She wished she could be inside with them now, just a fly on the wall, listening to their conversation. She could not make out a word of what they were saying, only a vague murmuring over the patter of the rain.
Then it came. The passing glance. The knowing, sly smile. Paul brought his hand around the back of the girl's neck, a gesture that nearly looked kind, but Sophia knew it was the move of a predator. She leaned in, watching carefully for her cue.
She could see all too clearly now. It was as if the rain took a hint and cleared from the sliding glass door. Paul's hand was no longer a comforting presence. She sensed the moment of the intensified grip before it even happened.
That's how deep our connection is now, she thought to herself. A faint glimmer of reluctance passed through her mind, but when she saw Beth's body stiffen, she knew she'd been correct. Although she didn't see the knife go in, it must have. Sophia heard a faint gurgle, a near-death rattle. If Paul stabbed her in the stomach, it'd be a few minutes before she processed what was happening to her. It'd take quite a few more stabs for her to pass through to the other side, but that's exactly what Paul wanted. Each plunge was like a thrust of his cock, the knife his phallus, and Sophia found herself with her hand snaked up underneath her parka and the thin material of the t-shirt she wore. Without even touching herself, she knew she was already wet for him. His tight, controlled muscled movements were what did it for her, and the fact that it was so calculated and well thought out.
His rounded shoulders twisted as he plunged the knife in and out of her body. Beth swayed with each driving force, her body moving limply to the beat of her own undoing. Sophia felt that same sense of wonder and excitement. She felt the life-force drift away from the girl, and she let her eyelids flutter against the raw, powerful force of energy that flowed out of Paul's victim.
Then, the energy was gone. So was Beth.
The next day was a gloomy Sunday. The clouds hung in a heavy grey curtain in the sky and a frigid wind cut through the air. Despite the cold, Sophia felt energized. She walked away from Paul's apartment, shoulders hunched against the wind, a sly, super-sexed smile on her face. They hadn't slept at all. They had just finished dissecting Beth's body, reveling in the dark purple ribbons of organs and flesh, the thickening pools of syrupy blood.
Not feeling tired in the least, she slipped down Haight Street towards the smell of coffee. This place would be devoid of any annoying punky lesbians, would be like a dark cave, and would most likely be playing The Cure or Sisters of Mercy faintly in the background.
She didn't come to this one very often. It was a little out of the way and a bit too close to Golden Gate and Buena Vista Park, two places she loved to go to pick up young guys. She didn't worry too much. She suspected she was doing both the boys and the local community a favor by picking them up, loving them and disposing of them later.
She supposed she liked this place because of its dried blood-colored interior. That and the Ms. Pac Man machine. It was always fun to navigate around a mindless maze, chased by ghosts. Much different from real life.
As she frantically toggled the controls in an attempt to get away from Blinky, someone behind her cleared his throat. She ignored him and sipped her drink during the intermission.
"I usually see you go into the one over by the Castro Theater," said a male voice. Sophia stopped her game and let Blinky win. She felt frozen to her spot.
"Excuse me?"
She turned around slowly and met blue, cold eyes set into a reddened, round face. Something about him instantly disturbed her.
"I said I usually-"
"No, I heard you. I'm just wondering how in the fuck you knew that." She could feel the temper rising in her brain.
The man laughed. "Don't worry. It's what I do." The man fished in his trench coat and produced a wallet.
Her temper dropped to anxiety when she saw the badge.
"I'm Detective Robert Black."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Ti: Fragmented Memories
High tide, and the ocean thundered through and against the narrow rocky tunnels. It was calming as usual for Ti.
She had never felt so alone. She’d even called John and had gotten his voicemail. Rejected by Sophia and with her best friend gone, she turned to the comfort of a semi familiar place. In all honesty, she yearned for the familiarity of New Orleans and John. She didn't want to make up her mind too soon, but she was sure she'd go back home to get away from all this, to rebuild her life again. However beautiful and vast San Francisco was, it was not the best place for her mental health.
She thought about her stepfather and wondered if he was lonely. Sophia wasn't, that was for sure. How could she isolate herself like that? Ti tried to put herself in the strange woman's shoes. Pain welled up in her heart like a spreading ink stain. That must have been it. People who are that guarded and alone were hurt in the past. That's why they close themselves off. It hurt Ti to think about it. She understood how Sophia felt, but the older woman was so far gone that Ti did not think she would be able to reach her. It was no use. She lay back on the beach, closed her eyes and lost herself in a fitful dream:
A few reddish brick buildings with white trim… nice at first, but upon closer look, it's a housing project in near shambles. Up ahead, an impatient donkey stamps his feet and shifts. A jingle-jangle sound cuts into the deep bass that's emanating somewhere from the housing project. The donkey looks none too pleased about wearing ridiculous bells and trinkets. The buggy driver takes a deep drag off his clove, long and languid. He holds the smoke in too long and upon exhaling, a fragrant, almost sickly sweet odor fills the air. He looks ahead, and his face is brown and wrinkly.
To the left, strange structures stretch up into a hazy blue sky.
Ti recognizes this place. It's the oldest cemetery in the city of New Orleans, but why is she here?
