Syrah and Swingers Page 3

  The steaming pulses and clicks of the coffee maker signaled the start of the new day.

  Max took his coffee to the granite counter and sat on a navy blue barstool with a brushed nickel frame. The kitchen’s white cabinets gleamed in the light, but navy ceramics added a cool note. “The donut thing. It’s not a cop thing—it’s a dad thing. Maybe for Dad it was a cop thing, but he used to take me for donuts regularly—probably easier for him than scrambling eggs.”

  “I didn’t know. That’s a good memory, Max.” Joy set a plate of eggs before him. “Here you go.”

  Max carried his plate and coffee to the white wrought iron table topped with glass and centered with a flower arrangement of faux daisies.

  They ate in silence and sipped their coffee.

  After eating only half of her eggs, Joy pushed her plate away. “The more I thought about last night, the sillier I felt. The last year in my PhD program at Yale, a guest professor came to teach. The famous Dr. Draven Blackmoor. I had attended a lecture of his when I was in my first year of the PhD program. I was in awe. He was passionate about breaking new ground in profiling serial killers—before they kill. He wanted to stop them, to turn their lives around. We can profile killers now by looking at the crime scene and examining their habits—what made them do it—but Draven wanted to be proactive.”

  “That sounds noble.” Max swigged his coffee.

  “Even more noble when you know what drove him. Blackmoor’s parents died almost twenty years ago, stabbed over and over by a serial killer. Blackmore was finishing his PhD in forensic psychology and still living at home. He had an older sister, a cop, who lived elsewhere. Draven heard a noise, called the police, and crept down the hall to investigate, carrying a baseball bat.”

  “He confronted the perp?”

  “The perp was an undergrad student in Draven’s class—it wasn’t uncommon for grad students to teach a class, but this guy became infatuated. Draven found him sitting on the end of the bed, waiting for him, with the bloodied bodies of Draven’s parents sprawled out behind him. All of that psychology, and Draven didn’t pick up on the guy’s predisposition to kill.”

  “Joy, we both know that serial killers are able to kill because they are able to blend in with others. They look like the rest of us. You told me that.”

  “Wednesday Addams told us that. I was quoting her.”

  “So they caught the guy. And Draven became a fan of serial killers?”

  “Not quite.” Joy gulped down some coffee. “The perp slit his own throat in front of Draven. According to the report, Draven said he had confessed to other crimes, but his last words were, ‘This is the only way I’ll stop. You know that, don’t you? I want to stop.’ Draven taught after that, and he became an expert in serial killers. Five years later, Draven helped design a computer algorithm to flag career criminal youths with a violent history or antisocial behavior. He set up an outreach program for youth offenders. The criminal computers, to this day, use Draven’s algorithm. Judges began to send him the hardest cases, the kids flagged as potential serial killers. When Draven returned to campus to teach during my last year at Yale, I applied to be his assistant, and I could not have been happier when he called me to say that I’d landed the job.”

  “You dated him. You said a ‘bad breakup.’”

  Joy nodded. She gulped down a large draught of coffee. She kept her hands wrapped around the cup, holding it like an anchor. “We spent a lot of time together. Sam was so far away. And Daven—oh, this is so cliché—I thought he understood me—even more than Sam. He knew me. He knew…” Joy shook her head.

  “Your dark side?”

  Joy let out a sigh that left her chest in a wave of relief mixed with regret. “Yes. But before I graduated, I began to see his dark side. I didn’t tell him that I’d applied for the FBI training program. When I told Draven that I’d been accepted and that I was breaking up with him, he blew up. He said I could be so much more, that he could make me so much more. That’s when I saw what he really wanted. Control. Complete control. He’d already led me down roads I never thought I’d walk and that I’m not proud of, roads that led me to the edge of a cliff.” Joy rose from the table and glanced out the window.

  Max watched her. Whatever she had to say, she could not look at him and say it. He gave her the time she needed to get the words out.

  “Later, I realized he must have known my past, profiled me, and he used that to his advantage. He started to pry. He knew Sam had adopted me, because I’d told him that. There’s no previous record of our births before the birth certificate that has Sam, and David, I presume, listed as our fathers.”

