The Tease (The Darling Killer Trilogy) (8 page)

I was glad I’d selected a dress. I opted for a close-fitting burgundy dress with cap sleeves and a wide black belt. Black patent leather peep-toe heels and a matching purse completed the ensemble. I hadn’t had time to curl my hair, so I had brushed it and pulled it back with a sparkly headband.

I jumped a little when Kevin stood up from the seat by the door. He sat with such stillness that I hadn’t seen him. He wore all black, including a black trench coat, which made his blonde hair and pale skin more startling. He smiled, all perfect white teeth and chiseled cheekbones. “Hi, Velvet.”

I returned the smile as he took my hand and pressed it gently between both of his. “Anna,” I said. “If we’re out on a date, you don’t need to use my stage name.”

“Anna,” he said. “I like that.”

He didn’t contradict me about the word “date.” My pulse sped up a little.
Maybe it’s the coffee
, my mind chattered.
Cori Victoria Krista Darcy Lisa.

The waiter ushered us to an out-of-the-way booth. A candle-lit hush pervaded the restaurant. I felt like I should speak softly and have perfect hair. The menu was an array of rich appetizers and tempting drinks. I wanted one sip of every beverage: the August Revolution, the Oldest Living Confederate Widow, Thick as Thieves, the Rathbone. My macabre sense of humor and I settled on a gin drink called In The Pines which involved Death’s Door, Cocchi American and Douglas Fir Eau de Vie. Kevin selected a Dark & Stormy, which included Brugal Anejo, Lime, Cruzan Black Strap, and Ginger Syrup.

“You mentioned you have a day job,” he said as we awaited our drinks.

“I’m a therapist,” I said. “Unless I’m sitting next to someone on an airplane. Then I’m an accountant.”

He chuckled. I noticed that, despite his lean face, he had a dimple near the right corner of his mouth when he smiled. “Do you work in a hospital?”

“It’s a private practice,” I said. “I see a lot of clients with depression or anxiety, trauma, addictions, that sort of thing.”
They don’t all have the same hair color. Is he collecting? Cori light brown, Victoria brunette, Krista strawberry blonde, Darcy blonde, Lisa red.
“My passion is domestic violence.”

“That takes a lot of strength,” he said.

I shrugged.
He has a type. They always have a type. It only has to make sense to him.
“It’s just what I’ve always been able to do. How about you?”

“I carve miniatures.”

“Like, figurines?”
Cori was a prostitute, found at a hotel in Lakeview, time of death roughly four in the afternoon. Victoria was an escort, found dead in an alley around ten at night. Krista was also murdered at night on her boat on Lake Michigan; it was set up for a date. That was a jump in socioeconomic status; wonder what lead to that. Darcy was a waitress murdered in her home in Wrigleyville around three in the afternoon. And then Lisa at the theater. From high-risk lifestyles to low-risk. Was he practicing?

“Yes,” he said. “Mainly for gaming companies, but I occasionally do work for décor or film projects.”

Our drinks arrived and I noticed how long his slender fingers were. “You carve them by hand?”
All strangled. No prints at the crime scenes. All posed awkwardly, except Darcy. All—

He nodded. “I make a block of Epoxy and then carve the miniature out of that.”

—had stockings stuffed in their mouths. All found in their lingerie, clothes folded neatly next to them. All had the word “Darling” written on their bodies. For God’s sake, answer him, don’t open your mouth and say something about necrophilia.
I mentally catalogued the traits necessary for carving figures: creativity, patience, an eye for detail, dexterity.
Stop thinking about his hands. Say something. Say something. 90% of known necrophiles are male. 68% crave a nonresistant and non-rejecting partner. Say something else. Say anything else.
“So how often do you get headaches?” I asked.

He started. “How do you know that?”

I sighed and winced. “Sorry. My filter disappears when I’m sleep-deprived.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “But seriously, how did you know that?”

