“I don’t buy that,” says Mayeux’s partner. “I don’t believe any company would kiss off that kind of bread without making sure the client wanted to quit.”
How can I explain this to them? “Jan Krislov is the sole owner of EROS. And whether you believe it or not, she’s not in it for the money.”
“Oh, I believe it,” mutters Baxter.
“Then why does she charge so damn much for the service?” Mayeux’s partner asks doggedly.
A faint smile crosses Arthur Lenz’s patrician face. This alone draws all eyes to him. “The high fee functions as a crude screening system,” he says softly. “Correct, Mr. Cole?”
“What kind of screening system?” asks Mayeux’s partner.
Lenz answers for me. “By charging an exorbitant rate, Ms. Krislov ensures that her on-line environment is accessible only to those who have attained a certain position in life.”
“Flawed system,” says Mayeux. “It assumes rich people aren’t assholes.”
“I said it was crude,” Lenz admits. “But I imagine it works fairly well.”
“It works perfectly,” I say, unable to keep the admiration out of my voice. “Because there are other constraints on membership.”
Curiosity flares in Lenz’s eyes. “Such as?”
“EROS is open to any woman who can pay the fee, but any man who wants to join has to submit a writing sample for evaluation.”
“Who evaluates the sample?”
“Jan Krislov.”
“What are the criteria?”
Unable to resist, I point at Mayeux’s partner. “He wouldn’t make the cut.”
Mayeux lays an arm across his partner’s chest and asks, “How many people belong to this thing?”
“Five thousand. Half of them male, half female. The numerical relation is strictly maintained.”
“Gays allowed?” Lenz asks.
“Encouraged. And contained within that ratio.”
Mayeux shakes his head. “You’re telling us this Krislov woman has personally evaluated twenty-five hundred writing samples from men writing about sex?”
“Personally
“So Jan Krislov sits up at night reading her own personal
“Probably beats watching Leno,” pipes up the local FBI agent. “For a woman, I mean,” he adds hastily.
Dr. Lenz leans forward in his chair. “I doubt these samples are as crude as you assume. Are they, Mr. Cole?”
“No. There are some gifted people on EROS.”
Mayeux’s partner snorts.
“To wit, Karin Wheat,” says Lenz.
“One more thing,” I add. “Not all the men on EROS are wealthy. Certain men have submitted writing samples that impressed Ms. Krislov so much that she gives them access free of charge. Sort of a scholarship program. She says it improves the overall experience for the women.”
The secretary nods her head in a gesture I read as
“I’d be very interested in studying some of these on-line exchanges,” Lenz says. “You have some in that briefcase?”
“Yes.”
Baxter asks, “Does anything stand out in your mind that these women had in common?”
I pause for a moment. “Most of them spent a lot of time in Level Two-my level. Their fantasies were fairly conventional, by which I mean they involved more romance than sex. They could get kinky, but they weren’t sickos. No torture or revolting bodily substances. The truth is, I don’t know anything about these women in real life. Only their fantasies.”
“Their fantasies may be the most important thing about them,” says Lenz.
“Maybe,” I allow, “but that’s not the sense I got. I’m not sure why. What did they have in common in real life?”
“None of your goddamn business,” snaps Mayeux’s partner.
“I see. Well, I guess that’s my position too.”
Dr. Lenz inclines his head toward Baxter, who says, “All the victims were under twenty-six years old except Karin Wheat, who was forty-seven. All were college educated, all Caucasian except one, who was Indian.”
“Native American?” asks Chief Tobin.
“Indian Indian,” says Mayeux’s partner, tapping a file on the table. “Dot on the fucking forehead.”
“I don’t recall an Indian name,” I say, almost to myself.
“Pinky Millstein,” says Baxter. “Maiden name Jathar. Married to a litigation attorney who traveled a lot. There was also an Indian hair found at one of the other crime scenes. Does that mean anything to you?”
“Well… one of Strobekker’s aliases is Shiva. That’s Indian, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is,” Dr. Lenz says softly. “Shiva the Destroyer. What are his other aliases?”
“Prometheus. Hermes.”
The psychiatrist remains impassive. “What about the victims? Does anything come to mind that links their on-line code names?”
“Not that I could see.”
“What else stands out in your mind?” asks Baxter.
“Strobekker himself. No matter what alias he uses, his style is unmistakable.”
“How so?”
“He’s very literate, for one thing. Intuitive, as well. One minute he’s writing extemporaneous poetry, the next he cuts right to the bone with some insight into a woman’s character, almost as though he can answer whatever question is in her mind before she asks it. But the strangest thing is this: he must be the best damned typist in the world. Lightning fast, and he never makes a mistake.”
“Never?” Lenz asks, leaning forward.
“Not in the first eighty-five percent of contact.”
“What do you mean?”
“With the sixth victim, and with Karin Wheat, I realized that Strobekker began making typographic errors-just like anyone else-a few days before each woman dropped off-line. When I went back and studied my printouts of the killer-victim exchanges, I saw that the typos began at about the eighty-five percent point in each relationship. Of course, I didn’t know anyone was being killed.”
“You sound like you’ve distilled this thing down to a science,” says Baxter.
“I work with numbers.”
“Running this sex thing?” asks Mayeux.
I chuckle bitterly. “No, I got into EROS for fun. You believe that? I earn my living trading futures.”
My audience stares as if I’ve announced that I am an alchemist.
“In a dink farmhouse in the Mississippi Delta?” asks one of the young FBI agents. “Who are your clients? Farmers hedging their crops?”
“I only have one client.”
“Who?” Mayeux asks suspiciously.
“Himself,” says Arthur Lenz.
Dr. Lenz is obviously the alchemist here. “That’s right. I only trade my own account.”
“You some kind of millionaire?” asks Mayeux’s partner. “A goddamn gentleman farmer or something?”
“Keep a civil tongue, Poche,” snaps the chief.
“I do all right.”
“What about the final fifteen percent of contact?” Lenz asks, plainly irritated by the squabbling.
“He makes mistakes. About as many as anyone else. And his typing gets slower. A lot slower.”
“Maybe he starts jacking off with one hand as he gets closer to the time of the hit,” suggests Poche.
