by Nick Keller
Bernie’s eyes followed him as he paced back and forth and around the couch. “Okay, buddy, take it easy. Take it easy. What is a parallel—what?”
William fisted his hands wading the paper up and hitting himself in the head still marching around the room. “Parallel dichotomy. It’s an algorithm. Matrix equations. That kind of thing. Defines multiple scenarios—conflicting problems. Oh God, why didn’t I see it?”
“See what, William?” Bernie cried, almost desperately.
William paused and looked at him waving the crumpled page in the air. “The key—it’s not in the alphabetical first names, Bernie. It’s not A, B, C, D. It’s AJ, BH, CS, DD—and so forth.”
Bernie shook his head, blank.
“It’s their fucking initials!” William breathed trying to control his excitement, trying to find a way of phrasing what he had to say in a way Bernie might grasp. “The second letter is the random element. It’s his pattern. He’s choosing them by their initials, going alphabetically by their first names. The first letter is only the control. The second letter is the variable. No one knows what the second letter will be, only the first. Not even him.”
“Well, goddamn,” Bernie said. “How’s he choosing?”
William shook his head like rattling dice in a cup. “I don’t know yet. Something beyond himself is determining the random element. He needs chaos inside his function. He needs the doubt and shock of it. It makes his heart pound. Makes him dizzy with anticipation. Something is dictating the variable element for him. We just don’t know the pattern yet.” He pursed his lip under his teeth crumpling the page in his hands over and over.
Bernie glanced over the world of symbols on the wall. In just a few hours of obsessive, explosive, mind-powered nutjob neurosis, William had figured out half the case. Screw the FBI. Screw Hollywood Station. Hell, Screw Mark Neiman, too. They were amateurs. All of them. It was William who’d gotten them this far.
Bernie’s gaze went to his partner. “When did you become a mathematician?” he asked.
“Math?” William laughed. “To heck with math, Bernie. This isn’t damn math! Jesus—this is reason, logic. Look, it’s all a pattern. Everything—the fucking moon craters, fucking dogs hair, fucking fiddlehead ferns—everything’s patterns. And our guy—he’s just a pattern, too. He’s just a…” he wavered on his feet taking a breath and balancing himself on the wet bar. “He’s just a…” A look of confusion came over him.
“Will,” Bernie said sharply, trying to bring his partner back. “You alright?”
William said drunkenly, “Yeah man—why do you keep asking me that?” He still swayed, blinked his eyes focused hard. “I’m not crazy,” he muttered. “I’m not insane. I’m not in—in—” His eyes rolled up and he collapsed to the floor in an explosion of fluttering papers.
Bernie watched his partner fall down, and heard himself mutter, “—sane.”
31
WILLIAM WAKES UP
He chased a man down an alley. Footsteps click-clacked off rain-soaked cobblestone, echoing in the tiny space. Above was the night. Droplets of rain cascaded down silently, each twinkling off moonlight.
The walls pushed in on him, towering above. Shapes like fire escapes and steel lattice were dark and shimmering in the wet air. William stayed on his prey, focusing, pushing himself harder, faster. Somehow, he knew he was chasing him toward doom. Death was waiting somewhere up there, but the more he ran, and the more the phantom silhouette ran, the longer the alleyway stretched, on and on. It was endless—a throat swallowing him deeper and deeper.
The man, up ahead—was he victim or murderer? William had to know. The scream of need was in his ears, echoes bouncing inside his skull the way those haunting footsteps pounded through the alley. The need pushed him, it drove him. He breathed hot and wet, sides splitting open, teeth gritting. He was close. Closer, now. Closer than ever.
William reached a hand for the back of that black, dark neck. But it wasn’t a hand. It was a powerful, truncated limb, lined with cilia. He was the spider.
William drew within inches, trembling, stretching. There was contact. The man in the alley roared an androgynous death wail, half male, half female, and spun on him, a darkened flash of motion two-toning the dim. The screaming, the death in his victim’s eyes, the smell of hot blood, pushed William deeper into action. He needed to feed, wanted to rip his flesh, feel his fluids, taste his very soul.
