The clock said fifteen minutes had passed. I pulled my necklace out from under my sweater and ran the pendant back and forth along the chain, thinking of Kevin’s bright smile and high cheekbones. Thoughts of him were thin and muffled, though, as if the electric thrill of that gentle kiss belonged to someone else.
“All right,” Detective Brack said, walking back in. I jumped, letting the sapphire pendant drop against my sweater. “We’ll prepare a statement for you to sign, and then an officer will get you home.”
“Okay,” I said.
“That’s a nice necklace,” Detective Brack said.
“Thank you,” I said, putting my fingertips to it again.
“Where did you get it?” she asked.
“It was a gift,” I said. “From a guy I just started seeing.”
She took a few steps closer. Uncomfortably close. And frowned. “I’m going to need you to take that necklace off, ma’am.”
“Wh-what?” My thoughts whirred like a broken computer, failing to latch on to anything.
“Take the necklace off, ma’am,” she said.
I did, then held it out to her. “Why?” I asked.
She lifted the chain off my fingertips with a pen and set it on the table. “That necklace belonged to one of the victims, ma’am,” Detective Brack said.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I blurted.
She didn’t answer. She asked more questions. A lot more questions. Another evidence technician came in and put the necklace in a little manila envelope without looking at me. After getting Kevin’s contact information and probing me for every imaginable detail of our interactions, Detective Brack had me fingerprinted.
It was well after dark when another officer drove me back to my office. I am never dating anyone again, I thought, huddled in the back of the squad car. Never.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I was in a sticky situation when I made myself call about Kevin.
Instead of going out with Kevin that night, I spent the evening at home with Caprice and more wine than one could argue strictly medicinal. I pored over the photos on my murder board, and once I had satisfied myself that I hadn’t missed the same damn faux sapphire necklace on my own wall, I searched the internet for more photos. It didn’t take long to find the photo of Darcy in one of the news articles. The photo was not high resolution, but the blue dot at her throat was a familiar shape.
That’s when it struck me that I’d been not only wearing a dead woman’s necklace, but a necklace that a killer wanted me to wear. A strangler who fancied himself a Romeo wanted to see the glint of his gift around my neck.
I picked up a dry erase marker and wrote “Romeo?” on the murder board. And then “K?” My knees buckled, and after I stopped shuddering, more wine seemed like a good idea.
Then I watched old movies and worked my way through the better part of a box of chocolate with a bottle of Malbec as if the glorious flavors could insulate me against the ugliness that pressed tighter and tighter around me. I cried for Katie, then for my disappointment about Kevin, then because it was a Friday with no show so I still had no quiet in my head, and then cried harder because I was just so damn tired. I woke up on my sofa that morning with a headache, a wine stain on my nightie, and Caprice purring against my roiling stomach.
So I spent the day making things.
Costuming comforts me like cooking does. It has a beginning point and an end point. It’s concrete, and there are simple rules. You can follow patterns or recipes, or you can improvise. When you’re done, you have a finished product that is either beautiful or delicious or both. If you mess up, it might hurt your ego, but it won’t hurt another person’s psyche. And usually, no one goes to jail or dies.
After some ginger tea to soothe my stomach, I made an optimistically healthy brunch of strawberries, turkey sausage, and scrambled egg whites with spinach and chervil, and then got to work.
Pip and I were choreographing a Mythbusters-themed duet together. I hauled my dress form out from the dance room closet and started making a mini-dress out of duct tape. Caprice opened the door to investigate my sewing box, and in nudging her away with my toe, I slipped and accidentally wrapped it around my left forearm. Without thinking, I dropped the roll of tape when I attempted to catch myself. It bounced away and twisted.
Crap. I pushed my hair out of my bleary eyes. I need more coffee.
I grabbed my scissors and trimmed the edge nearest the costume so I wouldn’t get dirty tape on it. Then, wincing, I ripped it off my arm. Duct tape is a little worse than ripping off a bandage, I thought, which made me think of breakups. Again. You can make a clean cut and the wound heals, or you can do it slow and let things fester. The faster you rip off the bandage, the sooner it’s over.
I had to know.
I cut the tape again close to the roll, put the duct tape roll on my arm like a heavy pewter bracelet, and hunted for the police station’s phone number. They must have at least attempted to bring him in.
“Hi,” I said to the clerk who answered the phone. “Can you tell me if someone has been brought in for questioning?”
“I can give you the status of a person who is or has been here, ma’am,” the clerk said. “I need a name.”
“Kevin Haynes.”
I heard the click-clack of computer keys. “He’s been released, ma’am.”
“Can you tell me why?”
“All I can tell you is that he’s been released, ma’am.”
I bit my lip. “So if they had evidence, they wouldn’t let him go, right?”
After a brief pause, the clerk said, “No, ma’am, if we have enough evidence that a person committed a crime, we don’t just release them.” He didn’t say duh, but he didn’t have to.
My face grew hot. That was a stupid question. I thanked him and got off the phone.
After we hung up, I wandered into my office nook, curled up in the chair, and stared at my phone. I thought of Kevin’s soft laugh, of the earnestness in his face when he came to Lisa’s funeral. And I’d turned him over to the police.
