Perfect flaw, p.16
Perfect Flaw, page 16
“Did you go through with it?”
Angelo nodded. “We dissolved the pills in water one night while Don was out walking. She was barely conscious, but when we put that cup to her lips, her eyes opened wide, and she drank. It was like she knew what we were doing.” Angelo turned away, unable to look Jason in the eyes. “The next morning, she never woke up.”
“Weren’t you afraid Don would notice his pills were missing?”
“He did,” Angelo said, staring down at his trembling hands, “but he never said a word about it.”
“So, Don . . . .”
“He knew what we had done,” Angelo sobbed with a kind of sheepish guilt. “The nurse said it was God’s plan, and that was that. Don moved to Japan shortly after the funeral. I guess he couldn’t bear to live with his dead wife’s murdering kids.”
Jason reached over and held Angelo’s hands. “I’m sorry you had to go through that. It couldn’t have been easy.”
This reaction surprised Angelo, but he felt an astonished relief that Jason didn’t bolt out the door.
“Watching someone die has a way of gutting you,” Angelo said, wiping away his tears. “Do you think I’m a terrible person?”
“No,” Jason whispered. “Just the opposite.”
“Now it’s your turn.”
Jason puffed out his cheeks and exhaled slowly. “The reason I see a counselor is because I discharged my weapon,” he said, coughing nervously into his fist. “What I never told you is that we were responding to a domestic violence call. When we arrived at the building, we heard screaming. Mary and I entered the apartment, and right away, we heard this couple arguing in the bedroom. It was pandemonium. Children crying. Broken glass. Furniture toppled over. Led Zeppelin music blared. We identified ourselves but weren’t sure if they heard us. Mary darted toward the kids’ room. I pounded on the bedroom door, announcing again it was the police. The woman cried, ‘He’s got a gun!’ I took out mine.” Jason reenacted, holding up his shaky hands. “My heart felt like it was punching through my chest. I kicked open the door and found this guy with his hands around the woman’s throat, choking her.” Jason dissolved into tears, covering his face with his hands. “And then the gun went off. I shot him. I shot him.”
“But he was going to kill her,” Angelo reasoned.
Jason shook his head like a bawling child. “I shouldn’t have been so impulsive. Don’t you understand? I didn’t see a gun. I only saw her bloody face. Her bulging eyes. Something snapped inside me, and I shot him.”
Angelo felt like an intruder listening to Jason recount these events like eavesdropping on a therapy session.
“Were you charged?” Angelo asked.
“No,” Jason said, heaving. “His girlfriend had a restraining order against him. The investigation concluded that I used appropriate force based on the fact he was strangling her at the time. Lucky me, right? Still, I felt guilty. I couldn’t go back to work. That’s when they decided it was best if I saw a counselor for a year.”
Angelo stood up and swept Jason in his arms. “What you did wasn’t impulsive; it was instinctual. You didn’t kill an unarmed man for jogging down the street wearing a hoodie. What you did, was save a woman’s life.”
Jason pulled back and cupped Angelo’s face with his hands, as if it were something fragile. Angelo stood up. “Let’s go to bed.”
Jason rose to his feet and reached for Angelo’s hand; he didn’t hesitate for a second to take it. The light was low in the apartment. Angelo guided Jason to the bed. Until that moment, Angelo had only shared his bed with other men, but this time, it suddenly seemed very important. As if he had made a conscious choice that would change his life.
Jason stood at the bed and pulled off his T-shirt, exposing his beautiful hairless flesh contouring smoothly over his muscular body, like pastry dough. Angelo licked Jason’s abdomen as he unbuttoned his jeans.
To Angelo, Jason appeared somber with the weight of his confession still lingering on his mind. He reached down and stroked Jason’s cock through his boxer shorts. Angelo’s gaze was desirous under his dark brows, intensely proprietary of Jason’s firming erection in his hand. Jason squeezed his eyes shut as Angelo freed his cock and knelt down. Jason let out a heavy sigh. Shock. Relief. Expectation. Angelo wanted to please him, wanted to release any residual doubts, and now that they had shared their worst secrets, he was consumed with confidence that their relationship had crossed over into something more akin to love.
