Call Me Cat (2 page)

"WHERE IS DETECTIVE
Reynolds?"

The tall, muscular offic
er sitting in front of me frowned, which accentuate
d
the dimple in his chin. "He's on vacation. I'm handling his cases while he's gone." He sounded tired and stressed and not inclined to listen to my problems, but I didn't care. If I'd learned anything since the night my parents were murdered it was that you had to make them listen.

I hand
ed him the plastic baggie with the letter and envelope. "I touched it before I realized what it was, then only handled it with gloves to preserve any evidence."

He peered
at me with cutting blue eyes that contrasted nicely with his dark hair sprinkled with a touch of grey at the temples. "What is it?"

"Another letter from the killer."

"What killer?"

I sighed.
"Didn't you pull up my file?"

He shrugged. "I just got in."

I bristled at his arrogance as we sat at his less than tidy desk. "Officer… " I glanced at the papers stacked by his computer since he hadn't bothered to introduce himself… "Gray. I'm Catelyn Travis. Seven years ago, when I was fifteen, my parents were killed in front of me by the Midnight Murderer. I was left alive, and the killer was never caught, but every year on the anniversary of their death—"

"You get a letter."
Gray skimmed through a folder. "Sent from different parts of the country. Always says the same thing, yeah, yeah, it's all here."

I pointed to the baggie in his hand. "It's
from the killer."

"Or a prank."

"Who else would be so persistent? For so many years?"

"A bad prank then."

I tapped my foot, irritated after waiting three hours for this guy. Waiting amidst people who had forgotten how to shave and had likely pissed themselves, by the stench of it. The police department did nothing to soften the harsh edges of the environment. Everything smelled and looked run down.

"It's a clue to
catch the bad guys," I said. "You know, what you guys are supposed to be getting paid to do."

"That's right, we are supposed to be getting paid, and I'm still waiting for my overtime. So unless you have information on a crime, let me be, let me do my job in peace."

How dare he take his frustration out on me? "Then do it, Officer. Catch the killer."

"It's Detective," he said gruffly. "Not Officer."
An angry silence hung in the air. Then Gray sighed. "There's not much we can do with some paper in a baggie, but I'll talk to Reynolds, see if we can come up with something."

"There's a lot you can do wit
h
'some paper,
'
" I said with air quotes. "First, you could find out this stationary is rare and only printed by a privately owned company in Venice, Italy. It's expensive coated paper with a custom watermark. Whoever is sending these clearly has wealth and connections. They also travel, or have brought someone in on their schemes to mail the letters for them. You could test it for prints, for saliva DNA, for the ink of the printer, though that will likely not lead anywhere. You could subpoena the stationary company for a list of their clients both here and overseas and see if anyone might match the profile created about my parents' murderer. You could do quite a bit with 'some paper' if you gave a rat's ass about solving cases."

He whistled.
"Thanks, Sherlock."

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing." The detective sighed again, sinking into his chair as if sinking into a hot bath. "Miss Travis, I know this must be hard for you, but yours is a cold case. The Midnight Murderer had his fun with a few high profile killings, but he's either dead or so underground we'll never find him. We had our top guys on it and they got nowhere. Watching a few episodes of Law & Order doesn't make you a legal expert." He stood to dismiss me, but I refused to stand.

"No, it doesn't. But you know what does?" I cocked my head and stared at
him. "A degree in Criminal Justice and Criminal Psychology from Harvard University followed by law school at Harvard Law School. How much education do you have, Detective?"

"I have real world experience. Look, I'll file this with your case and talk to Reynolds when he gets in.
If it makes you feel better, get an escort to and from your car at night and keep your doors locked. If this guy had wanted to try something, he would have done it by now."

I left his office fuming, the taste of ash in my mouth.

I made sure to lock my apartment, and dropped my bags by the couch when my phone rang. I assumed it was Bridgette. "Oh my God, they just breed those assholes dumber and dumber," I said.

Silence.

"Hello? Bridgette?"

"M
iss Travis. This is Donna from The Pleasure Palace. You left a message on our voicemail about a potential job? Well, we liked the sound of your voice, and we're calling to see if you're interested in working for us." Donna's words rolled off the tongue with a faint foreign accent I couldn't place.

