“I remember that incident,” said Hector, a crease between his thick eyebrows, “but I never saw the man.”
“You probably were just too far away.” Jaki turned her focus back to Bonelli. “Could that be enough for the T-shirt guy to think we ‘have a past’ together?”
“It could be, with someone like that.” After jotting a couple more lines, the detective closed her notebook with an air of determination. “Looks like we’ve got some more suspects to check out.”
Perry leaned forward in his chair, a faint glimmer of hope in his eyes. “Now the question is—can we nail this SOB before Jaki goes onstage tomorrow night?”
Chapter 12
A little late, I made it back to my van on the plaza and, along with Becky, gave our second grooming demo of the day. We still drew maybe fifteen people, probably because it was a Saturday afternoon and beautiful spring weather for standing around outdoors. None of the Jaki fans showed up this time, and I couldn’t help wondering if Lexi, the one who coveted a Scottish Fold cat, had managed to obtain one by underhanded methods. With the help of a techie boyfriend? If she had Gordie, though, Lexi probably wouldn’t be demanding a ransom for him. I was sure she’d want to keep the celebrity pet, secretly, and her best reward would be bragging rights among her closest pals.
Once Becky and I had finished our session, I brought her up to speed about the situation behind the scenes of the expo. I couldn’t explain the whole business about how the hotel’s computer was hacked, even if I could have remembered it all. But I did tell her Jaki’s concert had been postponed, and might be canceled altogether, if the police couldn’t find out before Sunday evening who was making threats against her.
“Gee,” Becky mused, “you’d think being a rich, successful celebrity must be so much fun. It never occurred to me that some of those fans can be dangerous. And even if her father and the cops manage to keep Jaki safe, who knows if she’ll ever see her cat again?”
“She refuses to leave here without Gordie,” I said. “The rest of them probably think she’s crazy, but I can understand it. She knows the thief probably has him stashed somewhere and is not taking such great care of him. If she rejects this person’s demand to meet with her and leaves the hotel instead, he could kill Gordie for revenge.”
Easing Lady back into her carrier, Becky shuddered. “Sounds like a real psychopath. And if he does know Jaki from somewhere in her past, that makes it even creepier. She’s positive it isn’t Alec? He could easily have hired somebody to do his dirty work for him.”
“She doesn’t think so. When she told him what happened, he got mad at her for losing Gordie.”
“Huh,” said Becky. “Sounds like he at least cares about the cat, anyway.”
Around five, Becky took off in her little Chevy hatchback to return Lady to her foster family and then head home. Before leaving the plaza, I phoned Mark. I knew he’d be finished with his demo, too, and I hoped we could make dinner plans.
“Babe, I wish I could,” he said. “Maggie called from the clinic, and they’ve got an emergency—a pit bull that somebody dumped by the side of the road, beaten up and in rough shape. A good Samaritan brought him in and even offered to pay his bills. Maggie stabilized the dog, but he’s going to need surgery tonight. She’s been at the clinic all day, so it’s only fair that I take over.”
“Oh, wow, that’s too bad about the dog,” I said. “Sure, I understand. We can talk tomorrow. Just one more thing—did you know Jaki Natal postponed her concert?”
“Yeah, word has gotten around. What’s up with that?”
“The business with Gordie has gotten creepier, and they’re not sure she’ll be safe onstage. Basically, whether she performs at all depends on how soon we can nail this catnapper.”
His voice rose from baritone to tenor. “We?”
“I’m involved only as a civilian adviser,” I assured him.
“This time, keep it that way,” he told me. “Please, Cassie.”
“I promise. Now go save that poor dog, and I’ll see you in the morning.”
* * *
When I got home that evening, I had to drive over a steel plate that spanned the trench in front of my shop, but at least I was able to pull the van into my rear lot. And I wouldn’t have to worry about getting blocked in the next morning, because it would be Sunday. Even road crews took a day of rest.
However, when I made it as far as my front sales counter, I found a note from Sarah warning me about more complications from the construction.
Just a heads-up—the water here has been brown all day. A guy on the crew said the pressure is down because of something they’re doing. Supposed to be okay to drink if you boil it first, but just to be safe, I ran out to the Quick Check, got us three gallon jugs, and put them in the fridge. I used that water for the boarders, also. Hope by the time you get this note, it’s all running clear again. See you Monday!
I smiled at her optimism, because neither Sarah nor I needed any more challenges right now. Before doing anything else, I checked the powder room at the back of the shop, flushed the toilet, and ran the tap.
Still brown—damn. And since the crew won’t be working tomorrow, it’ll stay that way at least until Monday.
After two sessions of grooming cats inside a warm van, I really needed to shower and wash my hair. Well, I’d deal with that problem after I had something to eat.
I fed my own three pets first, of course. Then I microwaved a frozen dinner from Dawn’s store, at least as healthful as anything I could whip together myself. While it nuked, I searched through my living room bookshelves and plucked out one of my old psych textbooks.
