Twisted

CHAPTER 48

THURSDAY, JUNE 27, 8:45 P.M., ROOM 19, CASA FIGUEROA MOTOR INN, FIGUEROA NEAR JEFFERSON BOULEVARD

This is lovely,” said Klara. She rolled the bedcovers down to her waist, ran her hands over soft, white, spreading breasts, pinched her own pink nipple and watched with satisfaction as it inflated. Reaching over to the chipped nightstand, she lifted her wineglass and sipped.

Fifteen-dollar bottle of chardonnay; she’d insisted on paying.

Isaac lay on his back, next to her, staring up at cottage cheese plaster-spray. Studying the brown stain where the air-conditioning vent had leaked. Brown inkblot, like a Rorschach…

“Isn’t it?” said Klara, wetting her finger with wine and tracing it along his upper lip. “Lovely?”

He nodded. In his position, that meant bobbing at the ceiling.

She leaned over and chewed his earlobe. “You were a bit more enthusiastic five minutes ago, my dear. You were more than enthusiastic. Volcanic, I’d say.”

Isaac smiled. The brown stain had a definite shape. Two bears, a large one and a small one, facing off. Or dancing. What did that say about his unconscious?

“My personal Vesuvius,” said Klara. She reached down. “Ready for another eruption?”

Isaac’s member was sore and his neck ached, but Klara had all kinds of skills, and the second time ended up being fine. Afterward, she said, “Shower time,” and sashayed into the tiny motel bathroom, flaunting the fullness of her body, unfazed by slackness of waist, drooping bosom, the occasional clot of cellulite. He liked her better for that and when she yelled, “Come on in,” he complied. And when she pulled him under the spray for a deep kiss, he didn’t mind at all.

The shower stall was prefab fiberglass, just like the one at home but not as clean. Klara soaped him with enthusiasm, positioned his hands all over her slick, dolphin softness, threw back her head and laughed into the water.

“Pretend it’s a waterfall,” she said. “Somewhere exotic, just the two of us.”

She shampooed her hair with a travel bottle she’d brought, rinsed, squeezed her red hair dry and wrapped it in a towel. They returned to the queen-sized bed with its coin-slotted “Electric Fingers” gadget bolted to the fake wood headboard.

Tawdry. Isaac was surprised at how much he liked that.

Somehow, he wasn’t sure when the transition had occurred, he’d turned into someone else. The person he imagined when he made love to her.

Horny Latin stud bunking down with a willing, flame-haired woman. Trysting in a cheesy, claustrophobic room with cigarette burns along the curtain hems, the odors of sin and beer and instant coffee rising from the thin, worn carpet.

Casa Figueroa. Two stories of mud-colored, spray-stucco under a fake tile roof. Thirty-two AAA-sanctioned rooms looking down on a kidney-shaped swimming pool, individual entrances for each unit. Klara had paid with her Discover card, taken the key from the clerk with panache, swung her rear as she led Isaac up the stairs.

Not a trace of shame. That made it easier for him. Still, if his mother, or anyone from church, had seen him…

She’d done all the planning. Arranged a babysitter for her gifted daughter and son, brought the wine and condoms and a roll of quarters for the vibrating bed.

And a Hershey bar that she broke in half. “Dessert, m’dear?”

They both ate candy.

“Fattening,” said Klara, licking chocolate from her lips. “But loaded with good stuff, too, like antioxidants. We deserve some fun. Solving a big case like that.”

She’d found him at six P.M., down in the stacks, working on his data and trying not to think of what Petra was doing. Marching right up to him, she took his hand and slipped it under her dress.

No panties.

Isaac’s face got hot. She knew she had him and grinned. “Pack your books, sir, we’re out of here.”

They watched twenty minutes of an atrocious show on USA Network as Klara combed out her hair. At the commercial break, she said, “Time to go home, sweetie. Domestic obligations and all that. We’ll do this again.” Her tongue thrust between his lips, sweet with chocolate. “Sooner rather than later.”

As Isaac walked her to her car, she said, “It really is fantastic. The way we solved all those murders. I mean, just think of it, Isaac. People like us- book people- turning out to be the real detectives.”

“You’re the master sleuth, Klara.”

She slapped his shoulder lightly. “Of course I’m not! I was merely the tool of your intellect.”

They reached her car and she rested her head on his shoulder. Sensing that she needed more praise, he said, “Klara, I couldn’t have done anything without you.”

She stood there pressed against him in the dim, tacky motel parking lot. Finally, she straightened and unlocked her car. “I read it again,” she said. “That horrible little book.” She shuddered. “How could anyone be so evil?”

Isaac shrugged.

“I mean it,” she said. “How do you explain something like that?”

“Retzak claimed he was abused.”

“Lots of people are abused, but they don’t end up like that.”

“True.”

She took his hand, played with his fingers. “I know you need to be discreet and all, but was that guy, the one the police are focusing on, abused? Because there’d have to be parallels, right? Between him and Retzak. Otherwise why imitate Retzak and not just do his own thing?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Don’t know much about him.”

“Well,” she said, “one thing we do know: He’s evil. And you’ve made a major contribution to getting him off the streets.”

“The police will do that.”

“Hopefully, they’ll be competent,” she said. “Because I have to tell you, I haven’t always found that to be the case. One time, years ago, there was a burglary in my neighborhood- one of my neighbors, a woman living alone- and all the police did was fill out reports.”

“The detective on this case is great,” said Isaac. Sounding defensive.

Klara said, “I hope he is. Anyway, when you can tell me more, please do, the whole thing fascinates me. I was a history major at Smith, but I’ve always been curious about psychology. About what transforms people. It’s the greatest mystery of all, right?” She touched his cheek. “One day, you’ll be a physician. Not a psychiatrist, but who knows, maybe you’ll get closer to figuring it out.”

“Right now I’d be satisfied finishing my dissertation.”

“You’ll finish. You’ve got character and people with character finish what they begin.”

She opened her car door, took his face in both her hands. “I believe in you, Isaac Gomez. I don’t love you, never will. But I sure like you a lot. Can we be friends?”

“We already are.”

Her eyes moistened. Then the right one winked. “Time to go home and be a mom. But I’ll be thinking about volcanoes.”