“HELLO, SIMON.”
“Give the man a cigar, we have a winner. How did you guess?”
“No guessing required, Simon. Maybe you’re not as smart as you think you are.”
“Careful, Detective. Arrogance gets friends killed.”
Swallowing back an angry response, I say, “Ask enough questions of enough people, do enough digging, speak to more people, and eventually these things come together on their own; routine.”
“No Ah-ha moment?”
“Can’t say I wasn’t surprised, more disappointed in myself for not having seen it earlier.”
“Wouldn’t have mattered; we’d still be having this conversation.”
The Chatterbox asks how I’m coping as if he knows the sight of Marcus Livingstone is a shock.
“I’ve seen bad, but never worse,” I admit, giving the devil his due. “Where do we go from here?” I ask, terrified of his response.
“I haven’t hurt Fernandez, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“And Mel?”
“Different story.”
Gasping, I struggle to take breath. “What have you done?”
As if debating how much to say, he goes on.
“Mel arrived before the doors opened, asking questions about Kelly Plett and Miranda Livingstone. But it was a smokescreen. From the way she looked at me, I knew she suspected. But I knew that whatever she thought, she hadn’t shared it with you. She’s young, she’s ambitious, she wanted an Ah-ha! moment of her own. But don’t feel bad, Fortune: Women pay closer attention to a man’s looks than we men do ourselves. She obviously saw the resemblance between Marcus and me. Maybe she wanted to scoop you on the arrest, star in her own headlines. Narcissism can be fatal.”
“And Gabby?”
“Gabby was easy, too eager to believe she could deal Melissa for herself.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Why would I? The deck is stacked in my favor, isn’t it? Just like Terry Lattimer.”
My heart skips. “What does Lattimer have to do with it?”
“Terry was a lot of things, but he’d never have taken the coward’s way out by eating his own gun.”
“What are you saying? It wasn't suicide?”
“Another winner.” Simon, aka The Chatterbox, chuckles.
“You killed Lattimer?”
“Terry made the connection between me, Dorothy, Maria, and AA early on. I knew both from the parlor, chatted-them-up, joined them for meetings at AA where I got to know them better. But Terry was corrupt, wanted to deal, wanted money from me to not put two-and-two together into his report, to not inform his partner, that mutant Andre the Giant. For a thousand a month he was willing to look the other way, to have me on the down-low and to keep me there. To some people, a thousand a month is nothing. To me, it was rent.”
“And he didn’t share this information with his partner?”
“If he had, The Giant would be dead, too.”
My head is spinning. I’ve read about evil geniuses such as The Chatterbox, never encountered one, let alone confronted one.
“And Livingstone?”
“Some shrink, eh?” The Chatterbox laughs. “During sessions, Terry shared the details of his cases with Marcus; can you believe it? One day I get a call from Livingstone, out of the blue, a one of those I know who you are, and I know what you did bullshit calls like you see in the movies.”
“What’s the connection between you and Marcus? Long lost brothers?”
“It would make for great TV but, sadly, no. No relation. The resemblance is purely coincidental. In fact, if you look closely enough, we’re not really that similar: I’m much better looking.” He laughs. “No, Detective, I meant what I said. I had a reasonably well-adjusted upbringing. Unlike Marcus, who grew up in an orphanage.”
“And he extorted you to kill Miranda with what he knew about you?”
“Hell no. Marcus wasn’t that stupid. He paid. Five thousand a month, every month, in perpetuity, for the rest of my life. That was the deal.”
“A lot of money.”
“For a guy like me? Winning the lottery.”
Knowing how Miranda was threatening Marcus already, I ask, “Why kill the goose that lays the Golden Egg?”
“That’s on you, Detective. Marcus was becoming unhinged. I think he was ready to trade me in for a lighter sentence, make some sort of a deal. After all, for you, I’m the jackpot, aren’t I?”
Struggling, I try to understand. “I get Miranda, maybe even Kelly Plett too. She was a diversion. I get Marcus, I get Terry. They were a threat. But why Manischewitz and Mancinelli? Why Annie Taylor, the woman in the park? Why my detectives?”
“What people like you fail to appreciate, is that after the first kill the rest are easy. Dare I say irresistible? To me, killing is like eating a Lays potato chip: I can’t eat just one!”
Pulling myself back to the present, I say, “Where are they, Simon?”
“Not so fast.”
“Where?”
“I’ll tell you where, but first you need to know how I want this thing to go down. Fair enough?”
I’m practically chewing off the end of my tongue. “Fair enough.”
“I haven’t done all this—damned my soul to hell, blah, blah—to go to an unmarked grave and be forgotten. If it goes badly for me, I want books written about me, movies made, and maybe even a Netflix Original series. I don’t want these women to end up on Unsolved Mysteries and Crimes. They deserve a better fate, and so do I.”
“How can I help?”
The Chatterbox is silent, silent for longer than I can recall him ever being so. After almost five minutes, he speaks.
“There’s something you have to do. Do this for me, and maybe I tell you where they’re at, at least give you an idea. I can’t say you’ll get them back safely, because you’ll still have to deal with me when you get here.”
A confrontation it is.
“You’re using the burner phone I left you?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” And for the next half hour Simon, aka The Chatterbox Killer, tells me very specifically what he needs me to do.