Twisted

to share you with the world any more . . . You did that ALL for me!!!!
    I know we’ll be happy here.
    I love you always and forever.
    —David
    P.S. Guess what? I FINALLY found that old New York Scene magazine where you modeled those lether skirts. Yes, the one I’ve been looking for for years! Can you believe it!!!! I was so happy! I cut you out and taped you up (so to speak, ha!!!). I have a “Kari” room in my new condo, just like the one in my old place in Glendale (which you never came to visit—boo hoo!!!) but I decided to put these pictures in my bedroom. I got this nice light, it’s very low like candle light and I leave it on all night long. Now I even look forward to having bad dreams so I can wake up and see you.
    Walking inside, she slammed the door and clicked the three deadbolts. Sinking to her knees, she sobbed in fury until she was exhausted and her chest ached. Finally she calmed, caught her breath and wiped her face with her sleeve.
    Kari stared at the pistol for a long moment then put it back in the drawer. She walked into the den and, sitting in a straight-back chair, stared into her windswept backyard. Understanding at last that the only way this nightmare would end was with David Dale’s death or her own.
    She turned to her desk and began rummaging through a large stack of papers.

    The bar on West Forty-second Street was dim and stank of Lysol.
    Even though Kari was dressed down—in sweats, sunglasses and a baseball cap—three of the four patrons and the bartender stared at her in astonishment, one bleary-eyed man offering her a flirty smile that revealed more gum than teeth. The fourth customer snored sloppily at the end of the bar. Everyone, except the snoozer, smoked.
    She ordered a model’s cocktail—Diet Coke with lemon—and sat at a table in the rear of the shabby place.
    Ten minutes later a tall man with ebony skin, a massive chest and huge hands entered the bar. He squinted through the cigarette smoke and made his way to Kari’s table.
    He nodded at her and sat, looking around with distaste at the decrepit bar. He appeared exactly like she’d remembered him from their first meeting. That had been a year ago in the Dominican Republic when she’d been on a photo assignment for Elle and he’d been taking a day off from a project he’d been working on in nearby Haiti. When, after a few drinks, he’d told her his line of work and wondered if she might need anyone with his particular skills, she’d laughed at the absurd thought. Still, David Dale came to mind and she’d taken his phone number.
    “Why didn’t you want to meet at my place?” he now asked her.
    “Because of him,” she said, lowering her voice, as if uttering the pronoun alone could magically summon David Dale like a demon. “He follows me everywhere. I don’t think he knows I came to New York. But I can’t take any chances that he’d find out about you.”
    “Yo,” the bartender’s raspy voice called, “you want something? I mean, we don’t got table service.”
    The man turned to the bartender, who fell silent under his sharp gaze and returned to inventorying the bottles of cheap, well liquor.
    The man across from Kari cleared his throat. With a grave voice he said, “You told me what you wanted but there’s something I have to say. First—”
    Kari held up a hand to stop him. She whispered, “You’re going to tell me it’s risky, you’re going to tell me that it could ruin my life forever, you’re going to tell me to go home and let the police deal with him.”
    “Yeah, that’s pretty much it.” He looked into her flinty eyes and when she said nothing more he asked her, “You’re sure you want to handle it this way?”
    Kari pulled a thick white envelope out of her purse and slid it toward him. “There’s the hundred thousand dollars. That’s my answer.”
    The man hesitated then picked up the envelope and put it in his pocket.

    Nearly a month after his meeting with Kari Swanson, Detective Brad Loesser sat in his office and gazed absently at the rain streaming down his windows.He heard a breathless voice from his doorway.
    “We got a problem, Detective,” Sid Harper said.
    “Which is?” Loesser spun around. Problems on a night like this . . . that’s just great. Whatever it was, he bet he’d have to go outside to deal with it.
    Harper said, “We got a hit on the wiretap.”
    After Kari Swanson had met with him Loesser had had several talks with David Dale,