I sank into my pink shabby
-chic living room chair. "What's your company called again? The Pleasure Palace? This is for that telemarketing job?"

"I suppose you could say that. We're a ph
one sex company, Miss Travis, and we're looking for women, and men, with sexy voices who like to act. You'd engage in various sexual fantasies with clients over the phone. In exchange, you'd receive one dollar for every minute you are on the call, which is higher than many companies in our industry are paying right now."

Clearing my throat to buy time, I tried to process what she was saying. "You want me to have phone sex with strangers for money?"

"We want you to perform a role for them. It's not real, and it's completely legal. You can work from home, set your own hours and choose the topics you are comfortable role-playing. You never have to take a call you don't want to, but I will say that the girls who get… adventurous… make the most money."

I shuddered to think what 'adventurous' would entail in this industry. "Um, this isn't at all what I was exp
ecting. Can I think about it and call you back?"

"Of course. Why don't I e
mail you our company policy and some sample scripts, and you can let me know what you think when you've had a chance to read through everything?"

I thanked her, took down her number on the notepad next to me, gave her my email and hung up, wonderin
g how my life had gotten to the point that I was actually considering this job. Of course I couldn't do it. It might not be illegal, but it was immoral, unethical and honestly kind of disgusting. I couldn't imagine making some stranger on the other line jack off to fantasies of me doing whatever he wanted. It felt… violating.

Pushing thoughts
of jobs and money aside, I walked to my bedroom, dropped all my books on my desk and slipped into sweatpants and a t-shirt. The apartment seemed quieter than usual, even with Violet the Violent gone for the evening. I went back into the living room and realized what was off.

Some of my paintings were missing from the wall. What the fuck?

I rushed into Violet's room and her scraggly cat Crackhead hissed at me and ran out, probably to scratch up my chair again. She'd cleared out everything but her dresser and the shabby mattress she did God-knew-what on. "Son of a bitch."

I dialed her number
as I stormed back into the living and got a disconnected message. Then I dialed Bridgette's number again, and she answered.

"Motherfuckin
g-
piec
e-
o
f-
shi
t-
assery!" I screamed into the phone, swatting Crackhead away from my chair.

"Who
a,
babe, what's going on?"

"So many things, but the latest? Vi's gone. She stole my shit, cleared out, and didn't pay this month's rent. She promised to get it to me today. I am so royally fucked, Brig."

"Oh God, I'm so sorry. I can loan you some money, but not a lot. You know my parents don't give me much cash, they just pay my bills. What are you going to do?"

I sank to the floor, anger turning to despair as
I hiccupped back a sob. "I don't know. Was I like a mass murderer of puppies and children in my last life, Brig? I must have been, otherwise why the fuck does life keep punching me in the face?"

"You're a good person. The best I know. Something will change for you, I know it will. Just stay open to the possibilities."

I looked at the notepad lying on the table next to my chair. "Stay open to the possibilities, huh?"
But what if those possibilities make me feel like a prostitute?
What if those possibilities scare me?

THAT WEEKEND,
BRIDGETTE
came over for our study date and we stuffed ourselves with pizza while pursuing the wanted ads for job possibilities.

She shoved the paper in my face, a red circle around one listing. I took it and read. "Dog walker needed for our three babies. Must be good with animals and be available three times a day."
I dropped the newspaper. "Dogs hate me. Besides, walking three mutts isn't going to pay the bills or tuition."

Her shoulders drooped. "This is so boring. There's nothing here that would work with your classes. All
the halfway-decent jobs are nine to five."

We gave up for the night and
popped in our favorite romco
m,
eating popcorn an
d
drinking red wine while I pretended I wasn't about to be homeless and kicked out of school.

In a rare show of affection
,
probably because I actually fed him, Crackhead curled up on my lap and purred. I couldn't even afford to feed myself, but with Vi gone, I couldn't let the critter starve. And, if I was being honest, I liked the company.

On Monday, in between classes,
I grabbed a cup of much-needed coffee from Lucky, who ran a coffee kiosk in Harvard Square.

"Hi, Cately
n.
T
he regular?"

I nodded and pulled out my wallet but he waved my money aside. "You know I can't charge you. You always brighten the place around here."

