The Craigslist Murders - Brenda Cullerton [35]
“I gotta take this call,” Max said, cupping his hand over the receiver.
“Let me know when your client’s comin’. I liked meetin’ ya.”
Riding downtown on the subway, Charlotte didn’t need to close her eyes or hum. She had been totally seduced by the charisma of Max’s experience; by his defiance and his lonely but obsessive love for objects. Charlotte understood this connection. Tracing a relationship over hundreds of years between an object and those who had touched it, lived with it, and lost it meant more to Charlotte than any relationship with a human being ever would.
Climbing the stairs at Franklin Street she flipped open her phone and sighed. There were three messages from Vicky’s number. She replayed them while walking towards Anna’s shop on Duane Street. Each call was more hysterical than the last.
“Oh my God! Charlotte!” Vicky howled between sobs. “For Christ’s sake, call me. Please. It’s Phil.”
Charlotte slowed down as she called back and waited for Vicky to pick up.
“Vicky, it’s me. What the hell’s the matter? Tell me!”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Vicky wailed.
“Did Phil get hit by a bus? What?”
“He’s having an affair, Charlotte. With some fucking Russian tart.”
“I’m sure he’s not, “Charlotte lied, remembering the titaness at the museum benefit. “Who told you?”
“He did, Charlotte. But he didn’t know he was telling me.”
“I don’t get it,” Charlotte said.
“It was his cell phone. It speed dialed me by accident when the bitch pushed him down on her bed. The phone must have been in his pocket.”
“Oh my God! You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I’m not kidding, Charlotte. I’m going to kill him. I invited that woman into my house for dinner last week. And today, I had to listen to them rolling around on the frigging mattress. Every time I slammed down my phone, it called me back. I could hear everything.”
“Listen, Vicky. Hold tight. I’ll be up tomorrow morning. Okay?”
“I don’t know, Charlotte. I just don’t know. How could he?”
Even if Vicky had never heard the gossip about “Phil Phil,” which Charlotte sincerely doubted, why pull a tantrum now? She had six months to go before the second phase of her prenup kicked in. A phase that would involve what Vicky’s lawyers had described as “a life-affecting sum.” None was the only sum that Charlotte could imagine as truly “life-affecting” for Vicky. Hell, maybe Phil had dialed Vicky’s number from the Russian’s himself?
When the phone trilled again, she checked the number. No way she was going to talk to Vicky again until tomorrow. It was Anna.
“Charlotte, are you there?” she shrieked.
“Yes, I’m here. Stop shrieking, Anna.”
“I just got a call from a friend. About the murder of that Webb woman!”
Charlotte’s heart was pumping as if she’d been running. “Yeah. So what she’d say?”
“Ah Dio! Dio!” she said. “Cara, it may be the work of a serial killer!”
Charlotte could see Anna’s hands, wildly acting out the drama while she spoke.
“I’ll call you later, Anna. I’m on my way home.” Snapping the phone shut, Charlotte sprinted toward her loft on North Moore Street.
20
She’d missed New York News at 6. Only CNN had some footage with a few tantalizing sound bites. There were shots of Amy Webb at her wedding with her husband, of the divorcee with the Dom at the Whitney Biennale, and of the girl with the charm bracelet on some runway at a Paris fashion show. A brief close-up of the mayor and the police commissioner flanked by an army of flunkies was followed by the commissioner’s statement.
“There is no reason for New Yorkers to panic. Yes, there are similarities. The victims are female, they died from blows to the head, and yes, as Ben at the Post pointed out, they seemed to be well-to-do. All we’re asking right now is that the public be aware—”
“Sir, Sir! Is there a possibility that the murderer is using the Internet to get into these women’s homes? Maybe through chat rooms or—”
“We’re following up on several leads at the moment, Ben,” replied the commissioner. “Forensic experts in the Computer Crime Squad will be working with