April Smith - Good Morning, Killer

I went back to the fishing magazines. Then I discovered that hidden behind them, way back in the file drawer, was a pile of Playboy s dating from the sixties. The top cover (Miss February) was coated with a perfect layer of dust, as if the secret stash had lain untouched for thirty years.

Miss February’s interests were “tennis and kittens.” For the centerfold, she wore a G-string sewn with tiny hearts and stroked a white fluffy cat. She had enormous pinkish breasts that barely fit on the page. She’d be a grandmother now. What I loved most were the one-inch ads in the back of the magazine that whispered to the anxieties of the male psyche: “Helps you overcome false teeth looseness and worry”; “Bill Problems?”; “A Timely Message to the Man with Hernia”; “How to Speak and Write Like a College Graduate” —and a classic pictorial essay on “Favorite Valentine’s Day Gifts,” featuring Playboy bunnies and red satin sheets. Then I saw the photo credit.

There was a soft knock on the door.

“Come in.”

It was Mike.

“Saw the light on, so I thought …”

He handed me a cup of milk and a bag of chocolate chip cookies with macadamia nuts.

I said, “Wow.”

“What are you doing?”

“Snooping into your parents’ lives. Did you know your dad read Playboy ?”

Mike took the magazine looking somewhat confused.

“Am I shattering your illusions?”

He broke into a grin. “God bless the old man.”

“Look who took the pictures,” I said excitedly, pointing to the photo credit. “Hugh Akron.”

“ Our Hugh Akron?”

“Got to be. Do you think he’d want to have this?”

“What? This magazine?”

“For his personal collection.”

“Sure, if he wants to buy it, the slimy tea bag. He ripped me off for Lakers tickets. The scalpers were selling them for less.”

“How does a creep like Hugh Akron get girls to take off their clothes?”

Mike was lost in the magazine.

“Where does he find them?” I went on. “These cute twenty-year-old girls? You know, he still does this stuff? Cheesecake, on the Internet. Did he ever show you?”

Mike abstractedly shook his head. “Uh-uh.”

I dipped a chocolate chip cookie in the cup and sucked out the milk. “My grandfather read Playboy. Those were the days when they put centerfolds up at the police station.”

Mike lowered the magazine and kind of nodded, as if he had been only half listening. He was wearing plaid cotton flannel pants; mine were the same navy blue skivvies from Quantico I’d had on for days. I pulled the sweater close around my chest. As he stood there unmoving, I became uncomfortably aware of both our sex parts loose inside our pajama bottoms.

“Would you mind listening to something?”

“Sure.”

He fished a microcassette from his pocket and flickered it in the air.

“From the answering machine. The one in the hallway,” he insisted. “Right when you come in the door.”

I nodded, wondering why the location of the answering machine was important at two in the morning.

He sat down on the opposite side of the couch and fitted the cassette into a small tape recorder.

“Wacko bitch. Why didn’t you take a two-by-four and do a Sam Shepard, do something to yourself big-time? If you had the guts, you’d shoot yourself with a service revolver and claim you wrestled the gun away. You could strangle yourself and leave marks. If you had the guts. Do you have the guts?” “Who is that?”

“I don’t know.”

The tape chattered along on fast-forward.

“I saw you in the courtroom. I thought you looked at me kind of hot. I’m up for anything, sweetheart, and I know you can show me the way. Do you think I have ulterior motives? I don’t have ulterior motives. Ask me if I do. I’d love to hear your sexy voice …” Eventually it clicked off.

“How many are there?”

“Seven.”

“Seven?”

“Now they’re coming two times a day.”

“Did you put a trap on the phone?”

“I will, but they won’t call again.”

“Why not?”

“They know that’s exactly what I’m going to do. These are cops, Ana. This is intimidation.”

It was late, my brain running slow. “Andrew’s homies, you think?”

He shrugged. “Got to be someone who knows where you are and how to get an unlisted number.”

“Screw them.”

“Right, except that Ian”—referring to his middle boy, aged ten—“took that message off the machine.”

Chocolate burst inside my mouth, the last taste of bittersweet.

“I am so sorry, Mike.”

“I have to ask you to leave.”

The world stopped then. I tried to nestle deeper into the arm of the couch.

Mike said, “I’m sorry. This is just too close to home.”

I nodded, stunned. My only thought was, I will go to jail.

“Is it Rochelle?”

He admitted, “She’s upset.”

“I hope I haven’t—”

“No, no,” he said quickly. “Nothing to do with that.”

He stayed on his side of the sofa. We looked away with embarrassment at what had been left behind a long time ago, when we were partners chasing bandits.

“You’ve gone way beyond the call of duty as it is.”

His eyes filmed and so did mine. He was a decent man, trying to do the decent thing. “We’ll figure out another place for you to go,” he promised.

“Depends if Devon can renegotiate release terms and conditions.”

We were silent. There had been a moment, when his marriage went bad, I had thought it would be Mexico. Lobsters and tequila and an endless beach.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I’ve been up thinking about it,” he said.

“Family is family,” I replied on cue. “I love your kids, I don’t want them exposed to this crap.”

Suddenly Mike stood and ripped down Ray Brennan’s picture.

“Hey!” I said.

“ This is crap! I don’t want it in my house!”

“You’re right,” I said, taking the crumpled photo from his hand. “This is bad, bad, toxic stuff. We can’t let it contaminate your family.”

He gestured helplessly.

“The problem is, this guy kills girls. I know he did the one who was found in the park.”

Mike rubbed his hair. “Which one who was found in the park?”

His ignorance of the latest murder confirmed what Jason said: the Bureau had dropped the case.

“Another victim, named Arlene Harounian. She was asphyxiated, possibly during the sex act. Ray Brennan took her picture, just like Hugh Akron takes pictures of girls, promises them modeling careers—”

“You have to give this up.”

“I know Brennan photographed both victims. The question is, where? How does he find them? How does he get them to pose? Because, I’m telling you, he’s going to take another girl.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Mike suddenly. “I have to be up in three hours.”

I told him I would be out by the weekend.

The next day Mike called from the office.

“Hugh Akron says there’s a thing called photo swap meets. They have them every two weeks, at different locations around southern California. They’re like swap meets, where photographers and models get together. It’s supposed to be legit. He says that’s where he goes to meet models, and he’d be pleased to take me along.” “You declined.”

“There’s an organization.”

Mike gave me the website.

I understood that it was a parting gift.

Subj: RE: PHOTO DAY

From: moose@sunshinephotoclub

To: 70Barracuda@hotmail.com

Dear Ana,

Don’t call it a “swap meet,” we are not a “swap meet,” since “swap meets” are places where photographers trade and sell camera equipment. No shooting is done at a “swap meet.” Our club sponsors Photo Days, which are actual photo shoots, for photographers and models. Are you interested in modeling? The female models are admitted free. All of our models are female, as men don’t like to take pictures of other men. Our next Photo Day is this Sunday. Click on the link. It’s a lot of fun. I would like to welcome you personally. Please provide a physical description of yourself.