The Craigslist Murders - Brenda Cullerton [16]
“Charlotte, you’re not listening,” Vicky said. “I know you’re not listening.”
“Sorry. I’m distracted. And I’ve got to go,” Charlotte replied.” I have a crazy day tomorrow with a new client. I’m exhausted.”
“I wanted you to come down here with Tom. You promised, Charlotte. I need you.”
Charlotte hadn’t promised. They hadn’t even talked about it. But she hesitated. Aspen might be a good place to ask for the money. On second thought, she had too much to do. “I can’t, Vicky. And you’re back the day after tomorrow, anyway. We’ll talk then.”
“Fine,” Vicky said petulantly. “There’s someone on the other line. I’m hanging up.”
Finishing up her treatment in the bathroom, Charlotte recalled a scene outside Vicky’s building. It was right before the kid’s trip to Paris. As the doorman hailed her a cab, one of Vicky’s drivers pulled up to the curb in the daughter’s “school car.” It was a red Mercedes station wagon with her name, ROSE1, on the license plates. The kid, who stepped out of the car, dragging her $750 Bisonte knapsack, weighed about 90 pounds. Now here was a true crime, thought Charlotte as she slipped into her La Perla silk pyjamas. (A Christmas gift from Anna.) The child was so thin, she was almost transparent. But still her mother couldn’t see. Twenty pounds lighter than she’d been in college, she couldn’t see herself in this wasted, half-starved, unsexed child.
8
She liked the privacy of the booths at Kinko’s. This particular branch at 12th Street between University and Fifth was a favorite. Even with the nearby university, it was quiet. The walls of her booth were scribbled with graffiti. “jason loves jenny!” “FUCK PHYSICS!” She’d been commuting between Furniture and Collectibles since 8 a.m. Chewing on a bit of blueberry muffin, she focused on her screen. The Furniture category had been a total waste of time. A blur of postings for TV armoires, entertainment centers, mattresses, storage platforms, more mattresses and recliners. God! How America’s sedentary minds love recliners, Charlotte thought.
Her scroll through Collectibles had been even more disappointing. If you are what you collect, Charlotte pondered, what would future anthropologists conclude about a culture that seemed to collect nothing but baseball cards, comics, Elvis Christmas ornaments, Barbie batgirls on motorcycles and Beanie Babies? And what the fuck was a Talking Furby doll? Is this what archeologists would dig up and study a thousand years from now as they sifted through the ashes of what had been known as the greatest city in the world? She stopped and clicked. “A first edition Torah-1962. $150.” Huh? Oh, and the Dracula Style Black Coffin for $36. “Never been outta our basemant.” That was a good one, too.
Giving her aching eyes a rest, she blocked out the twinge of a cramp. Anna had finally convinced her to make an appointment with her gynecologist for an ultrasound. She was due at the Diagnostic Labs on 21st and 2nd Avenue at 2 o’clock. Charlotte hated the idea of anyone looking inside her. But the pain had become more frequent and intense since her afternoon with the “Model Homemaker.” Taking another bite from her blueberry muffin, she washed it down with some orange juice and wondered why there hadn’t been any follow-up in the news after her last murder. Not even in the Post. Surely, the police had identified a pattern. Both victims were female, rich and lived on the Upper East Side.
This was the beauty, of course, of choosing her “victims” from Craigslist. In cyberspace, she was a phantom. Just another sexless, anonymous shopper. Tracking her down in the real world would take physical evidence. And Charlotte was certain that she’d left no trace of that. Still … the silence was unsettling.
Bingo! Charlotte almost knocked over her