In his living room are three television sets with basic cable, four laptops and two desktop computers, each connected to 3 monitors, aglow with newsfeeds from around the world. Burners are stashed throughout the house and in his car, most equipped with voice changers.
Right now, everything is turned off.
L's body collects movements like some people hoard clothes: some are reached for on a daily basis, while others only when the situation calls.
He's in the Sayanasana pose when Light walks into his living room.
"You do yoga?" Light asks incredulously. "You know what, never mind. Autopsy's in."
Only L's elbows are touching the floor. With his hands cupping his face and his feet pulled towards head, L can't quite reach the sheaf of papers Light waves at him.
"I know a lot of ways to contort myself," L says. "I'm well-versed in several martial arts as well."
L's lying. He knows eight, and is currently learning one, albeit slowly. To be fair, competent Capoeiristas are hard to come by in Virginia and Youtube can only teach so much.
"I really don't care. COD's kidney failure for all seven."
"Good. That confirms my theory. Tell Nate to check their medical records, they should all be diabetics."
"I assume your theory is based on diabetic ketoacidosis, yes?"
"Yes. He induced comas, thus making it easy to bury them alive without struggle. The sugar water IVs at the scene also indicate he wanted their bodies to fertilize the fungi we found." L straightens himself slowly, then sits, agura-style. "Tell your father to look for anyone licensed to manufacture or distribute metformin. Individuals who would have had access to their medical information and the means to contaminate it will be suspicious."
"You're not getting involved?"
"If he had buried three more, I would. Consider the fact I'm helping right now a courtesy to Soichiro."
"All right," Light says. "Would you like pancakes?"
Today, he's wearing a Brooks Brothers two-button summer khaki suit. Underneath, a long-sleeved white dress shirt from a spring collection by Dolce & Gabbana two years ago. The shirt is paired with a navy tie. His flat-front pants are cuffed at the bottom. Overall, it's a very casual look on Light this Sunday morning.
L knows more than he cares to about Light's wardrobe. He blames it on an Instagram account run by a mystery FBI employee (it's Matsuda) who's copied half of Behavioural Science onto a mailing list that updates them on Light's daily outfits. Every conspicuously taken cell phone picture is accompanied by a detailed itinerary of each article of clothing's origin, as well as hashtags like "#nofilter" and "#wokeuplikethis."
Occasionally,"#throwbackThursday" is used on said day, when a photo of a young Light is uploaded, usually in his high school uniform. L thinks there's a 90 per cent chance Soichiro is an accessory after the fact.
"Pass the margarine, could you?" Light asks. L does.
There's an even higher chance that Light is aware of the account's existence. In certain photos, he almost appears to be posing in a uncandidly candid way.
"I've had better Byelorussian kolduny," L says.
"Where?"
"In Belarus, of course," L says. "You use too much meat."
"And not enough sugar?" Light asks, eying the thrice helping of molasses L smothered his pancakes in. "You need the protein anyway."
"Yes and no, my diet is sufficient without your meddling."
"Duly noted and I disagree," Light says. He reaches out and softly pinches L's left arm. "You're so thin. I could just eat you up right now and be famished within the hour."
"The stomach's volume is one litre, but can distend to four. Despite appearances, I weigh much more than eight pounds. And I fail to see why you'd try."
"Why else?" Light says, smile widening. "I'd want to make a feast out of you."
Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach. L can, but doesn't want to, so Hideki Ryuga holds a guest speaker lecture at the FBI Academy on Friday night. It's announced five hours before it starts, is fully booked within two.
Mihael attends. He's been trailing him like a fed stray. L wonders why, when Light is the one showering him in gifts: clothes in the right sizes, stacks of gift cards to most major outlets and nearby chocolatiers. No scarves though. L makes a note to ask Light why.
Mihael hasn't refused anything, although he doesn't use any of it either. He wears faded plaid shirts and black tank tops in warmer weather, a brown corduroy jacket when it rains. They're all oversized remnants from the previous homeowner, baggy enough that they rustle when Mihael walks through the fields behind the house, sleeves tugging on the tips of feather reedgrass. The golden seedheads ripened too early, so they smear the edges of Mihael's hems like aborted stars on flannel skies.
It puzzles L how Mihael has avoided his benefactor since being discharged. Instead, he sleeps in L's attic by morning and broods on his front porch by night.
Sometimes, L will join him. They sit in plastic rocking chairs and drink hot chocolate, looking out onto the fireflies weaving through tall grass and around apple tree trunks. Mihael will talk about his dog's favourite places to hide things and L will retell cases where fathers didn't try to kill their sons.
Last night, L spoke of Los Angeles. His story was rife with dead gangsters found in graffitied payphone booths; drug dealers carrying babies in arm slings; houses with windows boarded in plywood, pentagrams sprayed on their roofs and bodies in their basements. Mihael listened without interruption.
