The Soul Hunter (18 page)

“Interior or fashion?”

“Fashion. Very talented,” she said. “She’d landed a summer internship in L.A. Prada or something. No, that’s in Italy. Someplace. I can’t remember. It doesn’t matter. She was due to graduate from El Centro this spring. Early.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. She had a very bright future. Which makes her death even more tragic, I think. It’s rare that a student makes such a positive impression. At least in the community college system. Most of our students are there because they don’t know what else to do. Or because they’re cleaning up some mess they’ve gotten themselves into.” She paused. “Juicy something. Juicy Fruit.”

“Juicy Couture?”

“That’s it,” she said.

“Speaking of messes, did you know how she was supporting herself?”

“You mean the stripping?”

“Yes.”

“No idea whatsoever. I read about it in the paper like everyone else. But she was an odd bird. Quirky. Ran with a strange crowd.”

“Can you elaborate?”

“What’s your interest, Dr. Foster? Do you mind my asking?”

I did, of course, but needed to offer up something or this woman was going to stop talking to me.

“A friend of mine knows the suspect.”

“The police have a suspect? Who is it?”

“His name is Gordon Pryne,” I said, hoping I wasn’t breaking any sort of police investigation rule or anything. “Does the name sound familiar?”

“No. Was he a student at El Centro?”

“I don’t know anything about his academic interests, but I think it’s pretty safe to say he never attended El Centro.”

“How did she know him?”

“The police think maybe through her work.”

“The strip joint?”

“Right.”

“Which one was it?”

“Caligula. Down on Harry Hines Boulevard.”

“So seedy. I can’t imagine how she ended up there.”

“Hard to imagine how anyone ends up there.”

“You know who you should talk to, Dr. Foster? Her roommate. Her name is…what is her name? Carla, I think. No, Charlotte.”

“Charlotte what? Do you know a last name?”

“No, wait. Sharlotta. With an
S-H.
” She spelled it out for me.

“She might be able to help you out. I don’t know her last name. Sorry.”

“That’s okay. Thanks.”

“I hope they catch the guy,” Keene said. “Drew was a special young woman. Sad and a little lost. But really quite extraordinary”

“Any idea what the sadness was about?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Thanks for your time, Catherine. You’ve been a big help.”

“Good luck.”

I hung up and dialed Helene again. This time she answered.

“Where were you?” I asked. “I called you an hour ago and you didn’t answer.”

“I went to the grocery store.”

“You took your Mercedes out on the ice?”

“I took a cab.”

Southerners never think to call a cab. We’re not into public transportation.

“Cabs are running?” I asked.

“Of course they are.”

“How?”

“Ever hear of snow tires?”

I invited her over, but she didn’t want to get out again.

“Cold weather hurts my knees,” she said. “And your house isn’t really very warm.”

“Oh, for crying out loud. It’s not that bad.”

“You really should get some friends,” she said. “And central heat and air.”

Like it was that simple.

She thanked me for the invite and hung up.

I dialed Drew Sturdivant’s home number and had a quick conversation with Sharlotta. She agreed to see me. I hung up the phone feeling victorious, put the chili in the oven on warm, and called myself a cab.

T
he cab ride from my house to Drew’s apartment, which in good weather would have been about a ten-minute excursion in my trusty Ford, was more like a white-knuckle crossing over the River Styx on a greased rope bridge. Backwards. And maybe blindfolded.

The cab reeked of hashish. My cabbie’s dreads were so heavy in the knit cap on his head that he looked like he was carrying a watermelon in there. And the dude was clearly from the Caribbean, from the lilt in his patois. Which would be irrelevant if it weren’t for the ice. This guy no more knew how to drive on ice than he knew how to fly.

Well, come to think of it, he clearly knew how to fly. He was flying right at that very moment. Soaring, as a matter of fact. Right there in the front seat. Miles high in the Dallas sky.