Well. It was an ongoing investigation. I had to be honest.
The thought rang a little hollow, though. Maybe it was a little too convenient. Maybe it was an excuse not to get close to him.
I set the phone on my desk and looked at the columns of my handwriting. Red and black dry-erase ink. Occupation? Flexible hours. SES? Organized/planner. Type? All age 25-35. No assault… autoerotic? No struggle? Overpowers them. Fit. Charming. Well-dressed or uniform. Motive?
Knows which door is mine.
I called the management office for my apartment building. A young woman asked how she could help me.
“Do you have security cameras installed in my building?” I asked.
“No, ma’am, we don’t,” she said.
“I’m wondering if you’d consider it,” I said. “The police think I’m being stalked.”
“Oh,” she said, her voice thin and clipped.
“Maybe we could get an additional lock on my door,” I said.
“I’ll… check with management,” she said.
“Has anyone reported a person leaving flowers for them?” I asked.
She hesitated. “No…”
She thinks I’m crazy. What do I say now? I’d know if I’m delusional? I gave her Detective Brack’s phone number, which changed the type of shock in her voice. She said that management would get back to me.
I set the phone down, feeling oddly defeated. Am I overreacting? I can’t be. Am I?
It was all so messy.
I looked again at my column of questions, and with a dull ache in my stomach, I scrawled them on a piece of paper. I taped the paper to the bottom of the board, erased the questions, and added Katie’s name at the top of the column.
Executive assistant. Found in her home. Time of death roughly seven at night. Dark blonde hair.
Another jump in socioeconomic status. Another murder at someone’s home.
Max was at the the
ater with Lisa. Max could have followed Katie home from my workplace. Max didn’t want another therapist. Max wasn’t across town on video footage.
It still wasn’t enough.
No matter how long I stared at the columns, though, the dull ache didn’t go away. I drew a line through the K? I’d written on the board.
Guilt, I thought. Uncertainty and guilt.
Kevin had to be confused at best, furious at worst. Of all the times I’d had to apologize to Josh, for things I had or hadn’t done, I’d never had to say I’m sorry I thought you might be a murderer.
I had no idea where to start, but that was no excuse for not doing it.
I called Kevin and walked over to the sofa so my murder board wouldn’t be a distraction, then fidgeted with the edge of the duct tape roll, hoping for voicemail.
“Hello?” he asked.
So much for voicemail.
“Hi Kevin,” I said. “It’s Anna.”
“Hi.”
“How are you doing?”
He paused. “I had kind of a rough night,” he said. “I got questioned by the police.”
“Oh,” I said lamely. “Are you okay?”
“I am,” he said. “But, um – they were asking about a necklace I gave you?”
“Right,” I said.
“I, um. I didn’t give you a necklace.”
The hummingbirds were back, beating their tiny wings in my stomach. My chest felt constricted and white-hot. “The day after our first date, there were flowers outside my door and a necklace. I thought they were from you.”
“I feel kind of like an ass,” he said. “I mean, no, they weren’t. Not that you aren’t worth it or something, I just – that wasn’t me.”
“I sent you that thank you text,” I said. This is so awkward. “So when you responded, I thought you were sort of confirming they were from you.”
“I thought you were just thanking me for a nice evening out.”
“It was nice,” I said.
There was another awkward pause.
“It’s not that I thought you specifically would do something like that,” I said. “The police needed to know who knows where I live. You drove me home. You were the only person who had just learned where I live.”
He paused again. “It feels weird that you didn’t talk to me,” he said.
“Like a heads-up that the police might contact you and it’s nothing to worry about?” I asked. “That’s interfering with an investigation. There are so many reasons I couldn’t do that.”
“Did you tell them it wasn’t me?” he asked.
“It wouldn’t matter if I did,” I said. “We only had the one date, and sociopaths are charming.”
“You think I could be a sociopath?” he asked.
“That’s not what I said,” I snapped. “Stop twisting the things I say.”
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m just not used to getting hauled into a police station. It took them six hours to confirm my alibi. I can’t even believe that I have to be a person with an alibi.”
God, this is excruciating. “I know that must’ve been hard for you,” I said. “But please understand: it’s a murder investigation. If they can’t exclude you, it’s a hole in the case.”
He groaned. “Look, I don’t know how to do this,” he said. “I like you, and I don’t know how much – to do. I’m so worried about you. Your friend just died, and someone is probably stalking or threatening you, and then the police are shoving these horrible photos in my face and asking if I did it, and – we’ve only had the one date, and I don’t want to overstep, and I don’t know if you’ll decide you can’t handle a relationship with all this going on. I don’t want to ask too much, but I don’t want to – not be there for you, and I don’t know if that’s even what you want, and then I’m worried you think I’m the psycho.”
I could lose him, I thought. I could lose him right now.
I didn’t want to.
The problem was, I didn’t know if I wanted to keep him either.
“That’s, um,” I said. “That’s a lot.”
“Yeah.” He sounded disappointed.
“The photos they showed you yesterday,” I said, and had to pause to keep my voice from catching. “The woman with short blonde hair.”
