Without being invited, I sit in the chair across from him. I reach over and set the brown bag in the middle of his desk. He leans back in his chair, not touching the bag, his expression long-suffering. From the beginning, Joe has always treated me kindly. When he told me the details of Franny’s death, he did it as gently as he could. And when I began calling the police station, asking more questions, he always took my calls and answered as best as he was able. But when the weeks became months and they weren’t getting anywhere with Franny’s case, no new suspects, no additional leads, and when I continued to call, pushing them to do something more, even though they told me there was little else they could do, Joe started to lose his patience. Now he avoids my calls occasionally and admonishes me to stop playing detective.
“Open it,” I tell him.
Joe doesn’t even give the bag a glance. He looks at me, a flat, level gaze, slightly wary, and says, “What’s in it?”
“Duct tape.” I pause. “I got it from his house.” He knows I’m talking about M.
“Jesus, Nora.” He sighs, a long, exasperated sigh, then opens the bag and peers inside. “Did you break into his home?”
“No,” I say, debating how much to tell him. “I’m seeing him, kind of. He invited me in.”
Joe rubs both eyes with the heels of his palms. He looks as if he’s about to lecture me, but then he decides against it and just shakes his head. He’s sitting on one of those efficient swivel office chairs that are mounted on wheels. Skeletal in structure, it’s made of stainless steel and black vinyl, with no armrests and a back support that looks as if it hits him squarely beneath the shoulder blades. Because of his size, he seems not so much to sit in the tiny chair as to pin it down.
“Even if we get a perfect match on the tape,” he says, “there’s no way to prove it came from his house or that it even belonged to him. If we arrested him, it’s unlikely we’d get a conviction. You removed the evidence, Nora. His lawyer would find a million loopholes for him to crawl through.”
This, I expected. In anger, I raise my voice. “What was I supposed to do? Leave it there? By the time you guys went to a judge and got a search warrant—if you could even get one—he could’ve destroyed it.” I realize I’m sitting on the edge of the chair, practically shouting at Joe. I also realize, deep down, that he’s a competent man who, legally, has done everything he can to find Franny’s killer. I’m overreacting out of frustration, and Joe knows this. I can see it in his eyes. I slide back on the chair and lower my voice.
“Are you going to do anything with it?” I ask him.
He reaches for the bag and closes it. He says, “We’ll check it out, do a chemical analysis, see what we come up with. But don’t get your hopes up. Duct tape is not an uncommon item. Hell, I’ve got some of it myself out in the garage.”
Flatly, I say, “But I’ll bet yours isn’t in a box along with whips and chains and every other kind of S&M paraphernalia you can imagine.”
Joe Harris stares at me, not fazed by what I said. “Stay away from him, Nora. The hair samples we found by your sister’s body didn’t match his. The carpet fibers we took weren’t from his house. We have no physical evidence to suggest he had anything to do with her death. We checked him out. We talked to his old girlfriends. He’s into light S&rM—a little whipping, bondage, some domination—but nothing heavy. The women who participated said they weren’t forced, that it was consensual, that it was fun, just a big game. He never used duct tape with any of them, he never used knives.”
Joe shakes his head. “So what if he likes to tie up women? That doesn’t make him a killer. And if you harass him, you’re the one who’ll end up in trouble. He can get a restraining order to keep you away from him.”
“Not likely—I slept with him last night.”
He shakes his head at me again—he’s done a lot of that the last several months—and sighs. “We don’t have any evidence that he killed her, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t. He’ll be a suspect as long as the case is unsolved.”
“There’s something I didn’t tell you,” I say. “Several days ago a car nearly hit me while I was in a parking lot. The windows were blackened, so I couldn’t see who it was, and it happened too fast to get an ID on the car, but don’t you think that’s kind of a coincidence? I’ve never been run down before—not until the day after I tell the professor I’m going to find out who killed Franny.”
“You’re being stupid, fooling around with him. You’re just asking for trouble—and you’ll foul up our investigation. We don’t need any amateur sleuths, Nora. Leave him alone.”
I stand up. “I can’t,” I say. I nod my head toward the bag. “Let me know what you find out,” and I turn to leave.
