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CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
He’s lying on top of his bed, his hand down the front of his pants, scrolling through his phone for pictures of his most recent dates. This is how he prefers to think of the women he kills. As dates, not victims. After all, he isn’t some cowardly stalker lurking in a dark alley, waiting to ambush whatever unsuspecting female stumbles into his path. He takes great pains to woo his women; he pours his heart out in texts and phone calls, suggests meeting up only when they feel comfortable, buys them drinks, seduces them with his charm and good looks, makes them feel special. He never resorts to threats or violence to get them to go with him. They follow him willingly, enter his apartment eagerly, their heads already spinning with thoughts of wedding bells and forever.
They get forever, all right, although not quite the forever they had in mind.
Forever dead,he thinks with a smile, stroking himself with greater urgency.
He watches the women parade before his eyes, like contestants in a perverse Miss Universe pageant: Chelsea, with her long neck in a noose; Tiffany, tear-filled eyes wide with terror; Nadia, seconds after she drew her final breath.
And then there she is, the woman who will be his crowning glory, his parting gift to the great city of Boston: Paige Hamilton, aka Wildflower. He’s snapped at least a dozen pictures of her in the last few days. In one, she is standing outside the building where she lives with her mother; in another, she is emerging from the towering John Hancock Building, brown hair blowing in the breeze; in yet another, she is climbing into a taxi on Commonwealth Avenue.
He groans as his climax approaches, his body shuddering with the welcome release. He sits up quickly, wipes himself off, tucks himself in. It’s time to get this ball rolling. He’s been patient long enough. What was it his mother used to say?“If the mountain won’t come to Mohammed…”
Time to go to the mountain, he decides, switching from photos to messaging on his phone, no longer annoyed that Paige has yet to contact him. She’s cagey, that one. He admires that. Hasn’t he known from the first night he saw her that she wouldn’t be as easy as the others, that she would be a true test of his skills?
Hey, Wildflower,he types.Sorry for the delay in getting back to you. Really hoping we can try again.
He is waiting for a response when he thinks he hears someone at the door.
He clicks off the phone, listens as the knock becomes louder and more insistent. “Who is it?” he calls out.
“It’s Jenna Lebowski,” a woman calls back.
Jenna? She must be his landlady’s daughter, the one who wants to put Imogene in a home. What the hell does she want?
“The police are downstairs,” she says, answering his silent question. “They want to ask you a few questions.”
His heartbeat quickens.The police are here? What does that mean?That someone saw him dragging Nadia’s body to his car? That someone identified him as the man they saw with Tiffany Sleight on the night she disappeared? That there will be no more “dates”? That he will never get the chance to turn his fantasies about Paige into a reality?
He checks his demeanor in the mirror on the wall by the front door, making sure he looks calm and presentable.Well, obviously way more than presentable,he thinks, noting the look of pleasant surprise on Jenna Lebowski’s face when he opens the door.
She’s at least fifty, and round in the manner of sturdy Polish stock. Her hair is a touch too platinum for her black roots, but is otherwise nicely styled, and she’s neatly dressed in navy pants and a red blouse. She wears a crucifix around her neck. He wonders what it would be like to strangle her with it, to watch the tiny gold Jesus slice deep into her flesh.
Blood of Christ,he thinks, careful not to crack a smile.
Not quite what the church had in mind.
“I’m so sorry to bother you,” Jenna Lebowski says, her cheeks blushing almost as red as her blouse.
“Did you say the police are here?”
“They’re downstairs talking to my mother now.”
What the fuck?he wonders. Has the old bat lodged some sort of complaint against him? He should have finished her off when he had the chance. “Is this about last week? She was very confused and I was just trying to help…”
“What are you talking about?” Jenna asks.
“Your mother. I found her wandering around outside at about two in the morning. I managed to get her back into bed…”
“Oh, God. No. I’m so sorry. I had no idea. No, this isn’t about that. I don’t know what this is about.”
Apprehension mingles with relief. If the police weren’t here about Mrs. Lebowski, whywerethey here? He retrieves his key from the small plastic dish he keeps on the counter of the tiny galley kitchen, locking the door behind him and pocketing his phone as he follows Jenna down the stairs and around to the front of the house. A police car is parked on the street.
Two officers, one male, one female, stand on opposite sides of Imogene Lebowski in the front foyer. They’re both young, late twenties or early thirties. The man is white, with reddish hair and a wide swath of freckles smeared like peanut butter across the bridge of his nose. The woman is black, her natural dark curls squeezed into a tight bun and sitting high on her head.She’s quite beautiful,he thinks, realizing that he’s never “dated” a black woman. Judging by the way she’s lowering her eyes, refusing to meet his gaze head-on, he knows she’d be open to it. And her being a police officer would definitely give their encounter some added spice.
Providing, of course, that she isn’t here to arrest him.
“Officers?” he says, acknowledging Mrs. Lebowski’s girlish wave with a nod. “Is there something I can help you with?”
