The Boy Next Door (21 page)

To: Sergeant Paul Reese

From: John Trent

Subject: Transvestite killer

I’ll bet you a box of Krispy Kremes the Friedlander assault was the work of a copycat…and not a very good one at that.

Let’s say this kid you’ve got your eye on is the one: Take a look at his other victims. All lived in walk-up buildings. No doormen to tangle with. All were considerably younger than Mrs. Friedlander. And all had items taken from their homes.

Now, we can’t really tell if any of Mrs. Friedlander’s clothes were taken, but certainly her purse wasn’t, nor the cash in it. And we know the transvestite killer always takes whatever ready cash he can find lying around—even Victim Number 2’s laundry quarters.

But Mrs. Friedlander had over two hundred bucks in her wallet, which was sitting in plain sight.

I tell you, the more I think about it, the more I believe this whole thing points to someone who knew her. Someone she was expecting, so she kept the door unlocked. And someone who knew what apartment she lived in, so he didn’t need to stop and ask the doorman any questions…. And might even have known the doorman’s habits well enough to know that on the night of a ballgame he wouldn’t be excessively diligent about maintaining his post.

What do you have to say about that?

John

To: John Trent

From: Sergeant Paul Reese

Subject: Glazed, not frosted.

And I usually like a nice tall glass of milk with them.

Paul

To: Max Friedlander

From: John Trent

Subject: Your aunt

Max, did your aunt have any enemies that you know of? Anyone she knew who might have wanted her dead?

I know it’s a big effort for you to think of anybody else but yourself, but I’m asking you to give it a try, for me.

You know where to reach me.

John

To: John Trent

From: Max Friedlander

Subject: Aunt Helen

I don’t hear from you for weeks, and when you finally do write, it’s to ask me some cockamamie question about my aunt? What is with
you, man? Ever since you started walking that damned dog, you’ve gone all weird on me.

Enemies? Of course she had enemies. That old lady was a bitch on wheels. Everyone who knew her hated her, with the exception of that freakish animal-loving neighbor of hers. Aunt Helen was always campaigning for some unpopular cause or another. If it wasn’t Save the Pigeons, it was Stop Starbucks. I tell you, if I were somebody who liked to sit in the park and drink coffee, I’d have taken out a hit on her.

Plus she was stingy. REALLY stingy. You ask her for a loan—just a piddling five hundred bucks—and it was like World War II all over again, only you’re London and she’s the Luftwaffe. This from a woman worth twelve million.

Look, Trent, I don’t have time for this stuff. Things aren’t going as well over here as I’d hoped. Vivica is proving to be far more avian than I ever expected. She’s going through money like it’s conditioner or something. It would be fine if it were
her
money, but it’s not. She forgot her bank card. I ask you, how does somebody “forget” her bank card when she goes on vacation?

I wouldn’t care if it were just a matter of buying her a sandwich now and then, but she keeps insisting she needs new shoes, new shorts, new bathing suits. She’s got nineteen bikinis with matching cover-ups already. I ask you, how many bathing suits does a woman need? Particularly when the concierge and I are the only ones around to see them.

Gotta go. She’s got a hankering to go to Gucci. GUCCI! Jesus!

Max

To: Max Friedlander

From: Sebastian Leandro

Subject: Your message

Max—

Got your message. Sorry I wasn’t in. Where were you calling from? Hemingway’s house or something? I hear there’s a bunch of stray cats that live there, which would certainly explain all that cater-wauling I heard in the background when you called.

Look, bud, I don’t have a lot, workwise. I told you not to go on hiatus, or whatever it is you’re calling this extended vacation of yours. A week here and there is one thing, but this has turned into a full-on sabbatical. Dropping out of sight the way you’re doing has hurt a lot more careers than it’s ever helped.

But, hey, the news isn’t all bad. If you can hang in there a few more weeks, the resort-and-cruise-wear issues of J. Crew and Victoria’s Secret are coming up. They’re looking at Corfu and Morocco, respectively. The pay’s not much, I know, but it’s something.

Don’t panic. Swimsuit issues are right around the corner.