I drive back to my house. I see one of my neighbors across the street, Ann Marie, a small woman in her forties, pruning the hedges between her and her neighbor’s property. She’s dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt that’s much too large for her—probably her husband’s shirt—and garden gloves. Branches are scattered everywhere. I wonder if it’s the right season to be pruning, but I don’t say anything. I know little about gardening; the landlord takes care of my yard. I get my mail and walk in the house, then check the answering machine and discover I have four messages: one from a friend living in Reno; one from Ian; one from Maisie, my friend from the Bee; and the last from M. I didn’t give him my phone number or address, but they’re listed in the directory under “N. Tibbs.” Apparently, he found this out. His message is short and simple: “I’ll pick you up Saturday morning at nine.” He didn’t leave his name, but there is no mistaking his voice.
I’m not sure what to do about Ian’s call. He wants to get together this evening, but I don’t think I can face him yet. My betrayal is profound. I leave a message on his answering machine. I prevaricate to stall for time. I tell him I’m sick and don’t feel like company tonight. Perhaps I’ll feel better in a few days, I say; I think it’s just a touch of the flu. I hang up the phone, thankful I live in an age with the technology that allows people to bypass the truth. I am a coward, I know.
When M. rings my doorbell Saturday morning, I’m ready for him. He didn’t tell me where we were going, so I’m dressed in an all-purpose black skirt, short, and a crimson pullover sweater, long. When I open the door, he walks in, uninvited, as if he belongs here.
“Aren’t we going out?” I ask him.
“Yes,” he says. “Eventually.” He adds, “May I?” and he begins a tour of my small house. He’s wearing brushed twill trousers and a very expensive-looking gray sweater, and he has the self-assured demeanor of a man used to getting his way. It shows in the manner in which he carries himself, the precision of his movements, the modulated tone of his voice, the way he made love to me Sunday night. I remember how he touched me—confident, certain he would please me—and, in spite of my enmity, a wave of desire goes through me. I know I am treading on dangerous ground.
“If we’re going someplace,” I say, “let’s go.”
M. smiles. “We’re definitely going someplace. A place that’ll be of great interest to you.”
But he makes no move to leave my house. I follow him through the foyer and into the narrow hallway. There are two bedrooms, one on each end, and a guest bathroom in the middle. I’ve converted the smaller bedroom into an office, with my desk and computer and two walls of bookshelves. He gives this room a cursory glance, then heads down the dark hall to my bedroom. He stops in the doorway, looks around. A sliding glass door leads out to the backyard patio, giving the room extra light, and closets run along the length of the opposite wall, with sliding mirror doors that make the room seem wider than it actually is. Pink and dusty-blue satin pillows are tossed on my king-sized bed. He sees Ian’s picture on the dresser, then walks over to pick up the brass frame. In it, Ian is smiling down at me, one arm around my shoulder, head cocked to one side as if he’s about to burst out in a laugh. Turning to me, the picture in hand, M. says, “The boyfriend?”
Grudgingly, I nod.
He studies the picture, his face expressionless. Finally, he says, “What’s his name?”
I shrug. “Does it make any difference?”
He looks over at me, waiting for an answer. The heater clicks on and makes a muffled, humming sound, unworldly. A rush of warm air blows out of the vent in the ceiling. It hovers over us, like a spirit settling in. M. still waits.
“Ian,” I say. I take the picture from his hand, set it back on the dresser with a sharp thud. “His name is Ian McCarthy. Now let’s go.”
We go out to his car, a new Mercedes, sleek and black. The sky is overcast, so light and thin and misty that it looks as if it’s been loosely woven, like gauze. He opens the car door for me, holding it as I get in. When he gets behind the wheel, I ask him, “Where are we going?”
“For a ride. Up to Lake Tahoe.” He backs out the driveway and heads up the street. This is not a great day for a ride. It’s the end of winter, and earlier this morning it rained. He pulls onto the freeway and I settle back for the two-hour ride. His car seems to almost glide down the road, smooth and soundless.
We drive along in silence. It begins to drizzle lightly, and M. turns on the windshield wipers. Mile after mile passes. I wonder why he’s taking me for a ride. I stare out the window, the sky gloomy with rain. We’re in Sacramento now, where Highway 50 splits off from 80. The traffic isn’t as crowded as it is on weekdays, and even though M. is driving over the speed limit, cars still shoot by us.
