First Time Killer (27 page)

“I think we’ve got Dimitri to blame in this thing.”

Tin Man straightened in his chair. A fresh opinion. And it could get heated, too. Excellent. “How so, Cisco?”

“From what I understand, that a-hole Dimitri is like a Messiah to a bunch of freaks. More like an anti-Messiah.”

“You sound like a freak yourself,” Tin Man said. He put his phone aside and his feet on the floor.

“Hear me out. Dimitri lures people in with your website, then—”

Tin Man interrupted. “It’s not
our
website. It’s a fan website. We’ve got nothing to do with it. If you don’t believe me, I’m sure our esteemed attorney Shark Stanton would agree with me.” He glanced to his left. “Hey, Tubby, I know you’re all over the Internet. You visit that site much? You know, when you get tired of porn.”

“Oh, I’ve been there a bit,” Tubby said. “Some of it’s good, some bad. They’ve got a sweet picture of you up.”

“Nice to know. By the way, all I take are good pictures.” He addressed the caller. “You still there, Cisco Kid?”

“Yes.”

“Keep talking. We’re listening. For a change.” Tin Man saluted J.T. and Celia in master control. He was
en fuego
.

“Dudes, open your eyes. Dimitri brainwashes other freaks. Gets the losers who troll the Internet to do his bidding.”

“Are you saying Lazzeri killed people because Dimitri told him to?” Tin Man asked. On his monitor, five IMs from J.T. popped up, one after another. All said the same thing:
Dimitri on line 1. URGENT
. Tin Man took a deep breath, drinking it all in. Controversy smelled good to him.

Cisco started talking faster. “He practically pulled the trigger. Dimitri is a fraud. A dangerous kook. Someone should arrest him and charge him as an accomplice. Before he orders someone else to kill another innocent victim.”

Tin Man knew there were enough weirdos willing to call in to keep a radio talk show going on fifty stations, 24/7. Maybe a hundred. “Why don’t we embrace a fundamental tenet of our judicial system. Right now. What do you say, Cisco?”

“What are you talking about? I’m talking about Dimitri. You’re in some other—”

“Cisco, say hello to Dimitri.” Tin Man opened line 1 so Dimitri could talk to Cisco. Accused versus accuser.

Dimitri’s angry voice burst forth. “What the hell are you talking about Cisco Kid? I’m not luring anybody in. I simply run a website devoted—”

Tin Man potted down the call. “Whoa. Big D, settle down, you’ll get your chance. You’ll each get your chance to state your position. Then we’ll let our listeners vote to see who they believe. Sort of like Lincoln-Douglas. Kennedy-Nixon. SpongeBob-South Park. Sound good to you, Tubby?” He looked sideways at his broadcasting partner, who simply shrugged.

One of the first things Tin Man learned in radio was always keep ’em coming back. He leaned in and modulated his voice. Gave it his best FM late-night disc jockey. “We’ll get the fireworks started after the break, f-wads.”

R
ICK LISTENED TO
Tin Man’s shenanigans for as long as he could before he turned it off in disgust. With First Time captured, he hoped the
Circus
would get back in the groove and build upon their ratings momentum to get the SatRad deal finalized. He was banking on his role in the capture to give him the edge over Tin Man in their cage match. Surely Celia would see that and award the show to him. If not, Brewster would, he felt certain. After all, he, Rick Jennings, had helped capture a monster. In large part because of him, First Time was in custody.

First Time. All day long, the uncertainty kept resurfacing, but he did his best to keep it at bay. He’d spent his morning lost in a book with plenty of international intrigue. He whiled away the afternoon sifting through a ten-inch stack of golf magazines he’d been collecting, never finding the time to read them. And he’d watched some televised poker on ESPN.

He was looking forward to a nice spaghetti dinner with Barb and reading Livvy a bedtime story in her own bed, something he’d missed big time when they were exiled at Ray’s. Around six o’clock, Barb burst into the den, eager to spell out the night’s agenda. She’d arranged for a sitter and was taking him out to eat. “To celebrate,” she said. When Rick shot her a dirty look and started complaining, she agreed to call it a soothing, head-clearing kind of dinner rather than a celebration.

They decided on Peking Garden, a Chinese restaurant housed on the first floor of a steel and glass office building on the outskirts of an industrial park in Herndon. To the uninitiated, it could have been a bank or a post office. Nothing on the beige walls to indicate it served Chinese food. No hanging lanterns or dragon sculptures or waitresses dressed in flowing silk dresses. Nothing Asian, not even LaChoy soy sauce on the tables. But it was packed, as it had been every time Rick visited. Mid-week or weekend, winter or summer, rain or shine. Didn’t matter. People saw past the plain surroundings. They came for the food.