  “Belladonna—Ursula—explained that. We were born at home. No record. Sam worked for the FBI. He must have created our records. By three-and-a-half, we hadn’t been in school either. You’re all I remember.”

  “I remember a man and woman. Vaguely. Before we were poisoned.” Joy came back to the table, but she didn’t sit down. She stood by the counter, took a swig of coffee, and set her cup down. “I’d told him about my shoebox collection of dead critters.”

  “How did Blackmoor use the intel?”

  “He said I had all of the traits of a serial killer.”

  “That’s rubbish! You were vulnerable, Joy. You’re right. He said that to control you.”

  Joy nodded. “I know. We fought. I broke it off with him and entered the training academy. After I graduated, I worked for the FBI for a few months, but I saw Draven everywhere I went, or so it seemed.”

  “He stalked you?”

  “I don’t know. It’s not like he sat outside my apartment. He’d just be in the same grocery store or at an FBI lecture. I needed to get home—to Sam. I handed my resignation to Director Webb, a friend of my father’s, moved back to San Diego to consult for the S.D.P.D., and I taught. I was still figuring it all out, getting on my feet again when…”

  “When your father was killed in the line of duty.” Max had to ask, “Did you see Blackmoor after that?”

  “Only once. He showed up in San Diego and knocked on my door shortly after Sam’s death. Said he’d heard the news and he wanted to make sure I was all right. I lost it. I told him if he ever came near me again, I’d get a restraining order. I was completely underwater at that point. I slammed the door in his face. I sat in a corner with Monty in my lap.” Joy’s twenty-one year old female ball python lived in an elaborate black-faced enclosure in her bedroom, a custom-built house with terraced rock walls, logs and branches, green leafy plants, and a shallow pool. “I think she felt me shaking, because she climbed up my chest and she just lay there, like she was looking me in the eyes. She’s never done that before. I swear. It was like she was telling me to focus on her. I stroked her head and felt her warm body, and she…she brought me home. Up to that point, I hadn’t cried for Sam. I felt numb. But the dam burst. I broke down. I heaved until I thought I’d turn inside out, and maybe I did. I got up off the floor and I started going through Sam’s things—and they led me to you.”

  “No wonder you crawled into a hole for six months.”

  Joy inhaled deeply and let out a long sigh. “I honestly think I’d be dead now if I hadn’t found you, Max.”

  “I think you’re tougher and stronger than you give yourself credit for, Joy. You’ve faced so much more than me. I had it easy.” Max gulped down the rest of his coffee. He felt the caffeine kick in. “I also know there’s more to tell. What are you holding back?”

  Joy finished her coffee and carried her empty cup to the sink. “Baby steps, Max. It’s time to get to the office and solve the swinger case.”

  Max cleared his plate and carried it to the sink. He brushed against Joy’s arm as he set his plate down. “Why would Blackmoor return now? And here?”

  Joy rinsed the dishes and Max set them in the dishwasher. “I don’t know, Max. But shortly after I broke up with Draven, all hell broke loose. I was still working as his assistant. One day, Dr. Friedrich Hoffman came to see him. I sat
at a computer in the lab doing research. The guy screamed at Draven. He called him a fraud. He said some of Draven’s youthful charges had been caught—eight to be exact—they had all become serial killers. And Hoffman was going to publish a paper of his findings.”

  Max shrugged. “It sounds like Blackmoor’s algorithm worked. He was right about them. He just couldn’t turn them around.”

  “I know. But after I moved back to California, I heard Hoffman and his family were murdered.”

  “Where was Blackmoor?”

  “Miles away. He told the police that he suspected that one of his serial killers had attached to him, and in some sick, twisted way, the person might be trying to protect him.”

  “That makes sense. There are plenty of stories of serial killers attaching to the cops trying to hunt them down.”

  “Yale didn’t want to take a chance. Neither did others. Over the course of the next year, Yale disassociated itself from him, as did other universities. Draven stayed in New York and wrote books and gave lectures. Funding dried up. The courts stopped sending offenders his way. He had to close the institute and shut down the outreach program. He’s been on the lecture and book circuit since then.”

