Extreme Justice

Chapter 35

PAULA1>I don’t know why you’re acting this way. Was it something I typed?

FINGERS>Of course not. Our chats have been the most wonderful thing to happen to me for I don’t know how long.

PAULA1>Then why are you saying no?

FINGERS>I don’t want to rush things, that’s all.

PAULA1>I’m sorry. I don’t understand. :(

Jones pushed himself away from his keyboard. Truth was, he didn’t understand himself. He wasn’t just feeding her a line. These online chats were what he looked forward to more than anything else in his life. He couldn’t get enough of them. They chatted for hours every night, till he could barely keep his eyes open any longer. Now they were chatting during the day, during the lunch hour or her coffee breaks at the library. No matter how much they chatted, he always wanted more. So why was he withdrawing?

PAULA1>I just don’t think our relationship can go any further on the keyboard.

FINGERS>You mean (gasp)—

PAULA1>You know what I want. Face time. No more cyber-snuggles. The real thing.

PAULA1 >I don’t know if it’s wise. But IMHO, it has to happen. It’s the next step on the evolutionary ladder of our relationship.

FINGERS>Relationship?

PAULA1>Does that word scare you?

FINGERS>I didn’t expect it, that’s all.

Jones wiped his brow. What was happening here? He wanted to meet her just as much as she seemed to want to meet him. Didn’t he? So why was he holding back?

Of course he knew the answer to the question almost before he asked it. He was holding back because he was afraid. Afraid that once he left the security of the CPU and actually met her face-to-face—she wouldn’t like him.

After all, what was there to like? Honestly, he was a skinny geek with a big nose and eyeglasses with lenses as thick as the bottoms of Coke bottles. No one could fall in love with that.

And there was the tiny matter of his profession. He hadn’t meant to mislead her, but she thought he was a private investigator. She thought he lived some glamorous life solving mysteries and tracking down archfiends. But he didn’t; he couldn’t even get Ben to let him help with the investigation. When Paula found out he was a secretary, and a currently unemployed one at that, she was bound to be disappointed. She would never want to see him, much less chat with him.

When all was said and done, as much as he desired to meet her, he couldn’t bear the thought of losing her, even in the limited capacity he had her now. He couldn’t take the risk.

PAULA1>I’m disappointed, Jones. And I don’t understand. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t meet. It doesn’t have to be a big deal. We both live in the same city. We’ll just arrange to be somewhere at the same time. If it’s awkward, you can leave.

FINGERS>I don’t know…

PAULA1>What about Uncle Earl’s Jazz Emporium? They’re reopening Friday night. I know you like music.

FINGERS>(despondent) I don’t know. I just don’t know.

For a long time, the screen before Jones remained blank. Apparently, Paula had exhausted her stock of ways to persuade him. Or perhaps she had decided it wasn’t worth the effort.

Finally, the talk line on his screen came back to life.

PAULA1>It’s because you don’t think I’m sexy, isn’t it?

FINGERS>No! (forcefully) That’s ridiculous.

PAULA1>It’s because I’m a librarian. Everyone knows librarians are timid, mousy creatures with their hair all pulled up in a bun who run around shushing people all day, right?

FINGERS>That’s absurd.

PAULA1>No it isn’t. It’s what people think. Librarians are frigid virgins.

FINGERS>You’re being ridiculous.

PAULA1>Don’t humor me. That’s the stereotype and I know it. (Pause) But the stereotype is wrong. I can be sexy.

FINGERS>I don’t know what you’re babbling about.

PAULA1>Close your eyes.

FINGERS>Paula, I’m at my office.

PAULA1>Just humor me for a minute. Concentrate—block out everything—everything but me. Narrow your vision till you can’t see anything but the computer monitor.

Jones couldn’t say no to her now. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, blocking out all thoughts of the office and the case and Loving hovering much too nearby. Once he had shuffled all that debris out of his brain, he slowly opened his eyes, just letting in enough light that he could see the screen.

FINGERS>Okay, done.

PAULA1>Good. Now, imagine that it’s Friday night. We’ve been to the club, and we loved it. Jazz is the sexiest music, you know. The tinkling of the ivories. The doleful wail of a solo saxophone. It speaks to something inside all of us. Makes the blood pump faster. It hurts just a little, but it’s a good hurt. It makes us remember. It makes us desire.

