The Basement (11 page)

“So it wasn't DePalma?”

“No. No, it wasn't.”

That's good, because it still means I'm in with a chance. I'd really be depressed if he'd handed it in to the cops. At least now I know he's still got it. “Lisa, I want to ask you something else.”

She stops and turns to look at me. The wind catches her hair and blows it to the side. “I'm the cop, Marvin. I'm supposed to be asking the questions.”

“And I'm a writer,” I say. “I want to know whether or not you think I'm the killer.”

“What?” she says, surprised.

“I want to know if in your heart of hearts you think I'm the serial killer.”

Her eyes go wide and her jaw drops. "What do you think this investigation is all about, Marvin?

Do you think I'd waste my time like this?"

“I think that Turner is sure I'm guilty. And I think that maybe you're under pressure to get a result on the case.”

“So we'll settle for anyone, is that what you think?”

“I know I haven't killed anyone, Lisa. I know I didn't do it. So if you and Turner insist that I did, you're behaving illogically. Neither of you is crazy, so there must be some other motivation.”

“That doesn't make sense, and you know it doesn't. Suppose we do arrest the wrong person, and suppose he goes to prison. What happens when the real killer strikes again? When the TV stations get another video?”

“You'd say it was a copy-cat.”

She shakes her head and makes a tutting sound, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “And we're back to square one. No, we have to get the right man, Marvin. We can't afford to get it wrong.”

I look straight into her deep blue eyes. “Lisa, I'm not the man you're looking for.” She looks at me, a slight frown creasing her forehead. “Do you believe me?”

She stands looking at me for several seconds. Eventually she nods. “I believe you, Marvin,”

she whispers.

I grin because I can see that she means it. I want to step forward and hug her but I figure that wouldn't be a smart move. Besides, Turner might be close by, watching through a long lens to see how I react to finding Lisa on her own. This could be a ploy, some sick plan of Turner's to get me to drop my guard. “Thanks, Lisa,” I say. “That makes me feel a bit better.” She hands me the envelope and starts walking again. I follow her and catch up. “What am I supposed to do with this?” I ask.

She shrugs. “It's up to you. It's your property.”

“It's not evidence?”

“You tell me.” She hunches her shoulders against the cold.

“No. It's not evidence. Lisa, what's going on here?”

She doesn't look at me as she answers. “Nothing's going on, Marvin. I just wanted to return your script. And....”

“And?”

“I don't know.”

This doesn't sound right. Lisa Marcinko isn't some lovesick schoolgirl, she's a hard-bitten Homicide detective, and while I've been flashing her the boyish smile at every opportunity, I'm not stupid enough to believe that she's fallen for me. There's something else going on, and I'm damn sure it involves Sergeant Ed Turner.

“Do you come here a lot?” she asks.

“It's a good place to think.”

“Dangerous at night.”

“Places aren't dangerous. People are. You know that.”

She smiles thinly. “What about you, Marvin? Are you dangerous?”

I think for a few seconds before answering. “Only when provoked.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I'm not a predator, I don't want to go out of my way to hurt anybody. I don't feel enough about people for that. They don't affect me, so I don't even think about them. They're not in my universe. But if anyone threatens me, I'll protect myself. I'll strike back.”

She nods, but still she doesn't look at me. “Ed's sure you're guilty,” she says.

“He's wrong. And you know he's wrong.”

“He's heading up the investigation.”

“So until he's convinced otherwise, the pressure stays on, is that what you're saying?”

“Or until the real killer is caught.”

I sigh in exasperation. “But if Turner is wasting his time chasing me, the killer isn't going to get caught. Why can't you get him off my back?”

“That's not how it works, Marvin.” She looks at her watch and I realise that there's something wrong. Something very wrong.

“Well, thanks for this,” I say, raising the envelope. “I'll see you around.”

The panic is clear in her eyes and she all but grabs my sleeve. “Walk with me for a while, will you Marvin?”

“I don't think so,” I say, my voice hardening. I'm annoyed not because she's tried to fool me, but because she thinks that she's so much smarter than I am. She thinks I'm just like the rest of the trash she pulls off the streets. Well, Lisa Marcinko is wrong. Dead wrong. “I've work to do.”