  Max dried his hands on a navy blue dish towel embroidered with daisies. “Is Blackmoor into the swinging life?” Max handed Joy the towel.

  Joy dried her hands. She kept her eyes on the black and white and silver glass backsplash above the sink. “Yes.”

  The word caught in Max’s throat. Was it an answer or an admission?

  4

  Once they filed their report at the station, Max and Joy set out to meet with the suspects one-by-one. They decided to start with Sophia and Elwin and save Tony and Christie for last when they had more details with which to grill them if inconsistencies arose.

  They gathered in the Hansen’s beige and turquoise living room, where Southwestern art hung on the walls. Sophia and Elwin could not have huddled any closer together on the sofa, and Max wondered if they were naturally clingy or if a dead body in their house had drawn them closer.

  Max opened his notebook and poised his pen. “What can you tell us about your guests?”

  Elwin glanced at Sophia, and she back at him. “We don’t pry. One thing swingers don’t do is share personal information. Some, we know better than others.”

  Sophia added, “As you can imagine, strict privacy is must. Loose lips sink ships, as they say. While we don’t see anything wrong in how we choose to live our lives, others view us as deviants.”

  Joy inquired, “Then how do people know you’re having a party? And how do they get invited?”

  Sophia jumped in to answer. “We let Victor and Gloria know, for one. They run an adult club, and they pick and choose discreet guests on occasion. We are very picky and exclusive because, at this point, we can afford to be. We have regulars, but we like to mix it up.”

  Elwin added, “Usually, people hear that Victor and Gloria are the ones to speak to, but if someone does contact us directly, we send them to the club.”

  Sophia picked up where Elwin left off. “Victor and Gloria check them out, but no one keeps personal information on others. A week before the party—just for fun—we hang a themed flag in front of our house that always has a big red heart or the word ‘love.’ We especially like 60s themed flags, like ‘Free love’ or ‘Peace and love.’ We snap a picture of the flag and post it to our Facebook page. The party is the following Friday night. It’s just a naughty little thing we do—it’s like flaunting it to everyone we know but it’s a secret code—unless you’re on the invite list.”

  “Sixties theme?” said Max. “Sex, drugs, and rock and roll. I get it.”

  “No drugs,” added Elwin. “Besides, swinging has always been around—way before the 60s.”

  Max jotted a note. “You said you had expected everyone who came last night. But the guy who left the card—he was new, right? Did he show up at the club?” Max gave Joy a let-me-handle-this glance.

  “Yes,” said Sophia. “And he spent a fortune in champagne and tips for the dancers.”

  “How did you two meet?” asked Joy.

  Max had to admit, Joy had a flare for getting people to open up by getting to know them personally.

  Elwin and Sophia practically gushed their answer while beaming lovingly at one another, which Max had a hard time piecing together. How do people rationalize having sex with others and still be married and in love?

  Elwin held Sophia’s hand. “Fate brought us together. Everyone has different reasons for swinging—some want to spice up a relationship with full and open disclosure. Others like Sophia and I run hot—I mean that as in ‘we can’t stop.’ We’re sex addicts. It’s like saying alcoholic, except people don’t flinch when you say ‘alcoholic.’ They flinch if you say ‘sex addict,’ like we’re immoral or depraved. We have to keep our disease a secret from the world.” Elwin became cross. “It’s like we’re lepers. Look at the flack Tiger Woods suffered for having multiple partners? The mistake he made, however, which we do not make, is total disclosure.”

  “That’s right. Had he been open, the girls could have made choices—it’s the deceit that causes problems in relationships.” Sophia smiled at Elwin. “We met in our therapist’s waiting room.”

  Joy used a calming, empathetic tone. “New studies indicate that three areas of the brain, the ventral stratium, the dorsal anterior cungulate, and the…” Max was glaring at her, so she paused.

  Elwin finished, “And the amygdala. We read about it. These three areas process reward and motivation.”

