The Other Side of Love

Chapter 5

Stefan

    If I hadn't seen her face drain of blood when she read the letter, I would have assumed she was thoroughly unaffected by events of this evening. She sits languidly, all feminine ease and smoothness, a bored expression on her face as she slowly taps her nails against her thigh. The picture of elite superiority. This mask of hers gets on my nerves.

    Ever since the call came in, and the press had unfortunately gotten wind of it before we could wrap it up, I've been hard-pressed for leads. Jennifer Arctic was an outgoing college student. Her body is now at the coroner's, the results not expected until the end of the week. Her body was badly beaten, scores of wounds on her body that appear to be a knife dragged through her body. She was obviously sexually assaulted but there was no fluid evidence other than the blood found on her. She looked to have been strangled. And her tongue had been sliced in half. Investigation has revealed that her day had been very basic on the night she was murdered. Her friends had seen her, her parents had seen her. And the last person to have seen her alive is one of her female friends from college. They had gone out partying and the friend had had to leave early, leaving Jennifer with alot to do, many hours before she was murdered. 

    We have been chasing leads related to personal malice. Her boyfriends have been interrogated with heavy suspicion, because any one of them could have found out about the others and decided to kill her. Her friends have also been interrogated to see if anyone kept a malice or had a personal vendetta against her. Nothing. Apparently she was an easy going girl who hardly picked up fights with anyone and gave noone any reason to want to go as far as kill her. Two of her boyfriends have good alibis while the third is a person of interest on the case. 

    After reading the letter, I fear we have approached this from a wrong angle. But nobody could have predicted this new turn of events, that it isn't a particularly personal murder. Her death is careless, pointless and I cannot determine if that's worse than a targeted murder. It's all awful. The only thing I can do is to make sure I find her killer.

    The phone call about a bloody red hair was almost certainly the break we've been looking for but to find it connected to, of everyone, her. Life must be having a great belly laugh at my expense. That she doesn't seem to be taking this very seriously makes me want to punch something. 

    "So, let's start from the beginning." I say.

    She looks around the room with a frown. "Detective, surely we can have this conversation in another room?" I feel a twinge each time she calls me 'Detective'. I tell myself not to be stupid, it actually puts the professional distance this situation needs between us but perhaps that's also my problem. After an evening of hearing her purr my name into my ears, this new distance and the coldness in her eyes feel alien, like putting on a sock wrong. "This situation might be perfectly normal for you but I'm not sure I can bear to stay in this room a second longer." Her gaze drifts to the bag containing the hair.

    It's a testament to how much she is screwing with my head that I'm not sure if she's genuinely uncomfortable in this room or whether she's stalling, provoking me. Maybe both.

    "Of course." I look at her friend who looks relieved to be getting out of the room. Without wasting time, she marches straight for the door with a "Follow me".

    Annabel drops her magazine on the table and follows her friend out. I stay a moment to instruct Phillip to get the bags to the lab for a test as soon as possible, and Spencer to report everything to Chief and go back home. The hotel staff comes to life, moving to the wardrobe, pulling out Annabel's stuff and arranging them neatly. I head out and find the friend standing by the open door of the next room. She motions me in and moves in herself.

    The setting of the room is similar to Annabel's room. She sits in almost the same position, a cup of steaming coffee in her hand. As I approach her, my body tightens until I feel like I'm wearing someone else's skin. My eyes move over her. Skin tight jeans hug her legs, cut off at the base. Her jacket is zipped almost to her neck, making her face more pronounced. Her hair cascades down her back in abundant waves. My fingers itch with the urge to run them through it, to be sure I didn't imagine the softness. Her face is clean of makeup. She looks young and fresh, much younger than I expected. I also can't help but notice how tired she looks. I remember this night was her performance night but it has since ended and I wonder where she's been at. Snippets of yesterday night drift into my mind and I wonder if she's been with a lover. She's shown no qualms after all, in expressing her feelings. An image of her with a faceless man flashes through my mind and I recoil from it, an unfamiliar sensation winding through me. 

    She looks up as I approach and visibly collects herself, her bored icy mask sliding into place.

