Jason Starr - Twisted City

"Actually, she committed suicide," I said. "Did the detective say died?"

"Yeah."

"Well, it was definitely a suicide. They think she OD'd."

"God, that's so awful, David. Why didn't you tell me about it last night?"

"I don't know."

"You poor thing. Did you… I mean did you like… discover the …"

"Yeah."

"Oh, my God."

I didn't say anything.

"I'm so sorry," Angie said. "I mean, that's so awful. Jesus… This detective guy said something weird, though."

"Weird?"

"Yeah," Angie said. "He said something about how your girlfriend thought you and I were dating."

"I know," I said. "I have no idea where she got that. She knew we were friendly at work I mean, I mentioned your name to her a few times, so she must've just made up stories to herself. Rebecca was very paranoid. She had a lot of problems… obviously. I guess I should've listened to you."

"Stop it," Angie said. "You had no way of knowing… You can't blame yourself when something like this happens."

"I know," I said.

"That's good," Angie said. "Anyway, I was just calling because this detective guy called me, you know, saying your girlfriend was dead, and then he said she thought you and I were… So I just wanted to call you and see if»

"I'm really sorry about all of this."

"Oh, that's okay," she said. "So how're you doing? I mean handling everything."

"I'm fine," I said, glancing at the paused scene from Pretty Woman and then at the spot on the couch where I'd imagined Barbara was sitting.

"I mean, I'm a little shaken up, of course, but all in all…"

"If you need a place to stay," Angie said. "I mean, to get out of your apartment for a while. I mean, you know you're welcome to come to my place."

"I appreciate that," I said, "and thanks for calling, but I'm fine really. I'll see you at work on Monday, okay?"

"Okay," she said.

I hung up with Angie and watched the rest of the movie. Toward the end, I had an unsettling feeling. I thought it might have to do with Rebecca, and then I remembered about Charlotte and Kenny. At least they hadn't called me, or tried to get in touch, but I wasn't sure if this was necessarily good news.

Sunday morning I decided I couldn't procrastinate any longer I had to call the hospital morgue and start making arrangements for Rebecca's funeral.

"Hello," I said to the woman I'd been transferred to. "My name's David Miller. I believe you're holding the body of my girlfriend, Rebecca Daniels."

"Hold on," the bored-sounding woman said. When she returned she said,

"Rebecca Daniels's boyfriend already made arrangements for those remains."

"That's impossible."

"Are you Raymond Ramirez?"

"Ray called you?"

"A Raymond Ramirez called yesterday and made arrangements for those remains. Is there a problem?"

"No, there's no problem," I said. "Thanks."

I was relieved that I didn't have to plan or pay for Rebecca's funeral.

I doubted Ray would invite me, but I wouldn't have gone anyway. Thanks to Ray, all of Rebecca's friends probably blamed me for her death and not having to go would help me to avoid an uncomfortable situation.

But it was funny that Ray had claimed to be Rebecca Daniels's boyfriend. For all I knew, he wasn't lying. My suspicions could have been right all along Ray wasn't gay, and he and Rebecca had been screwing since I'd known her.

It was a beautiful day warmer and less breezy than yesterday. I went out and bought bagels, tofu cream cheese, and the Sunday Times, then returned to my living room and made a fresh pot of decaf and turned on the stereo to a light jazz station. As I was relaxing, I realized that if Rebecca hadn't killed herself, we'd probably be having one of our violent fights this morning.

As I was skimming an article in the magazine section on the baby's brain, I sensed Barbara next to me.

"How's it going, Barb?" I said to the empty space to my left. I waited, as if giving her time to answer, then said,

"Yeah, I'm pretty good, thanks. Recovering, anyway. These past few days have been out of control." I waited again, then said, "So are you really here or what?" I was hoping she'd give me a sign, but there was nothing. I said, "Okay, if you're really here, prove it to me do something. Move the Arts and Leisure section." I stared at the Arts amp; Leisure on top of the pile of papers on the floor, waiting for it to rustle. I thought it moved a little, but I was probably just imagining it.

After breakfast, I went out to a moving supply store and bought ten cardboard boxes. Back at home I put the boxes together, and then I started packing Rebecca's clothes, CDs, shoes, and other belongings.

One thing for sure with Rebecca gone, I'd have a lot less damage on my credit cards. I was so excited about having the bedroom to myself again that the couple of hours or so that it took to pack all of Rebecca's crap passed by quickly. I stacked the boxes in an out-of-the-way spot, in a small alcove in the living room. Although I was anxious to get the boxes out of the apartment, I figured I'd wait a couple of weeks and then call Ray and give him a chance to pick them up; if he didn't want them, I'd just have to get a thrift shop to come.

I spent the rest of the afternoon relaxing, reading more of the Times, and watching TV.

"Nothing's on," I said. Then, turning to golf on ESPN, I said, "I know, you hate golf," and switched to something else.

I realized that, semi consciously I'd been making occasional comments to Barbara all day. While I knew that AS THE OFFICERS started searching the apartment, I tried to make out like I was confused and completely innocent, asking Romero all the logical questions Who's Charlotte O'Dougal? What does this have to do with me? Can you just tell me what the hell's going on here? all the time hoping, although I knew I was kidding myself, that maybe Charlotte O'Dougal wasn't the Charlotte I knew. It didn't matter what I said, though, because, for some reason, Romero barely seemed interested in me. He just kept telling me to sit down and relax and that he'd fill me in later.

So I sat in the armchair and watched as the officers spread out around the apartment, searching through drawers, cabinets, closets, and just about everywhere else.

Romero asked me what was in the boxes, and I explained that I had packed up all of Rebecca's belongings earlier in the day. Romero immediately ordered the cops to start searching the boxes, and they came into the living room and started opening them, spreading the contents out all over the living room floor, making a total mess. As the search continued, Romero had a hushed conversation with the tall, gray-haired man who I assumed was another detective.

The idea that Charlotte was dead hadn't fully set in yet. I wondered if she'd died of natural causes, or ODor if someone had killed her. The first idea that came to me was that Kenny had done it. Maybe they'd had some fight about money or drugs or whatever, and Kenny had snapped.

That would explain why Charlotte hadn't shown up at Starbucks the other day, and why Kenny hadn't tried to blackmail me again. If Kenny had been arrested he could have made a deal with the cops turning over the pictures of me dumping Ricky's body in exchange for a lighter sentence. But none of this explained why Romero had gotten a warrant to search my apartment, but hadn't bothered to arrest me or even question me.

I watched as the officers continued their search. Finally, Romero and the gray-haired man came over and sat down on the couch across from me.

"This is Frank Glazer from the Ninth Precinct downtown," Romero said.

"Frank, this is David Miller, Rebecca Daniels's boyfriend."

"Good to meet you," Glazer said. "Can you tell us where Rebecca Daniels was Thursday night and early Friday morning?"