Eye Candy (18 page)

PART SIX

39

Luisa stepped into the apartment, closing the door behind her, greeted by the aroma of stale cigarette smoke. It smells worse than the bar, she thought. Maybe the mayor could do me a favor and ban smoking in here, too!

She had worked all night, busy, lots of guys getting rowdy, amateur beer drinkers, guys hitting on her but no one interesting enough to hook up with. Besides, she felt tired.

I have to find a day job. The night shift isn't as fun as it used to be.

And, I'm not getting
old
—I'm just getting
smart
. Nighttime should be fun time, not, “Can I bring you refills on those Buds?”

She glanced around the livingroom. Didn't anyone ever clean up in here? An open pizza box on the coffee table, a hunk of crust the only remains. Soda cans and beer bottles. Did Lindy and Ann-Marie have a slumber party or something?

“Hey—anyone home?” she shouted.

Silence.

“Lindy? Annie?”

No one home.

What do I want? A shower first, a long, hot shower. And then some clean clothes that don't smell of beer and sweat. And then . . . couch potato time. Maybe I'll lie on the couch and read that stack of
People
magazines and listen to the White Stripes CD I bought three weeks ago and haven't even opened.

Luisa pulled off her top on the way to her room. Her roommates' doors were both closed. It was nice to be alone in the apartment. There'd been so much tension lately, with Ann-Marie dumping Lou, and poor Lindy with the death threats and going out with guys who might want to kill her.

Luisa dropped her bracelets onto her dresser top and pulled off the ivory skull pendant on its chain, then her dangly, plastic earrings. I wouldn't handle it the way Lindy has, she thought. Her cop friend is dumb as a post. I wouldn't say yes to these guys. I'd confront each one of them: “Hey, did you steal my underwear? Did you threaten me?”

I'd be able to tell which one it was by reading their faces.

She keeps risking her life, and it's total bullshit.

Lindy is so nice. Being gorgeous hasn't spoiled her one bit. She's a great roommate and I guess a good friend, even though we don't have much in common. She doesn't deserve all this crap. I wish I could help her.

Luisa pulled off her short denim skirt, slit on one side. She walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower. She was standing naked except for her patterned, black tights when the phone rang.

Who would call during the day?

She hurried to the phone in the livingroom. “Hello?”

“Hey, Lindy?”

“No. It's Luisa.”

“Is she there? This is Brill. From her office.”

“Oh, yeah. Hi. Isn't she there?”

“No. She didn't come into work today.”

“Really? Weird.”

“We haven't heard from her or anything. So we were a little worried.”

“Well, no. I haven't seen her. You know . . . maybe she went to visit her dad. He hasn't been doing too well.”

“But wouldn't she call in first?”

“Beats me. Listen, I've got a shower running. Can I take a message?”

“Sure. Just ask her to call Brill, okay? Thanks, Luisa.”

Luisa hung up and scribbled
“Call Brill ”
on a yellow notepad beside the phone. She tore off a sheet and carried it to Lindy's room. She could hear the shower and saw a cloud of steam floating out of the bathroom.

I'll put it on her pillow.

She swung open Lindy's bedroom door and stepped inside. The shades were up and bright sunlight invaded the room. Hot in here, she thought. And everything glowed brightly as if under a spotlight.

Luisa turned to the bed—and let out a startled cry.

“Lindy—?”

Lindy lay sprawled on her back on top of the bedcovers, one hand dangling over the side of the double bed, her head at such a strange angle, mouth opened wide.

“Hey, Lindy?” Luisa shouted. A wave of fear rolled down her body. She lurched to the bed and grabbed the dangling arm.

“Lindy? Come on. Wake up. What's wrong? Why are you home?
Lindy?
”

40

I dreamed that someone had grabbed my arm and was pumping it hard, calling my name. I heard myself groan, and I opened my eyes slowly.

Such bright light. I blinked and turned my head away from the window. And saw Luisa hovering over me, holding my hand.

“Ohhhhh.” I groaned again and squinted, trying to focus on Luisa. Naked except for a pair of black tights. A blue and pink flower tattoo between her breasts. “Huh? What's up?”

Luisa let out a long sigh. “Lindy, I was worried . . . I . . . uh . . . what are you doing here?”

