force to pull her into the bedroom, letting go of her for just a second to reach for the chopping blade he’d placed on the bookshelf in case things didn’t go well. Gripping the knife in one hand, he held her tightly with the other. He didn’t really want to hurt her; he just wanted to let her know he meant business.

  Paul had sharpened the knife earlier that afternoon. He’d tried to cut through a roast beef sandwich with it, but ended up pulling the red, wet slab off the bread and onto the counter. He spent a good half hour scraping the blade across a long metal sharpening rod until he could slice cleanly through the meat.

  Tania’s arm went rigid as soon as she saw the knife. Then he felt her trembling and heard her breathing speed up.

  She must know what’s coming—that we are finally going to make love.

  He smiled as he watched the reflection of the candle flames dancing along the shiny steel. Tania didn’t seem quite so smug by then. Not so smug at all. He lowered her into the wooden chair he’d placed in the middle of the bedroom, which had her facing a vertical mirror mounted on the wall.

  “Paul, you’re scaring me. I want to go ho. . . .” Tania’s voice trailed off as she saw his collection of photos on the wall.

  Good. Things are finally becoming clear to her. Now all she needs to do is get in the mood so she’ll moan for me like she did for that pretty boy.

  Paul reached for the tumbler of scotch on the rocks he’d prepared for her, containing a Rohypnol he’d purchased in Tijuana in anticipation of this event. He often stole drugs from the La Jolla pharmacy where he worked, delivering prescriptions to the homebound, the rich, and the lazy. But they didn’t sell sedatives categorized as date-rape drugs in the United States.

  He wanted to make sure Tania felt comfortable with him before they made love, so he used only a portion of one pill. “Here, drink this,” he ordered.

  She shook her head no, her long, wet hair swinging back and forth. It was beautiful and satiny smooth when dry, but when wet, she looked like she had a head of rat tails. Funny, the things you learned when you got to know someone intimately. Her hair reminded him of a poem from Alice in Wonderland that he’d memorized in high school for a speech class assignment. He decided to impress her with his knowledge, and at the same time, show her that she must do as he instructed. He recited the poem:

  Fury said to a mouse, That he met in the house, ‘Let us both go to law: I will prosecute you—Come, I’ll take no denial: We must have a trial; For really this morning I’ve nothing to do.’ Said the mouse to the cur, ‘Such a trial, dear sir, With no jury or judge, would be wasting our breath.’ ‘I’ll be judge, I’ll be jury, said cunning old Fury: ‘I’ll try the whole cause and condemn you to death.’

  “That’s from Alice in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll,” he finished proudly, pausing to let the message sink in. What was the matter with her anyway, not wanting to take a sip of his love potion? He leaned into her face. “Drink it, I said.”

  But Tania didn’t move. She sat stiffly in the chair, pulling on her fingers. Why wouldn’t she do as she was told? Paul held the knife against her wrist. “You need to drink this, just like Alice did before she became Queen Alice. Because, after all, you are my queen.”

  Tania’s lips parted and he could feel her warm breath on his face. “Paul, why are you doing this?” she asked in a small voice that certainly was not fit for a queen. “This is crazy. Why don’t you let me call someone to come and help you? A therapist or something.”

  “Quiet!” he barked.

  He’d had more than enough of her deliberate insubordination. “If you don’t do what I say, I’ll have to help you cut your own wrists,” he said through clenched teeth. “They’ll just think you killed yourself.”

  Then, he softened and smiled tenderly. He couldn’t help it. She was so beautiful. “I really don’t want to do that. I love you, you know.”

  Paul dropped to a sitting position on the carpet at her feet and gazed up at her. He noticed how her hair had made the shirt wet around her breasts. He wanted to caress them, but it still wasn’t the right time. Not yet.

  Finally, she took a sip of the potion. He was pleased to see she was no longer acting so righteous, so indignant. Still, he needed to show her that he was in charge.