Lucky stood out at Harvard like an Ivy League CEO would stand out in prison. In his mid-thirties, he looked a good ten years older, with a weathered face that had been through a lot of hard life. His dark curly hair always looked mussed and a bit oily, and he had an unconscious habit of rubbing his finger over his mustache when he was nervous or thinking.

I often heard the students talking crap about him, but he'd always been kind to me.

"Where you headed?" he asked, handing me a steaming cup of liquid deliciousness.

"I need to talk to Professor Cavin about getting more work as his assistant."

He handed me another cup of coffee. "You'll need this then."

"Thanks, Lucky. Have a great day."

Professor George Cavin kept regular office hours, according to the sign on his door. Actually catching him during those hours was a different matter entirely. Today I got lucky; he was just about to lock up his office when I arrived.

"Catelyn, what can I do for you?" White tufts of hair flopped over his spectacles—which is what he called his glasses b
ecause he thought that sounded more scholarly. He didn't have as many wrinkles on his face as you'd expect of a man his age, but when he smiled his laugh lines became more prominent, making him look like a wizened wizard who lost his magic staff.

"Do you have a minute?" I pointed to his sign, which said he sti
ll had two hours left.

"Right, of course, come in. I was just going for some coffee, but it can wait."

I handed him the spare cup Lucky had made, and he smiled and inhaled deeply, escorting me in.

His tiny office would have felt more spacious if not for the
wall-to-wall bookshelves housing hundreds of first and rare editions of his favorite books.

I sat across f
rom him, fidgeting with my bag as I explained about my tuition and my roommate, and how I needed more work to make it.

The clock in
his office ticked away loudly in the silence. I cleared my throat and shifted in my seat, wondering if he'd forgotten what I'd asked.

After another moment
he looked up with heavy eyelids, his blue eyes still alert despite his slightly eccentric behavior. "I wish I could, but we've all felt the budget cuts of late, and I have no more money for assistants. As it is, I'm paying part of your hours from my own pocket, because I kno
w
you nee
d
them."

"Oh. I didn't know. I feel bad for asking now." I stood to leave, not wanting him to see my hopelessness.

He patted my hand. "I'll keep my ears open and let you know if something comes up."

I left
his office knowing nothing would come up, that I was on my own and if I wanted to stay in school and become a lawyer, I would have to do things I never thought I'd do.

Hunger gnawed at my gut when I got home that night. A search through the kitchen revealed some old ketchup, a half eaten yogurt
, two olives and a few cans of tuna. I gave the tuna to the cat, ate the yogurt and olives myself and stared longingly at the ketchup, but decided I couldn't ingest it and set it aside in lieu of drinking a lot of water. When I logged online to check my bank account balance in hopes of finding a few extra dollars for the dollar menu at a fast food joint, I discovered my account was overdrawn by $70.75. I'd gone over my balance by 75 cents when I'd bought lunch the other day, and my bank had charged me two $35 overdraft fees as a penalty. They would keep charging these fees until I brought the account current.

All for 75 goddamn cents. I slammed my computer shut, tears burning my eyes as despair and anger warred in me. I couldn't decide whether I wanted to punch a wall or cry myself to sleep.

But my parents' portrait stopped me. I
t
ha
d
hung on the wall in every place I'd ever lived, sometimes in a frame, sometimes not, but it was one of the few memories I'd been allowed to keep. I was a child in the picture, and we all looked so happy. My mother with the same dark looks I had and eyes that seemed to sparkle, and my father with his short blond hair and warm brown eyes that crinkled in the corners when he smiled. If they were alive right now, I could be living with them while I went to school. My mom would make me a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup on a bad day and tell me that things would look better in the morning, but she'd be wrong, things wouldn't look better in the morning. In the morning I'd still be broke, hungrier than I was right now, and I'd be one day closer to eviction.

I fell asleep on the living room floor, staring at the portrait, tears poolin
go
nt
o
th
e
carpet. In the morning I could scarcely open my eyes from the swelling.

After splashing water
on my face and changing my clothes, I walked over to the chair and picked up the notepad with the phone number of The Pleasure Palace.

"This is
Donna at The Pleasure Palace, how may I help you?"

"Hi, this is Catelyn Travis
. We spoke a few days ago about the job as an… actress. How soon can I start?"