“Sick, I think,” I whispered, my throat aching. “Some kind of stomach thing.” I rubbed my stomach. It felt sore. Probably from heaving my guts out all night. “I didn't go to work. I'm just wiped.” I started to cough.

“You scared me,” Luisa said. “I didn't know you were home. I'll get you some water.” She hurried from the room.

I pulled myself up to a sitting position. What a long, horrible night. Did I get food poisoning? All I had for dinner was a Lean Cuisine and a bowl of vanilla Häagen-Dazs.

My nightshirt felt damp and clung to my back. I pulled it down and stretched my arms above my head. My arms seemed to weigh a hundred pounds each. Get it together, Lindy.

At least I wasn't so damned nauseous.

Luisa returned with a bottle of Poland Spring water. She had put on a sleeveless blue T-shirt over her black tights. “Are you okay?”

I took a long drink of water. The cold felt good against my hot throat. “I think I'm alive,” I said.

“Were you out last night?”

“No. I stayed in. I didn't feel sick until I went to bed.” I took another long drink.

We chatted for another few minutes, then Luisa left to take a shower. She told me Brill had called, but I really wasn't up to calling the office.

I drifted in and out of sleep for the rest of the day. A little after five, I climbed out of bed, took a long shower, emerged feeling fairly strong and human again. I pulled on jeans and a striped Polo shirt, had a bowl of corn flakes, eating slowly, testing my stomach.

I felt a lot better. It must have been one of those twenty-four-hour things. There was no one else home, and the apartment felt hot and stuffy.

Which explains why I decided to go out for a walk. And explains why I found myself at Shelly's apartment building a short while later.

I didn't deliberately walk to Shelly's place. I was walking aimlessly, really, just trying to clear my head. It was a gorgeous summer evening, the sky still blue and no humidity at all, a cool breeze blowing down Columbus Avenue. One of those great nights in the city when
everyone
is out on the street, and the outdoor cafés are filled, and it's all like a big block party.

And when I found myself in front of Shelly's building, I decided to give his apartment a try and see if he wanted to grab a bite or something. I was suddenly
starving
! I guess because I'd totally emptied myself out during the night.

I found Shelly's name on the directory and buzzed his apartment—3-G. Before he could buzz back, a woman backed out, pulling a baby stroller. She held the door open for me, and I stepped inside the building. I took the elevator to the third floor, walked down the long, carpeted hall to 3-G, nearly at the end, and—hey—to my surprise Shelly's door was open a crack.

Weird.

I pushed it open a little more, poked my head in, and called, “Shelly? You here?”

No answer.

Why was the door open?

I shouted again. Silence. I peered around the room. No one there.

I stepped inside, blinking, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dim light.

“Ohmigod—!” A cry escaped my throat as the single room of the studio apartment came into focus.

“Oh no. Oh, please no!”

I pressed my hands against my cheeks—and stared at hands and feet, human heads cut off at the neck. Body parts piled on shelves and tables. Hands and feet, stiff as wood and gray, pale gray, in a heap on the couch. A hunk of blond human hair with a square, paper-thin strip of scalp spread out on the kitchen counter . . .

“Oh no. Ohmigod no.”

My legs felt weak. My stomach lurched, the nausea of last night returning. And then my eyes stopped at the image on the refrigerator. And I grabbed the door frame to hold myself up.

And stared at myself.

My photo.

A poster-sized, blown-up photo of my face. Covering the front of the refrigerator. Streams of bright red dripping from my nose and ears. Paint? Blood?

My heart raced. I realized I was holding my breath.

Bloodred streaks painted over my face . . .

I forced my eyes away from the photo. Body parts everywhere . . . so stiff and gray, all the same shade, as if they'd been painted . . . and . . . and my face on the fridge . . .

My whole body shuddered. I turned away from the hideous sight. Lindy, get out. Get out!

I spun around—to find Shelly standing behind me. He had a strange, tight-lipped smile on his face, and his eyes flashed excitedly.

He blocked the doorway. No way to escape.

“Shelly, please!” I cried.

“Lindy, what a nice surprise.”

41

I went down to take out the trash,” he said. He stepped into the apartment and closed the door behind him. “I didn't realize I left the door open. Welcome to my cozy little home.”

He was speaking calmly, normally, that tight-lipped smile on his face. He had to know that I'd seen his terrifying collection. Did he plan to pretend that everything was normal?