  “That’s it. Now drink all of it,” he said forcefully.

  Tania looked at him and then at the knife he was pressing into her flesh. Closing her eyes tightly, she drank the rest, then went into a coughing spasm. When she opened her eyes, they were all watery.

  Good. I’ve broken her will.

  Paul had recently reread Through the Looking Glass, noticing how the characters oddly paralleled the people in his own life—always changing the rules. He often felt he was on the other side of the mirror, so his entire world was reversed. He wanted to explain this to Tania so she would see things the way he did. And now that she’d calmed down, he could begin.

  Unfortunately, he saw that her eyelids had grown so heavy she could hardly keep them open. He hadn’t gotten a chance to say anything he’d wanted to. Pulling her to her feet, he guided her to the bed and down on the blanket, where he sat beside her, caressing her shoulder, cheek, and even her breast. But she did not respond. She was out.

  Paul pounded the bed with the flat of his hand. “What are you doing? I wanted to explain some very important concepts here.”

  Tania was a smart woman and he knew she’d appreciate his mind. That’s why he’d chosen her. How dare she cut short their intellectual foreplay. Paul decided he’d better begin the next phase of his plan. Tania was sure to wake up in the middle and moan then. He unbuttoned her shirt, pulling back each side to unveil her magnificent nipples, which were the lightest shade of pink he’d ever seen. They felt like velvet. He tugged off her little black shorts, then tossed them onto the floor in the corner.

  Touching himself until he was hard took no time at all. He pushed himself against her, trying to get inside. Only he couldn’t seem to get in. And she didn’t moan. She just breathed, and shallowly at that.

  This is not the way it was supposed to be.

  Nonetheless, he was overcome by the sensation. It was overwhelming. Unable to hold it back another second, he lost control. His body shuddered as he left a small, white pool in and around her navel. Then he lay down next to her.

  This was quite a letdown after all the fantasizing he’d done. He’d expected to feel happy and close to her after they made love. But the whole experience had left him feeling like a failure, disappointed, and ashamed. A hot flush crossing his face, he broke out in a sweat.

  This isn’t your fault. She was a terrible lover. She just lay there.

  His nerves felt raw. He resented her mere presence in his bedroom. Even her breathing made him feel agitated. Pacing around the room, he tried to decide what to do. He wanted her out of his bed, and out of his apartment. Truth be told, he wanted her dead.

  Paul grabbed a neck tie out of the closet, the funky green one he’d bought at the thrift store. He lifted her head off the pillow, circled the tie around her neck, and pulled it tight until he couldn’t hear her breathing anymore.

  Good riddance.

  He carried her into the living room and dropped her on the couch. He would deal with her later. For the moment, he needed to calm down. He couldn’t remember ever being this angry.

  Paul wandered around the living room in the dark until he tripped over a bottle on the floor, causing his ankle to twist over on itself.

  “Shit!” he cried out as a shot of excruciating pain ran up his leg, causing him to lose his balance and fall to the floor. The pain lessened, but only to a sharp throbbing. He scrambled over the floor on his butt to the couch, feeling with his hands as he went. He reached under the sofa and pulled out his st
ash of pot, the stuff with the little red hairs that made him see his alter ego in the mirror.

  Lighting up a bowl, he inhaled deeply, holding in each mouthful of smoke. By the fifth puff, he finally felt the pain diminish. He went from feeling calm to light-headed and dizzy. He must have fallen asleep soon after that because when he looked at the clock on the DVD player, it was just before midnight. And when he turned on the light, Tania was gone.

  The police found her body in the alley the next day, dead as a dormouse. He certainly hadn’t meant to kill her, and try as he might, he simply could not remember carrying her body down those stairs.

  Chapter 42

  Goode

  As usual on a Friday night, the emergency room at the UC San Diego Medical Center was a maelstrom of activity. Two homeless men, wearing oversized dirty clothes, were talking to themselves.

