Now she understood why this man was talking to her.
Thank you, Merlin!
“It sounds fascinating, Doctor Wolf. Um, did Merlin happen to mention…”
“Call me Mike. Whenever I hear Doctor Wolf, I think somebody’s talking to my father. Yes, he did mention that you were doing some research in criminology, and that you’d like to get your hands on an HMD.”
Research in criminology?
“Well, yes, I would. I’ve got the rest of the hardware, and some software I’ve developed over the past five years or so. But I’m on a limited budget”—she wondered if she should have said grant—“here, so I was hoping to borrow a headset. Temporarily, of course.”
“It so happens I’ve got two. I won’t need the other one until the second half of my project, which is probably four or five months away. At least. Could be a year. That’s when I’ll be ready to have a shared VR with a surgeon on either end of the line. And get this—I’ve got the gloves, too, so that surgeons or med students can pick things up and use them in the VR.”
PJ knew that he was referring to a specialized input device, a pair of gloves that the user wore which had sensors imbedded in the fabric. The sensors fed information to the computer about how the wearer was moving his hands. It was like wearing a joystick. You could curl your virtual fingers around a virtual scalpel, pick it up, and use it on a virtual patient. It was more than she had hoped for. “Doctor…Mike. When could we get together on this?”
She heard a chuckle. “Merlin said you were a fast mover. How about today? Lunch?”
“Sounds terrific.”
“There’s a great pizza place right across Millbrook Boulevard from the campus. It’s called Giorgio’s. I can walk there from my office. Can you make it, say, at twelve-thirty?”
PJ got directions and hung up. She was elated, and caught herself wondering what Mike looked like. His voice had been very pleasant, and, she had to admit to herself, downright sexy. It amazed her that she noticed. Since she and Steven separated, her sex life had not just been on the back burner, but off the stove entirely. When Steven dumped her for a woman whose body would look at home on a centerfold photo, PJ’s self-esteem took a major blow. That she was able to notice and respond to the undercurrent in Mike’s voice was, she figured, a good sign. She was suddenly conscious of a feeling of warmth low in her abdomen. Her vaginal muscles contracted, squeezing a phantom penis, and the warmth traveled quickly up to her navel and down to her knees, as though a hot white light had flashed across her midsection.
Checking her watch, she discovered that she had about fifteen minutes before she had to leave. She grabbed her purse and headed down the hallway to the ladies’ room.
The full length mirror was not overly cruel to her. The twenty extra pounds she had been carrying around since the divorce certainly hadn’t disappeared, though. This morning she had selected pleated trousers, a lightweight wool blend with enough substance so that it didn’t cling to the fullness of her hips or thighs. The trousers were forest green, and she had paired them with a short-sleeve silk blouse in an ivory shade that went well with the green. The blouse was full cut and draped smoothly from a round neckline. It was tucked into the trousers, and her waistline was still well-defined and supple. The extra weight seemed to collect at her hips, thighs, and, she noted critically when she checked her profile, her backside. Around her neck was a slim gold chain that held a heart-shaped locket. Inside were two pictures of her son; one of them was a recent replacement for a picture of Steven. Her shoulder-length chestnut hair framed her face attractively. The gray hairs mixed in gave an honest impression of maturity that was echoed by the tiny wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Her skin had a fresh appearance, still tight over her well-defined cheekbones and at her throat. She had worn no makeup today. Her gray eyes were clear, so light they were almost colorless, but lively and intelligent.
She opened her purse, opted for a swipe with a deep red lipstick, then blotted most of it away so that her lips had a subtle red tint. She powdered her nose even though it wasn’t shiny.
Oh, geez, look at me. I’m acting like a teenager. He’s probably married. Or gay. Or ninety years old. Or all of the above.
