Black Widow

by Victor Methos

  21

  The waiting area in Dr. Vaquer’s office had changed slightly since Stanton had been there last. He scanned the space quickly. The coffee table had been caramel and was now black.

  “Jon,” Vaquer said as she opened her double doors, “come on back.”

  He followed her in and lay on the couch. Papers ruffled behind him and he heard a pen click.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  “I’m okay. Good, actually.”

  “How are your boys?”

  “They seem really happy. My oldest, though… I caught him having sex with a girl.”

  “Really?”

  “Apparently he’s slept with several girls, starting back on the East Coast. His mother probably doesn’t have a problem with it.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  Stanton crossed one foot over the other. “She has a liberal view of things now that she’s been divorced. Or maybe she always has.”

  “Must’ve been disappointing as a practicing Mormon to see your son in that situation.”

  “What I kept thinking was that I had no right to judge him. I did that when I was his age. And I’ve done worse since.”

  Stanton heard writing and didn’t know what he’d said that was important enough to write down.

  “Jon, we’ve never really talked about this, but are you raising your boys Mormon?”

  “Yes.”

  “How does their mother feel about it?”

  He thought back to a conversation he’d had years ago. Melissa had yelled at him for forcing the boys to church. She’d told him that religion was the stupidest thing a person could submit themselves to. She’d called it willing slavery.

  “Not good,” he said. “She’s not religious.”

  “Was that awkward for you? Being married to someone that didn’t share your beliefs?”

  Stanton looked out the window. The sunlight was bright and exposed the dirt and finger grease on the glass. He pictured Dr. Vaquer staring absently out her window when she was here by herself.

  “I didn’t care about sharing my beliefs. I just cared about her understanding why it was important to me. I don’t think she did.”

  Though Stanton couldn’t see her, Vaquer was silent a moment and he got the impression that she was nodding.

  “How’s work going?” she said.

  “I think I’ve pointed the finger at the wrong person.”

  “For what?”

  “Have you read about the Black Widow killings?”

  “Yes, I have,” she said, a hint of curiosity coming into her voice. “The hotel killings.”

  “That’s the one. I found a suspect and they’re going to arrest her tomorrow based on my say-so. But I went and watched her and now I’m not so sure she’s the one.”

  “Why not?”

  Stanton shook his head. “There’s something about her. An innocence, I guess. I just don’t think a person like that could’ve done something like this.”

  More writing.

  “Jon, you’re always telling me how we can never know anybody. That everyone is capable of anything and hides a part of themself, the dark part, from the rest of the world. Why wouldn’t you think this woman would have that side to her as well?”

  “She’s hurt, somehow. Deeply hurt. I can see a lot of pain in her. For some reason, I just don’t think she would be capable of the brutality that would be required for these types of killings.”

  Vaquer was silent a moment. “You have a doctorate in psychology. Do I really need to say it?”

  “Wish fulfillment, projection, rationalizing… I get it. But I don’t think that’s it.”

  “Are you attracted to this woman?”

  Stanton hesitated a moment. He didn’t know how to respond to that question. Attractive covered a lot of ground. Sexual attraction was a base, powerful urge and most men, he knew, in general, were sexually attracted to most women. There was also attraction to the personage, the career, the status. Attraction, particularly in certain types of women, also displayed as a craving for humiliation. That, at least some of the research suggested, was the origin of the “bad boy” phenomenon. The dangerous and abusive male was a reflection of what the passive victim thought they deserved.

  But there was a deeper attraction as well. One that transcended form and appearance. Something clicked between two people immediately and they knew that they could, potentially, spend the rest of their lives together.

  Stanton had never felt it with his ex-wife, Melissa. But he had with the girl on the beach. A girl that he had spent less than two months with before she packed up and left without saying goodbye.

  He didn’t know what type of attraction he felt toward Heidi Rousseau, but there was certainly something there.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m attracted to her.”

  “Don’t you think that’s clouding your judgment? At least a little?”

  “It is. I’m not denying it. But I have this desire to protect her.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t need protecting? Maybe she is the monster you initially thought she was?”

  “Possibly. And if it’s true, I’m really gonna regret what I’m about to do.”

  22

  Stanton finished the session and rose from the couch. He stretched his arms and back. As he stood to leave, Vaquer said, “Jon, I would like you to do something for me.”

  “Sure.”

  “I want you to think, really think, about why you believe that woman we talked about is innocent and needs your protection. We’re not far from when Emma broke up with you, and I’m sure loneliness is pushing down your door. But you have to fight it. You cannot project what you want someone to be onto what they are. It won’t lead to anything but misery.”

  He nodded. “You think evil can be beautiful?”

  “What?”

  “Something my captain said. He said evil can be beautiful, too.”

  She shook her head. “That’s not true in my experience.”

  “Mine either. Which makes me wonder why he said it.”

  “You should ask him.” Vaquer rose. “I should get to the next patient. See you next week?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be here. Thanks, Natalia.”