“There are some questions I'd like to ask you,” she says. Her eyes flick involuntarily in the direction of my apartment building.

“Get a warrant, Detective Marcinko.” I turn my back on her and head home. I'm furious,

furious that she's so underestimated my intelligence. She shouts my name, just once, but I don't look back.

I'm sweating despite the cold when I get back to my apartment. It's been trashed. Totally trashed. The typewriter has been thrown against the wall and stamped on, the pages of my work in progress have been torn up and dropped into the toilet bowl, the bed has been upended, the sheets torn, all my clothes have been trampled on. Turner has done a thorough job. I hope he's proud of himself. Marcinko, too. Keeping me talking while her partner rips my life apart.

The armchair is on its side so I stand it up and sit down, still in my overcoat. I sit for maybe half an hour, planning what I'm going to, then I go down to check my mailbox. There are two letters there, both from New York's Commissioner of Motor Vehicles and both relating to my queries about Turner. Both letters give me the details of five different Ed Turners and I take them back upstairs to read.

One of the letters contains replies to my request for driving licence information. Each sheet gives me details of the subject's height, weight, hair colour and eye colour and whether or not they wear spectacles. Only two of the Turners wears glasses and one of them has blue eyes, so I'm pretty sure I know which is the Homicide Detective. The date of birth is on each sheet, and so is the subject's address and social security number. So now I know where Turner lives. The other envelope contains details of the cars owned by the five New York Ed Turners, and I pull out the one that applies to the detective. He owns just one car, a five-year-old Chrysler. Actually, he's shown as the part owner. There's another name on the sheet. Sophie. His wife. I smile and study the two sheets. This is going to be such fun.

* * *

Sarah is standing by the bed, her eyes averted, when you close the door behind you. She's wearing the lingerie you bought her, stockings, suspenders, a black lacy bra and a black silk dressing gown. She's put on make up, just as you told her, the lipstick a brighter shade of red than she would normally use and her lashes thick with mascara. The slut from hell.

“Perfect,” you say. “Just perfect.”

She says nothing. She's breathing heavily and you can smell her fear. You stand in front of her and stroke the side of her face. You slip your thumb between her lips and inside her warm, wet mouth. Without being asked she sucks gently like a feeding baby, her eyes closed.

You move your thumb in and out, slowly, sensuously, and you feel her tongue run along its length. You run your other hand down her chest, along her stomach and between her legs.

“Open your eyes,” you say. “Look at me.”

She obeys. You smile at her as she sucks your thumb. Her teeth gently scratch your skin,

a contrast to the soft tongue. Hard and soft. You like that. You like the image. The teeth that bite, the lips that kiss. And Sarah's well trained, now. She won't bite. She's been trained for pleasure. She'll do anything you ask.

“You've been a good girl, Sarah,” you say. She keeps on sucking, her eyes never leaving your face. You slowly take your thumb from between her lips. She moved forward, her mouth open, as if trying to recapture it. You shake your head and take the padlock key out of your pocket. She looks at it and frowns.

“Yes, it's they key,” you say. All the time she's been in the basement she's been chained,

either to the bed, or to the wall. The chain around her waist allows her to get to the bathroom and almost to the door, but it still restricts her movement. “This is to show you how pleased I am with your progress,” you say as you unlock the padlock. The chain slips around her waist and rattles on the floor. Her eyes react instinctively, flicking towards the door, the way out. “It's still locked,” you say. She flinches as if you're going to hit her, but you smile. “There's nowhere to go, Sarah,” you say. “Now don't go spoiling it. Are you going to be good?”

She looks down at the floor. At the chain. “Yes,” she says.

“Say it.”

“I'll be good.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

You help her off with the silk robe and drop it onto the floor, on top of the chain. “Lie down,” you say and you watch her sit on the bed and lie back. You start to unbutton your shirt. “Play with yourself,” you say. She puts her hand between her legs and slips it under her panties. You let your shirt fall onto the floor. “Are you wet?”

