Sex, Murder and a Double Latte (15 page)

Then Dena called, who was as close to hysterical as Dena got. Not to mention pissed. She understood why I might not want to deal with my crazy family right now, but how could I not call her? Then came the call from Marcus who had not seen the report himself but had heard about it from Donato, and was deeply hurt to have gotten the news third-hand. By the time I was done talking to Mary Ann I found myself questioning whether surviving the attack was really such a good thing.

By two o’clock I decided I needed to get out of the apartment. Unfortunately, that didn’t work out so well either, since the first person I bumped into was Alice, who was, of course, hysterical.

I retreated back into my home, double-locked the door—an act provoked more from fear of my loved ones than of any stalker—turned the phone’s ringer off and turned the volume on the answering machine to its lowest setting.

I located my cat resting by the bay window. “That’s what I like about you, Mr. Katz. You know when to shut up.” Mr. Katz just continued lounging, thus proving my point.

I stood in the middle of my living room and tried to figure out how to get through the day with my sanity intact. I went over to the bookcase and ran my fingers over the novels on the top shelf. My hand stopped on
Sex, Drugs and Murder.
I hadn’t looked at the book since I had taken it back from the police station and I hadn’t read it since its completion. I felt the raised print on the cover. Mr. Katz jumped off the windowsill. “I’m going to freak myself out now, so do you mind staying here and keeping me company?”

He got up and strolled to the bedroom.

“Thanks a lot. See if I comfort you if you’re ever stalked by a Doberman.” I sat down on my love seat and tucked my feet under me. It was time to refresh my memory.

By 7:00 p.m. Mr. Katz had decided to be the supportive roommate after all and was curled up on my lap. I hadn’t moved from my chair except for two bathroom breaks and to prepare dinner for my insistent pet. I had fought the temptation to skim the familiar chapters in fear of missing an important detail. There was no longer any doubt in my mind that the break-ins and vandalism I had been subjected to were taken right out of my novel. I had included two murders in the book. There was the porn star who was raped and beaten to death with a golf club, and then there was the murder of Kittie, who was killed by four strikes of a hatchet, two to her back, one to the back of her head and one directly over her heart.

Had I written that? Was I that sick? Mr. Katz purred and rubbed his head against my stomach. I turned back to the description of Kittie’s death.

Someone buzzed my apartment. I jumped to my feet, sending Mr. Katz crashing to the floor. “Sorry, sweetie. I’m just a little on edge. Of course, there’s nothing to really worry about. I mean, murderers don’t ring buzzers, right?”

Mr. Katz just glared at me, no longer in the mood to be comforting.

I tried to shake the tension out of my arms before pressing the intercom. “Who’s there?”

“Your friends,” Dena said. “You know, the ones you don’t care enough about to call after life-altering experiences.”

I pressed my forehead against the wall and buzzed them in. I had totally forgotten that tonight was movie night.

Upon entering, Mary Ann threw her arms around me, almost knocking me off balance. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” she gushed. “All I could think about today was what I would have done if something had happened to you. You’re one of my best friends. You’re family, Sophie.”

“Okay, she’s fine, so drop the dramatics.” Dena was studying the pattern on my rug with an intensity that would suggest she hadn’t seen it fifty million times before.

I went over and gave her a hug, as well.

“Don’t make me cry, Sophie,” she said after giving me a little squeeze. “And don’t ever do anything like that again, got it?”

“Okay, I promise to never again put my neck in the hands of a homicidal mental patient.”

Dena pulled back and patted my arm. “That’s my girl.”

“I’ll go make some popcorn.” I took Mary Ann’s coat and hung it on a rack by the door. “What are we watching tonight?”

Mary Ann pulled a video out of her tote bag. “I got
The Object of My Affection
with Jennifer Aniston. It’s a little old, but it’s supposed to be great.”

Dena fell onto the love seat. “God help us all.”

“Be nice.” I scanned the synopsis before handing it back. “This is perfect. Light, silly and brainless.”

“Oh no, it’s not brainless. It’s supposed to be really thought-provoking.”

“Thought-provoking? Are you serious?” Dena snatched the video from Mary Ann. “Look at the photos on the back. They’re wearing pastel, for God’s sake.”

“It’s controversial.”

“How exactly is Jennifer Aniston controversial?”