When L finished, Mihael told him he wanted to join the FBI.
L thinks he'll tell another story about Los Angeles tonight, and see what the boy says then.
For now, he speaks about a killer still at large.
An image of Sanami's corpse flashes onto the projector screen.
"Rod Ross killed 12 girls who looked like his son. Two of the girls were found, as well as another girl, but she wasn't killed by the Shrike," L says.
There's movement at the back of the room. L sees Light and Soichiro walk in and sit near Mihael.
The students orbit themselves around Soichiro, shifting their chairs, smoothing down their hair and stiffening their backs. The Chief has deigned this lecture worthy. It would be wise to be noticed attending, wiser to be noticed for looking smart.
They are inferring Soichiro's preference for well-groomed individuals based on Light, L thinks. He's glad that in a room of ex-cops, there are a few good minds. He hopes they can solve what his is wary to.
"This is Sanami Komatsu. Whoever killed Sanami wanted us to know she was killed by a copycat," L says. "They are intelligent, sadistic and want us to know that. How do we catch someone who will never kill this way again?
We don't know what the copycat's relation is to Ross. However, phone company records show Ross received an untraceable call before attempting to murder his son," L says. "I think it's very likely that the caller is our killer."
His eyes scan the room. He gauges the reactions of the crowd, and finds most of them look to be in agreement with his statement. Then he turns to the three people he knows. Soichiro is staring gravely at the screen, Mihael is looking right at him, and Light's eyes are focused on a point above L's head. He has the same look on his face as the day they first met.
He starts to pace, walking close to the screen. He points at Sanami's wounds.
"You'll see the copycat has taken great care to imitate the Shrike as closely as possible. This suggests that if he is a civilian and not among our ranks, he has been following Sakura Tattler quite carefully. They're the only news source to have disclosed pictures of the other girls to the public at the time Sanami was murdered. I have no idea how they got access-"
"Kiyomi Takada," pipes a voice and several people groan.
"Oh, yes. That explains it," L says, almost to himself.
Kiyomi writes copy for Sakura TV and anchors for Sakura Morning, but all she really wants to do is blog about mass murderers on Sakura Tattler. It's more her baby than any flesh-and-blood one would be. She coded it from scratch. In its early months, she hunted down ad revenue herself, moderated all the comments, managed social media, and produced all of the content. Now, she employs a fact-checker, an online editor, a copy editor, a public manager, a slew of marketers and produces only 95 per cent of the posts.
Soon, she'll be stepping down from her TV roles and immersing herself headfirst in the lovely world of murders, million hitcount stories and her byline to thank for it all. The website will be more than enough for their new life.
"My own topless bar," Misa breathes. She sniffs the note Kiyomi cosigned, as if her nose can detect forgery. "Oh Kimi, I could kiss you."
So she does. They're sitting in Misa's motel room, hiding away from their admirers. It's the only safe place Kiyomi knows these days. She has a polarizing effect on everyone she meets, and is satisfied enough to keep it that way.
Misa's wearing her blonde hair today. It makes Kiyomi feel like they're girls again, holding hands underneath Cardcaptor Sakura bed sheets and singing the theme song into each other's mouths.
They were the only asian girls in elementary school (but it had felt like they were the only in the entire state of Virginia, really), before the wave of Japanese immigrants years later. The mass arrival of people who looked like them would herald better times for the girls, but back then, sleepovers were sweet respites away from spitballs and ripped toys.
Kiyomi traces figure eights onto Misa's neck. She tries not to think of who else the blonde wig reminds her of, but Misa notices Kiyomi's shoulders tighten.
"Mind on Sanami again, Kimi?" she asks.
Kiyomi hates stupid girls and likes smart boys. Misa is neither. Kiyomi loves her for it.
"Yes," Kiyomi says. "Look babe, they haven't caught this killer yet and I don't know if they ever will. I don't want you to end up dead just because of that pretty head of yours. Besides, if you're not dancing anymore you won't have to wear that, right?"
Misa bites her lip. "I suppose so. Gee, who do you think is doing it?"
"You know, I dated Kiyomi Takada."
"What."
"Yes, in university. It didn't last long. We had different preferences."
"You dated Kiyomi Takada."
"I just said that. Anyway, she was different back then. Less full of shit."
"I know, I'm just repeating it for Mihael. Mihael, did you hear that?"
Mihael says nothing.
They are sitting around Rod Ross' kitchen table, putting knives and oven mitts in white zipper bags. Mihael had wanted to go home. He told L he was planning on selling the house, using the money for tuition and eventually his own apartment.
Wherever L goes, one thing remains constant: murder houses or "stigmatized properties" are hard sells, particularly if the homeowner cannibalized girls and most of the bodies were yet to be recovered.