But then, in the surrealism of a dream he saw the face. It wasn’t a man at all. It was…
Oh Jesus God no…
It was…
HIS EYES OPENED, terrified. A face stared directly down at him. He shook his head. He knew this face. It wasn’t a man at all. It was pretty. Striking features. He squinted and whispered, “Ruthi?”
She put her hands to his face. “Shhh, it’s okay.”
“How long…”
“Don’t worry about that. Everything’s okay.”
His next breath was devastating and perfect at the same time. It brought him fully back, so he propped himself up. He was on a couch. It was big and leather, extremely comfortable, and it was hot with his body heat. Looking around he realized he was in a living room. The place was alien to him, yet he recognized it.
Bernie’s house.
“What are you…” he went confused, “what are we doing here?”
She smiled in her warm, kind way and said, “It’s kind of a long story. But…” she made a coy look. “I’m glad I’m here.”
He looked her up and down tiredly and said, “Yeah—me too.”
“The patient’s awake,” came a big voice entering the room. Bernie came over to him and stood looking down.
“Bernie, what happened?”
“I’ll tell you, but you got to take this first.” He gave him a cup of water and a pill. Seroquel. An antipsychotic. Three hundred milligrams.
“Where’d you get this?”
“Where do you think?”
William already knew. Bernie had rummaged William’s bathroom, gotten it from his medicine cabinet. Bernie sat down on the couch forcing William to readjust his position. “You blew a goddamn gasket, partner. Been in and out for a whole day.”
“A whole day?”
“Mm-hmm.”
William swallowed the pill and gulped the water to wash away his cottonmouth.
“Now, why would you skip your medication?”
“I had…” that’s when the numbers, the symbols, the patterns came flooding back to him. “I had work to do. It… gets in the way.”
“Yeah well, so do neurotic breakdowns.”
William gave Ruthi an embarrassed look. She shook her head with understanding. “Please,” she said, “I take Xanax every day.”
“You didn’t call Doctor Oaks, did you?”
Bernie grumbled laughter. “You don’t need a head case. You just need your pill.”
“Thanks. So, is that how I got here, Bernie? You bring me here?”
“Couldn’t just leave you on the floor, pal. Looked kinda hard.” He shot a thumb at Ruthi. “This one called your phone about an hour ago. Your caller ID said Ruthi, semen specialist. I thought, semen specialist—hell, I gotta answer that. So I did. Hope you don’t mind.”
William and Ruthi met eyes. He was glad she was here. Under other circumstances, it would be another embarrassing bullet point in his personal life, but Ruthi didn’t seem to be the judgmental sort. No—she was kind and understanding. Maybe even loving. William said, “Don’t mind.”
“Well good,” Bernie said. “Figured she was a part of the investigation anyway. She wanted to come see you. Insisted, I would say.” He gave her a playful, cursory look and said, “Figured what the hell. Nice girl,” he chucked William in the shoulder with an elbow.
“What about…?” In William’s eyes was their secret roaming around.
Bernie grinned. “Iva? She’s here. She’s getting ready, in fact. Takes her hours.”
“Ready for what?”
“Well,” he said getting to his feet. “We’re going to the Shell Shack tonight. All of us. Thought you could use some down time, kid. Hope you’re up for it.”
William inspected himself—dressed in three-day house clothes. He looked up. “I probably stink.”
“Yeah—but there’s this thing called showers. Can you handle that?”
William stood up a little shaky, but after a day of sleeping he felt strong, if not gut-wrenchingly hungry. The Shell Shack was a beach joint eternally washed in the salt-sea air with outdoor seating on multi-leveled wood decks. It was known for its occasional celebrity appearance. But the ambiance was relaxed and peaceful. “The Shell Shack, huh? Yeah, sounds pretty good.”