FINGERS>Paula …

PAULA1 >Just listen. The show is over, and we’ve gone back to my apartment.

FINGERS>We have?

PAULA1>I go to the bedroom to change into something more comfortable. You sit on the sofa in the living room. When I return, I turn out all the lights. You sit motionless, just watching, waiting, as I slowly light a candle. First one, then another, until the room is bathed in candlelight.

FINGERS>I like candles.

PAULA1>In the golden glow of the candles you see that I’m wearing something white and diaphanous. It has a shimmering quality—or is that just the light? You can see through it, but just barely—all you get are impressions, shadows.

FINGERS>You’re wearing a toga?

PAULA1>I’m wearing a negligee. A sheer silk one from Victoria’s Secret.

FINGERS>Oh. Wow.

PAULA1>I approach you. You start to speak, but the words catch in your throat. All you can think about is us, here, now. Your heart is pounding in your chest. Your palms are sweating. You’re about to explode.

FINGERS>(heart pounding, palms sweaty) What’s going to happen next?

PAULA1>I lean across you on the sofa and without so much as saying a word press my lips against yours. Hard. I mean to hold back, but I can’t. My desire is too strong; my need is too great. I’m kissing you now, just as hard as I possibly can. Can you feel it?

FINGERS>Oh, yes.

PAULA1>We’re still kissing, but now I’m running my hands up and down your back, just lightly brushing against you, tickling your spine.

FINGERS>My goodness.

PAULA1>You begin to reciprocate. You put your arms around me and pull me close. I can feel your strong arms drawing me near, pressing me against your chest. I can feel your strength, your hardness. Then I pull away—

FINGERS>Don’t!

PAULA1>—and begin unbuttoning your shirt, one button at a time, slowly, carefully, kissing each patch of newly revealed skin as it is uncovered. I remove your shirt and run my hands all over your manly chest.

FINGERS>I love it when you do that.

PAULA1>I feel your fingers on my back, rising to the occasion, searching for my buttons. They find them, and a moment later I feel my negligee flutter to the floor. I stand before you naked, vulnerable, wanting—

FINGERS>You and me both.

PAULA1>You pull me to you in that strong manly way that tells me that we were meant to be joined, that now that we’re together you will never let me go. That I’m your personal love slave, now and for all time, and that whatever you want me to do, I will do without question. Come to me, Jones.

FINGERS>I’m coming, I’m coming.

PAULA1>You take control. I groan with ecstasy. We’ve gone too far to turn back. Your hands find my sweet spot, the button that turns me into a mindless ball of uncontrolled desire. I part my lips, searching for a target. And then—

There was nothing more. Jones lurched forward, typing frantically into the keyboard.

FINGERS>Yes? What happens next?

PAULA1>(licking her fingers) I don’t know. Want to meet me Friday night and find out?

FINGERS>Yessssssssssssss!

PAULA1>The club opens at seven. I’ll meet you there about seven-thirty. Bring your candles. ;)

The line disconnected. The scroll bar on the right told Jones he was now alone in the chat room.

He took a personal inventory. He felt as if he had just finished running the Boston Marathon. He was drenched in sweat; dark patches showed through his shirt. His hands were equally sweaty and trembling slightly.

He pushed himself to his feet and stumbled toward the bathroom, thinking he would strip off his shirt and splash cold water all over himself. If they didn’t have cold showers here, he would have to improvise one.

Ben stepped out of the elevator and headed toward Jones and Loving’s office on the seventh floor. To his surprise, he met Jones in the hallway. He seemed a bit shaky on his feet and his face was devoid of color.

“You feeling all right?” Ben asked.

Jones looked up, startled. “Oh—I’m … fine. Must’ve been something I ate.”

Something he ate? It was only ten in the morning. And he knew Jones never had breakfast.

He opened the door and they walked into the office. “What about you?” Jones asked. “What’s with the big bandage on your nose? Christina said you ran into some trouble.”

Loving leaped out of his chair. “Are you okay, Skipper? Should you be on your feet? Here, take my chair.”

