First Time Killer (32 page)

Rick felt like he’d run a marathon. He had no energy to argue, no energy to stand up to the Boss Bitch. All he wanted to do was go home and sleep. Sleep for a week. “Seemed like the right thing to do.”

“Fuck me. Just fuck me. There go our ratings. There goes satellite.” Celia looked around, like she wanted someone to fight with, someone with a little more spunk than Rick had at the moment. “Goddamn it.” She paused, then her face lit up. “Okay. Listen, here’s what we’ll do.”

Before she spoke, Rick began to shake his head. “No. No. No way. I’m done.”

Celia’s eyes flashed. “You’re done when I say you’re done. Now, listen. You’re going to get back on the air and tell First Time you were wrong. Apologize. Grovel. Tell him you didn’t mean it, you were exhausted. Tell him anything you need to, but you damn well need to make up with him.”

Rick ran his hand over his face. “Nope. Not going to happen. I’m done with him. He’s used me all he’s going to.” He stood and side-stepped Celia. The door didn’t hit his ass on the way out.

Rick stopped in the men’s room, splashed some water on his face. He wished he felt more confident in his decision. Part of him wanted to race back into the studio and beg First Time to call him back. Take Celia’s advice and apologize, vowing never to anger him again. He’d make a deal. First Time could call and talk for however long he wanted, whenever he wanted—if he promised not to kill any more people. But you couldn’t really negotiate with a madman, could you? Deals lasted as long as a piece of hard candy. After a few minutes you were ready for the next one.

Rick grabbed a couple of paper towels and patted his face dry. Unemployed again. This time, he didn’t feel liberated. This time, he felt like a failure.

He stared into the mirror, focused on the worry lines. Deep and menacing. Would he ever recover from this First Time mess? He turned to leave, but froze as his cell phone zizzed. He’d forgotten to take it off vibrate. Rick pulled it out and flipped it open. “Hello?”

“How dare you blow me off like that in front of millions? Who the fuck do you think you are?” The metallic voice bored into Rick’s brain, shearing nerve endings as it burrowed deep. “You can’t kick First Time around without consequences.”

“I’m done with you. Find someone else to manipulate. I’m done.” Rick started to close his phone, but stopped as the voice went on.

“You’ll be sorry. Try to wrap your big, bad brain around that concept. You will pay!” And the phone cut off.

Rick’s jaw dropped. He’d heard or seen the words “big, bad brain” recently. The memory came hammering home. In the chat room. DSTUDROCKS had typed it out.

Dimitri
was
First Time.

R
ICK DASHED BACK
toward the studio, almost knocking over one of the sales reps as she walked down the hall. He tore into master control looking for the police tech. J.T. sat at the board, alone in the room. “Where did the cop go?” Rick gasped for breath.

“They screwed up the trace. Thinks it was a pre-paid phone or something. He ran out of here to go tear somebody a new one, I think. You all right?” J.T. asked, half of his attention on Rick, half on Tin Man and Marie in the studio.

“Fuck no, I’m not all right,” Rick said. He whipped out his cell phone and started stabbing buttons. Leaving J.T. in the dust, Rick rushed down the corridors, heading for the parking lot.

His call got answered. “Adams.”

“This is Rick Jennings. Dimitri is First Time. I’m positive. Pick him up now. Arrest him and I’ll fill you in.” Rick bolted past the security guard and slammed through the push bar of the lobby door. The bright afternoon sun made him shield his eyes.

“How do you know?”

“First Time called me on my cell. Threatened me.” He jogged for his car.

“First Time identified himself as Dimitri?” Adams sounded incredulous.

“No, but it’s him.”

“How do you know?” Adams asked.

“I know. Trust me, Detective. My big, bad brain knows.”

“It’s not a matter of trust, Rick. We already brought in one guy we thought was him. We have to tread carefully now. This isn’t a joke, you know. Besides, we were watching Dimitri the other night. He didn’t leave his apartment. Can’t be him.”

Rick wanted to scream into the phone, but he modulated his voice. He needed to keep it smooth to avoid sounding like a nutjob himself. “Detective. You need to bring him in. He’s the one. I’m sure of it.”

“I need evidence, Jennings.”

Rick reached his car and squinted into the distance. “At least put a tail on him, make sure he doesn’t kill anyone else. That you can do, right?”

“I guess I can send a guy over. Just to keep an eye on him for a while.” Adams paused. “You’d better have something good for me, Jennings. People have rights, you know.”