Yes, that actually was my major in college. Combined with a minor in fine art, it didn’t exactly bring job recruiters beating a path to my door after graduation or promise any kind of steady, secure income. Once I’d faced that reality, I’d decided to explore a career working with animals. But I’d never quite gotten over my fascination with the human mind, especially its darker corners.
Much of my coursework had been done electronically, but I’d hung onto a thick tome on abnormal psychology. Over tonight’s dinner, I cracked it open for the first time in a decade. The table of contents covered the gamut of disorders from anxiety to dissociation to mood swings to sexual compulsions to substance abuse. After skimming a few of these, I turned to the section I thought would be most helpful: personality disorders.
For the next half hour, I reacquainted myself with the obsessive-compulsive, the narcissistic, the schizotypal, the avoidant, the antisocial, and the borderline personality types. Their symptoms and causes made interesting reading, and who could say whether one or more of these neuroses helped motivate the slimeball who had stolen Jaki’s cat? But this highly clinical material wasn’t really telling me what I needed to know.
I wasn’t trying to psychoanalyze a patient. I was trying to catch a killer.
After bringing my dirty plate and cutlery to the sink and automatically turning on the tap, I was rudely reminded that tonight the water would only make them filthier. The same could be said for my hair and body, if I attempted to take a shower.
I cursed to myself again. I could think of only one solution, and phoned Dawn.
Though it was only eight p.m., she sounded drowsy—maybe from the pain pills. I apologized for disturbing her.
“No problem. I was reading a book, and even though it’s pretty good, I guess I dozed off. What’s up?”
“First, I need to say that I had a delicious kale, quinoa, and vegetable dish from your shop for dinner tonight, so thanks very much for that. It came in handy.”
“Don’t mention it. I guess working the expo doesn’t leave you much energy for cooking these days.”
“The state of my water doesn’t help, either.” I explained the problem.
“Oh, dear. Can I do anything more than just sympathize?”
“I know you usually get up pretty early, but since you’re off your feet you may be sleeping later
these days.... Any chance I can steal a shower at your place tomorrow morning?”
“Yeah, sure. My water’s fine so far.”
“It won’t hang you up in any way?”
“Nope, I’ve closed the shop until Monday, when I should be limping around a bit better. I’ll be up by at least seven-thirty, so pop over any time after that. In fact, you’re welcome to come tonight if you want.”
“I’m too tired to get it together right now,” I told her. And I also didn’t want to get into talking about the problems at the expo, since I shouldn’t be revealing too many details, anyway. “I need to spend some quality time with my own cats. They get cranky when they haven’t seen me all day.”
My friend laughed. “I hear that. Even though I’m spending plenty of time with Tigger, he’s going a little nuts because I can’t run around and play with him the way I usually do. He keeps jumping on my lap and jostling my foot. He’s trying to keep me company, and he doesn’t understand when I hiss in pain.”
“Ouch.” Dawn had taken in the kitten as a three-month-old stray. Now he was over a year old and up to about eight pounds, but still a ball of mischievous energy. She originally had intended for Tigger to serve as a shop cat, keeping mice away from her dry goods, but I’d noticed her letting him up into her apartment more often these days. “When you first told me you broke your foot, I was afraid that he’d tripped you.”
“Nope, can’t blame this one on him—for a change! Right, you little monster?” I could tell from her tone that she was wrestling with the playful brown tabby.
“Sounds like your two boyfriends are taking good care of you, anyway,” I said. “Okay, see you bright and early tomorrow.”
Fatigue wasn’t the only reason I wanted to stay home that night. My book on abnormal psychology had fired my curiosity, and I was eager to investigate that angle further.
My cleanup plans for the next day in place, I sprawled on my sofa surrounded by my three fur kids, opened my laptop, and searched under stalker. This brought up at least half a dozen articles by experts on various methods of stalking and types of stalkers. Different authors gave these subgroups slightly different names, but they broke down in roughly the same ways.
Most common was the “domestic” stalker, who previously had a real relationship with the victim—a former spouse or lover. This person wanted to continue the relationship against the victim’s will and still tracked her every move. If she got an order of protection to keep him away from her home, he might even show up at her workplace and cause trouble.
I could testify to this from personal experience. I’d moved to Chadwick, in part, to get away from my abusive ex-boyfriend, Andy. But even though he’d shoved me into a metal bookcase hard enough to leave a massive bruise on my shoulder, once I disappeared, he hunted me down and tried to win me back. He’d left notes, like Jaki’s LBH, and showed up uninvited at places where he knew I would be. Only after I’d reamed him out in a very public locale—with friends nearby to back me up—had Andy finally quit harassing me.
I realized there might be a reason why I was taking Jaki’s dilemma rather personally.
The “rejected” stalker, a similar case, had some less substantial past contact with the victim. Maybe he’d flirted with her or asked her on a date and gotten turned down. He might be convinced that if she only got to know him better, she would return his love. If he was more unbalanced, he might believe that she secretly did return his feelings, but her cruel friends and family were keeping them apart.
To me, this description seemed to fit the person who was trying to persuade Jaki to meet with him alone. But it still didn’t narrow the field of suspects that much. Statistics stated that, although seventy to eighty percent of all stalkers were men, women made up a larger percentage of rejected stalkers.