Ben waved him away. “I’m fine. Promise. I just wanted to see how your investigation is going. From what I hear from Mike, the police are likely to file charges against Earl at any moment.”

“Didn’t have any luck tracking down the Rug Man,” Loving grunted. He was obviously disgusted with himself. “I can tell you this—he ain’t workin’ for any of the honest-to-God carpet companies or rug dealers in town.”

“What about the van?”

“None of the rug companies reported a missing van. I also checked the rental agencies, but I came up with nada. I think it must be a privately owned van that our man just dressed up for the occasion. And probably repainted as soon as he was done. Even if we could peer into every garage in town, we wouldn’t find it.”

“What about paint companies? There can’t be that many places around that sell auto paint.”

Loving snapped his fingers. “You’re right, Skipper. There ain’t.”

“Good. Check ’em out. Maybe you can work up a sketch based on the disguise he wore to Earl’s club. Maybe he wore the same disguise when he bought the paint.”

“But even if I find the place where he bought the paint—what good will it do us?”

“Who knows? Maybe he said something to the salesperson that might help us track him down. Maybe they took down his address for the receipt or their computer records. Maybe he paid with a credit card.”

“All right.” Loving grabbed his coat. “It’s a long shot, but I’ll give it a go.” He hustled out the front door.

Ben turned back toward Jones. “As for you—”

“I could help out on the investigating,” Jones said quickly. “Let me do a little fieldwork. I might turn up something.”

“Actually,” Ben said, “I have some more pleadings I need you to type. And I have a list of cases I’d like you to pull off Lexis.”

“Ooh, how exciting.”

Ben frowned. “Is something going on I don’t know about?”

“No, nothing.” Jones folded his arms unhappily. “It’s just—well, sometimes I get tired of the same old drudgery. I’m underutilized.”

“No doubt. Have you finished your report on the first smile-murder?”

“Natch. On my desk.”

Ben picked up the computer printout and skimmed through the first few pages. He began to read aloud: “ ‘I can feel your strong arms drawing me near … I can feel your strength, your hardness …’ ” He looked up. “What on earth is this?”

Jones’s jaw dropped. “Give me that.”

Ben moved it out of his reach. “ ‘I’m your personal love slave … whatever you want me to do, I will do without question.’ ” He flipped through the next few pages, grinning. “This came out of one of those chat rooms, didn’t it?”

Jones snatched the printout from Ben. “That is absolutely none of your business.”

“Jones, you old dog. Have you been swapping fantasies with some cybertramp?”

“Paula is not a cybertramp.”

“Paula?” Ben’s eyebrows rose. “On a first-name basis, are you?”

“And what of it?”

“Oh nothing, nothing.” Ben continued to grin. “Have you actually met this Paula?”

“Not yet. But we have a date for Friday night.”

“You’re going out with her?” Ben grabbed Jones by the shoulders. “Have you lost your senses?”

“It seemed harmless enough.”

“If she were harmless, she wouldn’t be spending her time in chat rooms! Why do you think people do that? She’ll probably turn out to be a transvestite. Or a psychopath. Or both.”

“Paula is not a transvestite or a psychopath.”

“How do you know? She could be an axe murderer, for all you know.”

“She’s not an axe murderer. She’s a librarian.”

“Oh, well then.” Ben shook his head. “I’d give this a second thought if I were you, Jones.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Maybe not, but I consider you my friend, and I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

Jones frowned. “Maybe you’re right. But I promised her—”

“Unpromise her.”

“I can’t do that.” He paused. “But nothing says I have to go alone.”

“It would be safer if you didn’t.”

Jones grabbed Ben’s arm. “You could come with me.”

“Now wait a minute!”

“C’mon. We’re meeting at that club where you play. You’ll be there anyway. You can just step down from the stage and hang with me for a bit.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You said you considered me a friend. You said you cared about me!”

“Well, true, but—”

“You meant it, didn’t you?”

Ben drew in his breath. “Yes, I meant it. But—”

“Good.” He held tight to Ben’s arm. “So I’ll show up a little early. You can come down from the stage during your first break. And we’ll see what happens. Good enough?”

Ben sighed. “I can’t wait.”