...but perhaps we should start at the beginning. READ THE FIRST CHAPTER OF SINFUL IMAGES
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SINFUL IMAGES
By Steve Shore
Copyright 2009
All Rights Reserved
Chapter I
My Confession
It wasn’t an accident. It should’ve been obvious to anyone that it was no accident. When I first saw it reported as an accident, I became outraged! Isn’t that wild? I should’ve been relieved; but I was outraged!
It had been the most defining moment of my life. I’d never done anything like that, before. I’d considered it, secretly, for the longest time. And I’d contemplated this specific action for nearly a year. I can’t begin to describe the exhaustive attention to detail I put into this, and the indescribable pleasure I derived from that pastime.
And then to have it all dismissed as a simple—common—accident? I was livid! My first reaction would’ve betrayed my involvement to anyone present at the time. But—thankfully—I was alone when first I saw it reported as an accident. An accident?
Well, what could I do? I couldn’t gloat! I hadn’t done it for praise—or admiration. I’d done it for self-satisfaction—self-gratification. But, I discovered, having this thing misjudged as accidental was ungratifying. It spoiled the personal, internal recitation of all those moments of scheming which I had relished. It dampened the exuberant feelings I’d expected—I’d longed for—at the outcome. I’d’ve been satisfied for life, and pleasured from just knowing that everyone knew he was murdered, and many were pleased, but no one knew the executioner—except me. Now everyone knows he’s dead, and many are pleased, and no one seems saddened—except me.
Oh, I don’t miss him—no more than anyone else misses him. And I don’t regret being the one. I’d’ve felt robbed if anyone had beat me to the prize. But I do feel... empty. Well, I’m quite enterprising. I took those odd thoughts and quirky feelings I’d randomly experienced over a long time and brought a clever scheme to fruition, culminating in his early—but not premature—demise. Surely, I can change this situation, if anyone can.
“Hello, I’m Christine Cormier. I’ll be happy to show you the apartment, if you like.” The young woman was very pleasant—and very businesslike.
“Oh, are you a real estate agent?” I asked (knowing full well she was not).
“Oh, no,” she responded—with a bit of a giggle, “I’m just a friend... I was a friend of Mr.... the late Mr. Barrington. I was... well, I’m showing the place for the family. I... uh, worked with Mr. Barrington. And you are?”
“Not certain this place would be right for me.” I avoided her question. I would not have her know as much of me as I know of her. “You said ‘the late Mr. Barrington?’ Did he die in this apartment?”
“Well... yes,” Christine hesitated in her response, obviously not wanting to discuss this matter with a stranger. “But that was months ago, and there’s hardly any trace that he ever lived here, let alone that he....”
I waited, but she was not about to finish that sentence. I’ve not yet been able to engage another soul in a conversation about the joyous deed. I hoped to provoke a discussion, “How did Mr. Barrington die? Are you hiding something?”
“He was murdered! Horribly murdered!” I’d not noticed Paul come in ‘til he spoke. Christine and I were a bit startled. We turned to see this cool, smooth-looking wisecracker leaning against the front doorjamb, arms folded and smiling that cocky smile.
“He was not! He was not!” Christine snapped at Paul like a young child who was taunted with words she did not want to hear.
“Sorry!” Paul reacted, glaring at Christine. “Look,” he said in a calmed voice, looking at me and deliberately exuding that charisma that is his hallmark. “I was just kidding. I heard the question and I couldn’t resist interjecting a joke. The way you two were chatting, I thought maybe you knew John... Mr. Barrington.”
“Look,” he repeated. “I’m Paul Ivers.”
I took the hand he offered and shook it—politely, but not familiarly—as you do when first meeting a stranger. I’d no intention of divulging how very much I already knew about him, about Christine—about John Barrington.
When I gave no reply to his overture—not even a name—he continued, undaunted (that’s the arrogance of this man), “Well... like I said, I’m Paul and I... uh... work—worked—with John... and Christine, here.”
The charisma had dissolved in the stammer. Apparently, something about me unhinged him—made him uncharacteristically nervous. He seemed to hang on my response—awaiting my words which would reveal who I was and why I was interested in that apartment.
But Christine broke the silence, “He does not work for us. He’s just a consultant!”
“Oh, a consultant. Well, that sounds like important work,” I observed—facetiously.
