It was nine days before I heard again from Dana Essex. That morning I’d gone to the office on Pender to patch the drywall and repair things as best I could. The landlord had seized my damage deposit—for a building that would be rubble in six months’ time—but had let me handle the repairs myself.
I was grateful for the distraction. Every so often the news belched up a rumor or accusation about Tabitha Sorenson. I kept silent, distanced myself from Wakeland & Chen business, unburdening Jeff and appeasing any skeptical clients. Sonia hadn’t called, and I’d had no further dealings with Chambers or Qiu. Without work to keep me busy, there was nothing to push down thoughts of Tabitha, the horror of her last moments. In a way, even Essex’s call was some relief.
She phoned from an area code in southwestern Washington. Her gloating rang hollow, betrayed a lack of purpose. I’d said so.
“I admit I’m at a bit of a loss,” Essex said. “I’m on the precipice of freedom, waiting for certain things to happen.”
“I guess having all that money must help. How much did you end up with?”
“Would you believe I don’t know the exact sum? Several hundred thousand, at least. Perhaps more.”
“Not much for someone’s life.”
“For my life.”
“You could come back, turn yourself in.”
“Be serious, Dave.”
Her tone was dreamlike. I could imagine her spread across a motel bed, contemplating the ceiling, midday traffic passing outside her room.
“I’ve been thinking about what happened with Tabitha,” she said. “Analyzing my reaction. Taking stock of things like remorse, misgivings. It was more brutal than I’d expected—but then how does one ‘expect’ a murder? There really is no reference for it. It’s all very fascinating.”
“Murder is common,” I said. “It’s ordinary. It’s cheap.”
“Not to me,” she said. “I think I’ll conduct a study of the post-murder mindset. Perhaps write a book.”
“Like Edward Bunker. Or Jean Genet.”
“Former prisoners, you mean. Do you honestly think, Dave, everyone in prison deserves to be? The United States jails more of its citizens than China. The prison-industrial complex is positively booming. It’s big business. In Canada, too. Prison makes the North American underclass economically viable. So why should we pretend it’s punitive, when in fact prisons are simply an instrument of finance?”
“Say that’s true,” I said. “How does it justify you murdering a twenty-four-year-old girl in her home?” Essex didn’t answer right away. “It does explain why you got along with Tabitha. She could buy into that thinking, too, couldn’t she, that society’s wrongs absolve our own.”
“We didn’t get along as well as you think.” A note of aggravation had crept into her voice. “Tabitha was headstrong. And very intelligent. But constantly feeling she had to prove so. You’ve met tiresome people like that—janitors who insist on regaling you with the etymology of obscure words they no doubt learned for exactly that purpose. Or cab drivers who think a display of trivia makes them an intellectual. So desperate to be taken seriously. That was Tabitha.”
“So why partner with her?”
“Because what she did understand was finance,” Essex said. “With her position, she could manipulate the accounts how she saw fit. I thought inflating events budgets was the extent of what could be done. I didn’t realize how much money could be accrued by lending it to the right people.”
“You said it wasn’t about money.”
“I did, and it isn’t.”
“Then—love?”
“Honestly, Dave. Do you think you’d have bedded me if my heart’s balm flowed toward her?”
“I like to think my charms are universal.”
She laughed. “You needed the idea of love as motivation to take the job. I worked hard to give that to you. It would have been an easier sell if the target had been male, but I improvised. By my looks alone, I wouldn’t be miscast as a woman suffering from repression. So that was who I gave you.”
“Listen to how proud you are of your acting ability.”
“The effort more than the ability,” Essex said. “It worked well, you must admit. Remember the distinction you made, that first day, between being robbed and being cheated?”
“You’re right,” I said. “You won. You were brilliant.”
“Thank you.”
“Except now you’re discovering what it’s like to live on the lam. Only you don’t have the love to carry you that Tabitha found. You’re alone, Dana, with a dwindling sum of money, and a name that’ll be useless to travel under, soon as it comes out you’re involved. You don’t have what it takes to be her.”
Essex said quietly, emotionally, “She expected me to do nothing when she took that money—our money. We’d worked out that plan together. She didn’t realize who she’d used and betrayed.”
“Maybe neither do you.”
“You’ll never be in a position to do to me what was done to Tabitha,” she said. “You’d be dead before you finished contemplating it. Even if you’re not intimidated by me, you know I’m not alone. And you most certainly are. I know all about you, Dave. You don’t have a solid move remaining.”
“You might be right about that,” I said. “But if I’m such a dud, why phone me?”
“I don’t honestly know,” Essex said.
“I do.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
“I’m not going to tell you today,” I said.
“A bluff.”
“Maybe.”
“Tell me.”
“Not now.”
“Tell me.”
“Good night, Dana.”
After I hung up I returned to patching the dents in the drywall. I wondered if I should bother sanding them smooth. How much effort was a condemned thing worth?