Up close, Jason’s throbbing erection, red and swollen, left Angelo staring for several seconds. His hand fastened tightly around it. His mouth watered. And then, he took it in, gliding his lips down Jason’s shaft until his nose pressed against Jason’s pubic hair. The musky scent drifted into his nostrils, arousing Angelo with such ferocity. He stood up to pull down his own pants, stroking his cock.
Jason sat on the bed, gripping the dark curls of Angelo’s head, guiding his mouth along the shaft of his cock. Angelo peered up, smiling confidently as Jason’s cock swelled in his mouth, stroking it simultaneously with his hand, knowing instinctively that Jason was near climax.
Angelo knew exactly what to do. Not rushing into it with too much rapidity or suction, he slid his lips along Jason’s tumescence, bobbing and sucking it gently. The sensation roused such a heightened reaction in his own cock that he was about to climax, but he stopped stroking himself.
Angelo wanted to strip off his clothes, fall back on the bed and spread his legs to allow Jason to enter him. But he couldn’t free himself from stroking and sucking Jason’s cock long enough to allow that to happen. He couldn’t bear for it to end. Neither could Jason, apparently. He seized Angelo’s head, gripping his hair, intertwining his fingers with Angelo’s curls to navigate his mouth on his cock, maintaining a rhythm that quickened until Jason offered an aching pause. A confused moment of silence. And then Jason pulled out and came on Angelo’s chest.
Jason moaned and collapsed on the bed, panting. Angelo wiped his lips, smiling. He leaped onto the bed beside Jason, kissing him deeply and passionately for several long seconds. “That was amazing,” Jason said, panting.
Angelo struggled to respond, still dazed with a euphoric sense of vertigo. “I’ve been waiting to do that for such a long time,” he replied. Jason wrapped his arms around him and squeezed him with such warmth and intensity Angelo felt frightened initially, but lying there together, Jason’s strong arms encircling him, he realized it wasn’t fear he felt. It was security.
Chapter Twelve
Two months had passed since the night Angelo and Jason shared their dark secrets. It was a Sunday morning in late February. The temperature had dipped below freezing. Scattered mounds of frozen snow, left over from the last storm, lay in the curb so soused with soot and mud they looked like heaps of coal. Angelo was heading to meet Tammy for brunch at the Empire Diner on Tenth Avenue. It was a converted subway car that served the best French fries in Manhattan.
Tammy sat in the back by a wall of pin-up girl photos, wedged between Betty Grable and Rita Hayworth. When Angelo stepped up to the table, Tammy was slumped down, chin resting against her chest. She’s lost weight, he thought. Her features were sharper, edgier. Tammy’s signature blond hair had grown back to its natural dark tone. “Dr. Hathaway!”
Tammy jolted upright, her eyes searching. “Holy crap, I fell asleep.”
“Late night?” he asked, sliding into the booth.
Tammy was wearing a bulky gray sweater over her scrubs, hair in a ponytail, glasses covered in fingerprints. “We got slammed.”
“You got so thin.”
“You think?” she asked, glancing in the window at her reflection.
“I mean, in a good way.”
“When is being called thin not good?” she asked, staring at him. “Your hair got long. Who knew it was so wavy?” Angelo combed his hand through his dark curls, smiling. “Oh, and those dimples. Still a cutie. I guess Park Avenue is treating you well.”
A stodgy-looking waitress came by to take their orders.
“Just coffee for now,” Angelo said.
“Same for me.”
Angelo raised an eyebrow. “No Bloody Mary? No mimosa?”
Tammy swept her hand officiously over the surface of the table, brushing off any remaining crumbs. “Nope. I’ve been alcohol-free since New Year’s.”
Angelo pressed out his lower lip, impressed. “Cheers to you, doctor.”
“Val and I decided to take a little breaky break from the alcoholic bevies. You know, to prove that we can have fun without being intoxicated.”