  “I’m looking for Paul Walters,” Goode said, flashing his badge at the nurse on the third floor, where Stone had told him to go.

  “Room three-fourteen, around the corner on the left,’ she said.

  Goode nodded at the officer who was parked outside the room, engrossed in a Michael Connelly detective novel.

  Paul wasn’t faring too well. His face, covered with sweat, glistened even in the dim light of the room. A nurse, who was mopping his brow, put her finger to her lips.

  “Shhh. He’s sleeping. He’s got a raging fever, hepatitis, and he might have some bacterial infection, too. We’re testing to make sure we give him the right medication.”

  Goode sat in the chair next to the bed, waiting for her to leave so Paul could tell him what was so damned important. Actually, he almost hoped Paul would finger Seth Kennedy so he could nail the slime bag. He also wanted to show that his instincts had been right about Paul. The guy was definitely a deviant, but logistically speaking, he couldn’t have killed all three people.

  The nurse shook her head in disapproval at Goode. Judging by her expression, she obviously didn’t like him disturbing her very sick patient. He was relieved when she finally walked her wide hips and piano legs out the door.

  Goode pulled a small tape recorder from his pocket, pushed the record button, and laid it on the pillow next to Paul’s face.

  “Paul,” Goode said quietly, touching his arm. “Hey, Paul. You awake?”

  The patient, handcuffed to the metal bed railing, was breathing in short, shallow spurts.

  “Paul, you awake?” Goode repeated a little louder, shaking his shoulder. The patient opened his eyes into slits. “You wanted to talk to me?”

  Paul nodded.

  “Well, I’ll have to read you your rights first,” Goode said, and proceeded to do so.

  Paul’s words came in short gasps, forcing Goode to bend over so his ear was just inches from Paul’s mouth. He brought the recorder closer too, to make sure he captured every word.

  “She was in my apartment that night. . . .I gave her a sedative to relax her, but then things went wrong and I lost it on her stomach. I wanted her out of there, so. . . I tied a tie around her neck…But I don’t know how I could have killed her. I loved her. . . . I don’t remember taking her down to the alley either, but she was gone from my apartment. . . .If I hurt her. . . I don’t want to live anymore.” Goode stepped back and Paul turned his head toward him. “Do you think I did it?” he whispered.

  “I don’t know,” Goode said quietly. “I’ll come back tomorrow and we’ll talk some more once your fever goes down. Get some sleep.”

  Goode’s head was reeling.

  Say Paul did kill Tania. Why would he then do in Sharona? And that still left no link to Keith’s death.

  Goode hoped Paul could answer some of these questions once he was in better shape and perhaps Seth or One-Eyed Jack could fill in the rest of the puzzle.

  With one quick call, Goode arranged for a county psychiatrist to evaluate Paul the next morning to determine whether it was him or his fever talking. A defense attorney would probably get the judge to throw out a statement given under these conditions anyway.

  From the hospital Goode went straight to Clover’s. He really wanted to ask her about the letter and find out what she could tell him to make a case stick against Seth, or Paul, or anyone else, frankly. But this was not to be. The house was dark and the driveway was empty. He wondered if the family had left town, and if it would do any good to stick Slausson or Fletcher outside the house until she showed up.

  Goode went home, looking forward to a home-cooked meal. Even if he had to microwave it.

  Chapter 43

  Goode

  Alison was curled up under a blanket on the couch when Goode got home. The place smelled of a tantalizing mix of garlic, tomatoes, and sausage that had simmered for hours. He opened the fridge to get a beer and saw a plate of spaghetti and sauce, covered with plastic wrap. After heating it up in the microwave, he grabbed a beer and went to his room to eat.

  Lacking the energy and motivation to brush his teeth, he finished his beer and shut off the light. But he couldn’t stop the frenzy of evidence running through his head or the evolving list of interview questions for Seth Kennedy that his brain was compiling. So, he rolled over and switched on the light, hoping that if he emptied his mind onto a piece of paper, the cerebral noise would quiet enough for him to drift off to a more serene place. And sure enough, he did just that.