Giorgio’s was nondescript on the outside, but the inside was full of character. There were starving artist-type oil paintings covering almost every inch of wall space, and red and white checkered tablecloths atop round tables. Heavy red drapes were drawn over the windows, making the place dim and cool compared to the dazzling sunshine of early summer outside. Candles in crystal holders shaped like snowballs adorned every table, and most of the tables were occupied. She told the hostess that she was meeting Doctor Wolf, and was led to his table.
As she approached, she was aware of his eyes reflecting the candlelight. Then, as her eyes adjusted to the low light level, she became aware that something else was reflecting the candlelight. He was bald, his head as smooth as an egg.
“Go ahead,” he said in that warm voice, now with a touch of amusement. “Get a good look. Everybody does.”
“I’m sorry,” PJ stammered. “I didn’t mean to stare. It’s just so unexpected. But certainly not unattractive.” He didn’t rise to shake her hand, so she took a seat and looked him over appraisingly. He sat still for it. It was hard to guess his age. When she had first seen him, the baldness automatically made her think he was sixty or over. A closer look at the vitality of his face revised her estimate down to the early forties. She couldn’t tell his height exactly, since he was sitting down, but he seemed about average height. His face was angular, with well-defined cheekbones and chin. His nose was large and sharp. Absurdly she thought of slicing cheese on it. His eyebrows were shaggy and full, as if to make up for the lack of hair northward. His eyes and eyebrows were indeterminate in color in the low light, but she had the impression they were the deep, threatening gray of a summer thunder-head. His chest and arms were muscular, but not overly developed. He was wearing a white T-shirt with a gaudy toucan and the words “Save the Rainforests” on the front. There was a softness at his waist, a slight bulge that tattled of cream sauces or candy bars. PJ thought that he used to exercise regularly but spent more time at his computer lately than in his jogging shoes. Thinking of the view of her own profile in the mirror, she admitted to herself that she was perversely pleased that his body wasn’t perfect, that it showed signs of wear and age, stress and indulgence, like her own.
She wondered if he liked slightly short women with ample posteriors and a little gray in their hair.
A waitress came and brought menus and goblets of ice water. PJ opened her menu flat on the table and stared at it even though it was really too dim to make out the items. She was giving him his chance to check her out. She was well aware that his eyes were roaming her downturned face and her upper body. The low warm feeling she had felt earlier seemed about to recur, and her nipples hardened in anticipation. She raised the menu to cover her chest. The silk blouse did not offer a lot of concealment.
“So,” she said, “what’s good here?”
They ended up with house salads topped with red onion slices, black olives, chunks of mozzarella, and buttery croutons heavily flavored with sage. Mike ordered bread sticks, which came surrounded by a cloud of garlic aroma, and virgin olive oil with freshly ground pepper floated on top to dip them into. Individual pizzas arrived next, each in the iron skillets in which they were baked. The conversation was light, mostly about interesting places to visit in St. Louis. Mike had lived in the city all his life, had been born in Barnes Hospital across from Forest Park, grown up in the Central West End, and attended Washington University for his undergraduate and graduate degrees. Although he was well-traveled, he always came home to roost. Then she gave him the basics of her life, about growing up in a small town in Iowa, wanting to become a psychologist to help people, of her fascination with computers as a tool for investigating the mind.
“Divorced?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Me too.” And that was that.
Halfway through her pizza, PJ dropped a forkful of food, and hot chunks of tomato rolled down her silk blouse, leaving an oily trail and ending up in her lap. At the beginning of the meal, she would have been horrified to make such a blunder. By that time, though, they both simply laughed about it. Mike swiped an extra cloth napkin from an unoccupied table and she did the best she could with it. He even offered to help, but given the location of the stains—between her breasts and in the crotch of her pants—she just raised her eyebrows and kept wiping.
They were comfortable together.
When PJ got back to her office, she was in a good mood, and it wasn’t entirely due to the wine she had at lunch. On her desk was a large duffel bag containing the headset that Mike had lent her. She had seen the bag on the floor next to his chair in the restaurant, a lumpy shape in the dim light, and wondered why he had brought his laundry along. Later, when he was putting the bag into the trunk of her car, she told him that, and they both had a good laugh about it.