They won't ever be, Mihael had told them. His father was a deer hunter, and he honoured his prey by using up every last part of them. Knowing him, he'd said, those girls' bones are holding pipes together.
"Kiyomi was nice to me," Mihael says suddenly. "She visited me in the hospital. Said she wanted to tell my story."
"By that she means profit from your story," Light says. "Be careful around her."
"I'm careful around most folks," Mihael says. "I'm smarter than I look, you know. You didn't bring me back here just to say goodbye or give my things to the FBI."
His eyes are a little wild when he talks.
"You want to trigger some sort of memory," he says. "You think I helped him."
"Show your work," L says, zipping away a rolling pin.
Mihael sits up stiffly.
"Soichiro didn't send us all here to bag evidence. Any fool could do that, so why would he send a murderer's son back to where his dad died, along with the only other two who were there? Right now there are two unknowns to the FBI: where he killed them and who the caller is," he says. "He figures I know one or both unknowns, unconciously or not, and hopes I'll slip up if the circumstances are recreated."
"Full marks," L says, and Mihael leans back into his seat. There's a small smile on his lips, but it's quickly replaced by his usual forlorn grimace.
"He's out of luck, then," Mihael says. "I don't know where he took them or who called."
"Maybe he had an accomplice, who provided the location and was the caller," L says. "Did your dad have any new friends in his life, or people he saw a lot?"
Mihael screws up his face. "I don't think so."
"Did the caller's voice sound familiar, like anyone you've met?" Light asks.
Mihael's eyes dart to Light, then look away.
"No," he says slowly, after several moments. Then, he bares teeth, as if to smile.
"But I think we should try role-playing it. Just to see if it jogs my memory."
"You be my dad," he says, pointing at L.
"And you be the man on the phone," he says, pointing at Light.
Oh Mihael, Light thinks. How tasteless.
"But, we'll have to hold on. I need to use the bathroom."
Mihael walks upstairs, his hands bunched into fists.
"He's a good liar, but his eyes gave him away," Light says under his breath. "He looked away when I asked."
"Actually, I find that good liars tend to maintain eye contact. The notion that looking away indicates deception is terribly western-centric."
"How so?"
"Latin American, Asian, and African individuals are likely to look away from authority figures as a sign of respect or deference, females from said cultures especially. There's also innate distrust one might have towards a specific authority figure, such as the police or the Agent-in-Charge's son, that would cause eye avoidance," L says. "He was lying, though. Your reasoning was just poorly rationalized. C for effort."
Light snorts. "Guess I'll have to make it up in the midterm. Okay, L. How could you tell he was lying?"
"Mihael swiped a chocolate bar from the counter before leaving. He's only going to the bathroom to eat where we can't see him," L says. "The sweets are a coping mechanism for stressful situations. Since our previous conversations about his dad haven't triggered this response, I can only assume this line of questioning became stressful because he was being untruthful. That, or he really hates you."
"I hope the former but assume the latter," Light says with a sigh. "God, have you seen what he was wearing? I gave him Armani and he wears Goodwill. That boy needs therapy."
Light stands, moves to the counter to brew another cup.
("You're bringing your french press to the crime scene?" "Of course. I'm not an animal.")
"Why no scarves?" L asks finally.
The sliver of pinkish skin nicked in Mihael's neck is stark against the scabbing around it. It will be a jagged white crescent when he's older.
"Why would he need one? He's perfect just the way he is," Light says.
"Oh yes, everyone's beautiful, there are no wrong answers, and you can be whatever you want to be when you grow up. Thanks Light, I hadn't had my daily intake of bullshit yet."
"Why do you care?" Light counters. He sips, then peers down at L from his mug."Mihael's appearance means nothing to you. The only body image you're concerned with is your own, and barely so."
"I care that you don't. You're encouraging him to become accustomed to being disfigured."
"Yes, I am." Light blows steam from his mug, setting another in front of L. Do you have any scars, L?"
"Yes." L doesn't move to show him any. He might as well gesture towards his entire body.
"Then you understand what power they hold. How the best of them remind us of the worst of others. That our traumas were once realities."
"You want him him to remember who gave it to him," L says.
"I want him to be grateful," Light says.
L does not respond. He drinks, letting coffee wash over the questions threatening to spill out.
Grateful for being alive? Or grateful his father was what he was?
He studies Light behind the steam of his mug. It's a temporary veil, another firewall separating the two.
Light Yagami was an honours student. Light Yagami works with the FBI. Light Yagami gives orphans designer clothes.
Light Yagami is always wearing a suit.
There is something more Light than the rest of him that the man is obscuring. L would know.
It's a suspicion that hangs in the air between them, as heavy as the implications every dinner invitation holds.