“Important?” Christine snapped back. “A consultant is just a self-aggrandizing corporate parasite—an overpriced nay sayer who contributes nothing positive to the project or the product!”
I was startled by her outburst, but amused by it, as well. I’d suspected there was some emotional friction between these two. “Obviously, you dislike consultants.”
“I think it’s just me she dislikes,” Paul said, grinning and blushing simultaneously.
“I said consultants, I meant consultants!” Christine spat out, through the grit of her teeth. The intense focus of her scowl upon him melted Paul’s grin, leaving only the blush—reddened by the scolding. The few seconds that passed in silence—Christine’s anger focused tightly upon him—must have seemed incessant to Paul. He did not respond. I don’t think he dared.
Calming herself—instantly—Christine turned and offered me a half smile, “Would you like me to show you around the apartment?”
So here we were, right back where we started. These two could be amusing, but are usually quite boring—and always predictable. If they’re also controllable, they’ll suit my purposes. “No, thank you, I don’t think I’d be comfortable living here. But if you don’t mind—since I came all the way over here, I’ll just poke around a bit on my own. Maybe I’ll change my mind. I’ll let myself out. You can show your friend around.”
“He’s not....” Christine started, but I was well down the hall and into the study before she could finish. She did not finish her statement, presuming that I was out of earshot.
“Did you mean what you said before?” Paul asked Christine. He did not have to mask the sincerity on his face with his usual nonchalant demeanor—or a cocky smile—as she was still turned away from him, watching the study door through which I’d made my hasty retreat—to see if I’d reemerge, abruptly.
Christine turned toward him—and turned on him, “Look! I know what the hell you’re up to and I don’t like it! And I don’t appreciate your stalking me to John’s apartment! Now... get the hell out of here and leave me alone!”
Paul was completely taken aback by Christine’s outburst, but not so stunned that he couldn’t grab her shoulders to prevent her flight. “Hey!” she yelled out.
He twisted her back around to face him. “Hey, yourself!” he barked. “What’s this crap about ‘stalking’ you? And what’s this bullshit attitude of yours?”
She struggled to release his grip and then brushed down each arm, as if to wipe the trace of him off. Then she stood on her toes to project into his face, “I know what you want!”
“What the hell does that mean?” he shot back in response, nearly biting her face. Come on, Paul! It’s obvious! It’s obvious to me that you want her. And it’s certainly obvious to her that you want to....
“You want to take over!” she told him. So, maybe I misjudged.
“You’ve wanted a piece of the business since John first brought you on board!” she added.
“What? No!” was his considered response. “You’re crazy!” his embellishment.
“Oh, come off it!” she came back, strong. “Everything was going fine, until you came along. The project was nearly complete—right on schedule and just a little over budget. Then you walk in and start picking everything apart. You screwed up everything!”
A huff is much more effective if you walk off in it; but Christine stood there in her huff, instead, just turning her back to Paul. Paul admonished the back of her head, “Hey, I didn’t come looking for anything; John sought me out. And he wouldn’t’ve brought me on if everything was ‘going fine... nearly complete,’ and right on target.”
“You’re just a damned snake,” Christine continued her diatribe. “You slithered your way into John’s confidence and—in the end—tried to turn your venom on him. I know! He told me.”
“I’ll bet he told you!” Paul reacted. “I’ll bet he told you a whole lot of things! I’ll bet he was very sincere when he took you into his confidence and shared his concerns: and told you about things nobody else knew. And I’ll bet none of it would jibe with a whole lot he told other people about the same things!”
Christine was steaming! Again she was on her toes. It was she who resembled the snake: stretching her body erect, posturing, swaying, preparing to strike at the face—right at the eyes. “That’s bullshit! You are just so... vindictive!”
I could tell by her pause, she was struggling to find just the right word. I don’t think any one of us was quite satisfied with the word she selected. Paul certainly was dissatisfied, “Vindictive? Where the hell do you get that?”
“Don’t bull me!” Christine demanded. “I know John was trying to get rid of you! But you wouldn’t leave! You couldn’t just leave, could you? You always wanted something more than just a job, didn’t you?”
These questions were, apparently, rhetorical, since Christine left no gaps in her tirade for response—or deep breaths. She quickly became winded, and I could barely make out her saying, “And poor John was looking for any way to cancel your contract: any way to get you out of there!”