32
DOUBLE DATE
Bernie had taken William home and dropped him off. He showered, shaved, and all the other necessary things, dressed in his usual attire—a pressed, thin, long sleeve tee shirt, loose around the edges, with jeans and comfortable shoes. He started feeling like himself again. The whole time he avoided the scribbling on his wall. It was his other life. Tonight, he would be his medicated, acceptable, sociable self, and try to forget for a few hours that murder was all around them, inside him.
He met them at the Shell Shack at eight o’clock. Bernie and Iva had already gotten a table, both well into their pre-diner cocktails. He watched them as he approached. Iva was a dazzler, if slightly overdressed for the occasion. She wore a red, slinky low plunging cocktail dress which showed enough cleavage to float a boat, teased hair, and strappy pumps. William figured it was part of her old wardrobe, a piece from her days of escorting. She wore it like a pro.
As he watched them, Bernie doted over her like a kid with a new bicycle, pulling out her chair, touching her face, forking out food from their appetizer plate onto her dish. She was the perfect woman for a guy like Bernie. Physical. Sexual. A bit on the immoderate side. Even a little hurt, though she hid that part well. Everyone had secrets, especially a seasoned L.A. former escort girl. She was Bernie’s feminine equivalent.
It was an open restaurant with a cool, night breeze washing in from the ocean. He felt good. Maybe Bernie was right. The downtime would be nice. If nothing else, tonight would be an enticing social experiment, observing two unlike couples share such close space. He approached their table.
Bernie looked up, then Iva. “There he is. What’re you drinking, Will?”
William stood at their table. “Just water.”
“Boring, kid. Sit down.”
Iva reached a hand to touch his arm. “How ya feelin’?”
“Better. It was a strange day. I’m sure it was just as strange for you, too.”
She flicked a wrist at him. “Oh please, baby—you ain’t seen half the stuff I’ve seen. Like, uh—you know.”
Getting beat up and pissed on…
William shook his head stopping her. “Those boys—that was in poor character. It wasn’t your fault. This was just—well, it was me letting my condition control me. It was stupid. But still, I wanted to thank you for letting me stay. A hospital would’ve been the last thing I needed. I know it was impromptu.”
“It’s Bernie’s house,” she said.
“It’s our house,” Bernie said, automatically correcting her.
Iva accepted his words with a shrug and looked back at William. “Well then, you’re welcome. If Bernie trusts you, I trust you, too.” They acknowledged each other with a look. “So…?”
“So—what exactly?” William said.
“So, what’s with you and this girl. Ruthi?”
“Babe,” Bernie grumbled.
Iva ignored. “She likes you, Willy. I can tell.”
“Babe.”
“Believe me, I seen plenty of it. I know when a girl’s hot under the skirt. And that girl’s hot under the skirt.”
“Jesus, babe.”
William reached into their plate of fried pickle appetizers and popped one in his mouth saying, “Well, the interest…”
“What?” Bernie said, suddenly interested.
“It’s mutual.”
Bernie chuckled popping the table with his hand, “You’re hot under the skirt, too, eh?”
Iva smacked him in the shoulder. “Baby!”
“What, it was a joke. Hell, you started it.” To William, he said, “But she’s right, Will. The girl likes you. She was concerned enough to drive over to my house to be with you.”
“Our house,” Iva said, correcting him.
Bernie nodded his head at her gracefully and with a smile. “Our house. Look, Will, you’ll play it how you want, I get it.” He perked up looking behind William. “And speak of the devil.”
William turned in his chair, and there she was. Ruthi.
She moved toward them wearing a cowl front blouse with an open knit sweater ready to ward off the cool ocean breeze, and long flowing knit beach pants. And, of course, her signature bow-shaped glasses and flats. She was half librarian, and half bohemian, a look which seemed to fit her personality extraordinarily well.