“Val really has her hooks in you?”
“To be honest, not drinking sucks,” she said, turning serious, “but it’s not like I’m never going to have another drink again. I’m just letting my body know who’s boss.” The waitress came by with their coffees. “Speaking of New Year’s resolutions, Val and I were wondering if you might be interested in going on a double date?”
“A double date?” Angelo chuckled. “What’s become of us?”
“We’re growing up,” she said, sliding out of the booth. “I have to use the bathroom.”
Angelo contemplated the tangled interactions of his professional and private lives. A double date was the first optimistic sign one was moving in the right direction.
Angelo was sipping coffee when his cell phone rang.
“Hey, it’s me,” said a familiar voice.
Angelo didn’t answer, silenced by the spasm of panic running through his body.
Again, Demetre, “Are you there?”
Angelo replied, “I’m here.”
“You have to help. Something went wrong. She was fine. I don’t know what happened, but she just started shaking.”
Angelo stared fixedly at the photo of Rita Hayworth, taken aback by the intensity of Demetre’s voice. “Who is shaking?” he asked. “Where are you?”
“Jesus Christ, I need you to come here. Please, help me.”
“Calm down,” Angelo said. “What did you give her?”
“Lidocaine! I only gave her a few ccs of lidocaine. Then she started shaking! Angelo, you have to help—”
“Listen to me very carefully,” Angelo cut in. “You need to hang up and dial 911. Do you understand me?”
“Isn’t there anything I can do to stop her from shaking?”
Angelo heard the fear in Demetre’s voice, mixed with an irrational hope that this situation, however awful it was, could be contained somehow without notifying emergency services, and by extension, the police.
“Wake up!” Angelo heard him yell as an ambulance siren blared in on Demetre’s end, drowning out his voice. Once it passed, Demetre was sobbing. “Jesus Christ, wake up!”
“Demetre listen to me,” Angelo said in a monotone, hoping to instill calm. “You have to call an ambulance. They can resuscitate her. You need help.”
There was a long pause. For a moment, Angelo thought they were disconnected or worse, he had hung up. “Wait,” Demetre said. There were several precious seconds where Angelo couldn’t hear what was going on. Muffled voices. Shuffling movement. “She’s coming around.”
“Call an ambulance anyway,” Angelo said emphatically.
“Thank God,” Demetre sighed. “She’s okay.”
Then he hung up.
Immediately, Angelo called him back, but it went directly to voicemail. “Hey, it’s me,” Angelo said in a cheery voice. “Text me the address. I’ll come right away.”
Tammy returned from the bathroom, having also been on the phone.
“I’ve got to go,” she said, pulling on her coat. “They need me back at the ER ASAP. I forgot to fill out a death certificate. Sorry to leave you with the bill old friend. Call you later.”
Angelo stared at his phone, hoping Demetre would text the address so he could call an ambulance. He waited several minutes before he threw some cash on the table and ran outside. Racing down Ninth Avenue, he was desperate to find Demetre and undo what damage he’d already done, but he had no idea where to go.
Angelo dialed Demetre’s cell phone again.
“Angelo, I was just about to call. She had a reaction to the lidocaine. I panicked, but she’s fine now.” Demetre maintained that soft-spoken manner he was notoriously known for, but underneath Angelo detected the thrum of anxiety in his voice.
“Are you sure she’s okay?” Angelo asked.
Demetre laughed nervously. “She’s fine.”
“Let me talk to her.”
“That won’t be necessary.
“Demetre . . .” Angelo began, but he had already hung up again.
That night the rain fell, pattering against the windows while Angelo lay in bed with his eyes wide open. Immediately after Demetre’s call, he subsisted in a state of near hysteria, biting off every fingernail, and then starting on his cuticles, tearing them with his teeth until the skin underneath flared and bled. Demetre’s voice echoed in his head, wavering like a flag of panic. Only after they spoke the second time and Demetre assured him that everything was fine, that the woman had recovered, did Angelo begin the process of dispelling any lingering doubts. But even as he tried to extract himself from this situation—packaging it away by assuring himself the woman was safe and sound—he stumbled from moving forward because Angelo knew Demetre could not be trusted.
