Incubi

“There’s no such thing as a slut, Vern. There are only women who like to come and say so, and women who like to come but don’t say so.”

“That’s pretty thin wisdom from an acclaimed novelist.”

“Not thin. Concise. Axiomatic.”

Ginny always got the last word, and it was usually a big one.

More of the world passed behind them. Ginny’s orange 450SL sucked down onto the blacktop through each winding turn. Then Veronica, without even knowing why, asked, “Have you ever, uh—”

“Have I ever uh what?”

“Have you ever done anything…with a girl?”

Ginny’s eyes thinned. “Are you making a pass at me?”

“No!” Veronica exclaimed. Why did I ask that? “I just—”

“Yes,” Ginny said.

Veronica felt her face turn pink. What had compelled her to ask such a personal thing?

“I did once,” Ginny continued. “Some girl I met at a mixer in college. I didn’t even know her. It was funny. We were doing shots of ouzo and next thing I know we’re in bed.”

Veronica didn’t know how to place the next question, nor did she understand its necessity. “Was it good?”

Ginny’s face looked calm. “In a lot of ways it was real good. I didn’t really want to do it, but I did it anyway.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think? You’re an artist. Why do you do things you wouldn’t ordinarily do?”

“I don’t know,” Veronica said.

“Experience. All of life is experience. Isn’t that what gives artists — writers, painters, or whatever — their desire to create? It doesn’t matter if the experience is good or bad, wise or stupid — that’s irrelevant. Without experience, and the curiosity behind it, we’d have nothing to give our art meaning.”

Experience. The word echoed in Veronica’s head.

“I probably came ten times,” Ginny said.

“Any guilt?”

“Why should I feel guilty? It’s a free country. People can do what they want and what they feel.”

Veronica fell silent. Suddenly she felt guilty. But why? For dumping Jack? For flying away from conformity? Or was it more?

“You still love him, don’t you?” Ginny asked.

“I don’t—”

“Vern, the guy’s a washed-up gumshoe. That case he had last year, that Longford guy, it put a zinger on his head. You don’t need the frustration of being involved with a guy who can’t cope with his own life.”

Was that it? Frustration? No, she felt sure.

“He drinks way too much, smokes three packs of Camels a day. If he lives to be forty it’ll be a miracle of science. Plus, he’s belligerent and narrow-minded.”

Veronica didn’t want to hear this, but—

“But you still love him,” Ginny said. “It’s all over you.”

More confusion. Experience, was all she could think.

The road wound up. The 450’s 5.6 liter V-8 purred. Later Ginny asked, “Why did you ask me if I’d ever been with a girl?”

More silence. More of the world blurred past. Then Veronica ventured: “Do you believe in premonitions?”

“Oh, God!” Ginny broke up behind the wheel. “You’re a trip, Vern! A real trip!”

They both laughed the rest of the way to the estate.

* * *

It seemed queerly out of place: a white Bauhaus monolith in the middle of the woods. Dada, Veronica thought: she hated reactionary architecture. Its lambency blared like an eyesore. Who would build such a thing, here of all places? Rigid geometries and hard ninety-degree angles composed an edifice that appeared dropped from the sky. Gunslit windows and a black door rose like a disparate face as they pulled up the long drive.

“Jesus,” Ginny whispered. She slowed to a stop. The house’s whiteness seemed to vibrate like blurred vision. As they went to retrieve their bags, the black front door clicked open.

Veronica and Ginny froze.

“Ms. Polk, Ms. Thiel,” greeted Erim Khoronos from the front step. He wore a pure white suit that seemed to shimmer with the building’s lambent walls.

The faintest smile formed on his lips. “I’m so glad you could come,” he said.

Chapter 4

“TSD says they’ve got some doozies for prints,” Olsher said. “I gave the whole case number to Beck. She’s got the bureau running the best sets, and she’s also doing an n/a/a-scrape. Says she might be able to get a line on the weapon.”

Jack Cordesman sighed his best. “Beck’s good, but it won’t make any difference. The weapon’s a knife — big deal. And I can tell you this right now, we’re looking at a guy with brains. His prints aren’t on file.”

“How do you know!”

Deputy Police Commissioner Larrel Olsher’s face looked as rigid as a black marble bust of Attila the Hun. He didn’t like to be told that his best efforts were futile, especially from a flatfoot drunk who was two steps away from the rubber gun squad. Olsher was black and ugly and bad. Some called him “The Shadow,” for his 6’2”, 270-pound frame tended to darken any office he saw fit to step into. Beneath the veneer, though, was an unselfish man who cared about people. He cared about Jack, which was probably why he’d been stepping on his tail for the last ten years.

“I know because I know,” Jack responded with noteworthy articulation. “The Triangle thing was intricate and premeditated.”

“It wasn’t premeditated.”

“Yes, it was.”

Olsher frowned his displeasure. A decade-old bullet scar on his neck looked like a dark zipper. “Why the hard-on for TSD?”

“It’s no hard-on,” Jack said. It was 2 p.m., and already he wanted a drink. “But this isn’t the kind of thing TSD can break. Chromatographs and hair-core indexes won’t work on this one.”

“What will, smart boy?”

“Competent field investigative work.”

“Which you, of course, are an expert on, right?”

“That’s right, Larrel.” But Jack thought: What’s he hedging? He had Olsher’s psychology down pat; it was easy to tell when this big black golem had something bubbling underneath.

“You still drinking?”

Thar she blows, Jack thought. “Sure. Off duty. So what?”

“A uniform said he smelled booze on your breath last night.”

“I wasn’t even on the clock. I got the 64 at home.”

“You hung over?”

“Sure,” Jack said. “You ever been?”

“That’s not the point, Jack.”

“I can’t predict when someone’s gonna get 64’d.”

“That’s not the point either, and you know it.”

Yeah, I guess I do.