  Stanton left the office and decided he had enough time to fit in a surf, and then dinner.

  The North Shore wasn’t a place for amateurs. The only way Stanton could possibly have recommended that a newbie surfer get out on the waves was to hire a reputable surfing instructor. The instructor would take them out on a jet ski and teach them the technical aspects. But the heart of surfing, its essence, wasn’t something that could be taught or even talked about. It could only be experienced.

  The waves were nothing today but it didn’t matter. Stanton paddled out far from shore and then flipped around and lay on his board. The wetsuit felt awkward on his skin, and he wished the sea was warm enough to go without one. But whenever he did, his surfs were cut short.

  Instead of surfing, he watched the people on shore. They were specks from this far out. He couldn’t see their motions or hear their words. They appeared like insects racing about the sand. It gave Stanton an uncomfortable feeling and he paddled back in.

  Once he had showered and changed, he texted Mathew and asked if the boys were hungry. He got a reply that they were.

  On the drive back, he picked up a pizza and a six-pack of Sprite. When he entered the house, Johnny smelled the pizza almost immediately and shouted, “Pizza!” Something Stanton remembered both his sons doing since the time they were three. Certain things never left you, he figured.

  “Grab some plates, Matty.”

  The plates were set and Stanton folded his arms after they were all seated. “Johnny, would you say the prayer?”

  The boy sighed but said the prayer anyway. He thanked God for his family, his best friend, living in Hawaii, and that there was no school on Monday.

  Stanton watched Matt as they ate. He seemed despondent and didn’t really look up
from his plate.

  “You okay, Matty?”

  “That woman we talked to. She’s still out there, huh?”

  Stanton nodded. “Yeah.”

  “And that’s all there is? That’s all they do, I mean?”

  “Yes. And it’s extraordinarily dangerous. But they’ve fallen into someplace they can’t climb out of. That’s what bad decisions lead to. You slip farther and farther into a hole and when you realize where you are, it’s too late. You can’t climb back out.”

  Mathew thought about this a moment.

  “What woman?” Johnny said, shoving another slice in his mouth.

  After dinner, Stanton went next door and found Suzanne. He had met her through Emma, his fiancée, when she had lived here with him. Suzanne was divorced and single. Her husband had taken their son back East, and at every opportunity she told Stanton how much she missed him. A lawyer, she told him, was working on getting her joint custody. Half the time out here and half back in New Hampshire with his father.

  She answered the door in her workout clothing.

  “Sorry,” Stanton said. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “You’re fine. What’s going on?”

  “I was just wondering if you wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on the boys. I’m heading out for a bit for work.”

  She smiled. “Jon, Mathew’s seventeen. He might be out of the house next year.”

  He grinned and shook his head, realizing how foolish it sounded. “I know. But the things I’ve seen and dealt with… I can’t let them out of my sight unless someone else is watching them.”

  “I understand. I’m just finishing up. Give me twenty?”

  “Sure.”

  Stanton walked back and sat on the patio as the boys played Xbox. He would have felt bad relying on Suzanne so much, except he knew she missed her son. Spending time with his boys probably helped. Particularly Johnny.

  When Suzanne came over, he kissed his boys, and then got into his jeep and headed for the interstate. Queen’s Medical wasn’t far. In fact, nothing was really far on the island. When he had lived in Los Angeles, he had gotten used to two-hour drives morning and night. Just to get from home to work and back. San Diego was better, but not by much. Even with packed traffic, there weren’t many places on the island he couldn’t get to in a reasonable amount of time.

  Stanton parked in police parking again and sat back. He had half an hour left until Heidi Rousseau’s shift ended.

  He read a book on his iPhone, David Copperfield, and listened to a few podcasts. He checked emails and texted Suzanne, asking if the boys were doing okay. She said they were and not to worry.

  If she knew what he had seen, she wouldn’t say that, Stanton thought. She didn’t know what men were capable of.

  At ten minutes to eight, Stanton got out of the jeep. Darkness hadn’t fallen yet and the sky was in that transition phase. Gray, with a golden glow from the fading sun. No breeze was blowing and it wasn’t cold.

  He sat down on one of the couches in the waiting area and watched the people coming and going. Before too long, Heidi Rousseau walked out wearing the jeans and shirt she’d had on this morning. She smiled and said goodbye to the help desk and the security guard, and headed for the front entrance.

  Stanton followed her outside. Once in the parking lot, he jogged lightly and caught up with her.

  “Excuse me,” he said. He startled her. Her eyes went wide and she was clutching her purse. Something had happened to her in the past. Something that caused her to jump. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Oh…” He took out his badge. “I’m Jon Stanton. I’m with the Honolulu Police Department. I needed to speak to you about a few things.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Like what?”

  “Just some things I needed to clear up.”

  She took a step back. “I’m going to have to ask you again what this is concerning. I’m not going anywhere with you alone.”

