It takes thirty minutes and three drinks for a woman to come up to me. Out of the overalls, I don’t look like the simple guy the guys at the station think I am. Clothes make all the difference. She forces her way to the bar and stands next to me. She turns and smiles. Acknowledges my existence. A good start. She orders a drink. Just one.
“Hi there.” I have to shout to be heard over the music.
“Hi.”
I peg her to be around twenty-seven, maybe twenty-eight years old. Five feet six, slim. Like the chick behind the bar, she has a nice pair. In this light she looks like she has purple skin. Maybe she does. Her hair looks purple too. I can’t tell what color her eyes are.
“How’s it going?” I shout.
“Good,” she says, nodding. “Good. And you?”
“Yeah. Good,” I say, then suddenly realize I don’t know what to say next. That’s always been my problem. Social skills don’t come easy to me. If they did, I wouldn’t have to break into women’s homes; I’d be able to talk my way in. So. . Come here often? No, I’m not going to ask that. “Boy, I wish I could come up with something that made me sound impressive.”
She laughs, and maybe that’s because she’s heard the line before, or knows how quickly our conversation became awkward. “I was hoping you’d be impressive.”
This is a good sign. Funny. Good sense of humor. Great smile. And she’s still here, hasn’t told me to get lost. I study her outfit. A short black skirt. A dark red top that shows the tops of her firm breasts. The back of the top shows most of her back, except where the material strings across to hold it in place. She isn’t wearing a bra. Black leather shoes that have finger-width strands of leather crisscrossing over them. She’s wearing a thin gold necklace, and a gold watch that looks like an expensive Omega.
I shrug. “I was kind of hoping for the same thing.”
The other thing I keep in mind is that even though women who frequent these places may look like sluts, and may in fact be easy, going home with one takes a mighty amount of skill, charm, persuasion, or dumb luck-none of which I have in spades. It’s all about salesmanship. Here you have a good-looking woman, wanting to make a purchase, just looking for the right guy, and knowing that if you’re not it, there’s another one a few feet away.
She smiles at me. The biggest tool you can have in your armory, besides being good-looking and rich, is humor. If you can make her laugh right away, then you have a chance. If she really laughs-not one of those stupid, polite laughs because you think you’re funny-then you’re definitely in. At some point in the evening you’re assured of at least a friendly grope in the bathroom out back.
I’m hoping for a friendly something else.
“You look familiar,” she says.
I smile at her, not really sure how to respond.
“You work at the police station, right?”
I nod. “Something like that.”
Now her smile gets a little bigger. “I thought so. I’ve seen you there.”
“You work there?” I ask, hoping she may know something useful, but knowing it’s more likely I need to move on.
She shakes her head. “No. So you’re a cop?”
“Something like that.”
“Name’s Melissa,” she says, sipping at her drink.
The lighting changes from purple to white, and I get to take a fast look at her. Dark brown hair. Nice complexion. Stunning blue eyes. Sharp cheekbones. Defined nose. No blemishes. Her hair hangs down past her shoulders, both behind and in front. She tilts her head and tucks a few strands behind her right ear. When she pulls the glass away from her mouth I get a good look at her lips. Bright red, full.
The light changes to orange. So does she.
“Joe,” I say.
“So what are you working on at the moment?” She knocks back the rest of her drink, sets the glass on the bar next to mine, and continues to give me the sweetest smile. My drink is empty aside from the ice cubes, which are melting in the heat as I keep my hand gripped around the glass.
“Get you another drink?” I ask.
“A Red Bull and vodka,” she says.
Great. So I order a gin and tonic for me and the most expensive drink in the bar for her.
I sip at my drink and look at her one, thinking it does look pretty good, but I don’t want to mix drinks: headache material for the following morning, memory loss for the night before. It doesn’t happen to me often, but there have been a few times over the last ten years.
“You were about to tell me what you’re working on,” she says.
“You’ve been reading about the serial killer?”
“You’re working on the Burial Killer case?”
I shake my head. “The other one.”
“Oh my God, you’re working on that? The Christchurch Carver case?”
The Christchurch Carver. That’s what they call me. I want to tell her she can call me Carve for short. Look at a paper and read all about me. It’s amazing how quickly the media can come up with a name for a guy committing a string of crimes. It doesn’t have to be accurate. Just catchy.
“That’s the one,” I tell her.
“That’s amazing!” she says, and she really sounds like she means it.
“Well, I do what I can,” I say.
“It’s pretty noisy here,” she says.
I agree. Yes. Damn noisy.
We move away from the bar to a table near the front of the club, but not in view of the street. It’s less noisy, though only just. Darker, though. Fine by me. At least we no longer need to shout. To the right on the dance floor men and women are trying to lose themselves in an attempt at rhythm. They look like marionettes being controlled by puppeteers with a sense of humor.
“So, what can you tell me about the case? You close to catching him?” she asks, leaning forward. She is running her finger around the rim of her glass, playing with the salt.
I start nodding. “Soon.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I’m not allowed to say.”
“You know who the guy is?” She licks at the salt, then goes back for more.
“I’m getting a pretty good idea,” I tell her.
“But you can’t tell me,” she says.
“That’s right.”
“So you’ve seen the women he killed, huh?”
“Yeah, I’ve seen them.” I take a sip at my drink. This one has been mixed stronger than the other one.
“What did they look like?”
I’m not prepared for her question, and not so sure she’ll like hearing the answer. “Um, well, it wasn’t pretty, that’s for sure.”
“He really made a mess of them, huh?”
I shrug, but it’s obvious I’m indicating the mess was bad. We talk about the case and I give her a few of my insights. She seems impressed, but doesn’t offer any opinions of her own, though she does tell me she’s been following the case closely.
“So what do you do?” I ask, finally changing the subject. She seems disappointed.
“I’m an architect.”
Wow. I’ve never killed an architect. “How long you been doing that for?”
“Eight years.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. Why’s that?”
“I could have sworn you were only twenty-two.”
She gives me a laugh, that clichéd laugh reserved for when you totally fuck their age up in the right direction.
“I’m a bit older than that, Joe.”
I shrug like I can’t believe it. “You come here to wind down?”
“This is about my third time here.”
“This is my first time anywhere.”
“Oh?”