AS THE NIGHT PROGRESSED, William found it refreshing to be caught up in a budding friendship with a woman, perhaps even the first steps toward romance. It was exciting. The world was unknown. It presented rare questions for him. What did her lips taste like? What color where her nipples? What love-making noises did she make? He’d rarely been here. Dating had always been a means of fitting in as opposed to actually finding love. It had always been a cloak and mask to avoid the obvious questions from brain-bought work friends or vicarious colleagues—why don’t you have a woman, how can we get you a girl, when are you going to settle down with someone? William didn’t fully understand what these questions even meant, and he damn sure didn’t know how to answer them. Going on a series of first dates tended to keep them at bay the way a child’s blankie kept the monster in the closet.
The more he watched Ruthi, the more he got the impression she felt the same. This was untested territory for her. She was a bug-eyed alien sitting there in her cute, little sweater with the breeze ruffling her boyish, little crop chop haircut—a sperm technician in L.A. taking baby sips from her Bay Breeze glass. Most people in L.A. hardly dated outside the entertainment business. Why would they when everyone in L.A. was a movie producer or a music god? Even the small timers acted like they were big timers. There was clout with being important in L.A. But sperm bank techies? They were like the circle makers in Square Land. They were like the one seven-legged ant in the mound. The fly on the wall. It made Ruthi relish being at the restaurant that night—William could tell—co-mingling with people in her gene pool, being involved in a brand new social life. It was as unexpected as it was welcome. It made her feel like a bug-eyed alien in a room full of bug-eyed aliens. For once, she fit in. And she wanted to be there. She was excited to be there, even if she didn’t know how to show it in the socially proper ways of etiquette and protocol. But to hell with etiquette and protocol. It made her cute.
The irony was she sat next to Iva, the pro. They hailed from opposite ends of the social spectrum, one seasoned, the other a bit withdrawn. But even Iva felt alien. Being a part of a non-paying crowd of friends who seemed genuine about wanting, even enjoying her presence was something even her seasoning wasn’t fully attuned to. It leveled the playing field, as it was, and when William took an everlasting leap of faith and reached over the table for Ruthi’s hand, it almost felt the night was complete.
Then, fanning herself from the alcohol, Iva said, “You got a smoke, baby?”
Bernie thumped one out for her and started to get up to join her on the outside deck.
“No, baby—this is for me and Ruthi,” she said, gently shoving him back down into his seat. Bernie reacted with raised eyebrows. Iva nudged Ruthi offering a smoke, and said, “You want?”
“Oh, I actually—I don’t smoke,” Ruthi said.
“Well then, I’ll smoke, you watch. Come outside with me. Let the boys talk their shop. I know they want to.” She took her drink with her.
Bernie cleared his throat adjusting in his seat. “So, Beatrice Harlow,” he grumbled catching William’s attention. “She sends me flowers the other day. Just out of the blue. Can you imagine that? Flowers at the police station from a dead girl. You know anything about that?”
William looked like a cat in the headlights. “Not at all.”
Bernie huffed, “You’re a shitty liar, Will. You know what that means?”
“No, what does that mean?”
“It means you can’t lie for shit, son.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Yup.” He looked out, sipped on his Jack, looked back, and said, “So, how’d you get her name?”
William smiled at him, capitulating. “I wasn’t keeping it from you, Bernie. I was asked not to mention it.”
Bernie flashed interest, “Asked? You got another source?”
William let out a big breath and admitted, “It was Jacky.”
“The nerd?”
“Yes.”
Bernie’s eyes went into slits and he leaned back in his chair. “That little shit. How’d he get her name? Wait—” he thought a second. “He still snooping around the P.D. files?”
William nodded his head, yes.
“Spying on me. That little rat bastard. How’d he know?” Bernie said.
“That, I don’t know. I assume he caught on to your investigation, figured it out.”
“Heh—what tipped him off about the Harlow girl?”
William clicked his tongue. “I asked that, too. He must have concluded the names were alphabetical before I did. He had Andi, Candy and Dulce. The missing letter was B. The evidence led him there. I mean, how else?”