THREE A.M.
My mobile phone chatters across the desktop.
“Fortune,” I say over a tongue thick with sleep.
“It’s me.”
It takes a moment to place the caller. “Chatterbox?”
He laughs. “Is that what you’re calling me? The Chatterbox?”
Sitting upright, I prop myself with pillows. “You do talk a lot.”
As if thinking it over, he says, “I like it.”
“To talk?”
“Don’t be a wiseass, Dexter.”
“How did you get this number?”
“A few details to the gal on duty and she was happy to oblige.”
“Why me?” I ask, curious to know why he’s calling me.
“You’re too modest, Dex.”
Of course. For now, I’m New York City’s most celebrated cop.
“Two men dead, Chatterbox. To me, stop or I’ll shoot is just a suggestion. Aren’t you worried?”
“I’ll take my chances.”
Along with my knee, my head is pounding. “Are you going to talk a while? If you are, I need coffee.”
“Help yourself,” he says, as if I’m a house guest.
I slip from bed bare-chested wearing only a pair of boxer shorts. “Why are you calling?”
“What did you think of Miranda?”
The call seems suddenly real, no longer banter between friends. In the kitchen, I fill the kettle and empty a spoonful of Maxwell House instant into a mug.
“You tell me,” I say, struggling to maintain my magnanimity.
“Don’t be annoyed.”
“I’m a cop, you’re a killer. Why wouldn’t I be annoyed?”
“You trying to make it personal? If you do, you’ll regret it.”
Meaning what? Instead, I say, “Fine. I won’t if you won’t.”
“Don’t make me, Dex.”
The way he says it makes my blood curdle. Kettle boiled, I fill the mug. I stir. From the fridge, I add milk. From the cupboard, a packet of Sweet ‘N Low.
“Tell me about, her Chatterbox. About Miranda.”
I settle on the living room sofa, pen and pad of paper at my side in case he says something interesting.
“Most of it you know. I picked her up in a bar downtown, across from Hell’s Kitchen Park, a place called Bumpers. Miranda was drunk, I offered to see her home.”
“Did she offer you sex for money?”
“You need to stop saying this, Dexter. I’m not a pervert.”
“Not saying, just asking.”
“As far as I know, Miranda didn’t fuck for money. She was a divorced mother of two who had lost custody of her children. You’ve spoken to her parents, so you know this already.”
“How do you know I spoke to the parents?”
“I don’t. I assume.”
“How do you know all this about Miranda? She say?”
“Like I said, she was pretty drunk. Liquor is grease to the guilty mind.”
“Does this apply to Dorothy and Maria as well?”
“You could say I have a type.”
“Sloppy, drunk, divorcees who’ve lost custody of their children?”
I can almost hear him shrug. “Maybe I have mommy issues. It’s what the textbooks say.”
“Do you wet the bed, like to set fires, torment small animals?”
The Chatterbox laughs. “I’m also a white male of above average intelligence who has trouble holding down a job. You could say I fit the profile.”
“Are you saying you’re a white male with a high IQ who has trouble holding down a job?”
“Let’s just say I’m easily bored and don’t take well to direction.”
“Where did you last work?”
“Nice try.”
“Where do you live?”
“Nice try.”
“What’s your name?”
“The Chatterbox will do.”
By the time we disconnect it’s going on five thirty a.m., the sun a faint promise on the horizon. We’ve had a rambling two hour discussion on topics as diverse as the New York Jets upcoming season—he’s not a fan, but follows the NFL; The Walking Dead and the transformation of Rick Grimes; Billions; The Making of a Murderer. He decries the unfortunate proliferation of English actors playing Americans on US television—Andrew Lincoln, Dominic West and Ruth Wilson in The Affair, Damien Lewis, Matthew Rhys among others.
We discuss gun violence, race relations, Donald Trump, Hillary Clinton, and the legacy of Obamacare. We talk about murder and mayhem but only in abstract terms. If he’s trying to prove to me he’s above average intelligence, he succeeds mightily. Despite myself, I admit the conversation is engaging.
When I get around to asking if he’d like to turn himself in, he says, “I don’t think so, Dex. As I say, I’m just getting started.”