LORELEI
"He wants you to try this." Dorothea at Neiman's opens the dressing room door a crack and passes in a nude-colored silk faille dress. Structured, almost severe. Fitted top and bell shaped skirt. Across the bodice, asymmetric slashes of pale nude leather. He loves leather. Usually black, but I can see how this particular shade would appeal to him. I peek out and smile at Red John. He's thumbing through the racks, my purse dangling in his hand.
Givenchy. Six-thousand-three-hundred and fifty dollars. Red John is nothing if not label-conscious. I slip into it. Knee-length. Architectural. He has perfect taste. Dorothea is frothing at the mouth. She's on commission. I've already said yes to three leather jackets, two Azzedine Alaia (his favorite designer) and one Philip Lim, a pair of leather pants, Rick Owens, three pairs of motorcycle boots, two Rag and Bone and one LD Tuttle, plus a boatload of lingerie.
Dorothea recognizes us from these shopping sprees but doesn't know what prompts them. Doesn't know that whenever he hands me a distasteful assignment, he does this to make it up to me. To let me know I'm special.
Why is his Amex Centurion on the march today? Dial the clock back an hour to me getting my toes done. I'm puzzled because Red John insists on keeping me company at the Lady Eve Salon and Spa. I know toenails are important to him but what's really going on here? Doesn't he have an evil empire to run? He glides his hand along the rows of polish bottles on the wall. "Lorelei, I need you to do something for me." Crap, I think. Doesn't he mean, do "someone" for him? Say, a sweaty senator? This seducing of strangers is the worst part of our relationship. But I remind myself, he's certainly gone out of his way for me.
He was a casual friend, a quirky guy that my sister, Miranda, and I would run into once in a while in a local coffee shop. I thought he was more into Miranda than me. But when she was murdered and I was crazy with grief, Roy was the one who was there for me. The only person I could talk to about my plans for revenge on the son of a bitch who'd taken my sister from me. Everyone else was eager to soothe the weepy, tragic Lorelei. But when I talked about what I wanted to do when I found the bastard, they'd shut down and act as if there was something wrong with me. Not Roy. He encouraged me.
One day, he bought me a coffee and told me he'd tracked down the murderer and was prepared to do everything I'd talked about. That night, he slipped into the killer's bedroom and made him very sorry for what he'd done to my sister. He showed me pictures. Roy was very good at what he did; masterful even. It was clear that he wasn't the ordinary laptop toter you meet at Starbucks. We went back to his house, which was vast and white-on-white modern. He told me about himself. About Red John. About his philosophy. I found myself accepting him the way he'd accepted me. And from that night on, we were a couple.
He calls me Martie. I call him Reddie. He brings me tea in the morning and cookies and milk at night. We see films, we travel, we ski, we do the crossword together. I taught him to dance. He taught me to play chess. Aside from his tendency to slash anyone who upsets him to ribbons, he's really good for me. Other people are his minions. I'm his girlfriend.
Back to the salon. The manicurist has finished putting base coat on my toenails. We're ready for polish and I give Red John the hurry-it-up gesture. He selects a deep blue-red. He has an eye for color. Especially red.
But I know his presence here isn't about which shade to choose. I brace myself for the name of the slob he wants me to do it with. He leans over and studies my toes. "You remember Patrick Jane, don't you?"
My stomach does a flip. I want to shout, Patrick Jane? He of the unruly golden curls and blue green eyes and wide white grin? Hell, yeah, I remember him! I don't shout that, of course. I sigh heavily and whine, "Do I have to?" Red John kisses the top of my head. I say, "Oh alright, if it's really that important to you." He smiles, pleased that I appear to be dreading my new errand. Anything you do for Red John has to be something you hate doing. Otherwise, it isn't really meaningful to him. He nods and sits down with his Wall Street Journal.
I ease myself up from the pedicure chair and back away out of his sight. I practically do cartwheels to the waxing room. I can't contain myself. Patrick Jane? I want to eat him with a spoon. I want to drink his bathwater. I want to...