  He was bicycling on a dirt road that ran along an isolated beach, the air heavy with humidity, when he came to a cove where the turquoise water was calm and inviting. Sweaty, he stopped and leaned his bike against the seawall, tossing his backpack onto the sand. He climbed over the wall and walked out a few feet. The sand burned his feet, so he tore off his T-shirt and took a running dive into the sea, which was warm but still refreshing. He could see his hands against the coral pink backdrop of the ocean floor as clearly as if they were under glass. Floating on his back, he watched the palm fronds flutter in the breeze. When he grew tired of floating, he waded out of the water and lay face first in a cool crevice he’d dug in the sand. Soon, the sun had dried his back and he put his T-shirt over his head to block its rays.

  A few minutes later, he felt a woman straddle his back. He could tell it was a woman from the way she touched him as she seated herself, her hair brushing lightly against his shoulder blades and her bottom pressing into his lower back. She rubbed hot coconut oil into his skin in circular motions, her legs, soft and smooth, hugging him firmly on either side. The massage was so good he started to feel woozy. Her soft hands slid their way down his spine to his lower back, probing and pushing the tension out, pouring more oil on his back as she went. At first it felt relaxing, but when her hands started creeping lower by degrees under his swim trunks, he felt himself getting excited. He tried to turn over, but she wouldn’t let him. She held his wrists above his head, a little rougher but still playful. She didn’t mean him any harm. This was a game for her.

  She teased him by rubbing herself over him, pressing herself into him, riding him. He was hers. She had taken him. She stopped moving for a moment and he waited with anticipation, wanting more as he listened to his own blood rushing through his head.

  Why is she stopping?

  As if she could read his thoughts, she started caressing his back with her fingertips, then her nails. She leaned over and licked around his ear, teasing him, taking the lobe into her mouth. He could feel her full breasts, still covered by a tight shirt, pushing into his back. She squeezed him harder with her legs. Then she took her shirt off, allowing just her nipples to tickle him. He thought he was going to explode. Finally, he couldn’t stand it anymore. If she wouldn’t let him turn over, he had to break the silence.

  “Tania, let me turn over,” he whispered, his words slurred with sleep. “I want to touch you.”

  She got off him and was gone. As Goode heard his bedroom door close, he sat up with a start.

  Chapter 44

  Goode

  Friday

  Goode left early the next morning before Ali
son was awake, careful to close the front door as quietly as possible. He couldn’t face her after what had happened in the middle of the night. He was so embarrassed, he didn’t know how he could undo what he’d said to her. He’d been so sure he was having another dream about Tania. The beach scene, with those hands rubbing his back, kept repeating itself in his mind. He was still all charged up.

  Once he got to Harry’s Coffee Shop, he bought a newspaper from the machine outside and tried to focus on work. That turned out to be easy. Norman Klein’s story was on the front page and it was all about the letter Stone had mentioned. It also included an interview with Stone that he hadn’t mentioned.

  EX-GIRLFRIEND FINGERS DRUG DEALER LOVER IN PB MURDERS

  Victims’ families accuse police of dragging their feet

  By Norman Klein

  Staff Writer

  A 27-year-old La Jolla man, jailed on suspicion of selling cocaine and methamphetamine, is the target of a letter accusing him of being the Pacific Beach beauty-school killer, the Sun-Dispatch has learned.

  The letter, sent anonymously to the Sun-Dispatch yesterday, claims that real estate agent Seth Kennedy murdered two beauty school students and his best friend, Keith Warner. However, the letter did not offer an explanation or any possible motive.

  Police officials ordered the newspaper to turn over the letter as evidence in the multiple-homicide investigation.

  The author claims to be Kennedy’s ex-girlfriend.

  Kennedy was being held at the downtown jail on $200,000 bail on felony drug charges last night and was unavailable for comment.