In her dream-state, she trudges through and runs her hands along the stone white wall until she comes to the entrance. She rounds the corner.
She sees his eyes, eyes that pierce her soul. Black, heartless eyes that woo and manipulate, but she can see right through these eyes. A crack of the knuckles, and the stranger gives her an appreciative smile, and her eyes follow the popping noise. Worn, leather black gloves….
* * * *
Ti's eyelids fluttered as she shook off the remnants of the strange cemetery dream. It was dark, and a deep veil of panic swept over her as she realized she was not in the cozy confines of her studio apartment.
Where am I?
The watery crashing sound gave it away. She had fallen asleep near the Sutro Baths while daydreaming. The more she thought about it, the less it surprised her. She was exhausted. A pang of anxiety shot through her as she reached for her bag, but as her hand landed on the soft canvas, she was relieved. All sorts of strange people roamed through here late at night, and she had no doubt they would steal her shit if given the right opportunity.
The anxiety came back as she saw an ominous figure off in the distance.
Why? People come here all the time at night.
But there was something different about this one. Maybe it was his quick, precise movements, or maybe he just emitted an odd sense of guilt. Whoever it was, he was tossing strangely shaped objects into the ocean. Ti quickly had a sense this was something she should not be witnessing, so she froze herself to her spot and held her breath.
The figure finished disposing of whatever it was he was getting rid of and stood gazing out at the navy blue depths of the tumultuous sea, as if enchanted by it. Ti understood that. The ocean was a lot like the realm of people: dangerous, unpredictable, a constantly changing environment—but still fascinating.
She was so bleary-eyed from stress. The edges of her mind were fuzzy like bad reception. Had she really seen that? What did he throw down there? As thoughts raced and scrambled around one another like bumper cars, the man vanished like some kind of weird vapor. Her eyes tried to follow him, but she could not make out his silhouett
e in the foggy ambiance.
She was afraid to get up and walk away. What if he saw her? She was pretty sure she faded in with the rocky surroundings, but one could never be quite sure. If he were dumping something he shouldn't be, surely he would be on high vigilance.
She waited for what seemed like hours before standing up, gathering her bag, and walking back to her apartment.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sophia: Memories Clear as Ice
"What is it that you want, dude?" Sophia was trying not to show too much annoyance or guilt. Instead, she tried to portray a neutral, semi-charismatic air. She could often pull it off if she tried.
"I just have a few questions. Some folks are missing and we may have a serial killer in the area." Robert Black kept his hands in a steeple formation, elbows on the rickety table as he waited for his coffee to cool. Perhaps he was not even a coffee drinker. He had ordered the shit and the twisted hot fumes were now fading. Sophia recognized his posture as one of power.
"Am I in some sort of trouble?"
"I wouldn’t worry. But that's contingent upon the information we receive from you."
Sophia sipped her own coffee. The shop was still quiet. "What do you want to know?"
Black produced a small, glossy black notebook and an expensive looking pen. "Are you local?"
"I'm from New Orleans originally."
"You seem to really know your way around. How long have you lived here?"
"Off and on for about ten years or so."
Black smiled as if she'd confirmed something.
“Tell me what you mean by ‘off and on’,” Black said, his tone casual. He sipped his coffee and never took his eyes off of her.
“Well, I was there in New Orleans for Hurricane Katrina, but I obviously came back here after that,” she said, trying to remain articulate, vague and devoid of nervousness.
“You know Tamara, the girl who runs the coffee shop you frequent?”
Sophia hesitated a beat too long. “Only because I run in there to get coffee.”
“Really? Funny,” Black said as he rifled through some papers in his briefcase. He pulled out a file and flipped it open. “Because I spotted your car there after Tamara was reported missing. I checked into it and it looks like you co-own it with someone else.”
“I’m an entrepreneur. I own several businesses: bars, coffee shops…our most successful one is a cosmetics company. I put all my time and energy into the cosmetics company and the others just run themselves. No one was there, and I thought that was pretty odd. I assumed my partner had approved some sort of closure. I stopped in and decided to double-check the books. My business partner hired Tamara. I don’t know her. I go in there to get coffee every once in a blue moon and play customer, and to sort of check up on things.”
“Any boyfriends back in New Orleans? Or here?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
“It has to do with everything. So, boyfriend or lover here?”
“Yes, sort of. It’s nothing serious.”
“What about back in New Orleans?”
“Yes, but he’s not really worth mentioning.”
“A douchebag?”
“You could say that.”
“Uh huh,” Black said, writing everything down. “Did you have any problems with him hanging around? Does he come up here to San Francisco to check in on you?”
In Sophia’s brain, images flashed like a camera’s burst setting: Her childhood. The old cemetery in New Orleans. Her mother. The black gloves. She still wasn’t sure if her little visitor was Paul, Ti or someone else.
“I think so, yeah. Although I’m not one hundred percent sure of it.”
Black looked up from his notebook, his forehead now full of quizzical wrinkles. “What’s his name?”
“Claude Moreau.” As soon as she uttered the name, acid-like adrenaline shot through her and her arms broke out in gooseflesh.
Black shuffled through the file again. “He’s listed as co-owner on all these businesses. So what happened? Did it end badly?”
