Jeffery Deaver - Twisted - The Collected Stories of Jeffery Deaver

“Brother,” Loesser said, shaking his head.

Sid Harper returned a few minutes later.

“L.A.’s overnighting us their file. Santa Monica’s is coming in two days. And I ran the Mass real estate records round here.” He glanced at a slip of paper. “David Dale bought a condo in Park View two days ago. That’s about a quarter mile from Ms. Swanson’s place.”

“Bought?” Loesser asked, surprised.

“He says it makes him feel closer to me if he owns a house in the same town,” Kari explained, shaking her head.

“We’ll talk to him, Miss Swanson. And we’ll keep an eye on your house. If he does anything overt you can get a restraining order.”

“That won’t stop him,” she scoffed. “You know that.”

“Our hands’re pretty much tied.”

She slapped her leg hard. “I’ve been hearing that for years. It’s time to do something.” Kari’s eyes strayed to a rack of shotguns on the wall nearby. When she looked back she found the detective was studying her closely.

Loesser sent Sid Harper back to his cubicle and then said, “Hey, got something to show you, Ms. Swanson.” Loesser reached forward and lifted a picture frame off his desk and handed it to her. “The snapshot on the left there. Whatta you think?”

A picture of a grinning, freckled teenage boy was on the right. On the left side was a shot of a young woman in a graduation gown and mortarboard.

“ ’S’my daughter. Elaine.”

“She’s pretty. You going to ask me if she’s got a future in modeling?”

“No, ma’am, I wasn’t. See, my girl’s twenty-five, almost the same age as you. You know something — she’s got her whole life ahead of her. Tons and tons of good things waiting. Husband, kids, traveling, jobs.”

Kari looked up from the picture into the detective’s placid face. He continued, “You got the same things to look forward to, Miss Swanson. I know this’s been hell for you and it may be hell for a while to come. But if you go taking matters into your own hands, which I have a feeling you’ve been thinking about, well, that’s gonna be the end of your life right there.”

She shrugged off the advice and asked, “What’s the law on self-defense here?”

“Why’re you asking me a question like that?” Loesser asked in a whisper.

“What’s the answer?”

The detective hesitated then said, “The commonwealth’s real strict about it. Outside of your own house, even on your front porch, it’s practically impossible to shoot somebody who’s unarmed and get away with a self-defense claim. And, I’ll tell you, we look right away to see if the body was dragged in after and maybe a knife got put into the corpse’s hand.” The detective paused then added, “And, I’m gonna have to be frank, Ms. Swanson, a jury’s going to look at you and say, ‘Well, of course men’re going to be following her around. Moth to the flame. She ought’ve had a thicker skin.’ ”

“I better go,” Kari said.

Loesser studied her for a moment then said in a heartfelt tone, “Don’t go throwing your life away over some piece of trash like this crazy man.”

She snapped, “I don’t have a life. That’s the problem. I thought I could get one back by moving to Crowell. That didn’t work.”

“We all go through rough spots from time to time. God helps us through ’em.”

“I don’t believe in God,” Kari said, pulling on her raincoat. “He wouldn’t do this to anybody.”

“God didn’t send David Dale after you,” Loesser said.

“I don’t mean that,” she replied angrily. She lifted a trembling, splayed hand toward her face. “I mean, if He existed, He wouldn’t be cruel enough to make me beautiful.”

At eight P.M. a car door slammed outside of Kari Swanson’s house.

It was Dale’s pickup. She recognized the sound.

With shaking hands Kari set down her wine and shut off the TV, which she always watched with the sound muted so she’d have some warning if Dale decided to approach the house. She ran to the hallway table and pulled out her gun.

Outside of your own house, even on your front porch, it’s practically impossible to shoot somebody who’s unarmed and get away with a self-defense claim...

Gripping the pistol, Kari peeked through the front-door curtain. David Dale walked slowly toward her yard, clutching a huge bouquet of flowers. He knew enough not to set foot on her property and so, still standing in the street, he bowed from the waist, the way people do when meeting royalty, and set the bouquet on the grass of the parking strip, resting an envelope next to it. He arranged the flowers carefully, as if they were sitting on a grave, then stood up and admired them. He returned to the truck and drove into the windy night.

Barefoot, Kari walked out into the cold drizzle, seized the flowers and tossed them into the trash. Returning to the front porch, she paused under the lantern and tore open the envelope, hoping that maybe Detective Loesser had spoken with Dale and frightened him into leaving. Maybe this was a good-bye message.

But, of course, this wasn’t the case.

To my most Beautiful Lover—

This was a wonderful idea you had, I mean, moving to the east Coast. There were too many people in California vieing (or whatever... ha, you know I’m a bad speller!!!) for your love and attention and it means a lot to me that you wanted them out of your life. And quitting your modeling job so I don’t have to share you with the world any more... You did that ALL for me!!!!

I know we’ll be happy here.

I love you always and forever.

P.S. Guess what? I FINALLY found that old New York Scene magazine where you modeled those lether skirts. Yes, the one I’ve been looking for for years! Can you believe it!!!! I was so happy! I cut you out and taped you up (so to speak, ha!!!). I have a “Kari” room in my new condo, just like the one in my old place in Glendale (which you never came to visit — boo hoo!!!) but I decided to put these pictures in my bedroom. I got this nice light, it’s very low like candle light and I leave it on all night long. Now I even look forward to having bad dreams so I can wake up and see you.

Walking inside, she slammed the door and clicked the three deadbolts. Sinking to her knees, she sobbed in fury until she was exhausted and her chest ached. Finally she calmed, caught her breath and wiped her face with her sleeve.

Kari stared at the pistol for a long moment then put it back in the drawer. She walked into the den and, sitting in a straight-back chair, stared into her windswept backyard. Understanding at last that the only way this nightmare would end was with David Dale’s death or her own.

She turned to her desk and began rummaging through a large stack of papers.

The bar on West Forty-second Street was dim and stank of Lysol.

Even though Kari was dressed down — in sweats, sunglasses and a baseball cap — three of the four patrons and the bartender stared at her in astonishment, one bleary-eyed man offering her a flirty smile that revealed more gum than teeth. The fourth customer snored sloppily at the end of the bar. Everyone, except the snoozer, smoked.

She ordered a model’s cocktail — Diet Coke with lemon — and sat at a table in the rear of the shabby place.

Ten minutes later a tall man with ebony skin, a massive chest and huge hands entered the bar. He squinted through the cigarette smoke and made his way to Kari’s table.

He nodded at her and sat, looking around with distaste at the decrepit bar. He appeared exactly like she’d remembered him from their first meeting. That had been a year ago in the Dominican Republic when she’d been on a photo assignment for Elle and he’d been taking a day off from a project he’d been working on in nearby Haiti. When, after a few drinks, he’d told her his line of work and wondered if she might need anyone with his particular skills, she’d laughed at the absurd thought. Still, David Dale came to mind and she’d taken his phone number.