After a while, I say, “In the entire time you knew Franny, you never took her out. You never took her on a date, not a real date.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and I think he’s not going to respond, but then he says, “Quite frankly, she wasn’t good company. Your sister was boring.”
I get angry at his callous words. But, more than that, I hear echoes of myself. In her diary, Franny had written that I said the same thing about men. “I know I’d get bored with him after a while,” I had told her. The words haunt me now. Did I sound as callous as M. sounds now?
“If she was so boring, why did you see her?” I ask him. “Why, of all the women you could’ve had, why Franny? She wasn’t your type. Anyone could see that.”
“As I told you before, I saw her for my own amusement.” He gives me an oblique glance. “I wanted to see what I could do with her.”
“What you could do with her,” I repeat stupidly.
I pause to collect my thoughts. I say nothing until I’m sure my feelings are under control. Dispassionately, as if I’m discussing a stranger, I say, “You wanted to control her—isn’t that what you really mean? She was easy prey for you. It wouldn’t take much effort for you to dominate her, for you to corrupt her. Don’t you think you should have picked on someone more suitable, someone more …” The words trail off.
“Challenging?” he says when I hesitate. “Someone more like you?”
I ignore this remark.
He drives for a few miles, then says, “You misunderstand. The domination, the control—that’s part of it, but not all. When I first saw her at Putah Creek, before she even knew me, I sensed her loneliness. She became my project for the winter quarter. I was going to teach her to love—to love so deeply she would do anything to keep that love. I pushed her limits. I wanted to see how far she’d go.”
For a moment, I’m speechless. He talks about Franny as if she were an experiment, a culture in a petri dish. “That doesn’t strike you as manipulative?” I manage to say.
“Very much so,” M. replies. “I never said it wasn’t.”
“And that constitutes your amusement?” I realize there is an edge to my voice. I rub my right temple with two fingers. How could Franny have gotten hooked up with him? “You used her—that’s what it amounts to.”
“Yes, but don’t sound so indignant. I gave her what she needed. She wanted a boyfriend, someone who’d love her despite her size and personality. Let’s be clear about that—she was boring and fat. Well, I couldn’t love her—but I could make love to her. And I made her feel desired. I made her feel wanted.” He pauses, then adds, “That’s more than you ever did, Nora. You ignored her, which was far more cruel.”
His words sink in, so true they hurt. I say, “And then you split up with her. When you got tired of her, you let her go.”
“My relationship with your sister was temporary—it always was. I’m just surprised it lasted as long as it did. People are disposable, Nora. I’ve mentioned this before. They have a shelf life, a time span. You, of all people, should understand that. Don’t forget—Franny told me everything about you. I know your likes, your dislikes, your past, and I’ll bet I even know your future. I know you. Men in your life are as temporary as women are in mine. And—”
“That’s not true,” I say. “Not anymore.”
“And,” M. continues, not acknowledging my interruption, “as you said earlier, she wasn’t my type. I was fond of her, she knew that, but I didn’t love her, and I never told her I did. I never promised her anything. I took what I wanted from Franny—and I gave her what I could.”
Again, I think of the men in my life. I, also, took what I wanted and gave what I could—or, more accurately, gave as little as I could. “You broke her heart,” I say, remembering the men I had discarded so easily.
His voice softens. “She was lucky I let her go. I would’ve pushed her even further.”
I think of the hog barn and the box in his closet. I think of Franny’s diary entries and how she kept M. a secret, how her entries, although sketchy, became progressively anguished, how she submitted to him completely. “How much further could she have gone?” I ask.
The question is rhetorical; I don’t expect him to answer, but he does. He looks over at me and says, “You’re about to find out.”
A sense of unease creeps through me. “What do you mean?” I ask.
He ignores me.
We’re out of the valley now, in the foothills, heading into the white-capped, snowy mountains. It starts to rain harder. In giant arcs, the wipers swoosh across the windshield. M. is contemplative, his expression bemused. He says, “I suppose I did break her heart. But she was stronger for it. She would’ve gone on to someone else. She would’ve survived a broken heart.”