  “And,” Joy said to Max, more than to the others, “they become highly activated in drug addicts and the same holds true for sex addicts.”

  “Finding someone who suffers as I do took away the shame and guilt I felt.” Sophia clenched Elwin’s hand. “I was a regular at Victor and Gloria’s sex club. I hid my compulsion and the shame associated with it. But I love Elwin.”

  “I have a thing for female superheroes,” admitted Elwin. “So Sophia becomes Wonder Woman or Superwoman for me. We truly love each other, detectives. And being open about our needs and helping each other satisfy them—safely—probably saved both our lives.”

  Sophia gestured, as if to emphasize her point. “Think of it. Right now, people in other homes are carrying on affairs and cheating on their lovers or spouses, but swingers—we don’t cheat. We obtain consent. That’s rule number one.”

  “What are the other rules?” asked Max.

  Elwin rattled them off as if stating common knowledge, like explaining DMV rules for safe driving. “No touching without permission. Even if you had permission at another event, it doesn’t count. You start all over.”

  “No drugs, no prostitution, no heavy drinking. Swingers enjoy the sex—they don’t have to dull their inhibitions, and they don’t want to dull their senses—that would defeat the purpose.”

  “BYOB at our parties. No audio, no pictures, no video.”

  “Arrive as a couple, leave as a couple. No singles allowed,” added Sophia. “And you may leave without sex, if everyone has turned you down. It’s not a free-for-all.”

  “That’s right, Sweetheart. Too many people think it’s some kind of mad orgy, but it’s not. We choose who and when and how. No means no.”

  “Right. Some people watch. Others want a ‘soft swap,’ meaning touching but no intercourse. And while group games might happen, there’s nothing extreme—no bondage, kinky stuff. That’s for fetish clubs.”

  “And couples make their own rules too—no sex if we’re not in the same room, no kissing, or they place restrictions on the type of engagements they deem acceptable. And safe sex is a must. Unlike people in bars who get drunk, hook up, and screw without protection—that does not happen here. We take care of health and the health of our partners.” Elwin summed it up. “So you see, detectives, we’re as normal as you two, but we open our relationship to others, and we decide together how the night will go. No secrets. No l
ies. No STD surprises. We take routine tests to be sure. We’re not saying there aren’t some risks.”

  Max made some notes. It astounded him to hear how organized and cautious the swingers’ world seemed to be.

  Sophia changed the subject. “Any word on how Ted died?”

  Max answered. “Not yet. Did he have any enemies?”

  Sophia shook her head.

  Elwin shrugged. “Ted’s previous party was his first with us, but we had met him before that. Sophia had seen him around the neighborhood. He rents a cottage behind Mrs. Anderson’s house, two doors down. Ted told Sophia he was new in town, and she invited him over.” Elwin blushed. “One of my little turn-ons is walking in on Sophia with another man, and then joining in—with her, not him, of course. I’m straight. Most male swingers are, and the ones who aren’t attend other parties. Not ours.”

  Sophia blushed too. “I invited Ted over, and he was receptive to me. I sent a text to Elwin. He walked in on us.” She glanced at Elwin. “It’s such a rush, darling.”

  Elwin grabbed Sophia’s hand and kissed it. “For me, too, darling.” Elwin turned to Max and let out a laugh. “I thought Ted was going to die. But we put him at ease, and he joined in the fun. To make up for it, we invited him to the next party, and he could not have been happier.”

  “The following month, Henri had to work late, due to some big social event at the restaurant. So we told Nicole to come, because we had an extra male. But…” Sophia frowned. “There was an altercation. Ted and Nicole swapped with Mark and Mary—it was Mark and Mary’s first swap, so we wanted it to go well. Ted got rough. At one point, he slapped Mary. Mark came unglued. He stopped what he was doing with Nicole and yanked Ted off of Mary. He punched him in the face.”

  “Nicole ran to get me, and I pulled Ted aside and explained how swingers’ parties worked and how they didn’t work. I almost threw him out and banned him for good.”

  Sophia cringed. “We should have.”

  Elwin shot her a look of agreement.