Sophia wriggled in her chair. She was acutely aware of how hard the seat was, how cold the table felt, and how Black's gaze drilled into her. But this could be a prime opportunity for her to direct the police’s attention to Claude instead of herself and Paul. All she had to do was tell the truth.
“It’s awkward to talk about,” was all she could come up with at first. But Black didn’t push. He sat patiently, waiting for her to continue. “He was actually my mother’s boyfriend, and when she died, he sort of focused his attention on me.”
“Were they ever married?”
“No. As a matter of fact, I don’t recall seeing him around all that much when she was alive. She, um...” Sophia shifted in her chair. “She actually had a lot of boyfriends.”
“He ever do anything inappropriate?”
“You could say that, yes.”
A shade of reality draped itself over Black’s face, and for a moment, she felt a hint of camaraderie pass between them.
“What does he look like?”
“About 6’3”, thin, kind of shaggy black hair, pale now but used to be more dark-skinned...so I guess you could say he's lost his color. He has a scar under his right eye.”
Black looked up. “From you?”
Sophia realized he was trying to be humorous. “No. From my cat.” She didn’t tell Black how Claude had gotten that scar—he’d set fire to a trailer where one of the escaped models was hiding out, and out came one distressed and angry cat.
Black scribbled in his notebook with intense concentration. “I’m sorry to hear about all this, but I have to go ahead and tell you that we’d like this Claude guy to come in for questioning. This is a good opportunity for you to get back at him. All you have to do is let me know if you notice anything suspicious. I can have a patrol car outside of your apartment for your safety, if you wish.”
“No, thank you. I think that would set him off. If he presents himself, I’ll be sure to get in touch with you. I don’t think he’ll actually harm me, I just think he wants to try to get me back.”
Black stood up and pulled out his wallet. He produced an off-white, tattered business card. “Here’s my card. Keep me updated on what you see so we can bring this guy in for questioning.”
She forced a smile. “Thanks.”
She thought of Claude again and felt like puking. The acrid coffee bubbled up to her throat and she swallowed it back.
She had to see Paul.
* * * *
From Sophia’s Journal
I mentioned I did not have much recollection of Claude. The more I think about it, the more the memories are as clear as ice. The lines of my mother dying and Claude arriving feel blurred now, as if someone had taken a rubber eraser to ink.
I was twelve years old when she died. I remember walking into her room in the middle of the day: the breeze was blowing, but I had a slight slick of sweat from playing outside in the humid (but cooler) weather. Mother had the French doors open so she could catch a glimpse of the bustling activity in the Quarter that day. The curtains blew into the room, and my mother’s eyes looked sad. They only lit up the slightest bit when she noticed me standing in the doorway. She smiled, and I remember her looking beautiful that day. I went back outside and learned from our maid that not more than an hour later she passed away. Claude was one of the first mourners to arrive at the house on Dumaine and he sat me in his lap and stroked my hair as strange acquaintances drifted in and out of the house.
My thirteenth birthday was only weeks away, but the things Claude taught me began that very day.
* * * *
“Where did you put Beth?”
Paul smiled faintly, as if hiding some secret. He didn’t answer. He only folded his hands together, placed them in his lap, and leaned back deep into the hard cushions of his couch. Unlike Sophia’s gilded, womb-like apartment, Paul’s was sleek, modern, cold and steel all over. Anyone could have live
d here, she thought. It was hard to ascertain where he’d been, what kind of person he was like, or even what he ate. She glued her eyes on him so she wouldn’t think too much of the differences.
“You fucker! Some cop followed me this morning!” She hadn’t really meant to explode, but his cool calmness bothered her.
“Sophia,” he said through clenched teeth. “You do not yell in here, and you do not yell at me. Understood?”
His voice was even and controlled. She could only nod her head.
“Whatever happens, we stay calm. Remember that family that got sucked out to sea after they tried to save their dog? What happens when you panic and struggle?”
“You drown,” Sophia answered, barely over a whisper.
“You drown,” he repeated, as if to drive the point home. “We’re working together now. And if one of us cracks, it’s all over. Let’s start from the beginning. What did this cop say to you?”
She inhaled and began explaining, being careful to illustrate the detective’s focus on Claude.
“So they think he did all of them in?”
“I think so. Unless it’s some kind of bait.”
“You never told me about this guy,” he said. It was clear to her that he would be fixated on the relationship between her and Claude.
“You’ve never told me anything about your past. It doesn’t matter to me. I’m not as jealous as you are.”
“You’re just interested in how I do it. How I’m programmed.”
She didn’t say anything for a long time. She supposed it was true. Paul was basically an extension of Claude. She was probably attracted to him because she didn’t know any other way.
“How are you programmed? How did it all start?”
Paul did not look at her. He rose and walked to the bay window. He put his hands on his hips and stood still for a long time.
When he finally did speak, Sophia jumped.
“My dad was an accountant. My mother was basically a slut. A slob. She had two kids with my father…the man I called my father…before reconnecting with an old boyfriend. I’m the product of that affair.” Paul turned his face to her and she could see only a hint of twisted agitation in his cold face.
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