  “I don’t need you to.” He glanced back to the entrance and saw that the security guard had risen and walked to the glass doors. “It’s concerning the deaths of Alex Waters and Hugh Neal.” He looked to her. “The two men you were with on the nights they were killed.”

  Her face went white and her lip quivered. “Those… those men I saw on the news? They’d been…”

  “They were killed. Yes. I just need a few minutes, Heidi.”

  She swallowed and opened her mouth to speak, but the security guard had come outside and shouted, “Everything okay, Dr. Rousseau?”

  “Everything’s fine, Harold. Thank you.” She looked back to Stanton. “I have nothing to say about that. I don’t know anything.”

  Stanton looked into her doelike eyes. They were sweet and sensual in a way he hadn’t seen often. “Heidi, we both know that’s a lie. I know this sounds like a cliché from a cop, but I’m trying to help you. We don’t have to go to the station. Is there somewhere around here you’d feel comfortable speaking?”

  She thought a moment, holding his gaze. “A coffee shop around the corner. Cup of Joe’s.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Stanton got into his jeep and pulled out of the hospital parking lot. This was the moment he had been dreading since making up his mind to come see Heidi. She could just speed off the other way. She could catch a flight before they got to her and just vanish.

  He kept glancing into his rearview mirror. Her car, a black Mercedes, stayed behind him. He found the coffee shop and parked out front. She found a stall across the street.

  As she walked across the street, Stanton watched her. The way she walked, the way she held her purse. He immediately caught himself and had to push the lustful thoughts out of his mind. One thing he never did was lie to himself. The people on the planet most adaptable were those that were able to look at themselves in a harsh light and be honest about what they saw. It allowed him to change personas, and even his manner of speech and movement, depending on the company he was with. Psychological flexibility. And the only way to achieve it was to be honest about your emotions.

  And right now, his emotions were telling him that Heidi was the most attractive woman he had ever known.

  He erased the thoughts, like pushing a delete button, and got out of the jeep.

  23

  The coffee shop had amateur art on all the walls and in the corner were large bookshelves. Two men were playing chess at a table, and a woman in a beanie was writing something in a journal. One employee was behind the counter. Other than that, the place was empty.

  Stanton waited until she chose the spot. A table near the windows, in plain view of the cashier and the men playing chess. He sat across from her and waited a beat until she placed her purse down by her feet.

  “I’m sorry I startled you,” he said. “I just didn’t want to approach you in front of any co-workers.”

  “I appreciate that. So who are you exactly?”

  “I’m a detective with the homicide detail of the HPD. I was assigned the two murders I told you about.”

  “The news called them the Black Widow Murders.”

  He nodded. “That was an unfortunate nickname from our department. But I guess they have to call it something.”

  The cashier came over and asked if they wanted anything. Stanton declined and Heidi asked for a coffee with cream.

  “They have really good coffee here,” she said.

  “I don’t drink coffee.”

  “What, are you Mormon or something?” she said dismissively. He grinned. “Oh my gosh. You are. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” He looked around. “I like this place. It reminds me of the coffee shops I would study at in college.”

  “I know. College was the best time of my life. I guess I’m drawn to anything that reminds me of it.” She looked out the windows. “I didn’t kill those men.”

  “I didn’t say you did.”

  “But that’s why you’re here. You think I killed them.” The coffee came. She thanked t
he cashier and he laid a ticket on the table. Heidi took a sip of the coffee and placed it gingerly on the table. “How did they die?”

  Stanton hesitated, wondering how many of the details he should discuss and what had been released to the press. “They were tortured to death. They died primarily from blood loss.”

  “Primarily?”

  “They were given potassium injections, probably to slow them down. They were also in severe shock. The ME thinks the blood loss is what killed them. But they would have died shortly anyway from the potassium. Whoever killed them made sure there was no way they could be saved.”

  She nodded. Her eyes came up quickly, caught his, and went back down to her coffee. Her eyes were like crystals, large and pure. Stanton felt like they could have gleamed in the dark. He had to remind himself why he was here. He had to picture those two men strapped to a bed with swaths of skin pulled off.

  “What were the dates they were killed?” Heidi asked.

  “May first and June third.”

  She nodded. “I worked all day on those days.”

  “You know what days of the week they are off the top of your head?”

  “I only have Sundays off. Most murders don’t happen on Sundays.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  She shrugged and took another sip of coffee before picking up a sugar packet. “I don’t know,” she said, tearing open the packet and pouring the contents into the black liquid. “Just something I’ve always felt. I was a pediatric trauma surgeon in Los Angeles for a while. The murders we received were mostly during the week or Friday and Saturday. There didn’t seem to be as many on Sundays.” She smiled. “Maybe because all the murderers were in church. No offense.”

  “None taken. It’s probably true. A high percentage of people with antisocial personality disorder are also fervently religious.”

  “So was I right?”

  “Yes. One was a Wednesday and one was a Monday.”