12 Days (9 page)

Lisa stared at Jim, but he wasn’t angry. He was intense, yes, but in an attentive way, even a playful way. She hadn’t touched her drink, but she was sure he was looking at her with the eyes of a lover. And she liked that.

She moved his open palm slowly onto her breast. They kissed on the couch, fumbling a moment to let their bodies find a comfortable fit. Over the next five hours, they explored each other to the point of exhaustion, losing track of time before finally kissing goodnight. Jim slept soundly, his mind completely blank, the knot in his stomach gone. He’d forgotten how amazing the touch of a woman could be, and what it could do to the cares of a man.

Day 3: 12:33 a.m.

He imagined it must be like breaking the neck of a goose, or some other large bird, but there was no sickening “crack” like you hear in an action movie. With the soul departed, he arranged her limp body neatly on the floor, arms and legs apart, on her back, like the famous Da Vinci drawing. He had no desire to touch her sexually, but she had to be naked to make the image complete. He stepped back to admire his work. Something was missing; she lacked a sense of flair. He looked around the kitchen and his attention fixed on the toque. He retrieved it quickly and placed the chef’s hat on her head before sprinkling her with powdered sugar and adding his signature touch to the moment. Voila, now that was a masterpiece. He made every effort to conceal his identity from his pursuers by cleaning the dishes and eating utensils. When he was convinced that every trace of his existence had been wiped clean, he picked up the telephone and dialed 911. He feigned panic when he told the local police that he thought he had heard someone enter the house. Could they
please
send someone over? He let himself out the back door and headed down the alley from which he had come, garbed in his ragged attire and ready for the next attack.

Day 3: 12:55 a.m.

A Santa Monica squad car was in the driveway of the La Pense home in less than six minutes. The two officers first on the scene knocked on the front door but received no response. They had no difficulty rationalizing an unauthorized entry into the La Pense home as they could see, bright as day, the naked form of a ghostly white prone female body through the mail slot. A call for backup was initiated and the policemen entered the premises. Within minutes, there were seven squad cars at the house and forensics were on the way.

After the house was deemed clear of possible intruders, the officers first to arrive were appalled by what had to be a very sick and twisted joke. The victim was naked, covered in what looked like powdered sugar, and wearing a chef’s hat. But what really caught the eye was the two-foot baguette jammed down her trachea, three quarters of it still protruding from her lifeless lips. Forensics would have a field day with this as well as the drawings that the killer must have made in the sugar. On the floor between her left arm and leg were two birds and between her right arm and leg, the number ‘three’.

Day 3: 6:38 a.m.

“What do you want to do now?”

Lisa asked this question as she spread something that resembled butter on a piece of whole-wheat toast. The open-ended question left Jim pondering options. She could have been asking about his job; Lisa was genuinely concerned about the fallout from the day before and she fully understood the shit flowing down hill analogy. She might have been asking about the case. They had information that linked the deaths of Paul Artridge to Janette McDermott and from what Jim had implied after his conversation with Captain Jones, it did not look like anyone else had made that connection. If the killings continued, it wouldn’t be long before the others caught on and they might lose a strategic advantage. Then what, copycats? It could be a total mess.

Then he thought no, she could have been asking about them, as a couple. Lisa had said she had not planned on looking up Jim’s address on the Internet, nor had she planned on knocking on his door, and sex had never even crossed her mind, but it had all happened. It wasn’t a mercy fuck, or even an ‘I’m sorry’ fuck; he honestly could not give it a label.

“Well, I don’t have plans for today and tomorrow looks wide open. The Captain told me to stick around town, so I guess that trip to Lourdes will have to be put on hold. I can’t officially do police work, but I do have some ideas that maybe you can help me with.”

A twisted smile crossed her face.

“Such as?”

“Research. You obviously know your way around the Internet; we’ve got to find the link between our two victims. Our killer is very methodical, almost theatrical. He has scripted his kills, set the scenes like he’s filming a movie. These two victims were not chosen randomly; there is nothing haphazard about how this guy operates. There is a link between the victims and we’ve got to narrow it down and nail it.”

Lisa thought for a second.

“You’re right about the movie thing; it does seem scripted. Do you think our killer’s in the industry?”

Jim liked the fact that everyone who lived in L.A. and worked in entertainment called it “the industry” as if Hollywood was the only source of revenue in town. But in some ways, it might very well be true. The writer’s union was on day 235 of their latest walkout strike, and the taping of scripted shows had ground to a halt. Reality no longer was a descriptive adjective for television, it dominated much the medium, and the reality show writers mostly weren’t in the union. Movies were still being made, as completed scripts were still in the pipeline, but in another six weeks, the large screen filmmakers would also be devoid of fresh meat. The monetary fallout in Los Angeles was staggering, with estimates of an economic loss to the community of close to $95 million dollars a week and growing. And the strike had a ripple effect; it was burying the ancillary companies, the prop guys, the caterers, the limo drivers, even the dry cleaners. These people could not take an ongoing hit like this, especially during the holidays. Not that much happened work-wise in the business during the holiday season, but the way people were talking, this thing could go on for months into the New Year.