This was good! This was fun! This was like eavesdropping on a marital dispute. Maybe I’d witness some domestic violence. But Paul was not going to play along. He retreated from this poised, female cobra—and from the argument, itself.
Again, he leaned back against the doorjamb, folded his arms and cracked a smile. Marshaling his self-control, he spoke calmly, “I don’t need this. I didn’t come here to see you, anyway.”
“Oh, yes you did,” I thought to myself. “You just don’t know it, yet.”
“Uh huh,” Christine stated, flatly. She didn’t believe him, either.
“No... I... um... I..,” once again his cool was dissolving, “I... I didn’t even know you’d be here. Really.”
“Really,” Christine mocked. “So what did you come here for, Paul? A little light burglary, perhaps? Didn’t your fat consulting fees pay for your booze cruises and your bimbos? Or do crack whores and drag queens charge extra to creeps and perverts like you?”
“Oh, good,” I thought, “a second round!”
“Look!” Paul declared. (I was so beginning to hate the repetition—the unoriginality—of that word.) “Look!” he restarted.
But Christine was not quite finished, “So why did you come, Paul? Why are you here, now? What do you want, Paul?”
Paul was no longer leaning; he was standing bolt-upright. His arms came unfolded and prepared for gesturing (or striking), and his cocky grin was replaced by a sneer—with a “tick” reminiscent of Elvis. Paul had been desperately searching his mind for just the right response; and the best he could come up with was, “Look!” (That word!)
“I don’t know why I’m here! Alright?” He finally uttered the truth.
“Oh, I know why,” Christine said, facetiously. “You just have to be where you know you’re not welcome: like at John’s company, or on my project—or in my life!”
“Look... Christine....” Softly, Paul uttered that word I so loathe, hoping to retake his place in the conversation.
But Christine was not finished, “ ...or here, in John’s place!”
Paul stood silent for a moment, waiting to see if there was more. There was.
“Why don’t you get the...,” Christine started. “Why don’t you just leave,” she finished. Calming herself, Christine came back down off her toes, and then rocked back on her heels. She folded her arms—defiantly—and glared at Paul. I could tell she was done speaking; her jaw was set firm, like a steel trap clamped shut.
Looking down into this menacing expression, Paul revealed the purpose of his visit, “I received an email from John... this morning.”
“What?” Christine reacted strongly. “You are so full of shit...!”
“No, no!” Paul had lost his patience. He clamped his hands on her arms, pinning them to her sides and holding her still. Oh, this was getting good!
“Damn it, just listen to me, will you?” Now Paul was asking rhetorical questions. “Listen... just listen,” Paul said in a calming voice. And when he felt it was safe to do so, he released his hold on Christine.
Again, she dusted herself: brushing down each arm—as if trying to remove traces of his “essence.” She did not start yelling, and she did not run away. She stood there in a pout with her face cast to the side—away from him—and her eyes fixed to the floor. She appeared indifferent; but she listened.
Satisfied he could do so uninterrupted, Paul continued, “I know John’s dead. And I know they can’t send email from the next world: at least not from the place he’s gone to.”
Christine shot her eyes up at him, angrily, but said nothing. Paul continued, “This morning, I finally got around to organizing all the materials from that doomed MMS project, and began extricating essential items: billables I’d never collected on—from John. Some of the stuff he owed me for—including those trips on his behalf—go back over a year. Anyway, I’d organized everything into an intelligible flow and prepared a billables package. I’m going to bill his estate. I don’t give a damn how it looks. He owes me. He owes me, big time.”
“He would have paid you to go away!” Christine interrupted. “That’s how bad he wanted to get rid of you!”
“That’s how little you know,” Paul came back. Remaining calm, he added, “When speaking to me, John claimed it was you—and some others—he needed to be rid of. And as to paying me off: I didn’t see one dime of what he owed me, after the first year. Oh, he intended to pay; and it was always coming soon. But he somehow managed to create one crisis after another; until excuses were his only currency.”
Christine interrupted, again, “Yeah, well—funny, I always got paid on time.”
“I’ll bet you did,” was Paul’s retort.
“What is that supposed to mean?” I expected Christine to say; but she didn’t. Arms refolded, she just stood her ground and glared at him defiantly.
