you?
Yeah . . . And then he’d taste my blood. Like Dracula, man. He’s way into blood.
Did he bite you?
Sometimes.
Did he brand you?
Brand me ?
Where did he get that tattoo?
What tattoo?
The one on the back of his neck. The pentagram.
I gave him that. He made me.
Whether or not he called it Satan worship, all Tredwell had told me about was sex - theatrical sex that was maybe distasteful, but not criminal. The only one to mention sacrifice had been me . . .
You get chills up your spine, you see a couple dumping trash and your mind just spins out of control.
‘My fault.’ I opened my eyes and went for the phone. ‘My fucking fault.’
I tried Yale’s cell phone first, but it was turned off so I called him at home.
Yale’s machine picked up. His best stage voice, with Patti LuPone belting ‘Don’t Cry for Me Argentina’ in the background. Hello, you’ve reached Yale St. Germaine. Don’t keep your distance - please leave a message . I’d heard it hundreds of times; now it made me feel nostalgic.
‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I jumped to conclusions. If jumping to conclusions were an Olympic event, I’d win a gold medal and set a distance record.’ I took a deep breath, then added, ‘If you forgive me, I’ll buy you a drink. Three drinks . . .’
About thirty seconds after I hung up, the phone rang. I picked it up fast. ‘Do you forgive me?’
‘I was just about to ask you the same thing.’ It wasn’t Yale’s voice. It was huskier, with a faint Jersey accent that was vaguely familiar.
‘Who is this?’
‘It’s John . . . Detective Krull.’
I wasn’t sure why I agreed to meet Krull. It was probably more curiosity than anything else - he’d been so insistent about getting together and I had no idea why. But there was also the way his words so closely mirrored the message I’d left for Yale. ‘I feel like I jumped to conclusions in the interview room, and I’m sorry . . .’ I took it as some kind of sign.
He’d said he supposed I didn’t want to go back to the precinct house, and I’d told him, ‘You got that right,’ and he’d said, ‘Can you meet me for drinks, then? Please?’ Please was the clincher.
So here I was, doing something I never would’ve imagined myself doing an hour earlier: having a Scotch on the rocks in a cop bar with Detective John Krull.
We were sitting across from each other at a small table in a fake English pub called the Blind Lion that was about a block west of the precinct house. Krull had changed out of his coat and tie and into natural fibers - a black pullover sweater and beat-up jeans. He looked much more comfortable physically - his neck, I noticed, was better made for loose sweaters than dress shirts and ties. Nonetheless, he seemed oddly nervous, and his eyes cut into mine with an intensity that seemed inappropriate given the conversation. ‘So what do you think of our New York winters?’ he asked me for the third time.
‘I still don’t mind them.’ I took a sip of my Scotch. It felt surprisingly warm and comforting as it blazed down my throat, erasing the last remnants of headache. I was tempted to drain the entire glass right there, in front of this antsy, muscular cop with his untouched bottle of light beer. I hoped I wasn’t becoming an alcoholic.
‘Those kids in your class are great. You must like kids.’
‘Yeah, I do. They’re funny, and they’re honest too, which is refreshing considering my other job, which is with a bunch of wannabe actors who, ummm . . . tend to exaggerate sometimes.’
‘I spoke to your boss at the theater. He seemed like a nice guy.’
‘Roland’s not an actor. He’s seventy-three, and he used to have a real job in advertising or something and he actually likes selling tickets.’
‘I hope you don’t mind my asking him for your number.’
‘No, I don’t, except why did you want my number?’ I took another sip.
‘I don’t
Yeah . . . And then he’d taste my blood. Like Dracula, man. He’s way into blood.
Did he bite you?
Sometimes.
Did he brand you?
Brand me ?
Where did he get that tattoo?
What tattoo?
The one on the back of his neck. The pentagram.
I gave him that. He made me.
Whether or not he called it Satan worship, all Tredwell had told me about was sex - theatrical sex that was maybe distasteful, but not criminal. The only one to mention sacrifice had been me . . .
You get chills up your spine, you see a couple dumping trash and your mind just spins out of control.
‘My fault.’ I opened my eyes and went for the phone. ‘My fucking fault.’
I tried Yale’s cell phone first, but it was turned off so I called him at home.
Yale’s machine picked up. His best stage voice, with Patti LuPone belting ‘Don’t Cry for Me Argentina’ in the background. Hello, you’ve reached Yale St. Germaine. Don’t keep your distance - please leave a message . I’d heard it hundreds of times; now it made me feel nostalgic.
‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I jumped to conclusions. If jumping to conclusions were an Olympic event, I’d win a gold medal and set a distance record.’ I took a deep breath, then added, ‘If you forgive me, I’ll buy you a drink. Three drinks . . .’
About thirty seconds after I hung up, the phone rang. I picked it up fast. ‘Do you forgive me?’
‘I was just about to ask you the same thing.’ It wasn’t Yale’s voice. It was huskier, with a faint Jersey accent that was vaguely familiar.
‘Who is this?’
‘It’s John . . . Detective Krull.’
I wasn’t sure why I agreed to meet Krull. It was probably more curiosity than anything else - he’d been so insistent about getting together and I had no idea why. But there was also the way his words so closely mirrored the message I’d left for Yale. ‘I feel like I jumped to conclusions in the interview room, and I’m sorry . . .’ I took it as some kind of sign.
He’d said he supposed I didn’t want to go back to the precinct house, and I’d told him, ‘You got that right,’ and he’d said, ‘Can you meet me for drinks, then? Please?’ Please was the clincher.
So here I was, doing something I never would’ve imagined myself doing an hour earlier: having a Scotch on the rocks in a cop bar with Detective John Krull.
We were sitting across from each other at a small table in a fake English pub called the Blind Lion that was about a block west of the precinct house. Krull had changed out of his coat and tie and into natural fibers - a black pullover sweater and beat-up jeans. He looked much more comfortable physically - his neck, I noticed, was better made for loose sweaters than dress shirts and ties. Nonetheless, he seemed oddly nervous, and his eyes cut into mine with an intensity that seemed inappropriate given the conversation. ‘So what do you think of our New York winters?’ he asked me for the third time.
‘I still don’t mind them.’ I took a sip of my Scotch. It felt surprisingly warm and comforting as it blazed down my throat, erasing the last remnants of headache. I was tempted to drain the entire glass right there, in front of this antsy, muscular cop with his untouched bottle of light beer. I hoped I wasn’t becoming an alcoholic.
‘Those kids in your class are great. You must like kids.’
‘Yeah, I do. They’re funny, and they’re honest too, which is refreshing considering my other job, which is with a bunch of wannabe actors who, ummm . . . tend to exaggerate sometimes.’
‘I spoke to your boss at the theater. He seemed like a nice guy.’
‘Roland’s not an actor. He’s seventy-three, and he used to have a real job in advertising or something and he actually likes selling tickets.’
‘I hope you don’t mind my asking him for your number.’
‘No, I don’t, except why did you want my number?’ I took another sip.
‘I don’t
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