Part 20 (1/2)
”Relax, Kafka. I was only kidding. Are you here for anything in particular, or just the typical police hara.s.sment?”
”May I come in? I'd like to talk to you.”
”Well, I don't know,” she hedged. ”I'm a little busy right now. You see, I'm a militant feminist opportunist. Via my own selfinterests, rapaciousness, and overall inflated ego, and in addition to a reactive lack of writing talent, I'm exploiting a tragic circ.u.mstance for my own gain. I'm writing a bogus, sensationalist book based on the ghastly crimes of a-”
Spence stepped past her and entered the apartment. ”What a hovel,” he commented of her living room. ”You're not much of a housekeeper, are you? This dump looks like it got the once over by our tactical riot squad. What's that smell?”
”Fresh pig,” Kathleen said.
Spence smiled. He perused the room with his hands behind his back. ”Aren't you going to offer me some coffee?”
”All I have is beer and wine,” Kathleen responded. ”You see, I'm a clinical alcoholic, preformed by a geneticaddition propensity that you read about in some magazine.”
”Speaking of magazines, when's the next issue of your rag come out? I especially enjoy the column called 'Verdict.' It's funnier than National Lampoon National Lampoon.” Spence turned to her like a chess piece. ”All jokes aside-”
”Oh, we were joking?”
”-have you received anything more from-”
She slapped him in the chest with a manila envelope.
”Originals, right?” he asked.
”Of course. I rented a copier from s.h.i.+elds today.”
”Industrious. I trust you didn't handle the originals until you put on the gloves?”
”I wore the d.a.m.n gloves, Lieutenant. Now why don't you be like a hockey player and-”
Spence sat down at her desk before the slider. He picked up a sheaf of papers. ”These are the photocopies?”
”Yes.”
”Good material for the book?”
Kathleen didn't say anything. She opened the slider and lit a Now 100. Spence began to read her photocopies, so not to touch the originals.
”Hmm. 'NeedleWork.' By the way, how's the blazing love affair with Maxwell Platt?”
”Mind your own business.”
”It's strange. I read some of his work today in some literary magazines that our research department dug up. Did you know he's had poetry published in Esquire, Esquire, The New York Times Literary Review The New York Times Literary Review, even Cosmopolitan? Cosmopolitan?”
”What's strange about that?”
”Well, they're formidable magazines, highly compet.i.tive markets, I should think-”
”Oh, you think?”
”-and his work is quite well done. Insightful, honest, highly creative. That's the strange part, that a person with such respectable artistic talents should find anything at all in common with you.”
”He only comes around for the blatant, indulgent s.e.x.”
”Like last night? He was here last night, wasn't he?”
”I know you have your watchdogs on me. You get a kick out of that, don't you? Intruding on real people's lives?”
”It's only for your protection. Personally I'd much prefer to see district tax dollars spent elsewhere.” Spence flipped a page of the ma.n.u.script. ”But Maxwell Platt is innocent.”
Cigarette smoke dangled before Kathleen's eyes. ”What's that supposed to mean?”
”You know full well that a psychopathic killer is aware of your exact place of residence, yet you're pursuing a romantic involvement with Platt. You're inviting him over here. You don't care about anyone, do you? Platt could wind up dead due to your reckless selfishness.”
”That's ridiculous,” Kathleen spat. But actually she hadn't thought of that at all. No, no, No, no, she tried to rationalize. she tried to rationalize. It's too farfetched... It's too farfetched...
”And it's therefore my professional obligation to see that he's protected when he's over here. That's why I've got the undercover vehicle in your parking lot.”
”Why don't you just leave?” Kathleen suggested, but, still, what he'd implied bothered her. ”Or maybe it's just that you've got nothing better to do. Big bad musclebound existential hotshot police investigator. What a laugh. It's not my fault that a killer is sending me accounts of her murders. It's not my fault that you've gotten nowhere on this case.”
”Quite the contrary,” Spence offered. He was reading and talking simultaneously. ”We know who the killer is.”
Kathleen bent forward. ”You... What?”
”She's a prost.i.tute known as Creamy. Her real name is Heather B. Willet. Twentysix years old, red hair, Caucasian. You know her?”
”How would I know a prost.i.tute, for G.o.d's sake?” Kathleen stubbed out her cigarette, thinking. This revelation sat in her gut like a bad meal. Was Spence lying? He'd lied before, she felt sure of it. ”A prost.i.tute? That doesn't sound very logical.”
”People who are pathological seldom behave logically. And by the way, I'm not an existentialist. I conform to a spiritual philosophy known as solipsisty-the theory that the self is the only thing that can be known and therefore verified.”
This comment seemed to stretch her face against her skull, like thin elastic. ”The last time I talked to you, you lied to me.”
”I didn't lie, I prevaricated-”
Kathleen laughed out loud.
”We've found two more bodies.”
Her laughter dissolved. Suddenly, though backed by the blaze of sun, she felt frigid.