“She’s in love with a gay man. Homosexuality is controversial.”

“Oh, really? And where exactly do you live again? Because in the city that I live in, homosexuality is about as controversial as kissing on the first date.”

“Not everyone lives in San Francisco. Just because this movie didn’t meet with resistance here doesn’t mean that it didn’t raise a few eyebrows in Jackson, Mississippi.”

“Oooh, it raised eyebrows. And when was that—like five years ago.” Dena clapped a hand over her heart. “Please. Is there any explicit gay sex in this?”

“No! They wouldn’t!” She scrutinized the cover for something to confirm her protest. Jennifer in her evening gown and upswept hairdo said it all. Mary Ann sighed in relief.

“Then it’s not controversial.” Dena relaxed back into the pillows.

I was trying to block them out so I could count the seconds between pops. Nothing’s worse than a bag of burnt Orville Redenbacher’s.

“So, speaking of first-date kisses and explicit sex,” Dena said, “how was your date with Anatoly?”

Mary Ann quit pouting and leaned on the counter dividing the kitchen from the living area.

I stopped the timer on the microwave. “It was pretty fun. I have mixed feelings about how it ended. We got in a little tiff and then Andy tried to kill me—that sucked. But Anatoly did save my life, so the evening wasn’t a total loss.”

“That’s right—they said on the news that he was the one to rescue you.” Dena plucked a piece of lint from her brown Lycra top. “Looks like you got yourself a regular knight in shining armor. To be honest, I’m kind of surprised that the two of you didn’t end up at his place, considering how hot and heavy you were at the 500 Club.”

“How did you know we were at the 500 Club?”

“Jason was there too. He said he waved at you but you were a little preoccupied making out with your Russian playmate.”

That’s the great thing about my coloring, no one can ever tell when I’m blushing. “We just kissed.”

“Yeah, some kiss. Jason said that it looked like the two of you were ready to do it right there on the bar.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, so we made out in a bar. So what? Aren’t you the one who was just arguing that nothing short of gay pornography could be qualified as controversial? Don’t tell me you’re shocked by a little public-kissing session.”

“Shocked, no. Maybe a little titillated.”

“Dena!” Mary Ann gasped. I peeked in her direction, her blush I could see.

“What? Sophie was being fondled by a guy, who, by her description, would have turned on Mother Teresa, and you don’t want to hear the juicy details?”

“I was not being fondled, I was being kissed. How is it that Jason seems to show up every time I’m with Anatoly, anyway? Is he following me or—” Oh, shit.

“Are you okay?” Mary Ann asked.

“Yeah, you look like you swallowed a lemon.”

I tried to keep my hands steady as I poured the popcorn into a bowl. “Dena, what do you know about Jason?”

“What do I know about him? Well, I know he’s a little odd….”

Mary Ann shook her head. “Understatement.”

Dena ignored her. “He’s also very sweet and really intelligent, and here’s the most important part…he’s fucking awesome in the sack. I’m telling you, that vampire can bite me anytime, anywhere.”

I spoke up before Mary Ann could start another battle over morality versus sexual freedom. “Listen, Dena, do you remember the stuff I told you about the hang-ups and the broken glass in my kitchen?”

“Dena was telling me about that. That is so bizarre.”

“Well, it gets more so.” I filled them in on the details of what had happened to my car and the misplaced book.

By the time I finished, Dena was on her feet. “Jesus Christ, Sophie, that can’t be a coincidence.”

“I agree, but the police thought I was being paranoid. They think that Andy was the one who messed up my car, and they don’t think anyone ever broke into my apartment.”

“I don’t think so.” Dena shook her head with an air of impatience. “Anyone who keeps their novels in alphabetical order by author’s last name and then chronological order by publishing date isn’t going to inadvertently put a book in sideways. And the stuff about the car, well, that’s
exactly
what happened to Kittie’s car. That doesn’t sound like the work of some crazed guy with brain damage.”

“Gosh, you know what this reminds me of?” Mary Ann asked. “That poor Tolsky guy who died in the exact same way as the character in his movie. Oh, or that rap singer JJ Money, shot in both kneecaps and the head, just like in his single.” Mary Ann stuffed another handful of popcorn in her mouth, temporarily oblivious to the shock that had blanched both my features and Dena’s.