“I . . . have to go,” I whispered.

“You just got here.”

“I know, but . . .”

“It's dinnertime, isn't it?” he checked his watch. “I was writing all afternoon. Guess I lost track of time. Want to grab something?” He took a step toward me. He kept curling and uncurling his fingers, making tight fists, then releasing them.

“No. I can't,” I said, eyeing the door behind him. “I just dropped by to say hi. I can't stay.”

His grin grew wider. “Sure you can.” He took another step closer.

“No. Really. I promised Ann-Marie . . .” Could he see me trembling?

You're a psycho, Shelly. I thought you were my friend.

Why didn't I guess?

I didn't want it to be you.

“I'll make some herbal tea,” he said. “You like peppermint, right? Sit down, Lindy. I'll make some room on the couch.”

By clearing away the hands and feet?

He moved closer—and kissed me on the cheek. The kiss made me shudder again. Was he too crazy to notice how terrified I was?

Or was he enjoying it?

I couldn't breathe. I glanced at the clump of blond hair on its strip of scalp. Someone's hair. Someone who
used
to be alive . . .

Shelly moved casually to the sink and picked up the kettle. And I made my move. I lunged for the door. Pulled it open and dove into the hall.

“Hey—!” I heard his startled shout behind me.

I turned and forced myself to run. I didn't wait for the elevator. I grabbed the iron railing and practically leaped down the stairs.

I stopped at the first landing, my heart pounding so hard my chest ached, and listened. Was he coming after me?

Up and down the stairwell, I could hear the roar of air conditioners. Voices in the hall above me. A woman shouting. I sucked in a deep breath. Then I turned and ran the rest of the way, my shoes clanging on the metal stairs.

Please don't follow me. Please don't come after me.

A white-haired old woman leaned on a metal walker at the building exit. I couldn't stop in time. I bumped the walker as I slid past her and bolted out the door.

“Fuck you!” she shouted, in a shrill little girl's voice. “Fuck you!”

I turned and saw her waving a pale fist at me.

Was Shelly right behind her?

I took off down the block, past a stationery store closing for the evening . . . a Gap Kids . . . a Starbucks . . .

Where can I hide? Where can I call the police?

I pulled my cell phone from my bag as I ran, and held it tightly in my fist. My lifeline . . .

I dodged a woman with a double baby stroller and turned the corner, running full speed. Yes. A Korean grocery. I edged past a couple of young women examining the vegetables outside the door. Down the long aisle to the back of the store.

Did Shelly see me? Was he right behind?

I leaned against the shelf, struggling to catch my breath, squinting at my phone, waiting for my eyes to focus. I had Tommy Foster in my cell. I just had to force my fingers to cooperate.

Come on. Come on.

Tears ran down my cheeks, hot against my skin. I hadn't even realized I was crying. I pushed the phone buttons. “Tommy, hi. It's Lindy. Oh, thank God. Yes. I found him, Tommy. He's a murderer. A murderer. I had no idea. But I found him. It's Shelly. Yes, Shelly Olsen. It's him. It's him, Tommy. The mystery is solved.”

42

Shelly confessed to murdering six women,” Tommy Foster said. He took a long drink from his Corona bottle, studying my reaction the whole while. “He confessed to murdering them and cutting off parts of their bodies.”

I shuddered.

The waitress leaned over me, a short, pale-faced girl with spikey purple hair and six tiny rhinestones stuck through her nose. She raised a coffeepot over my cup. “Refill?”

“Sure,” I said. I realized I was holding on to the white mug for dear life. I moved my hands away so the girl could pour.

Tommy had called the apartment around four o'clock the next afternoon. “I thought maybe you'd be at work,” he said.

“No. I didn't go in. I probably should have,” I said, sighing. “So you caught him? Did you arrest him? How come you sound so calm?”

“I need to talk you. Meet me at the Dublin House on Seventy-ninth Street, okay?”

“Yeah. Sure. But you caught him?”

“Lindy, we always get our man.”

“And so you need my statement?”

“Not exactly . . .”

“I don't understand. Did Shelly confess to everything?”

“Meet me at the Dublin House. My favorite tavern. I think you'll need a drink or two.”

But I only ordered coffee. I didn't really want anything. I just wanted to know why Tommy was acting so mysterious. And I needed to know that Shelly had been locked up.