    "If you don't feel up to it, you can give your report tomorrow. At the station." I say and wince. I'd intended to come off as understanding but the curt tone of my voice made it out as threatening. The logical part of my brain wants to get this report right now but a small part that's run mad wants her to say she's exhausted and get some rest.

    She glares at me. "I'll give it now. The sooner I rid myself of your presence the sooner I can rest easy."

    I cannot resist provoking her. "Something on your mind?" I ask, my gaze drifting to her lips. 

    She tosses her hair behind a shoulder and looks at me haughtily. "Something on yours, detective?" Her gaze is a challenge to dare to bring up the night before and excitement sizzles through me at meeting her challenge. Her friend clears her throat form behind me.

    "Detective, how do you like your coffee?"

    "Black. Little sugar." I tell her, coming back to my senses. I move to the opposite sofa and sit, digging out my notebook and pen. A glance at Annabel finds her amused. "I'm listening."

    She takes a sip of her coffee and sets it down. "I think this started many years ago." I arch a brow but don't interrupt her. "I've checked, his style of lettering; printed and in the red envelope, the letters started coming in like three years ago. At first he was just like every other fan. He sent words of adoration and declarations of love. All those letters go through Lissa and I don't bother to read any of them." She glances at me, expecting judgement and I shrug a shoulder. I won't presume to understand the life of a celebrity.

    Her friend, apparently called Lissa; I wasn't in the right frame of mind to remember anyone's name when she was introduced to me last night, brings me a cup of coffee. I look at her appreciatively and she goes to sit beside Annabel. 

    "Anyway, I think he figured out his letters weren't being read because they were soon addressed to my house. It came in with all my house bills and stuff. The first time I saw it I was curious. He had obviously gone to alot of trouble to find out where I live. I wasn't really creeped out. I figured I'd reward his efforts by reading his letters. They were pretty normal stuff. He sent them every Thursday, usually a poem and a joke. It was peculiar but I didn't really mind. His jokes were funny and he was really harmless. I began to look forward to his Thursday letters actually. I never knew what joke he'd dig up next. If I'd known this is how it was gonna end though..."

    She pauses to take a sip of her coffee and I make notes. She continues, a faraway look on her face. "I had a boyfriend then. It was a Friday night and I spent it with him at my place. He left early the next morning and then there was a red letter in my mail. It was totally out of character cos his days were Thursdays and he'd never deviated. The letter, it was... not the usual kind. He was mean and petty. He said I'd betrayed him and he'd forgive me if I apologized and never saw my boyfriend again, stuff like that. I was kinda disappointed cos I knew I wasn't going to read his letters after that. I tossed it in the trash and really wasn't hung up on it."

    She drains her cup and Lissa takes it and goes to refill it. "He sent many letters after that, on random days. I threw them all without opening them. And then I'd wake up in the morning to find the red letters on my doorstep. Sometimes it'd be a bouquet of white roses with a red letter stashed in it. It was very annoying then. I wanted him to get the message and stop sending them. So I woke up one morning to find one right on my doorstep and I didn't throw it as usual. I got my lighter and sat on my porch in full view of anyone that might be looking, and something told me he surely was. And then I burned it. I didn't get the red letters after that for a while. I thought my message had finally been received."

    Lissa hands her a new cup of coffee and she smiles and takes a sip, then holds the mug between her hands.

    I hold up a finger. "Let me get this straight. A persistent unknown fan who found out your location by unknown means, hand-delivered lots of letters to your doorstep, probably having to scale your fence or climb over your gate."

    She archs a brow sardonically. "That's what I said."

    "And did you bother to contact the police?" I ask, angry at how she doesn't seem to care for her own safety. If she's right and the culprit had been watching her when she'd burnt the letters the situation could have turned out all kinds of bad. He could have had a fun on him for Christ's sake!

    "Why would I, Detective? I don't trust the police. And I handle myself pretty well." She says, examining her nails again.

    There is no getting through her thick skull so I fume silently and motion for her to continue her story.

    "As I was saying. For a while it seemed the messages had stopped. And then one day I came back home and my sitting room was half filled with roses. Large bouquets of roses. They were everywhere. The scent was everywhere. And in the largest bouquet at the front was the red letter. I read that one. He was predictably angry that I'd rejected all his letters. He said he'd make me regret burning the last one and that if I ever ignored him again, he would enjoy tearing me apart. I was pretty shaken. I changed all my locks, installed an alarm system and hired a bodyguard."