Just as PJ reached to unzip the bag, the phone rang.
“Damn!” She considered not picking up, decided that was unprofessional.
“CHIP team, Gray speaking,” she said into the receiver.
“Hello. I’m trying to reach Mr. Schultz, Leo Schultz.”
Figures.
The voice was low, female, and slightly nervous.
“Just a moment, I’ll transfer you.”
“Wait, wait. Are you working on the Ballet Butcher case?”
PJ was aware that the media had connected the two killings. Some details, such as the absence of the victims’ heads from the scene and the skin carvings, had miraculously been kept from the public. So far, at least. But journalists had picked up on the theme of murder in the artistic realm—musician, dancer. Who’s next?
“Yes, I am.”
There was a hesitation on the other end. Finally the voice blurted, “I hate to ask this, because I know I’d hate to get asked myself, but are you the secretary or something?”
“No,” PJ said, letting some irritation leak through.
“A cop, then?”
“Not exactly. I’m a civilian employee. There’s a special task force,” more like a task farce, for all the results we’re getting, she thought, “assigned to the investigation. I’m the head of the task force.”
“Great. I’d rather talk to a woman anyway. The clerk in Homicide gave me Schultz’s name but your phone number.”
“May I help you with something?” PJ looked longingly at the duffel bag on her desk.
“Yes. I believe I have some information about the case. I think I’ve seen the killer.”
PJ tensed. “What makes you think that?”
“An experience I had last night. Listen, I really want to talk to you in person about it. Can I come in and see you?”
“Now?” PJ blurted. “I mean,” she backpedaled, “couldn’t you give me some details on the phone? Then I could have Detective Schultz contact you. He’s in charge of all the field work.”
If you weren’t before, Leo, you are now.
“I really need to talk to someone. I’m kind of spooked.”
PJ detected an urgent tone in the voice, almost desperation. Her psychology training kicked in. “OK, we’ll talk. I’ll get Schultz and we can all talk about it together. How’s that? Can you be here in half an hour?”
“I can be there in about five minutes. I’m on Market Street, across from City Hall, at a pay phone. Leave Schultz out of it, OK? I don’t connect well with men.”
“Oh, I see.”
Yes, I do indeed.
PJ had of course encountered lesbians socially and professionally, both as patients and colleagues, but they always seemed to set her on edge. She worried about silly things, like what if something she said was misinterpreted. A female patient once asked her for a date after a particularly intense series of sessions. PJ was totally unwilling to compromise the therapist-patient relationship. On those grounds, she gently declined. But she was reluctant to examine her own feelings closely. What if the request had come outside of therapy? What would she have done? She pictured Mike’s face, and felt the warm flush of attraction.
Nope, she thought, the pull just isn’t there. Then she became aware of the pause in the conversation, and hoped the woman hadn’t noticed it.
“Ask for me at the front desk. I’m Doctor Penelope Gray. You’ll have to get a pass. I don’t believe I got your name?”
“Sheila Armor. Like a suit of armor.”
PJ hung up the phone and immediately dialed Schultz’s extension. No answer. She didn’t know anything about interrogating witnesses. Was she supposed to tape record everything? Take notes? Be hard and cynical or soft and understanding?
She was on her own, just as she was when she was in a closed room with a patient. She would have to handle it, and she knew that she would, somehow.
OK, so you wanted to do something in the public interest. Well here comes the public.
PJ hurriedly put the duffel bag in the corner of her office. She started fresh coffee brewing and got out a pad of yellow lined paper and a pen. The coffee had just started to drip through when there was a firm knock at her door.
“Door’s open,” she said. She made sure her face was composed.
