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“Apparently not this woman. And even if it were, most women on dating sites aren’t going to admit that.”
“Right, not until the second date. At least.”
“Maybe you don’t know women the way you think you do, boss.”
“Maybe not. But this all sounds like a lot of wasted time.”
“It’s not wasted time. It’s a game—and a numbers game at that.”
“Games are for children.”
“Don’t worry.” She winks. “Even if you say you’re in it for the ‘professional connections,’ there’s still a good chance of getting laid.”
Chapter Eleven
Ethan
Nadia deftly rewrote my bio. A few keystrokes and she assured me it was not only perfect, but also ripe with opportunity. According to my profile, I’m an attorney, age forty-five to fifty, height six-foot-two, who likes live music, has traveled to seventy-eight countries, speaks four languages, and competes in triathlons in my spare time. I also happen to volunteer at my local animal shelter and hope to expand my circle through “networking.”
So, basically, I sound like every other man on these sites. If you live in fantasyland, that is, which apparently most women do.
To say I’m out of practice would be an understatement. Dating should be easy enough. I’m no stranger to asking questions, to gathering information and making a determination. In my work, I base most decisions on gut feelings, using my intuition. But a date isn’t the same thing. It’s not supposed to go down like an interrogation. Or that’s exactly what it’s like. It’s just not supposed to feel like it.
Online dating is not so different. I’m only telling a story. I’m playing a part, same as all the other cases in my old life with the FBI. Before I was an analyst, I started out working undercover.
Online, with my dating profile, I’m a made-up person, and like all good actors, I’m playing a version of myself, different and yet similar enough to make it believable.
For the sake of efficiency, and the fact that I have children plus a company to run, I’ve handed over my communication on Beacon to Nadia who does a phenomenal job pretending to be me, a man looking to meet women. Her replies and back-and-forth banter are impressive. Thanks to her, my reply rate is easily 60 percent and creeping upward by the day. Even so, I set the cap at three dates. By then, I’ll know whether this might work or whether I’m wasting my time, and with any luck, a little more about how the killer thinks.
Nadia sets the dates up at a wine bar about ten blocks from the office, scheduling them an hour and a half apart. That leaves thirty minutes between each encounter, and she made it clear to my dates that I have an appointment with a client in half an hour, meaning that I am pressed for time. I will go so far as to exit the bar, so as not to run over time or get stuck with stragglers.
The first woman is attractive, in her midforties. She arrives fifteen minutes late, something I forgive, because she blames traffic, and also there’s the attractive part. She downs three glasses of pinot noir in fifteen minutes while talking non-stop, mostly about her ferrets. “I’m new in town,” she says. “You?”
“Ah, yeah. Well, kind of.”
“Where do you stay?”
“Stay?”
“You know, live? Where do you live?”
“Oh. North,” I lie.
“No way! Me too.” She shifts in her chair and then leans in. “Well, I’m staying with friends. But I’m looking to put down roots.”
I nod and she goes on. “I really appreciate the art scene here. I mean, Austin is great for that. Especially for someone like me.”
“Someone like you?” I practice mirroring, a psychology technique which is really just repeating back portions of what the other person said, in the form of a question.
“Yeah. I’m trying to break into performance poetry.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Poetry.”
“No, poetry I’ve heard of. The latter.”
“Oh,” she waves her hand in the air. “You’ll have to come see me perform.”