Paul shook his head—as if to erase the last minute of conversation—and continued his story, “Anyway, I had my package ready to send—registered mail. I’d also created an abstract to fax to the corporate legal department, so no one could say they were blind-sided. Kind of for a joke—on the headers labeled ‘Merchandise Management Systems,’ I superimposed ‘Merchandise Management Schemes.’”
“You were always so clever, Paul,” Christine interjected, with the flattest voice I’d ever heard put to sarcasm.
Paul went on, unperturbed, “Well, I wanted those players to know that I know something: something they think only John and they know—or something they think only John and I knew, that they should know.”
“I know you’re boring me!” Christine’s comment was still sarcastic, but her voice was not so flat.
Paul cleared his throat and spoke in an intentionally serious tone, “Let me tell you how I heard from John. Rather than send that fax out, cold, I decided to email your vapid vice president and notify him of my intentions. When I’d finished rattling his cage—electronically—I started preparing an email to Marge; since it concerns the estate, and all.”
“You emailed his wife? About all that bullshit? You ass!” Christine scolded.
Paul scolded right back at her, “You let me finish! Damn you, just let me finish. I never sent the email to Marge. I was just in the middle of writing it when I got an incoming message. I’m a businessman. I don’t mind interruptions; they often mean opportunities. When I saw John’s email address, I forgot about contacting Marge.”
“For Christ’s sake, is that it?” Christine reacted. “There must be a million people who know John’s email address!”
“Know it?” Paul corrected her, “You mean recognize it. How many do you suppose would have access to his email and his password and be able to do something like this? And what few would have any reason to do something like this?”
“Oh, come on, Paul,” it was Christine’s turn to correct, “you’re in systems; you know it’s not that hard to gain access....”
“But why?” Paul cut her off.
Irritated by this, Christine snapped at him, “Maybe it’s some prankster asshole like you! Another ‘funnyman’ who thinks his shit is witty!”
“Well, there’s a lot more to it,” Paul said, returning to business. “Right from that familiar opening of his, ‘Hey, buddy-boy,’ I felt as....”
“Come on!” Christine jumped on him again—verbally. “John probably called lots of guys ‘buddy-boy.’ Is that your spin?”
Paul ignored her barbs completely, and continued, “What was said in that email... not just innuendo... strong inferences regarding issues and events I thought John would never reveal to another. And the language: his buzzwords, pet names and slogans were all through the thing. And not just peppered in—like someone trying to get the flavor of John’s speech. It was his phrasing: and just as peculiar as if he were speaking it.
“Anyway, he said, ‘You can imagine how pissed-off I was when I heard the reports of my “accidental” death.’ He put the word ‘accidental’ in quotation marks. Then he went on about how this ‘setback’ wouldn’t keep him from settling his unfinished business with several close acquaintances. ‘...including you, buddy-boy,’ he wrote, ‘and—of course—my cute little sweetie-pie.’”
Paul turned to Christine and asked, “Wasn’t that his pet name for you—sweetie-pie?”
Christine seemed a little bewildered, but she answered, “I’m sure he called a lot of girls ‘sweetie-pie.’ Like I said, you don’t think you’re the only ‘buddy-boy,’ do you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know about any of this,” Paul sounded confused. “But with John, you were never sure of anything. He wasn’t a straight-ahead sort of guy. I used to describe his thought process as ‘floppy logic.’”
“I know,” Christine laughed. “I used to tell my people that John and you made the perfect ‘odd couple:’ floppy logic and sloppy logic.”
“Oooooh... you....” Paul tried to bottle up the response her puns elicited.
“Go ahead!” Christine baited him. “Go ahead, say the word! Say, ‘bitch!!’”
“Not the first,” Paul made a matter-of-fact statement—as if thinking out loud. “Not the last.” Then, setting a hard gaze directly into her eyes, he continued, “But I’m not going to say it! I don’t need to tell you something you already know!”
The two of them glared at each other for a moment; and I thought they’d resume wisecracking and waste the rest of my day. But—finally—Paul surrendered the staring contest, looked away, shook his head and continued explaining the email, “Well, John—or whomever—had my attention. Especially when he implied that I’d finally get taken care of. And the first step was to come here—today, at this time—and pick up a note that would direct me to a solution to his little puzzle.”