They stood there awkwardly for a few seconds. They were definitely past the handshake phase of saying goodbye and paradoxically, despite the unleashed passion of the night before, they didn’t seem to be at the kiss phase either. Lisa grabbed Jim, gave him an earnest hug, as he headed out the door.

Day 3: 7:15 a.m.

Lisa jumped out of the shower and put on a towel. She checked her body in the mirror, looking for damage from the night before, but found none. She grabbed a Q-tip, left the bathroom and threw herself down on the bed. Absent-mindedly, she probed her ear and stared at the ceiling. When she decided that her auditory channel was clean, she reached for the television remote and put on the KVTM ‘Morning Show.”

Lisa had a soft spot in her heart for the show, having started her career there only four years before as a production assistant. The people were very nice but the hours sucked. She got tired of doing fluff pieces about celebrity beaver shots and reality superstars who were famous simply for being famous. She wanted to do real news; hence the move to 10 o’clock. But all of Lisa’s mental reflections stopped with two sentences out of the reporter’s mouth.

“…in three days, this time on a quiet street in Santa Monica. Renowned chef Audrey La Pense was found dead early this morning at her home. La Pense, who owns the restaurant that bears her name on Olive Street in Los Angeles, was 42 years old. Police have not ruled out foul play…”

Lisa listened to the story through its completion. She had a feeling in her gut that the killer had struck again. She raced to her living room and grabbed her cell phone, hoping to reach Milt at the station before she called Jim.

Day 3: 7:18 a.m.

Alice Edwards lived right around the corner from the Santa hanging tree on Pear Street. He had driven down this block a thousand times and not once had he thought of her, or which house was hers. She was, without a doubt, a repressed memory. Alice Edwards, the neighborhood bully, had once again stuck her nose back into his business. It would be the last time. She hadn’t been part of his original plan, but she was now. He had spent months planning the others but Alice would have to be improvised. Fair enough. He had plenty of time, almost 40 hours if he pushed it, but he did not want to push it. He had a nice rhythm going and he wanted to continue his momentum. He could see her house from where he parked, as well as the dark-haired man who walked up to her front door and rang the bell.

Day 3: 7:19 a.m.

Jim looked at the window and stopped. He had forgotten that his badge was probably downtown right now, being used for target practice.

“Er, ma’am. I didn’t bring my badge today.”

“Didn’t bring your…You’re not a cop! I’m calling the police. Get away. Get away from my door. Help! Help!”

Jim realized that further communication was useless. Alice Edwards was alive. That was all he wanted to ensure but damn it, now what? She’d probably call the station again! Jim ran to his car and made a quick exit.

Day 3: 7:21 a.m.

He laughed when the dark-haired man ran away from the Edwards home. It was a real laugh; he was genuinely amused. He had not really laughed in years. It always made his head hurt, and sure enough it was hurting right now. He swallowed a few pills and watched the house. Mrs. Edwards was very cautious. She would not open her door to strangers. Thank God he had forty hours to plan out her demise.

Day 3: 7:23 a.m.

Jim looked at his phone on the passenger seat. Three missed calls. Weird. He was about to pull up the caller’s ID when the phone rang again.

Jim hung up the phone. He made a left and headed for Hollywood. Although he no longer carried a badge, today he felt more like a cop than he ever had in his life.

Day 3: 7:40 a.m.

His mouth was as dry as Death Valley. He did not want anything to drink for fear of needing to relieve himself. He had to stay vigilant and keep his eye on the prize. It was the first time he had ever thought of Alice Edwards as a prize, but that she was. He did not listen to the news station on the car radio; he preferred the silence. At this point in the game, the powers that be had to be in full panic mode. He left them clues, but as he had assumed when the plan came to him so many years ago, it would take about five days before anyone put the pieces together. The most recent dose of oxycontin was just kicking in; it caused a brief wave of euphoria to pass across his eyes. He watched as a boy of about sixteen dismounted his bicycle and approached the Edwards house. The boy walked to the front door, knocked, and started a brief conversation with Alice through a closed door, as had the dark-haired man. But the boy had more luck. Within seconds, the door opened and the young man handed Alice a newspaper. Alice grabbed the paper, pointed to her watch and told him that this had better not happen again or she would be looking for an alternative source for her print media.