“How’s the Kung Pao?” Barb asked.

“Good. As usual,” Rick said, mouth half full. If it was up to him, he’d eat Chinese food every time he ate out.

Across the table, Barb attacked her food with chopsticks. They had avoided any in-depth talk of First Time during the drive over and through their hot-and-sour soups by mutual, unspoken, consent. But it wasn’t fair to Barb; he knew she wanted to discuss it. “Listen to any of Tin Man’s show today?”

Barb set her fork down. “Yes. They went on and on about Lap Dog. To think one of your fanatics stalking you and the others from the show. I’m glad they nailed him before…” She trailed off.

Rick swallowed his mouthful. He hadn’t let Barb in on his doubts. “Got that right.” He eyed Barb, saw the worry still etched on her face. “It’s an outlier, honey. One in a million. It won’t happen again.”

“Uh huh. You have two million listeners. By your own math, that means there’s another one out there.”

“It was just an expression. Besides, there are crazies everywhere. We can’t hide under a rock and hope nothing bad ever happens.”

“I’m stuffed. Got to leave a little room for dessert.” Barb pushed her plate away. “You’re right, of course. There are lunatics everywhere. But radio talk shows seem to attract them.”

“As listeners or as on-air talent?”

“Both.” Barb stuck her tongue out at him.

Rick knew the fact that Lap Dog had posters of him on his wall spooked Barb. Unnerved him, also. To some extent, it went with the job, and deep down, they both knew it. But he needed to put his wife at ease, no matter what he believed. “Look at things this way: I helped apprehend a dangerous killer. Me. Rick Jennings. Ringmaster Rick. Pretty good, huh?” He smiled, a big lopsided grin, the one that never failed to elicit a smirk from Barb.

Barb stared at him, stone-faced. “My hero.” Laden with sarcasm.

“Come on, Barb. Don’t be like that.”

She melted, and her eyes took on a glossy sheen. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. When I heard they caught him, I started crying. I guess I hadn’t realized how worried I was about you—about us—while he was still…at-large. Some kind of cathartic reaction, I guess.” She sniffled and rummaged around in her purse. Pulled out a travel package of tissues and removed one. Held up the pack to Rick offering him one. He shook his head.

“It’s over now. We can both relax.”
God, I hope it’s over. Maybe I’m just being paranoid.
After spending the last twenty-four hours going over everything in his mind, he didn’t know what to believe anymore.
If wishes and buts were candy and nuts…

The waiter came by and Rick asked for the check. “Seriously, I feel good about something I did on the radio. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt like that. I mean, anyone else would have done the same—keeping First Time on the phone so the cops could get there—but it was me.
I
was the one on the air with him, keeping him talking, keeping him engaged. I’ve got to tell you, I was sweating bullets.”

Barb slid a plate out of her way and reached across the table to grasp Rick’s hand. “I’m proud of you. Really. Forget about my little snit. You know how I get when I’m stressed. First, a rock. Then after things are over, I fall apart.”

Rick remembered how she was when her father died. Strong as steel while he was in the hospital, crumbling to pieces two days after the funeral. Not such a bad trait, really. Better then the reverse. He leaned across the table. “I was thinking. Maybe we should take a little vacation. Ask your mom to come down and watch Livvy. We could go to Nassau. Or how about Puerto Rico? I hear it’s nice this time of year.”

Barb dabbed at her nose. The sides of her mouth twitched, then drew upward. Not exactly a smile, but a definite improvement. “A vacation? Sounds pretty good.” She nodded twice. “And my mom’s been saying she’s due for a visit.”

Rick leaned over and kissed Barb. When he pulled away, Barb said, “You kiss better than Ray does. Much better.”

It was Rick’s turn to stick out his tongue, and he was about to say something when the waiter brought the check on a little black plastic tray, along with two fortune cookies. With his fingernails, Rick pushed the tray over to Barb. He had a silly superstition it was bad luck to choose a fortune cookie—you had to take what was left to you. Barb plucked one and ripped the cellophane. Broke the cookie in two and read her fortune aloud, “‘Never trouble trouble ’til trouble troubles you.’ Words to live by. If I knew what they meant, that is. Guess I’m not as deep a thinker as Confucious. Who troubles trouble, anyway?” She popped a piece of the cookie into her mouth and slid the tray over to Rick. “This one’s yours.”