“Why wouldn’t he just attach the note to the email?” Christine wondered in a more companionable voice.
“I don’t know,” Paul answered. “But I was intended to come here: if I wanted to find some answers. And I was told the note would be in the chiffonier—the one with the adjustable mirror: top left drawer.”
“It’s in the master bedroom. C’mon, I’ll show you,” Christine offered.
Paul found the note, immediately. He picked it up and read it aloud, “Thanks for coming, buddy-boy. I knew you would. Now, collect what you came for. Just turn around and say, ‘Hi, sweetie-pie!’”
Paul turned around and looked to Christine. She swallowed hard, and then said the only thing that came to mind, “Coincidence.”
Paul disagreed, “Yeah, well, John—or whomever—knew I’d be here to find this, and that someone would be here with me when I found it. I’m guessing he knew that someone would be you. I’m betting this whole deal was set up.”
“You’re not mystical and there’s no mystery,” Christine asserted. “You’re just paranoid.”
Without commenting on her assertion, Paul looked back at the note and announced, “There’s a post script. It just says, ‘Tell sweetie-pie you need to know all about Morrison.’”
Christine was no longer bewildered—or bemused. She looked shocked as she stood there with her jaw hung open. She stared at Paul, in disbelief; then she turned her stare to the note he held, grabbed it away from him and read it to herself—eyes widened in disbelief. She started to stammer, a bit, “How... how....”
“What does this mean?” Paul asked. “Who’s Morrison?” Retrieving the paper and waving it in front of her face, he asked, “Does it look like John’s writing?”
“I... I guess,” Christine was still stunned and stammering. “I... I don’t know.” Regaining her faculties, she spit out, “I can’t talk to you about this!”
Paul was not about to be dismissed, “Listen, I just want....”
“Not here!” Christine insisted.
“Why not?” Paul asked, impatiently.
Christine seemed focused, again, “For one thing, we’re not alone.”
“Huh?” It took Paul a little longer to regain his focus. “Oh, yeah, that ‘customer’ of yours is still lurking around here, somewhere. Now, where the hell do you suppose...?” Paul started a question which dissolved in the air as he moved briskly down the hall and into the study. He popped his head back out the doorway and shouted up the hall to Christine, “Not here! I’ll check the bedrooms out back, and you check the front rooms.”
“For what?” Christine shouted back. “John’s ghost?”
“No, stupid,” Paul returned, “for your... ‘customer.’
“Oh! Right!” Christine snapped out of the daze she’d slipped into during Paul’s absence, and moved through the living room toward the dining room—in pursuit of me.
I could hear them rummaging through the rooms for several minutes, on the first floor. Then, for several minutes on the second floor. Then back around the first floor. Finally, Christine summoned Paul into the kitchen. He popped in and asked, “What’s up?”
“Did you open this back door when you came through here?” Christine asked.
“No,” Paul answered. “Why?”
“‘Cause when I came through here before,” Christine explained, “this door was closed, and locked—I think. Now it’s ajar. Do you think...?
“Looks that way,” Paul answered the question he assumed she was asking. “We’ve been all over this place. If we missed somebody, they were deliberately hiding—and damned good at it. I’m sure your ‘customer’ just saw enough, found the back door, went down the stairs and out.”
“Yeah, it looks that way,” Christine agreed. She shut the door, tight, snapped the bolt, pulled and twisted the knob to make certain it was locked.
Paul leaned back against the wall, folded his arms and said, “Well, now we can talk.”
“Not here!” Christine insisted. “Look, I’m not comfortable talking about this. I’m not comfortable talking to you. I don’t want to talk to you about this!”
“Listen, Christine,” Paul said in a comforting tone, “I don’t understand what’s going on here. I don’t know what this is all about. But I do know we have to talk. Look, there’s a nice place near here—cozy, quiet; we can get a drink and talk about talking. Alright?”
“Alright,” was all she said.
I waited until I heard the elevator doors close. I waited a minute more. Then after one last glance around the old digs I knew so well, I paused to reflect on the development of my clever artifice. But there was still so much to be done, and I’d an appointment to keep. As I departed, I felt an unexplainable sensation of relief, knowing I was leaving John Barrington’s “home-away-from-home,” forever. I can only compare it to that sensation of relief—and release—I felt when I caused John to depart, forever.