    "What? You still did not call the police?" I am incredulous. There can't be anyone as foolish and stubborn and hardheaded as she.

    She glares at me. "I have told you, Detective. I will never willingly engage the police. I handled the situation."

    I can't believe her. "No, Annabel, you did not. If only you would have set aside your prejudice and misconceptions and just called the f*****g police they might have caught him by now."

    "How? She throws up her hands. "They were printed letters. I don't believe whoever he is is stupid enough to leave fingerprints just lying around to be discovered."

    "Not the letter itself. The police would have traced the paper. That was alot of thick red paper he used. It's not common. They would have traced how many people bought that kind of paper in bulk. And the bouquets for heaven's sake! It would have been very easy to trace who bought such a large assortment of white roses. If only you'd abandoned your shortsightedness perhaps we would have been able to avoid what happened to that poor girl!"

    She winces and the blood drains from her face. Her mask is forgotten and she looks down at her coffee as the implications of her actions dawn on her. I should feel smug to have finally gotten to her but all I taste is bitter regret. That defeated look on her face is one I would give my right arm to wipe off. I want to take back my harsh words so badly that I open my mouth to do just that when she looks up, her stormy eyes fastening on mine.

    "You might be right, Detective. Perhaps I should have called the police right away, perhaps the girl would have gone back home to her family safe and sound if I had. But I refuse to take responsibility for a psychopath's actions. I regret that she is dead and I sympathize with her family but I have absolutely nothing to feel guilty about. I did not kill her and had no hand in her death." She looks at me earnestly, speaking from her heart and I feel a sense of pride. I can't help looking at her with new eyes, with respect. It makes no sense. 

    "I apologize, Annabel. I crossed the line." I tell her, hoping she hears the truth and regret in my voice.

    She looks at me stonily.  "It's Miss Smith to you." Perhaps not.

    I nod slowly. "Miss Smith. Please continue your report."

    "I'll continue if I can be assured there'll be no more f**king interruptions." She says.

    I hold her eyes and as solemnly as I can, say, "I promise."

    She sniffs disdainfully, her mask falling effortlessly back into place and in an airy voice, finishes her report. "Well, after I hired the bodyguard it seemed to deter him. I had my bodyguard for like six months, he even slept in my house." My hand clenches reflexively around my mug and I force it to relax. She continues, "After that long with no more events, well I felt foolish and relieved him. I periodically change my locks though, because I still don't know how he got the first set. It's been months and there's been no event. I haven't heard peep from him till now."

    "Do you have any idea who could be sending these letters? Is there anyone you know that you suspect could be behind them?" I ask her.

    She shakes her head and drains her cup. 

    "You said he hasn't contacted you for a while, do you have any idea why that's changed?" I ask.

    "No." She replies.

    "Okay, do you have all the previous letters?" I ask, making notes.

    "Don't be silly, Detective. I threw them all out but the last one. It's back in LA."

    "And the roses?" She is silent and I look up. She is giving me a look that tells me I must be really stupid. "No roses then."

    "If that's all, I would like to go to bed." She says. 

    "Of course. One last question. Your performance ended hours ago, can you tell me where you've been the whole time?" I ask, peering intently into my note.

    "I don't think that's important, but if you must know, the show host, Lauren Mackenzie, threw a party after his show. I was there." She says. I look up and her eyes are on me, dancing with amusement.

    I busy myself putting away my notes. "Thank you," I stand, dropping the mug on the table. "If you remember anything else," I say, and place my card beside the mug, "please give me a call."

    She leans forward and takes it, fingering it, the amused look not leaving her face. "Funny, detective. We've exchanged cards now and I believe neither of us will be calling the other."

    I hesitate, wanting to tell her I would have called. That I'd placed her card on my table even in m drunken state so I wouldn't lose it. That despite my harried day and the gruesome murder, she has been constantly plaguing my mind. But I don't. 

    "Thank you Lissa. Goodnight Annabel." I say and stride towards the door.

    "It's Miss Smith." She calls out to me before I close the door.

    Despite the horrible day and the unexpected turn of the evening, I leave with a faint smile on my face.