“There were two women with blonde hair,” he said, his voice sickened.
Darcy and Katie. “One of them was my client,” I said.
“Shit,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“Me, too,” I said. “I know early in a relationship, things should be easy and fun, and you stay in bed for five hours because you can, and –” My face burned as I realized I’d slipped into the standard therapist patter about early relationships. About what I’d just implied.
“So is this a relationship?” he asked. “Because I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.”
At least he’s direct, I thought. My breath was fast and shallow, as if I were about to jump out of a plane. I hesitated, but he’d just put everything out there. It wouldn’t be fair to shut down, as much as I wanted to. And look what happened when I said the bare minimum to get by with the text message. “Let’s find out,” I said.
He paused, and I died a little.
“One date isn’t a whole relationship.” I continued. “I – I don’t want to drag you into anything ugly. I don’t want you to be in danger, and I don’t want to hurt you because things are fucked up for me right now. But… I don’t think it’s fair for me to make that decision for you. And I don’t want to miss my chance either. So let’s go on a second date and see.”
“Okay,” he said again. “How about tonight?”
• • •
I couldn’t exactly refuse to go over to Kevin’s place after the conversation we’d just had. “I’m a terrible cook,” he’d said. “But I’m great at ordering food, and I set tables really well.”
I fretted in front of my closet for a good fifteen minutes before finally settling on a swingy red knit skirt and soft black top with a little fake fur around the collar. It was touchable and clung to my curves in the right places, but (I hoped) looked demure and effortless. I put on flesh-tone fishnet stockings and black, knee-high boots. Habit brought me over to my jewelry box, but I couldn’t see any of my necklaces without imagining them in a stranger’s bouquet, so I closed the box firmly and walked away from it.
After donning what I thought of as my Very Recognizable Overcoat, I hesitated at the door. The apartment was silent, except for Caprice munching her kibble. I looked out the peephole.
Great. The five feet you can see are clear.
You’re being silly, I told myself. You can’t let him own you.
I opened the door and checked the hall. It was empty.
I went into the hall, listening in both directions as I locked the doorknob and deadbolt. Then I strode quickly toward the second floor lobby, looking down into the open first floor. It was empty. I hurried downstairs and out the door, scanning the parking lot as I moved. Adrenaline coursed through my body as I walked to my car, unlocked it, and drove away.
I had to turn Walter off as I drove, because I couldn’t focus on the directions, the testing material, and the anxiety all at the same time.
Kevin lived a few blocks away from the Irving Park exit on Route 90, on a street where U-shaped apartment buildings have wrought iron fences and courtyards. I pulled up to the curb, what am I doing what am I doing coursing through my mind. It was just starting to get dark. How many monster movies had I seen when they thought the monster was dead, or they thought the killer was caught, and he was right under her nose?
You’re not a heroine, I reminded myself. You’re just having dinner with a nice guy. That’s it. Hundreds of people go on second dates without getting murdered all the time.
His apartment was on the second floor of a yellow brick three-story walkup. Kevin greeted me at the door with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. He wore dark jeans and a black button-down shirt.
“You look bea
utiful,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said, and presented him with a bag of dark roast Sumatra. “I brought coffee.” As much as I loved wine, I wanted to have my wits about me.
He took my coat and hung it in the closet while I stepped in and looked around the living room. The walls were cream-colored, which didn’t surprise me, because most landlords won’t let tenants paint. His furniture was the near-Bauhausian streamlined type you get from warehouse stores with Swedish names for everything. A dark green futon sat along one wall. A television on a simple, black corner stand sat in the far corner; a Lord of the Rings painting on one side and a framed Doctor Who poster on the other. A brown, overstuffed easy chair sat in the center of the room. As I walked around it to see the opposite side, I barely suppressed a squeal. A gorgeous long-haired cat, white with brown and black tabby splotches, curled in the middle of the chair. He raised his head and yawned, stretching his tufted paws. He had the longest whiskers I’d ever seen. I held out my hand for him to sniff.
“That’s Aslan,” Kevin said. The cat did look a little like a lion with his thick white ruff.
“He’s beautiful,” I said. I petted Aslan and a loud, rumbling purr filled the room. “I’m glad you like cats.”
“Do you have any?”
“I have one. A half-Siamese named Caprice.”
I looked up and my breath caught in my throat when I noticed the shelving unit along the wall. I’d been so enchanted with the cat that I hadn’t noticed it at first. It was a large, black, backlit structure with glass doors about six feet high. Each shelf contained dozens of tiny pewter figurines, most of which were an inch-and-a-half to two inches high. Jackal-headed Anubis pointed to his left with an authoritative air. Heracles held his helm, his bicep and calf muscles bulging. A wicked angel with cascading wings held a noose behind her back. The detail was exquisite.
“Wow,” I breathed. I almost didn’t want to exhale too hard, even with the glass between us, because they were so delicate. “I love this one.” I pointed to a tiny pewter Bastet.
“Thank you,” he said. He pressed on the door and opened it so I could get a better look. “I made that set a few years ago. It’s a little crude by my standards now.”
The Tease (The Darling Killer Trilogy) Page 10