Sheila Armor didn’t so much enter a room as capture it. She was tall, lithe, and vibrant. Reddish-blond hair cascaded in luxurious waves to her neatly rounded bottom. Her complexion was fair and clear enough to be used in the “after” photo in an acne medication ad. Her eyes were a startling green and her mouth was as delicate as a cherub’s. She was nearly six feet tall, and most of that height was wrapped in a length of sheer material, wound many times around her body in a complex fashion, leaving her shoulders and ankles bare. The muscles of her bare arms were well-defined, and she had the body tone of a weight lifter combined with the suppleness of a dancer. The overall impression was almost too much for the tiny office to contain.
PJ stood to shake hands, conscious of her own five-foot-three height and the extra flesh padding her trousers. Sheila’s grip was as firm as her muscular arms implied, and it fingered as the woman appraised PJ’s face. Finally, she released PJ’s hand and sank into a chair. Despite the fabric wrapping her body, she managed to cross her legs neatly at the knees, a feat PJ would have thought impossible. PJ noticed that she was wearing open sandals, and that her toenails were painted in a rainbow of colors.
PJ said the first thing that came to mind. “I’ll bet you created quite a sensation out front.”
Sheila’s laugh was genuine. “Generally I bring someone along to scrape the men’s jaws off the floor after I’ve gone past,” she said. “God, I’m glad you answered the phone. I feel so much better now that I’m here. I probably sounded like an idiot on the phone.”
“Well…”
“At least I know I can relax here. You look kind of formidable, but that stain on your blouse gives you away. Salsa? Marinara?”
“Pizza,” PJ responded.
“Now I know I’m in good hands.”
PJ liked this woman. There was none of the awkwardness she had experienced before in direct conversation with lesbians. She was convinced now that any problem she may have had in the past was in her own head, not intrinsic to the relationship. She grinned inwardly. What on Earth had she been worried about just a few minutes ago?
“Would you like some coffee?” she said.
“Please. Black. Are you a medical doctor?”
“No. Psychologist.” PJ poured, and the two regarded each other over steaming cups.
“Thanks. I live on caffeine during the day. I usually don’t eat anything until six or seven in the evening.” Sheila patted her trim tummy.
PJ started to say something about food and lost causes, but Sheila kept right on talking.
“You don’t know who I am, do you?”
“I…”
“That’s ok. I’m probab
ly not a hot topic in scientific circles. I’m an artist.” She shook her head; reddish waves threatened to tumble into her coffee cup. “A good one. Humble I am not.”
“Most artists aren’t.”
“We are an obnoxious lot, aren’t we? I just finished a one-woman show at a gallery in Clayton. I’ve got another one in Paris in a couple of months. Had to hold back some pieces from the current show for the next one, which really burned the little prick who runs the gallery. Serves him right. Tried to stick his greasy paws on my ass. Say, is that sexual harassment or something?”
“Could be.” PJ was smiling. She was swept along on the irrepressible tide that was Sheila Armor, and she was enjoying herself. Briefly she wondered how Schultz would get along with this woman. She doubted that they could stand to be in the same room together.
“Well, anyway, I’ve been reading about the Ballet Butcher, the guy who whacked that marvelous pianist Burton and that ballet soloist, what’s-his-name. I’ve heard Burton play—what a shame he’s gone. The dancer I never saw. Can’t tolerate looking at guys in tights.”
“What exactly is your involvement with the case?” PJ thought that sounded very cop-like. Schultz would approve.
“Yesterday I saw the killer. I’m sure of it. He was following me.”
A little alarm went off in PJ’s head. Delusions, persecution, paranoia…
“Do you want to talk about it?” It was a textbook opening. Sheila gave her an odd look.
“Of course. Why else would I be here?”
PJ nodded and sat back in her chair. “I’m all ears.”
“Last night about midnight I walked home from my lover’s townhouse. She only lives a few blocks away, but we decided not to live together yet because…” Sheila got a far-off look for a moment. “Oh, that’s beside the point. Anyway, I was walking home alone. Then I felt—don’t laugh, now—an evil presence behind me on the sidewalk.”
PJ searched Sheila’s face. The woman was biting her lip, waiting to see if PJ was going to believe her.
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