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I'm wet.”

“You want me?”

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I want you.”

“Faster. Move your hand faster. Put your fingers inside. Move them in and out.” She does as she's told as you take off the rest of your clothes. She's panting.

“How does that feel?”

“It feels good.”

“Do you want me to make love to you?”

You see her eyes narrow, just a fraction, but that's all the reluctance she shows. “Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I want you to make love to me.”

“You want me more than you want your own husband?”

Another narrowing of the eyes. A small sigh of resignation. Then she swallows. “Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I want you more than I want my husband.”

You run your hands down your stomach, between your legs. “Do you like my body?”

Her eyes follow your hands. “Yes,” she says. “Yes, I do.”

You smile. You climb onto the bed and lie on top of her. Without being asked, she opens her legs and wraps them around you. You feel her breasts flatten against your chest. You kiss her neck and lick her ear and then, for the first time, you kiss her on the mouth. She returns the kiss, not eagerly, not passionately, but she kisses you.

You break away and look down at her face. Her cheeks are red and she's breathing heavily and her mouth is slightly open. There's a tiny smear of lipstick across one of her canines, like a fleck of blood. “Sarah, I'm going to make love to you like no one's ever made love to you before,“ you say. ”Is that what you want?”

She swallows. “Yes.” Her voice is little more than a whisper. You kiss her, hard, slipping your tongue between her teeth, invading her mouth as you move against her. She whimpers and tears well up in her eyes. It makes you want her even more. Fear and sex, it's the perfect aphrodisiac. Fear, sex, and, ultimately, death. You shiver in anticipation and you feel yourself building to an orgasm. “Sarah,” you whisper into her mouth, “this is going to be so good.”

* * *

Ed Turner lives in a brownstone building on the edge of Harlem. Given a few years and the area will be up and coming, right now it's borderline. I guess he can't afford much on a cop's salary.

There's a greasy coffee shop down the road from where I can see the main entrance to the building and I get there just after eight o'clock and sit nursing a cup of something hot and brown until I see Turner leave for work. I give it ten minutes and then I go inside the building. There's a panel of labelled buttons set into the wall and I press the one marked Turner. There's a crackle and a click and then I hear a woman's voice ask me what I want.

I say I've got a special delivery for Ed Turner and she says that I'm to go on up. The door locking mechanism buzzes and I'm in. The Turner apartment is on the third floor and she's already got the door open and the chain on. I hand her the manila envelope, addressed to her husband,

through the gap. She doesn't remark on the fact that I'm wearing an overcoat and not a mailman's uniform, and I don't mention the fact that she's wearing a silk robe and nothing on underneath it.

She thanks me and closes the door.

I go up the stairs on tiptoe, right to the top of the building and I wait there. While I sit on the stairs I run through The Bestseller. The more I think about it, the more I like it. It's becoming a sort of Silence Of The Lambs but from the serial killer's point of view. Definitely one for Brian DePalma. Or Dino de Laurentis, maybe.

I sit there for maybe an hour before Sophie Turner goes out. I peer down the stairwell and see that she's dressed warmly and is carrying a bag. I'm not sure if she's going shopping or if she works but it doesn't matter because I'm not planning to be in the apartment long. I knock, just in case they've got someone staying with them, but there's no reply. There are two locks on the door,

deadbolts that can't be picked and have to be drilled out, but I was expecting that from the address so I brought a crowbar with me. I pull it out from under the coat, stick it into the jamb and push against it with all my might. There's a tearing sound and the frame splinters and I put my shoulder against the door and it gives. Another push and it swings open, a foot-long splinter of varnished wood almost falls but I catch it in a gloved hand and carry it inside with me. I close the door and stand listening. Silence.

It's a two bedroom flat but one of the bedrooms has been converted into a study. There's a word processor and a filing cabinet and lots of newspaper cuttings pinned to a bulletin board. Sophie Turner's name is on a few of the stories, different papers and magazines to I guess she must be a freelance journalist. There's nothing heavy, most of it seems to be property-related and, to be honest, her stuff isn't very good.