I WAKE to the sound of an unfamiliar ring-tone. The television is tuned to CNN, volume low. Remains of a half-eaten dinner congeal on a side-table.
“Been too long,” is the first thing The Chatterbox says.
Dragging the palm of a hand over my face, I wipe sleep from my eyes.
“Miss me?” I say propping myself up with a sofa cushion. “By your tone of voice, I take it you did.”
“Why’d you hang up on me last time I called? I didn’t like it.”
He sounds like a petulant child.
“I’ve been ordered not to talk to you. You’re a bad influence. Or maybe I am. Brass says you’ve been a good boy since I stopped talking. Is this true?”
“Hang up this phone, you’ll find out.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” My first thought is there’s another body. Silence. “You mind if I brew myself a cuppa Joe?”
“Sure, I’m having one myself. Mocha Cappuccino by Nespresso. I love Penelope Cruz, hate the commercials. George Clooney, Danny DeVito, I hate them all. I was traveling in Spain a few years back, Barcelona. On the ride into the city from the airport to my hotel, I look up, and who do I see? George Clooney smiling at me from a roadside billboard peddling Campari. I was shocked, thinking if I ever see him doing commercials in America, I’ll boycott his movies.”
“You’re a real patriot.”
“Well, he hasn’t, has he? I didn’t boycott his movies, though, so I guess I’m as big a hypocrite as he is.”
“You travel overseas often?”
“When the luxury allows. My work schedule is flexible.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a killer, aren’t I?” He chuckles, his version of humor.
In the kitchen, I brew myself a cup of coffee.
“You ever been to Barcelona, Detective?”
“I prefer New York.”
“Don’t be so provincial. I’m sure Detective Fernandez would love it.”
The reference to Gabby jangles my nerves.
“Las Ramblas, Sagrada Familia, Gaudi. Why don’t you take her?”
“You said the plan was to not make it too difficult for me,” I say, hoping to redirect the conversation. “Well, here we are. Maybe I’m not as smart as you think I am.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. Another body or two and you’ll come up Aces.”
“What if I already have? Come up Aces.”
For once, The Chatterbox is silent, which for him is a wonder.
The kettle boils. I add a tablespoon of instant coffee to a mug, pour in boiling water, add sugar and milk, stir. Carrying my cup, I return to the sofa. On television, CNN inflates some Mid-east skirmish into a full-scale war. A bunch of men in balaclavas ride around the desert in beat-up pickup trucks hoisting AK-47s in the air, kicking up dirt. The ticker at the bottom of the screen announces another accusation of sexual harassment against a Hollywood actor we once investigated for alleged rape of an underage teen at a downtown hotel. The investigation went nowhere.
After a minute, The Chatterbox says, “If you’ve figured it out, why are we having this conversation? Why aren’t you here, beating down my door?”
“I’m outside in the corridor waiting for back-up.”
“Then you’ll be waiting a while, because we both know it won’t happen any time soon.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because you think you know more than you actually do.”
“True: Knowing something and proving it aren’t the same thing.”
“Now, you sound like a TV-show cop.”
“Not the first time I’ve been told.”
“Or a lawyer.”
It’s my turn to chuckle. “Now you’re being cruel.”
“Trust me, Detective. You have no idea what real cruelty looks like.”
My blood curdles.
“But you will.”
After a moment, I say, “So where does this leave us?”
“Depends on how badly you want it.”
“Badly, rest assured.”
“Or desperate.”
“That too, maybe.”
“I know what you’re thinking. Press the right buttons you’ll provoke me into making a mistake, that deep down a part of me yearns to be exposed. Trust me, I don’t.”
“If not for the attention, why?”
“I don’t foam at the mouth like a rabid dog. I carry on perfectly normal relationships with perfectly normal people. By all accounts, I live a perfectly normal life. In fact, to see me on the street, most normal people would consider me exceptionally normal.”
“So why kill?”
He pauses as if searching for a reasonable response.
Finally, he says, “It’s an urge. Like an itch that needs to be scratched. It’s as simple and as complicated as that. Problem is, when I scratch, someone dies.”
He takes a moment as if to reflect.
“I know what the literature says. Absent father, abusive, domineering mother. Well, I don’t have mommy issues, and my father didn’t abandon me. I wasn’t beaten or sexually molested as a child or bullied at school. I was well cared for and well loved, I believe. And, despite appearances, I don’t hate women. I love women. You ask why I kill? Might as well ask why the wind blows.”
“There’s a scientific explanation for why the wind blows.”
“Catch me and when you do, they can open my brain to find a scientific explanation for Me.” My coffee has gone cold. “Maybe a Profiler would help.”
“Now look who watches too much TV.”
“I confess. I’m a fan of Criminal Minds. More a fan of Joe Mantegna, actually. It helps motivate me.”
“Are you saying you’re the product of media violence?”
“Born a thousand years ago, I’d still be Me.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Better to be crazy on one’s own account than be wise according to the wishes of others.”
“You’re a philosopher.”
“I don’t claim credit: Nietzsche.”
“An intellect.”
“Not likely.”
“You sound resentful?”
“Regretful, more like.”
“Why not give yourself up?”
“That would be too easy.”
“For me?”
“For me.”
“The telephone is become tedious. I think we should meet face-to-face.”
To my surprise, The Chatterbox agrees. “I think you’re right. Get to know each other.”
“Where and when?”
“Where? My office. Time? No time like the present.”
“You want me to meet you tonight?”
“Technically, it’s tomorrow morning.”
“Where are you located?”
“Now look who’s being disingenuous. If you truly know what you think you know, Dexter, then you know exactly where to find me.”
“Is that a riddle?”
“Don’t be obtuse.”
“I have to fetch my car. At this time of night, the drive will take me two hours.”
“Which means you should be here by four.”
I hesitate to agree.
“It’s a one-time offer, Detective Fortune. Take t or leave it.”
Knowing it’s an outrageous and egregious violation of protocol and common sense, I agree. “Your office, two hours.”
“Do I need to say come alone? It seems so cliché. But I’ll be watching. If you arrive with reinforcements, I won’t be here. Tomorrow, when you tell your colleagues about this conversation, they’ll be discussing it over another dead body. And you’re running out of time to play hero. Another killing, and next week you’re issuing public nuisance citations in Times Square.”
“Two hours, Dr. Livingstone,” I say, hoping to jangle the asshole’s nerves.
“Drive safe, Dex,” he says, as if he really cares.