I'd found Tommy at the end of the long bar, Corona in hand, eyes on the Yankees game on the wall TV. He was wearing a shiny blue sports jacket over an open-collared white shirt and jeans, and he looked more hangdog than ever with at least a day or two of stubble on his long, lined face.

I had to tap him on the shoulder to take his attention away from the game. He wiped beer foam off his mustache with one hand and motioned me to a narrow, wooden booth with the other.

I ordered coffee and leaned across the initials and graffiti carved into the hardwood tabletop. “Please— don't keep me in suspense. What happened?”

Tommy patted me with a hand cold from his beer. “We took your friend Shelly into custody. He was there in his apartment, waiting for us, I guess.”

“So he didn't chase after me.”

Tommy shook his head. “He didn't put up any kind of struggle. Said he was ready to confess.”

Something good must have happened in the baseball game. Two preppy-looking guys at the bar let out a cheer and gave each other a high-five.

Tommy didn't glance back at the TV. He kept his eyes on me. “Shelly confessed to murdering six women.”

I gripped the coffee mug. “I . . . could have been number seven. I could be dead.”

Tommy shook his head. “I don't think so.” He had a smile on his face. What was so funny?

“He told us he met the women on the Internet. You know. Dating Web sites. Like you did. He gave us the names of the women. He even had their addresses. He knew them by heart.”

“Knew the addresses by heart?”

Tommy nodded. He signaled to the waitress for another beer. “We checked them out, Lindy. And the women are all alive.” He stared at me, waiting for my reaction.

I stared back. He wasn't making any sense. “Tommy, give me a break here. I don't understand.”

“The women are all alive. Shelly only murdered them in his imagination.”

“You're joking.”

He shook his head. “I couldn't be more serious. He's a psycho, all right. But a harmless psycho, as far as we can tell.”

“But . . . the body parts?”

“He made those. Carved 'em or something. Some of them came off mannequins.”

“But he confessed?”

“Yeah, the poor guy is totally delusional. He lives in a fantasy world. Turns out he has a history of confessing to crimes. Confessed to twelve murders in New Jersey about five years ago. He spent time in a mental hospital there. Did he tell you he's a writer?”

“Yes. I begged him to let me see what he writes, but he never would.” My hands were shaking. I clasped them together tightly on the tabletop.

“Well, we found a lot of writing samples when we searched his apartment. They were murder stories. They were all about him murdering some woman and cutting off her hair or her fingers or something.” Tommy made a sour face. “Sick stuff. Not even that well written.”

I shook my head. I felt dazed. I'd really considered Shelly a friend. I'd
confided
in him! He was so funny, so energetic, so . . . crazy.

Tommy finished his second beer and set the bottle down on the table. “He even wrote a story about murdering
you,
Lindy.”

“Oh no,” I whispered. “I don't believe it.”

“In the story, he strangled you in your apartment, left you on your bed, and went home to find another victim on the Internet.”

“Sick,” I whispered. I lowered my gaze, picturing Shelly at the dance club, Shelly in my apartment, meeting Shelly for the first time at that bar, thinking he was Colin.

“Yeah, a real sicko,” Tommy agreed. “But a murderer only on paper. He never killed anyone. Lucky thing, huh?”

“Well, yeah.”

“When we confronted him with the truth, he said he
could
kill if he had to. Then he said he didn't want to kill you. But he had no choice. He said he liked you so much, he'd kill for you—if he hadn't already killed you. What a fucked-up bastard.”

“Pardon your French,” I said. “Isn't that what cops say after using foul language in front of a woman?”

A weary smile crossed his lips. “Only on TV. But I'm glad to see you're getting your sense of humor back.”

I sighed. “I don't think I'll laugh about any of this for a long time, Tommy. Where is Shelly now? He's locked up, right?”

He nodded. “Bellevue. You're safe, Lindy. Hey, you want to grab an early dinner somewhere?”

“No. No thanks,” I muttered.

He shrugged his shoulders. “Okay then. Case closed.”

He stood up, but something was bothering me. “Tommy, what about my underwear?”

He squinted at me.

“You know. Stolen from my apartment. Did Shelly have it?”

“We didn't find it, Lindy. Buy yourself some new panties.”

I squeezed out of the booth. “But don't you think—?” I started.

Tommy turned at the door. “We got the creep, Lindy. Now go have a nice life.”