Rick clicked off, climbed into his car. Thought a moment, then dialed the station’s general line. Asked for master control.

“Peter here.”

“This is Rick. Where’s J.T.?”

“Pit stop. I’ll have him call you back.”

“No, wait. I need Dimitri’s address.”

“Well…J.T. will be back in a couple of minutes,” Peter said.

“I need that address. Now.”

“I’m right in the middle—”

Rick raised his voice. “Goddamn it, Peter, hurry up. Open J.T.’s
Circus
Rolodex and give it to me. People’s lives are at stake.”

Dimitri lived in a modest four-story co-op a few blocks west of the restored part of the City of Fairfax. The “old town” was a touristy section where cute little cafes and over-priced knickknack shops flourished. Rick steered into a spot in front of a hydrant and killed the engine. No sign of the cops yet. According to the address Peter had given him, Dimitri lived on the third floor. He ducked his head down so he could peer through the windshield at the building. Beige brick, unremarkable architecture. Could have been an apartment building anywhere in the country. But First Time lived here, in all its quotidian glory.

He couldn’t see much of anything from where he sat, only a few windows with the curtains drawn. No neon sign declaring,
Murderer Within
. Rick pulled the latch and pushed the door open. Hopped out. Scanned the street. Quiet for a late Monday afternoon. Pretty soon, people would be returning from work, and the sounds and smells of commuters and kids and dinner would fill the air.

Rick stuffed his hands in his pockets and skip-jogged up a few steps to the door of Dimitri’s building. He reached out, fully expecting it to be locked. It wasn’t. He whisked it open and stepped inside. Went to a bank of mailboxes set atop a rose-colored faux-marble counter. The place looked better from the inside.

He found what he was looking for. Over the number 312, D. Papadoukas. He had the right place. Rick didn’t want to wait for the elevator, so he promptly found the stairwell, around the corner under a red EXIT sign. He pulled the heavy fire door open and bounded up the stairs, two at a time. He was pumped up, primed for action, ready to cleanse the world of one dirty monster. His heart thundered in his chest, and not solely from the stair climb. First Time had a surprise coming.

Rick reached the third floor landing, pressed himself against the door before opening it. Gathering his strength, clearing his head. If you came upon Dimitri walking along the street—all five feet two, ninety-seven pounds of him—you’d have trouble believing he was a vicious killer. But Rick knew he’d have to be careful. He was unarmed. Luckily, Dimitri didn’t have a clue Rick knew the truth about him.

As quietly as he could, Rick eased the exit door open. He peered down a brightly-lit hallway. Empty. He stepped out and straightened his jacket. Walked casually, flicking a glance at the unit numbers as he passed. Dimitri’s unit was at the far end.

At Dimitri’s door, Rick knocked quickly, afraid his resolve might weaken. Three sharp raps. He stepped back and plastered a small, friendly smile on his face.

He thought he heard shuffling; a few seconds later a shadow eclipsed the peephole. Then the sound of the deadbolt being thrown back. The door swung inward halfway. Dimitri stood in the opening, sporting a bemused, smiling expression.

“My, my, my. Isn’t this a pleasant surprise? My idol, Rick Jennings, in the flesh.”

“Hello, Dimitri. How are you today?”

“Excellent, now. Most excellent.” He made no move to invite Rick in. Simply stood, nervous grin, holding the door with his left hand. A sheen of perspiration glistened on his forehead.

“It’s Celia’s idea, really. The visit, I mean. Thought it would be good for ratings if we got to know our frequent callers—especially our superfans—a little better. She thought a stronger rapport might make for a stronger show. More entertaining, too.” Rick nodded, as if it were all so logical. Celia probably
would
like that strategy.

Dimitri nodded in response, a little copycat. “Well, that’s an interesting concept, I’m not—”

Rick stepped forward, closer to Dimitri. “Is now a bad time?” He straightened and led with his chest, trying to intimidate the smaller man. Rick placed his palm on the door and pushed, sending Dimitri stumbling back into his apartment. Rick entered through the wide-open doorway.

“No need to get hostile, Rick. Please. Come in.” He gave a half-hearted sweep of the arm. “Mi casa es su casa.” His voice trembled.

“Thanks.” Rick shouldered past Dimitri and moved to the center of the open living space, careful not to turn his back on the murderer. The kitchen was off to the left, gleaming stainless steel appliances and white cabinets. Off to the right, a dark hallway. Bedrooms. “Nice place you have here.”