I rubbed my temples. “Because your ears aren’t aligned with the center line of your shoulders, and every inch forward is an extra ten pounds of pressure on your spine. Your shoulders also round forward a little. If you hunch over your work all day, your pec minors get tight and your lats get overstretched, and you probably bunch up the muscles around your neck, which results in sore shoulders and headaches.”
Great. My first date in over a year, and I’m pointing out the few miniscule physical imperfections he has. Maybe it’s a defense so I don’t end up with another –
and I hurriedly pushed the thought away. I felt my face flushing and hoped the dim lights hid it. “Which isn’t to say there’s anything wrong with you, I mean, you’re very attractive—” I stopped again and felt my face get hotter.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Everyone’s a little out of alignment,” I said. “I have a slight rotation in my left shoulder so I lean fractionally to the right. It comes from an old injury.”
Great. Make yourself sound like a freak now.

“I’m just amazed you could tell that,” he said.

“I notice things for a living,” I said. “And my dad’s a yoga teacher, so I grew up in his studio.” I took a tiny sip of my drink. The bittersweet spicy flavor flooded my tongue. I’d have to drink slowly to prevent further filter deterioration.

“Huh,” he said. “So then you know stretches that fix it?”

“Fix is a big word,” I said. I placed my palm on the grey linen tablecloth, noticing the texture under my hand, letting it anchor me to the present moment.
The killer can wait. The killer can wait. Be here.
“But yes, I could show you some stretches to open up the chest and shoulders so you’ll get fewer headaches.”

“That’d be great,” he said, still grinning.

Good. He’s attractive, but not stuck on himself. That’s good.

The waiter brought our appetizers: a smoked trout and bacon dip with grilled bread, and a tomato tart with ricotta and marinated cherry tomatoes. I could have eaten a bucket of the trout and bacon dip. Every bite of the rich salt-and-cream flavor on the smoky, crusty bread was worth the extra exercise I’d do the next day.

I took tiny bites, slow and careful. I wanted enough fat in my stomach to absorb the alcohol, but I didn’t want to inhale both plates without giving him a morsel.

“I did really enjoy the show last night,” he said. “It wasn’t what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Did you do your own choreography?”

“Tish choreographs the group numbers,” I said. “I do my solo material.”

“It’s an intriguing contrast,” he said. “A therapist who does burlesque.”

I prodded a cherry tomato with the tines of my fork. “Unfortunately, it is,” I said, and smiled a little.

“Unfortunately?”

I nodded. “In my idealized little world,” I said, “it wouldn’t be a big deal. I think burlesque is so empowering, and so fun, and it does so much to overcome hangups and barriers – I would love to see
all
women experience it. This radical notion that I’m in charge of my own sexuality, that sex isn’t some big dirty secret that also gets splashed all over TV and movies. I like bringing fun and irony and social satire to the forefront of every show, so women aren’t so overwhelmed with their own fears and insecurities that they spend thousands and thousands of dollars on weight loss and beauty products and – sorry.” I stopped, prodding the tomato again. “I get kind of riled up about that.”

He smiled. “There was an element of tongue-in-cheek humor in the pieces I liked best. Like yours, even though your costume and music were modern, I had sort of an old-fashioned impression about it.”

“I do like the campy 40’s style,” I said. “And really, burlesque without irony is just a titty parade, and who hasn’t seen that?”
Good Lord, did I really just use that phrase?

He laughed. “Do you mainly perform with the Chicago Cabaret?”

“Mostly,” I said. “I keep a low profile. I wouldn’t want a client to see my face in a magazine and be uncomfortable.” I thought of Max –
No sign of assault on the bodies, would he be able to help himself?
– and resolutely shoved the thought away.

He nodded.

“Also,” I said, “one of the requirements for getting the clinical license is having
exemplary moral character.
” I frowned. “You never know what kind of ideas an ethics committee has about burlesque – like if they confuse it with working in a strip club or – you know, a different kind of talent. I love doing therapy, I love the work. But I also think it’s immoral to deprive women of the kind of joy and empowerment they could feel if they just let themselves. So I hope to do some research, write some papers, change as many minds as possible.”

I stopped myself and took another sip of the drink. He smiled, staring intently at me with his dark eyes. I focused again on the texture of the tablecloth, because I had a wild impulse to run the backs of my fingers over the planes of his face. He looked like someone had drawn his features with the sweeping elegance of a cathedral ceiling. “You’re more than meets the eye,” he said.

I blushed.
He’s flirting with me. He’s actually flirting with me.