“You don’t think there’s a connection…” This was too out there. What in God’s name had I gotten myself into?

“Could be,” Dena said. “Some psycho serial killer who thinks it’s funny to murder people in the same way they’ve described someone else being killed through their works. What did that note say? ‘You reap what you sow’?”

I stood up and started pacing. “But Tolsky lived in L.A. and JJ Money in New York. The same guy couldn’t have killed both of them.”

“Come on, Sophie. Ever hear of air travel?” Dena tapped her three-inch heel against the floor. “Besides, it’s not like they were killed on the same day. There were some three months between their deaths.”

“But Tolsky wasn’t murdered, remember?” I put my shaking hands in my jean-pockets. “It was a suicide. And it wasn’t like he was shot at close range or jumped out a window, he slit his wrists. How many people kill someone by slitting their wrists?” Yesterday I would have said that Tolsky’s death had a lot of suspicious overtones, but not now. Now, I was unwilling to admit that Tolsky’s passing could be the result of anything other than a suicide. Entertaining other possibilities was way too terrifying. “Plus, if there were any signs that it had been a murder, the police would have picked up on it and caught his killer by now. It was a high-profile case.”

Dena scoffed. “You know, for a mystery writer you certainly are naive about the judicial system. Lots of high-profile cases get fucked up. What ever happened to Jimmy Hoffa? What about JFK? He was pretty high profile, dontcha think? Do you really believe that he was shot with a magic bullet? I don’t think so. Kennedy’s killer is out there somewhere right now enjoying a Heineken.”

Mary Ann nearly spilled the bowl of popcorn as she jumped up. “Oh. My, God. Are you saying that the same guy who shot JFK broke into Sophie’s car?”

The room went silent for a moment. Dena dug her nails into her palm, and I studied the hole in my jeans. “Um, no Mary Ann,” I managed to say. “I think we can safely rule that possibility out.”

“Thank goodness for that.” She lowered herself back into her seat and started back into the popcorn.

Dena quietly counted to ten.

I sat down next to Mary Ann. “I think what Dena meant is that the police aren’t always right. They don’t always catch the bad guys. And to that end, I’ve got to admit she has a point. With two crimes being committed so far apart and over such a long period of time, it’s not a stretch to think that the police would have missed the connection.” Shit, I had just acknowledged the possibility. “Of course there might not be a connection but…”

“But then again, there might,” Dena finished. “Sophie, you really need to talk to the police about this.”

“Are you kidding? Didn’t you just hear me tell you that the police think I’m a nutcase? One of them came right out and asked me if I took drugs. And now you want me to go to them and tell them not only that I think someone is stalking me but that I think my stalker is the criminal mastermind who is responsible for the death of one of Hollywood’s most famous producers and everybody’s favorite hip-hop artist? They’ll have me committed or lock me in rehab, or both, if the state feels like funding it. No, if I’m going to the cops again I need to have something more concrete than paranoid speculation. I’m gonna have to go to them with a suspect.”

“Okay, so who’s your suspect? I know we’ve ruled Oswald out.”

How exactly should I phrase it? I gave Dena a sideways glance. Direct. Dena would expect me to be direct. “I hate to say this, Dena, but what about Jason?”

She looked like I had just punched her in the stomach. “The police are right. You are on drugs. Jason is completely harmless. He couldn’t hurt a fucking fly.”

“Oh, give me a break, Dena,” I countered. “He’s a self-proclaimed vampire.”

“All right already, I admit it, he’s a little different, but it’s all a game, Sophie. He knows that. He told you that.”

“Yeah, he also told me he wanted to be a real vampire. The man is waiting for Dracula to enter him into his coven.”

“Okay, maybe if JJ Money had his blood drained out of him I’d consider the possibility. But that’s not what happened, is it? How many vampires use Smith & Wessons?”

“But the blood was drained from Tolsky’s body, wasn’t it? Besides we just established that Jason is sort of a vampire-in-training. Maybe he’s trying to prove himself worthy of the privilege. Isn’t that part of the folklore?”

Dena hesitated. “I thought that was werewolves.”

“Werewolves? Nobody wants to be a werewolf.”

“I don’t remember any of this stuff being in that movie with Tom Cruise,” Mary Ann added before taking another handful of popcorn.