“Thanks. I try.” Dimitri offered a chuckle. “Something to drink?”

“No, thanks.” Sweat soaked the back of his shirt collar. Here he was, chatting with First Time. Now what? Leap at him and pin him down and tie him up with the electrical cord from the lamp? Grab a knife from the kitchen and gut him like a carp?

“Mind if I do?” Dimitri started toward the kitchen. Rick reached out and grabbed his arm. “Ow. Let go. What are you doing?” Dimitri’s high-pitched nasal voice irritated Rick. It sounded different on the phone.

Rick muscled Dimitri across the room and onto the couch, although the smaller man didn’t resist. “We’ve got some things to discuss.”

“You’re hurting me. Let go.”

“Not until we’re finished.” Rick scowled, wondering if he was right. Maybe the big, bad brain thing was just a coincidence. The new, hot saying flowing from everyone’s lips.

“What do you want?” The whining got whinier. Dimitri looked like he might break down and cry.

What could Dimitri do to him right now? The little twerp appeared to be unarmed, and even if he had a gun somewhere in the apartment, Rick could easily overpower him. As long as Rick held on to him, Dimitri was his. “I know.” He tried to stare into Dimitri’s eyes, but the superfan turned his head away. “Look at me.”

Dimitri kept his gaze averted.

With his free hand, Rick grabbed Dimitri’s chin and swiveled it toward him. “I know your secret. You’re First Time.”

D
IMITRI
’
S EXPRESSION DIDN
’
T
change. His pupils didn’t dilate. His mouth didn’t so much as twitch. Then, slowly, like a wax sculpture melting in a kiln, Dimitri’s features collapsed. Cheeks sagged, lower lip quivered. Small tears formed at the corners of both eyes. Rick fought the urge to look away from the dissolving man. If Dimitri weren’t a murderer, he’d be the object of Rick’s pity.

A small sound escaped Dimitri’s mouth.

“What?” asked Rick. “What did you say?”

“I’m not First Time. I’m no killer.”

“Bullshit. Then why the tears?” Rick squeezed Dimitri’s arm tighter. Maybe pain would bring forth a confession.

“I’m not him. I did some bad things, but I’m no killer. I swear. I swear.” The blubbering made it hard for Rick to understand.

“Shut up. Shut the fuck up.” He dug his fingernails into Dimitri’s arm as he increased the pressure.

“Let go. You’re hurting me.” The whimpering continued.

Rick rose, yanking Dimitri up off the couch, up onto his tiptoes. The odor of flop sweat and onions assaulted Rick. “We’re going to have a look around.”

Rick dragged Dimitri down the hall, toward the back of the apartment. The master bedroom was the first stop. Clothes were strewn everywhere, dirty intermingled with clean, it seemed to Rick. The sheets lay on top of the bed in a tangled mess. “Got any weapons in here?” In his own ears, he could tell his smooth radio tone had taken on a tough, demanding, take-no-prisoners edge. It felt good.

“No. Let go of me.” Dimitri tried squirming free, but Rick held firm. “I’m not who you think I am.”

“Move.” Rick pulled Dimitri out of the bedroom. He poked his head into a puke-green tiled bathroom, spied nothing incriminating. Opened a small linen closet—just sheets and towels. One room remained, at the end of the hall.

“What’s in there?” Rick nodded his head at the closed door.

“Nothing. Really. Just storage.”

“Sure.” Rick turned the knob and pushed Dimitri forward. It was a second bedroom, converted into a study. Or more accurately, into a computer nerve center. Racks of equipment lined two walls, wires and cables snaking around like vines in the jungle. LEDs blinked in random patterns: green, white, red. On one table, there were four telephones, each with several lines. Next to them, a half dozen cell phones, some still in their plastic-shell packaging. On another table, a heap of circuit boards, components, and a soldering iron, piled high. Assorted electronics covered every available surface, occupied every available nook. It looked like the aftermath of an explosion at a Radio Shack warehouse.

“Storage? What the hell is all this stuff?” He squeezed Dimitri’s arm.

“Computers. For the website. That’s all.” Dimitri’s words came out fast, sounding feeble.

“Seems like a lot. Wonder what an electronics expert would say?” Rick poked around, still holding Dimitri in a vise lock. He noticed a jumble of microphones off in a corner. “What are those for?”