Daylight was fading, leaving the city twinkly with ice and streetlights and the occasional leftover Christmas display. I tried to enjoy the view, thinking it might be the last thing I ever saw. If the streets hadn’t been deserted, I’m sure it might have been.

But after sliding through at least half a dozen red lights, skidding against several curbs, and shattering one expensive ceramic planter filled with frozen pansies, we made it. I tipped the guy because I’m weak and guilt-motivated in such situations, and because he knew where I lived. I called another cab as he drove
away, figuring it would take at least half an hour for it to arrive, then slid my way to Drew Sturdivant’s apartment and rang the bell.

No answer. I checked the address and rang again. Still nothing. I leaned in and laid my ear against the door. It sounded like she had an entire orchestra in there. Playing something serene and swannish.

I slid down the walk and peered at the lit rooms from a distance. I definitely saw movement. Someone was home. I knocked this time. Hard.

At last the door swung open and I was looking at a young woman of maybe twenty-two, with gorgeous chocolate skin, a head bursting with wiry braids, and a blistering white smile. She wore ballet gear, all limp and soggy with sweat: lavender leotard, pink tights, and striped leg warmers, with a little black chiffon skirt. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on her. She was stout for a ballerina, but one solid muscle. I fought off a thigh-shame relapse.

I gave her a little wave. “Hi. Dylan Foster,” I shouted over the music.

Sharlotta stepped back and let me into the apartment, holding up a finger for me to wait while she snapped the music off.

“Tchaikovsky?” I asked.

“You know it,” she said. She held out her hand. “Sharlotta Dumaine.”

“Dylan Foster,” I said again. “Thanks for seeing me.”

“No problem. I was about to juice some vegetables. Want something?”

“No, thanks.”

I followed her into the kitchen, seating myself at the dinette as she shoved carrots and celery into a juicer, just like those people on the infomercials. She flipped the switch and the machine started shrieking. Orange sherbet-colored liquid dribbled out of the spout and into a glass. She picked up the glass, swirled the juice around, and tasted it.

She looked at me. “Sure you don’t want some?” she shouted.

“Pass,” I said.

She shoved more carrots into the machine until she got the juice the way she liked it and flipped off the switch. The abrupt silence was almost numbing. She sat across the table from me with a bowl of grapes and an apple.

“Do you always eat this healthy?” I asked.

“I’m a raw foodist.”

“Foodist? Is that like nudist?”

“A live, raw foodist, actually. I only eat raw foods. Live, if at all possible.”

I tried to get a visual. “So, do you just cut a hunk out of the cow while it’s walking by? Or what?”

“No animal products of any kind. No meat, no dairy, no eggs. One hundred percent organic.”

“Are vegetables dead or alive?”

“Depends. Sprouts and wheat grass and like that? They’re alive. Tomatoes and such, they’re dead.” She took another swig of juice and looked at me like she was making perfect sense.

“Nuts?” I asked, going for the double entendre.

“Nuts are dead. But like, almonds? You can soak them in water for 24 hours and sprout them. Then they’re alive.”

“Don’t they resent your eating them after you bring them back to life?”

“They’ve never said one thing about it,” she said, without missing a beat. She grinned at me with big white teeth.

I thought about my chili in the oven and my BLT on toasted bread. Definitely dead, cooked food. Did that make me a dead cooked foodist?

“How long have you been eating like that?”

“Forever. I grew up on a communal farm.”

“Where?”

“East Texas,” she said. “Life of Christ Community?”

“Life of Christ? You grew up in a Jesus commune? I never heard of such a thing.”

She shrugged. “Check your Bible. Those early Christians, honey, those folks shared everything.”

“Yes, but didn’t they eat little baby lambs? And a wide variety of goat products?”

“Well, I didn’t say they were perfect, now, did I?” Her smile faded and she said, “Drew and I grew up together.”

“You’re kidding. Drew Sturdivant grew up in a Jesus commune?”

“Yep.” She took another swig of juice and studied me. “How about you?”