Angelo picked up his cell phone and called Demetre.
“What’s the matter?” Demetre asked, sounding thoroughly annoyed. “It’s after midnight.”
“I was just checking to see how you were doing?”
“Thank you but that’s unnecessary,” he replied. “I spoke to her this evening. She’s fine.”
Fine.
There was that word again, he thought. Angelo imagined Demetre’s face when he said it, a flicker of anger, or possibly fear.
“What have you done?” Angelo asked with the controlled mildness of a psychiatrist.
“Done?” Demetre repeated with irritation. “What are you talking about?”
Demetre was breathing heavily through his nostrils, and then it struck Angelo like running full speed into a plate-glass window. This woman, who Demetre refused to give a name, was not fine.
“If there’s anything you need to tell me, now would be the time,” Angelo whispered.
There was a pause, and then in a brisk tone, Demetre said, “It’s late. Go to bed.”
The click of the phone disconnecting caused Angelo to flinch. He held the phone up to his ear for several long seconds. The dread poured in all around him like rushing water, dread swirling with fear, and something stirred in him. It was as if this call had released a vertiginous sense of empowerment. Suddenly, he was galvanized with strength. His old self slipped away as the new one stepped up to take its place.
Angelo picked up his wallet and found Farrell’s card. He dialed his cell phone. As the phone rang, he contemplated whether this was an awful idea. What if he had jumped to the wrong conclusion? But deep inside, Angelo knew his worst fears were likely true.
“That’s some story,” Farrell said.
Angelo heard Farrell struggling to get out of bed.
“I know it’s late.
“Don’t worry,” Farrell assured him, “like I said, I’m always here for you.” Farrell gave a mighty yawn. “Tell you what I’m gonna do. Let me see if I can get a patrol car to go by Kostas’s house.”
Angelo heaved with relief. “Seriously?”
“Yes,” Farrell confirmed. “Now do me a favor and get some sleep. You got people to take care of in the morning.”
The next day, Angelo called Farrell once he got to work. “The local police spoke with Mr. Kostas last night after you called me,” he told Angelo. “Kostas gave the same story you told me except he denied administering lidocaine.”
“So now what?”
“Legally, Kostas can still perform laser hair removal.”
“Do you know where he’s working?” Angelo asked.
“No, but I’ll do some digging.”
Angelo heard a steady stream of phones ringing in the background. “What about the woman?”
“Kostas was unwilling to give her name without her consent.” A man began speaking to Farrell. “Tell them I’ll be right there.”
“Can you get a search warrant?”
“On what grounds?” Farrell asked. “Listen, I’m busy right now, but I’ll follow up with you later. Okay?”
Angelo fell silent, allowing the facts to sink in. He wondered where Demetre could possibly be seeing clients. It seemed unlikely anyone would hire him considering his arrest. He had been in all the newspapers and on television news. The laser itself was too big to carry to clients’ residences. That left Demetre’s house as the only option. But who would go to someone’s house for laser treatment? No one in their right mind, surely, but what if he was wrong?
Demetre was great at talking, and especially existing clients might still believe whatever lies he’d told about being set up or cheated or misunderstood or whatever cover story he’d concocted for what happened at Stanzione’s office.
Just before he left work that day, Angelo pulled Demetre’s file and got his address. Then, he took the PATH train into New Jersey. Demetre’s house was within walking distance from the station. As he made his way among the tall bare trees down Whitman Street, it was without any clear intention other than to see Demetre’s house, he convinced himself.
The neighborhood was quiet, with rows of grand one-family homes. By now the sun was setting. There was still so much snow on the ground that it made the neighborhood appear bleak and dismally empty. A February stillness that was so unsettling. Demetre’s house was at the end of the block. Standing out front, Angelo was impressed by the three-story Craftsman-style home that was set far back from the street and surrounded by a high wrought-iron fence.