Tango, my orange tabby, had settled in next to me and began to knead my right thigh through my jeans. Talk about abusive relationships! And he purred blissfully all the while, making me feel like a killjoy for discouraging him. I tugged a fleece throw down from the back of the sofa and pulled part of it over my lap as a buffer. I really needed to make time to clip his claws, but for the moment, I plunged on with my research.
The “pretender” usually was a loner who had trouble establishing an intimate relationship with anyone. Still, he believed the victim to be his better half, the soul mate who would understand him completely and solve his emotional problems. This person often idolized someone of a higher social status, so that trait also might fit Jaki’s case.
Then there was the “vengeful” stalker, who wanted to frighten the victim and take them down a peg out of envy or jealousy—a possible motive for a twisted female fan.
A woman could know martial arts. Even some of the hip-hop dancing that Jaki does in her act involves some stiff-arm punches. If this was a diehard fan, she might have studied that kind of dancing, too.
Celebrity and political stalkers were so common that they merited a category of their own. Highly visible types attracted troubled individuals who attached great importance to their target’s public statements or even to roles that person had played.
Jaki had already noticed that her stalker fixated on the lyrics of some of her songs, especially “Free Me.” I tried to remember a few of the lyrics:
Stuck in a glass cage watching the world go by
Voices of warning in my ears, strong hands reining me in
Wish I could just make one real connection, someone
who loves me for me. . . .
Those lines definitely would appeal to somebody who also felt lonely and misunderstood, and who might conclude that Jaki literally needed someone to rescue her.
Thirst finally drove me downstairs to the shop’s refrigerator. I retrieved one of the water jugs Sarah had purchased and brought it up to my apartment to make some tea. I used as little water as possible, though, because it might have to last the boarders for a couple of days.
Sipping my brew and reviving a bit, I went back to finish my amateur profiling.
The “ultimate” stalker was the hard-core predator who often spied on a victim around the clock, memorizing her habits. His interest usually wasn’t as personal as in the cases of the other types—he was more excited by the sense of power and secret control over another human being. The predator’s behavior could progress to sexual assault and even murder, said the article. Most serial rapists and killers followed this pattern.
My stomach twisted. I sincerely hoped Jaki wasn’t dealing with anyone who could potentially become that violent. But he already might have killed a middle-aged security guard, with a martial arts throat strike known to be lethal.
I grabbed a notebook and started jotting down certain traits that jumped out at me from my research—the ones that seemed to fit with what we already knew about Jaki’s tormentor.
Rigid personality, loner, few relationships, but above-average intelligence. Low self-esteem, gains self-worth from imaginary relationship with victim. Not guilty or embarrassed over own behavior, just sees it as necessary to accomplish goal. Doesn’t see how he or she is harming others. Maybe sociopathic, lacking conscience or empathy. A mean streak, and violent when frustrated. Most likely male if stalking a woman . . . though a female could be motivated by jealousy or revenge.
To that, I could add the information we’d found out today—that this person possibly had martial arts training and definitely possessed technological skills. And I would guess that, because he’d fixated on a pop star in her early twenties, he must be fairly young himself. I guessed he didn’t spend quite as much time toiling over a computer in his father’s basement, though, as Dion did.
Dion said the typical coder was an independent, freewheeling type. That’s the only trait that doesn’t seem to fit. All of this planning, maybe over years, fits better with the idea of a rigid personality. But I guess every stereotype has its exceptions.
As I wound up my research for the evening—afraid it already had doomed me to nightma
res—I wondered if Bonelli also might be exploring the same material. I didn’t know if her position as police detective had required training as a profiler. At any rate, she had the whole town of Chadwick, plus the surrounding area, to worry about. And lots of other crimes to solve.
I had a little more free time and all of that “wasted” education in psychology. Might as well put it to some good use.
I spent the next ten minutes crafting a cover e-mail that made light of my research and emphasized that I was not trying to second-guess anyone or step on any toes. Then I forwarded my notes to Bonelli.
* * *
The next morning, I packed shampoo, makeup, and a change of clothes into my van and drove it two blocks to Dawn’s shop. In her apartment’s shower, which was tiled in a cheery yellow with plants screening the small window, I finally scrubbed away the grime of the previous day and toweled off with a renewed spirit. I even repaid Dawn by cleaning out Tigger’s litter box, which was difficult for her to manage while on crutches.
I dressed, borrowed her hair dryer, and just had time to share a quick cup of coffee with her before I needed to leave. I let Dawn in on the news about the stolen cat, but leaked nothing about the sabotaging of the hotel’s computer or whom the police were looking at as suspects. She probably figured out that I knew more than I was revealing, but understood that Bonelli only took me into her confidence because she trusted me not to blab sensitive information all over town.
By eight o’clock, I was ready to leave. I commented to Dawn, “If it was a weekday, the backhoe would have already been digging for an hour on my block.”
She groaned. “My turn will come, though. I guess if my walk-in traffic falls off, I may just have to bump up my mail-order business.”
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