Call me. We’ll talk.

Sebastian

To: Sebastian Leandro

From: Max Friedlander

Subject: You’ve got to get me out of here

You don’t understand. I
need
work. Any work. I have to get out of Key West. Vivica’s gone mental. THAT’s what you heard when I called. It wasn’t cats. It was
her
. She was crying.

And let me tell you, when Vivica cries, she does NOT look like a supermodel. Or any kind of model, for that matter. Except like one of those models they use in horror movies just before someone’s head gets chopped off by a flying pylon, or whatever.

Anyway, she’s racked all my credit cards up to the max. Unbeknownst to me, she’s been buying every piece of crap driftwood sculpture she can find, and shipping them back to New York. I’m serious. She thinks she’s got a “real eye” for the next big thing, and that it’s going to be driftwood sculpture. She’s already bought twenty-seven driftwood dolphins. LIFESIZE.

Need I say more?

FIND ME WORK. I’ll take ANYTHING.

Max

To: Lenore Fleming

From: Max Friedlander

Subject: S.O.S.

DEAR LENORE,

HI! I KNOW IT SAYS THIS IS FROM MAX, BUT IT IS REALLY FROM ME, VIVICA. I AM USING MAX’S COMPUTER SINCE HE ISN’T HERE. I DON’T KNOW WHERE HE IS. PROBABLY IN A BAR SOMEWHERE. THAT’S WHERE HE ALWAYS IS THESE DAYS. LENORE, HE IS SO SELFISH! HE YELLED AT ME ABOUT THE DRIFTWOOD SCULPTURES. HE HAS NO APPRECIATION FOR FINE ART. HE IS JUST LIKE YOU SAID, TOTALLY BOURGEOIS.

WELL, YOU WARNED ME.

ANYWAY, I TRIED TO CALL YOU, BUT YOU ARE ALWAYS OUT. THEN DEIRDRE SAID I SHOULD TRY E-MAILING. I
HOPE YOU GET THIS. I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO. I GUESS I SHOULD COME HOME, ONLY I FORGOT MY BANK CARD. IN FACT, I FORGOT MY WHOLE WALLET. I DON’T EVEN HAVE A CREDIT CARD, WHICH IS WHY I HAVE BEEN USING MAX’S. BUT I WOULDN’T HAVE, IF I HAD KNOWN HOW SELFISH HE IS.

PLEASE COULD YOU HAVE DEIRDRE GO TO MY APARTMENT AND GET MY WALLET AND SEND IT TO ME CARE OF THE PARADISE INN IN KEY WEST? ALSO, COULD SHE SEND SOME BODY LOTION FROM KHIEL’S BECAUSE I AM PEELING.

WELL, THAT’S ALL. IF YOU GET THIS MESSAGE, CALL ME. I NEED SOMEONE TO TALK TO. MAX IS JUST DRUNK ALL THE TIME, AND WHEN HE’S NOT, HE’S ASLEEP.

LOVE,

VIVICA

To: [email protected]

From: Jason Trent

Subject: The cabin

All right, I cleared it. If you want the cabin for next weekend, it’s yours—on one condition:

YOU HAVE TO TELL HER.

Seriously, John, you may think this girl is something special, and she probably is, but NO woman likes being lied to, even if it’s for a good cause—which I’m not even sure yours is. In fact, I know it’s not. I mean, come on, deceiving an old lady and her neighbors?

Admirable, John, very admirable.

Anyway, I’ll have Higgins drop the keys to the cabin at your office tomorrow morning.

We’re off to Mim’s for dinner tonight, so I’ll talk to you later.

Jason

To: Jason Trent

From: [email protected]

Subject: The cabin

Well, you might be a pompous ass, but at least you’re a generous one. Thanks for the keys.

I will, of course, take your counsel under advisement. On the whole, however, I don’t think Mel is the kind of girl who can be swayed by a pair of earrings, from Tiffany’s or otherwise.

Thanks for the suggestion, though.

Gotta go. Last night she made me dinner, and now it’s my turn. Thank God for Zabar’s prepared-food section.

