I was in love with a beautiful blonde once. She drove me to drink. That’s the one thing Pm indebted to her for.
— W.C. FIELDS
12:10 a.m.
Edison Avenue, Somerton
Kowalski made his way into the house and pinpointed the source of the screams. Upstairs. Female. Older woman. Sobbing and wailing between the screams, like a car alarm cycling through its various sounds.
There wasn’t much time now. Even though this was a single house, there were still two houses in shouting range, and in such a quiet neighborhood as this, they would not go unnoticed.
The living room was up the hallway and to the left. Kowalski checked the walls: framed photos of his subject, a woman, presumably his wife, and two females, presumably daughters. They looked old enough to be at least college age. They might not be home. The fact that there was only one voice screaming led him to believe this. Otherwise, he was going to have a royal mess on his hands.
Upstairs, a door slammed shut.
The staircase was situated in the middle of the house. Kowalski bounded up them, and saw one source of light: through the cracks in the bathroom door. A woman leaning against the doorway, clutching the doorknob as if for support. She had stopped screaming and stared into space instead, her face ashen.
“Ma’am, I’m here to help.” Kowalski showed her his palms.
The woman’s eyes focused and she let out a sharp shriek, then slid off the door, collapsing to the carpet.
“Relax, ma’am. I’m with the police.”
He knelt down next to her.
“How did you know? I just found him. How did you know to come?”
Quick, Kowalski. Remember, you’re not wearing a uniform. Nor do you have a badge or gun.
“Plainclothes. I was driving home from a late shift when I heard screaming coming from your house. Your garage door was open; I thought you had an intruder. Is there someone in your bathroom?
“My h-husband. Ed. Oh God. Ed.”
“Is Ed okay?” Always use first names. Puts people at ease.
“No … no he’s not. …”
“What’s wrong? Does he need an ambulance?”
The woman showed him her fingers. Even in the dark hallway, Kowalski could tell they were slick with blood.
“Stay here.”
Kowalski stood up and opened the bathroom door. There were four oversized bulbs mounted above the medicine cabinet, and they bathed the room in an ultraharsh white light. Someone really liked their light in here.
But that made it all the worse. There was no hiding Ed, who was sitting on the toilet, fully clothed.
Or his blood, which was everywhere.
It was as if someone had reached inside his skull, grabbed his brain, and squeezed—hard. The blood ran down his cheeks, from his eyes. The sides of his neck. His chin. His shirt. His hands. Whatever his hands had touched.
Ed was real dead.
Kowalski reached for his cell phone.
12:15 a.m.
Sheraton, Room 702
Jack jolted. Sat up. He must have dozed off for a few moments.
“Morning, sunshine.”
He nodded dully, somewhat startled by the peace he felt. It was like the euphoric calm after violent vomiting. Your body realizes that it isn’t about to die and then releases soothing endorphins into the bloodstream. It was as if his body had crawled up from the inner circles of Hell, and was surprised to have survived the trip.
Of course, his body had been fooled. The poison was still running through his veins.
“You look a little better. I didn’t like seeing you in pain.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have fucking poisoned me.”
“So bitter.”
“Seriously. Why met”
“There’s something about your face that makes people trust you. I’ll bet you’re always the guy people are stopping to ask for directions.”
Jack looked at least a few years younger than his true age. He didn’t follow fads in hairstyle or dress, which kind of lent him a clueless, midwestern timelessness. He looked like a Boy Scout or an altar boy who’d somehow managed to make it to adulthood without being molested. People did seem to trust him.
“It was the same with me,” the blonde said. “I saw you and knew I could trust you. And once I tell you why, I think you’ll understand. Maybe even forgive me.”
Kelly opened her mouth, then slowly closed it again. She swept some of the hair from her forehead, looked around the room.
“I have one last favor to ask first. Please bear with me.”
“Sure. Whatever. You poisoned me, you call the shots.”
“I need to use the bathroom. Badly.”
“Try the room with the white seat.”
“Very funny, Jack. But I need you in there with me.”
“Look, I promise I won’t leave. At the very least, I have to find out why you’ve poisoned me. And frankly, I may decide to keep you here for the police.”
“It’s not that. I can’t go alone.”
“What, are you scared? I told you: I’ll be right here.”
“You have to be in there with me.”
“You’re seriously insane, aren’t you?”
“Jack, you’ve only known me a few hours. But by now, you should know I mean what I say.”
I poisoned your drink. Definitely true.
Go along with this or you’ll die. Most likely true.
I need to use the bathroom…. I can’t go alone.
Okay, give her the benefit of the doubt.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s only number one. I think I’d die if it was the other. You should see what I’ve gone through to do that.”
Jack didn’t know what she was talking about; didn’t really care. He wanted answers. So fine, she needed to pee with him in the room, here we go. Very least, it’d be something amusing to share with Donovan Piatt first thing in the morning: Don, my man, I had this blonde in my hotel room. And she wanted me to watch her pee. Wild, huh?
Kelly helped him up from the bed—he realized he still felt a little shaky, dizzy—and he shuffled after her into the bathroom. Typical hotel setup: bathtub with shower, vanity, towels washed so hard that you could practically smell the bleach in the air. Jack sat on the edge of the tub and watched Kelly unhook her belt, then unbutton her jeans. She started to unzip, then stopped.
“You don’t have to look.”
Now he was being accused of being a perv.
“Sorry.”
Jack turned his head away, stared at a white square tile on the opposite wall. The sealant around it was a little sloppy. He heard the rustle of jeans slipping down over a pair of legs, followed by what he presumed was a pair of panties. This would make for another excellent image for the wife. Jack, alone in a hotel bathroom with a blonde who had her pants around her ankles. But honey, he’d argue. I was facing a tile wall the whole time. I don’t even know if she’s a natural blonde.
She started to go, making for an incredibly awkward silence. The water hitting water sounded as loud as the Hoover Dam.
“So … is this, like, a nervous disorder?”
“Nothing like that. You said you had a family. Aren’t you ever in the bathroom at the same time as your wife?”
“Not if we can help it.” Not since she filed for divorce. “We’re private people.”
“I thought men were a little more open than that. I used to date a guy who loved to take care of business with the door wide open. He’d stroll around my flat naked. No shame whatsoever. Then again, he did have something to be proud of. I suspect he was part exhibitionist.”