Ricky ignored this dig and persisted, “… to robbery and fraud…”
“Oh, I doubt there’s proof anywhere of those acts. It’s a little like the old saw about the tree falling in the forest: If there’s no one there to witness it, does it make a sound? If there’s no proof, did a crime actually take place? And if there is proof, it exists out there in cyberspace, right alongside your funds…”
“Not to mention your little libel with the bogus letters to the Psychoanalytic Society. That was you, wasn’t it? Leading on that complete idiot up in Boston with such an elaborate fiction. Did you take your clothes off for him, as well…?”
Virgil swept the hair away from her face again, leaning back slightly in her seat. “Didn’t have to. He’s one of those men who acts like puppies when you reproach them. He simply rolls over on his back and exposes his genitals with pathetic little mewling sounds. Isn’t it remarkable how much a person will believe when they want to believe…”
“I will get my reputation back,” Ricky said fiercely.
Virgil grinned. “You need to be alive for that, and right now, I have my doubts.”
Ricky didn’t answer, because he, too, had his doubts. He looked up and saw the waitress approach with their dinners. She set them down and asked if there was anything else she could bring to the table. Virgil wanted a second glass of wine, but Ricky shook his head.
“That’s good,” Virgil said as the waitress departed. “Keep a clear head.”
Ricky poked for an instant at the plate of food steaming in front of him. “Why,” he asked abruptly, “are you helping this man? What’s in it for you? Why don’t you drop all this pretense and stop acting like a fool and come with me to the police. We could put a stop to this game immediately and I’d see to it that you regained some semblance of normal life. No criminal charges. I could do that.”
Virgil kept her eyes on her plate as well, using her fork to toy with the mound of pasta and slab of salmon. When she lifted her gaze to meet his, her eyes barely concealed anger. “You’ll see that I return to a normal life? Are you a magician? And, anyway, what makes you think there’s anything so wonderful about a normal life?”
He persisted, ignoring this question. “If you’re not a criminal, why are you helping one? If you’re not a sadist, why do you work for one? If you’re not a psychopath, why are you joining one? And, if you’re not a killer, why are you helping someone commit a murder?”
Virgil continued to stare at him. All the breezy eccentricity and liveliness in her manner had dissipated, replaced by a sudden frosty harshness that blew coldly across the table. “Perhaps because I’m well paid,” she said slowly. “In this day and age, many people are willing to do anything for money. Could you believe that of me?”
“Only with difficulty,” Ricky replied cautiously, although the opposite of what he said was likely the truth.
Virgil shook her head. “So you’d like to dismiss money as my motive, although I’m not sure that you should. Another motive perhaps? What other motives could there be for me? You should be expert in that arena. Doesn’t the concept ‘searching for motives’ pretty much define what you do? And isn’t the same thing an integral part of this little exercise that we’re all playing? So, c ’mon, Ricky. We’ve now had two sessions together. If it’s not money, what motivates me?”
Ricky stared hard at the young woman. “I don’t know enough about you…,” he started lamely. She put down her knife and fork with a stiff deliberateness that indicated she didn’t approve of this answer.
“Do better, Ricky. For my sake. After all, in my own way, I’m here to guide you. The trouble is, Ricky, the word
“You hate me. Hate me, just as this fellow R. does, only I don’t know why.”
“Hate is an imprecise emotion, Ricky. Do you think you understand it?”
“It’s something I hear every day, in my practice…”
She shook her head. “No, no, no. You don’t. You hear about anger and frustration, which are minor elements of hate. You hear about abuse and cruelty, which are bigger players on that stage, but still, only teammates. But mostly, what you hear about is inconvenience. Boring and old and dull inconvenience. And this has as little to do with pure hatred as a single dark cloud has to do with a thunderstorm. That cloud has to join others and grow precipitously, before venting.”
“But you…”
“I don’t hate you, Ricky. Though, perhaps I could learn to. Try something else.”
He didn’t believe this for a second, but, at the same moment felt almost as if he were spinning, trying to find an answer. He breathed in sharply.
“Love, then,” Ricky said abruptly.
Virgil smiled again. “Love?”
“You perform because you’re in love with this man Rumplestiltskin.”
“That’s an intriguing idea. Especially when I told you I don’t know who he is. Never met the fellow.”
“Yes, I recall you said that. I just don’t believe it.”
“Love. Hate. Money. Are these the only motives you can come up with?”
Ricky paused. “Perhaps fear, as well.”
Virgil nodded. “Fear is good, Ricky. It can prompt all sorts of unusual behavior, can’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Your analysis of this relationship suggests that perhaps Mr. R. has some sort of threatening hold over me? Like the kidnapper who forces his victims to fork over their money in the pathetic hope that he will return their dog or their child or whoever it is that he has snatched. Do I behave like a person being asked to perform tasks against my will?”
“No,” Ricky replied.
“Well, okay then. You know, Ricky, I think you’re a man who doesn’t seize opportunities when they arise. Here, now, this is the second time I’ve sat across from you, and instead of trying to help yourself, you plead with me to help you, when you’ve done nothing to deserve my assistance. I should have predicted this, but I did have hope for you. Really, I did. Not much anymore, though…”
She waved her hand in the air above the table, dismissing a reply before he could come up with one. “… On to business. You got the reply to your questions in your paper this morning?”
Ricky paused, then answered: “Yes.”
“Good. That’s why he sent me here this evening. To double-check. Wouldn’t be fair, he thought, if you didn’t get the answers you were searching for. I was surprised, of course. Mr. R. decided to put you much closer to him. Closer than I’d have thought prudent. Pick your next questions wisely, Ricky, if you want to win. It seems to me that he’s given you a big opportunity. But as of tomorrow morning, you have only a single week left. Seven days and two remaining questions.”
“I’m aware of the time.”
“Are you? I think you don’t get it. Not yet. But, as long as we’ve been talking about motivation, Mr. R. sent along something to help you pick up the pace of your investigation.”
Virgil bent down and lifted the small leather portfolio that she’d carried beneath her arm when she’d first approached Ricky, and which she’d subsequently placed on the floor. She deliberately opened the satchel and removed a manila envelope, similar to others Ricky had seen. She handed this across the table to him. “Open it up,” she said. “It’s just filled with motivation.”
He undid the clasp and opened the envelope. Inside were a half-dozen eight-by-ten black-and-white photographs. He removed these and examined them. There were three different subjects, each in the center of two photographs. The first shots were of a young woman, perhaps sixteen or seventeen years old, wearing blue jeans and sweat-stained T-shirt, with a carpenter’s leather belt around her waist, wielding a large
