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It’s a situation I’ve never encountered before—a dilemma without apparent solution.
I am always able to compartmentalize, though. I am on my best behavior when I arrive at the Mid-town Museum for the auction that evening.
The red carpet laps like a bloody tongue down the marble steps. Flashbulbs explode like supernovas, and photographers swarm and churn behind the velvet ropes, howling questions at me as I stride past them. “Joshua, no date tonight?” “Joshua, are you seeing anybody these days?”
I just flash an enigmatic smile at them. If only they knew the answer to that question.
Yes, I’m seeing someone exclusively. I kidnapped her and beat her name and her identity right out of her. She’s chained up in my torture palace right now, with a thick collar squeezing her pretty white neck and yesterday’s whip-marks fresh on her ass.
That thought brings a genuine smile to my face. I truly enjoy manipulating people, choosing what they will think and what they will believe. It’s more fun than a game of Cards Against Humanity. I’ve presented this magnificent façade, and the paparazzi have swallowed it whole and are begging for more, please.
It occurs to me that in the past, I would have arranged for a beautiful socialite to accompany me to the auction. I wouldn’t have had sex with her, because I only had sex with women who were blindfolded and ignorant of my identity, but being seen with models and starlets was good for my image. I probably should have done that for tonight. I can’t believe it slipped my mind. Then again, the thought of another woman touching me all night long makes me murderous, so it’s just as well.
When I get inside, all the glitterati are drifting among the exhibits, sipping cocktails and preening for the cameras.
As the night drags on, a steady stream of women find ways to bump into me, rub up against me, and I go rigid with disgust. My cordial mask almost slips several times. I haven’t had sex in weeks now, but I find myself oddly faithful to Toy. I will find a way to regain that spark again, and I will fuck her raw when I do.
I am at the bar, looking over their inferior selection of Bordeaux, when someone taps my shoulder hard.
I glance down in my annoyance, but it’s not another gold-digger with a hungry crotch. It’s Sergeant Carter. I hadn’t noticed how much shorter than me he was, until now. He can’t be more than 5’8”. He’s stuffed into an ill-fitting tux, and his eyes are bloodshot. He doesn’t reek of alcohol, though, so it’s not the demon rum that has him looking so disheveled; something else is haunting him, eating away at his soul.
I smile benevolently at him. “You don’t look well, Sergeant. Having trouble sleeping?”
He fixes his gaze on me. “I know what you are, Joshua Smith.”
This should be fun. “Oh, and what is that, exactly?”
“A fraud with a phony identity and a dicey past. A man who makes the people close to him disappear.” His Brooklyn accent drips with loathing.
“And you felt that it was so important that you relay your insignificant little opinions that you needed to come harass me tonight? Because we already have an appointment tomorrow morning.” I look him up and down. “Or perhaps you came to me for advice on how to dress. Here it is. Burn that abomination you’ve rented and stop trying to mingle where you don’t belong.”
He smiles, showing even white teeth. “I came so I could make a note of who you go home with tonight. So when she disappears too, we can add that to our list.”
I manufacture a cold smile. I incline my head toward the Police Commissioner, who flashes me a smile and waves at me. I’m a generous contributor to the Police Officers’ Benevolent Society.
Then I return my attention to Carter. “Do you enjoy your job, Sergeant?”
He’s not intimidated in the slightest. He meets my gaze steadily, which is more than most men are capable of. “Not if it means being hamstrung by rules and regulations while girls are dying.”
“There’s nothing more tedious than a crusader chasing after a lost cause.” I stifle a yawn and let my gaze wander the crowd before favoring him with a cruel, calculating smile. “Do you think if you can find that missing girl, it will make you feel better about how you failed your own daughter?”
To his credit, he doesn’t flinch or curse or blubber. He just looks at me with amusement and contempt. “You know the worst kind of man to make an enemy of? A man who has nothing to lose. I’ve watched rich assholes like you get away with shit for far too long. My wife died of cancer because her boss didn’t clean up the asbestos in her workplace, and he’s living in Bermuda right now, swimming dick-deep in whores. My Molly died because she was partying with some rich little piece of shit who didn’t call an ambulance because he didn’t want daddy to cut off his allowance. He walked away scot-free, and you think I care about losing my job? Please.”
His face is flushing redder and redder, and sweat beads on his forehead. “And no, I don’t think I’ll find Tamara Bennett, or what’s left of her. Or her neighbor Heather Abelard, for that matter.” So he knows about Heather’s disappearance too—and thinks I’m responsible for the disappearances of two girls. His hazel eyes fix on me. “But if I could take out the person who killed her, I could spare more women from suffering the same fate.”
Oh, good. Just what I need right now.
It’s too soon to tell if he’s going to prove to be mildly annoying or an interesting challenge.
“I’m fascinated by how your mind works, Sergeant. I’d love to hear more of your thoughts. Perhaps I should come visit you on Pennyroyal Street, sometime soon, to continue this discussion?” Yes, I made sure I knew where he lived.
“Apartment 3B,” he says without flinching. “Looking forward to it.”
He meets my gaze and refuses to drop it, until someone walks up and taps me on the shoulder. I incline my head politely. “Until we meet again.”
Carter glowers at me, then sidles away, sliding through the crowd. Manhattan’s upper crust scowl and move away so he won’t rub up against them. He stinks of the lower classes. Poor man. He’s very much out of his league here.
I could still stage his suicide, but that would be discourteous under the circumstances. Unlike my little phantom texter, Sergeant Carter challenged me like a man—openly. He threw down a gauntlet. Only a weakling with no concept of the laws of chivalry would kill him or get him fired. I will let this game play out however it is meant to.