“My parents were in the Peace Corps for a couple of years.” Why was I trying to compete over weird hippie childhoods? Mine had been traumatic enough without making a contest out of it.

“No, I mean how did you know Drew?”

“I didn’t.” I took a breath. “Her psychology professor gave me your name.”

She waited for me to explain.

“I’m looking into her murder.”

“You said you were a shrink, I thought. Not a cop.”

I nodded.

She raised one eyebrow at me. She had a compelling, vibrant way about her. Maybe it was all that live raw food. I don’t like lying to nice people. I decided to shoot straight.

“The ax that was used to kill her was left on my front porch after the murder.”

She nodded, perfectly unruffled. “You’re the one.”

“You knew?” I hadn’t seen anything about it in the news reports of Drew’s death.

“That detective told me. Jackson.”

“Pardon me for asking, but were you and Drew close? I mean, you don’t seem too broken up.”

“Hard to break me up.” She got up to rinse out her glass. “We used to be close. But she’d gone off in some direction. Something nasty I didn’t know about. She was a real private girl. Real private.”

“What do you mean by that—some nasty direction?”

“Stopped calling her friends. Started getting things pierced and tattooed. I got no problem with that sort of thing, you know. But there are things that shouldn’t be pierced and tattooed, is what I’m saying. And then going on down to Caligula. That strip place. That wasn’t like her. Wasn’t like her at all.” She shook her head. “She wasn’t herself. No, she wasn’t.”

“When did this start?”

“A little after she moved in. She seemed better lately. Since she started dating Finn.”

“Finn? What kind of name is that?”

“Beats me. Maybe he’s Irish.”

“Finn is the boyfriend?”

“If you can call him that,” she said. “Definitely a boy. Not a man. And a friend, but not much of a boyfriend.”

“Why?”

“Just immature. Doesn’t have much backbone. He’s kinda wimpy. She liked wimpy guys, though. That was Drew.”

“When did she start seeing him?”

“Last summer, I think. Sometime after school started.”

“She meet him at El Centro?”

“At a party. He’s not in school. I’ll give you his number if you want to go see him. He’s out in Arlington.”

“I’d appreciate that,” I said. “Can I see her room?”

“Sure.” She motioned for me to follow her.

The living room was small and sort of dumpy. Decorated in the celebrated and much-copied “early college” style. Unmatched chairs, lumpy couch, simulated wood veneer coffee table. In the corner was a large wire cage with wood shavings in the bottom,
the size of a couple of big aquariums. I couldn’t tell if there was an animal inside.

The bedrooms branched off a small hallway. We passed Sharlotta’s room. A twin bed was shoved against one wall, along with a tiny, rickety dresser bursting with bright, multihued clothing. Otherwise, the room was empty of furniture, its walls stark, smudgy white, the overhead lighting dim, yellowy, incandescent. I didn’t even see a bedside lamp. A ballet barre dominated the middle of the room, set on a flat of wood flooring in front of the mirrored closet doors. The doorjambs of both bedroom doors were stuffed with ballet shoes, their pink ribbons dangling down in a little curtain of satin.

“What’s with the ballet shoes?”

“Breaking them in.”

She shoved Drew’s door open, though it wouldn’t open all the way because of the toe shoes, and we stepped into the room.

Drew had painted her room a deep pink. Somewhere between Pepto-Bismol and dead roses. She’d done the woodwork in a dark gunmetal gray. Black chiffon curtains hung across the window, moving a little with the air as we walked into the room. Her furniture was industrial. The dresser and night table were stainless steel, brushed to a rough finish with steel wool or something. Her bedside lamp was made out of a combat boot. The headboard on the double bed was made of plywood, spray-painted with graffiti. It was cool, in an angry, nihilistic sort of way.

On the headboard, slapped on the plywood at an angle, was a small poster that read “Anael Watches,” like an ad you’d see at a construction site or something. Around it were spray-painted crosses and silhouettes of angels. And in the center of the headboard, in black, an ankh.