A Playdate With Death by Ayelet Waldman Page A

time. At one point she even threatened to “drive out there” and talk to the woman herself. I didn’t think she was serious, the words were followed by a keyboard;), but the threat didn’t strike me as entirely idle.
    In her next message, Candace apologized for “haranguing” Bobby and asked him to call her or come by the café. After that came a string of short messages. A couple begged him to call and apologized again and again for “being so bossy.” Finally, she grew angry and called him cruel and selfish for excluding her from “the most important moment of your life—the culmination of your very existence.”
    There followed twenty or so one-line messages along the lines of “Where are you?” and “Why aren’t you answering me?”
    The last message began with the words, “You know I love you.” It went on from there. She told him that long before they’d met in person she’d realized that she wanted to dedicate herself to him. She insisted that their shared tragedy brought them together. She berated him for his unwillingness to consider a relationship with her, his obvious “soul mate.” Finally, she wrote, “I know you say that the reason you don’t want to be with me—in every sense of the word—is because you consider me your ‘soul sister,’ and not your lover. But we both know that’s not true. You’re allowing your guilt about Betsy to keep you from realizing your true destiny. The Lakota don’t believe that you can hide from your destiny. You can’t remain shackled to that stoned and destructive soul, not when mine cries out to you.”
    I leaned back in my chair with a sigh. Poor Candace. Poor Bobby. The truth was, he seemed an unlikely object of such passionate devotion. Bobby had been handsome, sure, but in a kind of bland, blond way. His good looks were strained, blurred, somehow, as a result, I’d always assumed, of his methamphetamine use—speed wreaks havoc on the skin. Bobby was, of course, in good shape. It was his job to be. He wasn’t, however, bulky and overly defined. He had a pleasantly strong and firm body, and his stomach was less of a washboard than a solid countertop. But really what made him seem something less than a Lothario was his easygoing, almost innocuous manner. He was pleasant and cheerful. He was ready with an encouraging word or an inspiring quote from one of his AA manuals. But he wasn’t passionate. He wasn’t ardent or fervent. He was calm and pleasant and decidedly un–soul mate–like. But then, who am I to say? My soul mate spends most of his days playing with vintage action figures and writing about serial murder, cannibalism, and human sacrifice.

    T HE next morning, Al called me with the news that he had, basically, no news. His sources at the LAPD weren’t saying much about Bobby’s death.
    “Let me put it this way,” Al said. “It could be suicide. Or maybe not. I get the feeling they’re thinking that if it was a homicide, it was a drug hit—you knew the guy was an addict, right?”
    “Recovered.”
    “Whatever. Once an addict always an addict, that’s what I say.”
    I rolled my eyes at the phone. “How original, Al.”
    “Anyway, the gun wasn’t registered to him or to anyone else, but there’s no evidence it was an illegal weapon. It was most likely purchased through a gun show, in which case there would be no records about who bought it.”
    “Why not? Don’t gun sellers have to do background checks?”
    “Not at gun shows.”
    “Why not?”
    Al didn’t answer for a moment. Then he said, “Honestly, I’ve never really understood that myself. Anyway, a background check wouldn’t do us much good. Those records are destroyed after the person passes the check.”
    “What?” I was shocked. “Why? Why destroy the record of who bought the gun?”
    “Haven’t you heard of privacy, girlie? You want the United States government keeping track of its private citizens’ every move?”
    “I sure as hell want the