We finished our appetizers, and then our drinks, and then switched to coffee. Before I knew it, it was eleven p.m. I realized that my blinks were getting microseconds longer, and I was seeing Lisa behind my eyelids again.

“I should get going,” I said, with unfeigned regret. “Normally I’m not such an old lady, but I didn’t sleep much.”

“Of course,” he said. “I’ll get your coat.”

As he walked me to the door, he asked if I drove. “I took the train,” I said.

“May I drive you home?”

I hesitated. I didn’t want to say anything more embarrassing, and worse, I didn’t want to fall asleep in his car.

“I’m not trying to be pushy,” he said. “But I’d like to know you get home safely, because I’d like to see you again.”

Wow. When’s the last time a guy was actually gallant with me?
“That would be great,” I said.

I sketched out the direction for him, and he drove me home. He was good at keeping an easy, natural stream of conversation going, which I kept up almost absently. I was worried about the kiss.

No matter how impassioned I was about women taking charge of their own sexuality, the first date always confounded me. He said he wanted to see me again, but did he mean he was really interested? Did he want a kiss? Did I want to start anything with Lisa’s ghost in my head? I resolved to give him a gentle peck on the cheek. I kind of looked forward to it.

“This is my place,” I said. He pulled up to the curb and put the car in park, but left the motor running.

“I’ll stay here and make sure you get in the door,” he said.

“Thank you.” I leaned in and kissed his cheek. “I had a great time.”

“I did too,” he said. He took my hand and kissed it. His lips were soft, not wet and slick, warm. When he looked up from my hand and met my eyes, lips still pressed to my knuckles, a jolt of electricity shot straight from my hand to my chest.

“I’ll um—” I couldn’t call him because he had only emailed me. “I’ll email you my phone number.”

“I’ll use it,” he said.

I nodded, grinning like a fool, and got out of the car. True to his promise, he waited by the curb until I was safely inside. I wished I could see his facial expression as I walked in. People give so much away when they think you can’t see them.

L
ynne arrived a few minutes before noon and threw her skinny arms around me in a tight hug. The sickly-sweet smell of synthetic perfume designed for teenagers filled my nose. I held my breath and patted her back.

As much as I loved StudiOh La La, it made more sense for Lynne to take the private lessons at my home studio. La La was all the way in the West Loop, which would cost both of us half an hour in decent traffic, and also would cost an extra twenty dollars an hour to rent. It had better floors and mirrors, as well as more space, but I figured we could cross that bridge if Lynne truly fell in love with the art.

She stepped away, and I got a good look at her lime green leotard, black wrap skirt, black fishnet stockings, stiletto heels, and kelly green legwarmers. Her greying hair was pulled into a ponytail at the nape of her neck, and her thin lips were liberally coated with a shade of dark red that made them look smaller. She wore light glittery eye makeup around her large eyes that made them look bulgy and fishlike.
Makeup can wait
, I thought.
I’m certain we’ll have bigger challenges in the first lesson.

“Thank you so much for working me in so soon!” she said. She walked into my apartment. “Wow, what a great space. Are you Buddhist?”

Her eyes had fallen on the Buddha statue.

“Not exactly,” I said.

“Wow, that’s nice, and –
oh what a cute kitty!”

As Lynne’s voice careened into its upper registers, Caprice flattened her ears back, gave Lynne a look of disbelief mingled with alarm, and scurried into my bedroom.

“She’s a little skittish about strangers,” I lied.

“I had so much fun shopping for dance clothes,” she said. “There are just so many cute little outfits. Where do you get yours?”

I walked her into the studio. I was barefoot in black yoga pants and a tank top that said “DIVA” in rhinestones. “I got this top at Miss Exotic World—”

“Is that like a festival?”

“It is. It’s an annual event where—”

“Can anyone compete, or do you have to be picked? Is it like a pageant?”

“It’s better to perform at some local events and then some minor weekends first, so that people know who you are—”

“Are there a lot of events in Chicago? Like do you perform every weekend?”

“I’m going to suggest you take off your shoes for the warm-up,” I said firmly.

She complied. It didn’t seem to register that I’d ignored her last question.

“How do you keep fishnets from getting tangled on your toes?” she asked.