John

To: Mel Fuller

From: Don and Beverly Fuller

Subject: Remember us?

Hi, honey! It’s been awhile. You haven’t returned any of my messages. I am assuming that you are all right, and that you have just been busy with this whole Lisa Marie Presley thing. I just don’t understand that girl. Why on earth she married that Michael Jackson, I will never comprehend. Do you suppose he is paying her alimony? Do you think you could find out for me?

Speaking of marriage, Daddy and I just got back from the wedding of yet ANOTHER of your classmates. You remember Donny Richardson, don’t you? Well, he’s a chiropractor now, and QUITE well off, from what I understand. He married a darling girl he met at a NASCAR race. You might want to consider attending a few NASCAR races, Mellie, as I hear that there are quite a lot of eligible men in attendance at these events.

Anyway, the wedding was just lovely, and the reception was at the Fireside Inn. You remember, where you and your brother and Daddy always took me for brunch on Mother’s Day. The bride was just lovely, and Donny looked so handsome! You can hardly see the scars from that nasty corn-detasseling accident he had all those years back. He’s certainly bounced back!

How are things going with that young man you wrote about last time? Max, I think, was his name. Or was it John? I hope you two are taking things nice and slow. I read in Ann Landers that
couples who wait until marriage to have sex have a twenty percent less chance of divorcing than couples who don’t.

Speaking of divorce, have you heard the rumors about Prince Andrew and Fergie getting back together? I do hope they can patch things up. He always looks so lonely these days when I see him standing around at Wimbledon or wherever.

Write when you get the chance!

Love,

Mommy

To: Don and Beverly Fuller

From: Mel Fuller

Subject: Hi!

Hi, Mom! Sorry I haven’t called or written in so long. I really have been busy.

Things have been going really great. Really, really great. In fact, better than they’ve gone in a long time. That’s because of the guy I told you about, John.

Oh, Mom, I can’t wait for you to meet him! I am totally going to bring him home for Christmas, if I can get him to come. You will just love him. He is just so funny and nice and sweet and smart and handsome and tall and everything, you will just DIE when you meet him. He is so much better than Donny Richardson could ever ever be. Even Daddy will like him, I’m sure. I mean, John knows all about sports and engines and Civil War battles and all those things Daddy likes.

I am so glad I moved to New York, because if I hadn’t I never would have met him. Oh, Mom, he’s just so great, and we have such a good time together, and I’ve been late to work every day this week because of him, and I have accrued about eight more
tardies in my personnel file, but I don’t care, it is just so nice to be with someone you don’t have to play games with and who is perfectly straight with you, and who isn’t afraid to use the “L” word.

That’s right, the “L” word! He loves me, Mom! He says so every day, like ten times a day! He is so not like any of those other losers I have been out with since I moved here. HE LOVES ME. And I love him. And I am just so happy, sometimes I think I could burst.

Well, I have to go now. He’s making me dinner. Speaking of which, he actually likes my cooking. Really! I made pasta the other night, and he loved it. I used your recipe for the sauce. Well, with a little help from Zabar’s prepared-food section. But what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him!

Love,

Mel

To: Mel Fuller

From: Don and Beverly Fuller

Subject: Daddy and I are

just so happy for you, sweetie. It’s just so nice that you have met this lovely boy. I hope the two of you are having a very nice time together, preparing meals for one another and perhaps taking strolls through Central Park (though I hope you’ll stay out of there at night. I’ve heard all about those wilding youths).

Just remember though that there are men out there (and I’m not saying your John is one of them) who are only after one thing, and will TELL a girl that they love her just to get her into bed.

That’s all I’m saying. Not that this young man of yours would ever do such a thing. I just know there are men out there who do. The reason I know this, Melissa, is that, well, don’t tell your father, but…

It happened to me.

Fortunately I realized in time that the young man in question was one of those. But Melissa, I came very close. Very, very close to giving away my most precious jewel to a man who most decidedly did not deserve it.

All I’m trying to say, Melissa, is to get a ring on that finger of yours before you give anything away. Will you promise Mommy you’ll do that?

Have fun—but not too much fun.

Love,

Mommy