Rick unwrapped his cookie and cracked it open. Read the fortune to himself first. Then to Barb. “Beware rabid dog once a pet. He bite twice.”

Barb laughed. “Sounds like Confucious needs a better translator. Come on, let’s get some ice cream.”

Thirty-one flavors. How can a true ice cream buff decide? Of course, thought Rick, a true ice cream enthusiast probably wouldn’t be caught dead in a Baskin-Robbins. But Barb liked ice cream and the BR was convenient. And groovy with all the garish colors.

While Barb tasted a couple of flavors, Rick chose Truffle in Paradise, some sort of chocolate ice cream with chocolate stuff mixed in. He went to the counter to pay for their cones, grabbing a handful of napkins from the stainless steel dispenser. When he turned around, Barb was swirling her tongue around a mound of white ice cream.

“That’s what you got, vanilla? You spent three bucks on a vanilla ice cream cone?” What about Wild ’N Reckless or Jamoca Almond Fudge?

Barb feigned offense. Then she broke into a wide smile. “I wanted comfort food. Vanilla. Not Wild Monkey Fudge-Liver Ripple with Bacon Bits.”

“Touché. Eat here or outside?”

“You crazy? It’s way too cold outside.” Barb slid into a pink plastic booth. She moved against the wall and gestured for Rick to sit next to her. “It’s a lot cozier here, too.”

Rick lowered himself into the rock-hard booth. Took a few licks of his cone, then bit off a chunk containing a chocolate bit. Sweet and creamy, the perfect counterpoint to their spicy dinner. As he leaned over to try to snatch a lick of Barb’s cone, his cell phone rang.

“Crap.” He pulled it out, looked at the display. Unknown caller. He carefully guarded his cell number, giving it out only to those who needed it. Co-workers, babysitters, or teachers at Livvy’s school. Not even all his relatives knew it. The phone rang again.

“Aren’t you going to answer it?” Barb asked.

Rick examined her face, looking for any sign of annoyance. Raised an eyebrow.

“Really. It’s okay. Answer it.” Barb went back to her cone. Licking one side, then the other.

He flipped open the phone. “Hello?”

“This Rick Jennings?”

“Yes. Who’s calling?”

“This the Rick Jennings from the
Afternoon Circus
? The one who helped nab the First Time Killer?”

“Who is this?”

“A friend.”

It didn’t sound like any friend of his. Rick started to hang up, but something about the caller’s voice disturbed him. Stilted, mechanical. Like it had been run through a cut-rate speaker system that flattened out the highs and lows. “If you don’t tell me who this is, I’m going to hang up.” He set his cone down on the table and peered at Barb, who had focused her attention on his call. Wondering what was going on, no doubt.

The caller snorted. Or laughed. Rick couldn’t be sure which. “I think you know exactly who this is,
Ringmaster
.”

Rick scrambled out of the booth, waving at Barb to stay put. She nodded, a look of concern nudging aside the one of curiosity. Didn’t have time for that now. Rick brushed by a couple of teenagers as he hustled out of the small store, not talking until he reached the sidewalk of the strip shopping center. “Who the fuck is this?” Rick said. But he knew. Didn’t want to believe it. As soon as the caller had uttered his second sentence, he’d known. First Time.

“Rick, Rick, Rick. They got the wrong guy. Some poor schlub. Some stupid—and I do mean stupid—fan of yours. An unauthorized imposter, I can assure you.” The mechanized, robotic voice Rick heard in his nightmares. Still at large. Still terrorizing society. Still terrorizing him.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Calling you?” First Time’s tone was taunting.

“The whole thing. Killing people. Calling me. Why?”

“I’m a complicated person. Many conflicting desires battle within me.”

“You need help. Turn yourself in and you can get some.”

“FUCK YOU.”

Rick winced and moved the phone away from his ear. Holding his cell a foot away, he could hear First Time cussing and screaming. Then silence. Slowly, Rick brought the phone closer. “Hello?”

“Sorry about that, Rick. Got a little temper sometimes. Forgive me.”

“What do you want from me?” Rick glanced through the plate glass window at Barb. She was biting the last part of her cone and staring at him. He gave her a half-hearted wave.

“Actually, that’s why I’m calling,” First Time said, in a pleasant, want-to-hear-a-joke tone. “I have an idea.”