As terrifying as every moment their eyes meet and L sees someone he wants to know.
I've been through worse than you, L wants to say. But some part of him does not want to hear Light's inevitable reply. No, you haven't.
They hear the doorbell ring behind them, and a cough follow it. Neither men move to answer it.
"Someone's here to see you, Mihael," L calls.
After a minute, Mihael walks downstairs and sees Mail in.
"Jesus, Mail," he says, rushing to greet the other boy with a hug.
"No, Jeevas, Mailhairer," Mail says and it becomes very hard for Mihael not to hit him.
"Shut the fuck up, man. How've you been?"
"Better than you. Wanna smoke? You need one more than I do."
"Oh my god, you named your dog after me? Oh my god, I think I love you."
"Shut up," Mihael says, but doesn't mean it.
They're walking by the stream that runs near his house (not his anymore, Mihael reminds himself, maybe never his to begin with), skipping flat stones and hitting silver birches with bad throws.
He wants to stay here, where the only sounds are trickling water and Mail's hoarse voice, and the air smells like old campfires and Lucky Strikes. If he could hold it all in his lungs, carrying it with him through the bad times he sees coming, he'd take one long gulp and stop breathing right there.
"Matt's dead, though. Shot down like varmint," he says, spitting on a mossy log they step over. "I'm sorry I couldn't introduce you to each other. Why does your mom call you Matt anyway?"
Mail blows smoke into Mihael's hair. "Fuck if I know. I think it was my dad's name? I dunno." He moves closer, french inhaling into Mihael's neck.
Mihael shoves Mail and laughs.
"Thanks for seeing me," he says.
"No problem. As soon as I saw that shitty car pull in, I knew you needed me more than ever," Mail says. "It's been bumfucking boring since you left. All news vans and teary-eyed folks telling 'em you were such a quiet boy, bless yer heart, that they knew all along something was off about you."
"Something off," Mihael echoes. "Hey. Do you think you can catch someone's crazy?"
"Folie à deux," Mail says. "Madness shared by two. My great-aunt shouted it when she caught us in the shed, remember?"
"Oh, yeah," Mihael says.
Mail had packet sniffers set up across ever major institution's local area network in Virginia. Last summer, they monitored the user traffic of a local gay porn company, trying to cross-reference which users were also employed by the post office and lived in a Fairfax neighbourhood. They successfully narrowed down the whereabouts of a mailman they suspected to have been breaking-and-entering into the homes of homosexual men, robbing and beating his victims. Their anonymous tip led to an arrest, a first taste of detective work for both of them. It also led to Great-Aunt Marie finding both boys crowing victory in the garden shed, with two laptops screens playing scenes from Backdoor Pizza Delivery 5 and Bear Wars: Twinks Strike Back.
It was a good summer. His father had a new job and his best friend could run from angry old women as fast as he could. His prayers back then were to graduate with honours come June.
Nowadays, it's harder to pray. Pink arms and blue lights paint over the holy in his head. When he calls out to God, a voice tells him to give the phone to his dad. Mihael's losing his religion.
"I want to kill Light Yagami," Mihael says.
"Cool," Mail says.
This is the anatomy of a strip club.
There are Hello Kitty stickers on the dishwasher. Liquor and Adult Entertainment Licenses from City Hall hang above the bar, along with Misa's selfie with the mayor.
Backstage, there are plastic covers on the hot pink leather couch. They never come off. Bejeweled bras and furlined corsets and makeup bags are stashed in gym lockers, adorned in gold stars and glittery paper hearts. Inside, they are lined with magazine cut-outs of male celebrities and worn-out photos of boyfriends. For others, girlfriends. For some, both.
The poles shine metal and the ropes around them are velvet. The sign "Misa City" outside is handpainted, and the blinking neon caricatures of nude women burn Kiyomi's hand when she accidentally found herself reaching out. The walls are deep purples and reds. The bass reverberates so low the stage shakes when the playlists get dirtier. It makes Kiyomi feel like she's strutting inside of a huge bloody organ, about to burst.
The girls are clean, work at least four shifts a week, and take home $90k salaries. Kiyomi refuses anything less. Misa wants to hire boys, so they'll wean their customers onto the idea over the next few months.
Ten years ago, if someone were to tell Kiyomi she'd co-own a strip club with Misa Amane, she'd cling tight to her boyfriend's arm and laugh, saying she wasn't like other girls and didn't consider strippers intelligent conversationalists.
Five years ago, she'd cling to one of her many bottles of booze and bawl, hungover and hung up on the girl she let get away.
A year ago, Kiyomi wouldn't bat an eye. She'd cling onto nothing but her spiral notepad and demand to know what the initial overhead costs of Misa City will be.
Of L's 206 bones, he's broken over half of them more times than he can remember. Some, on purpose. Through controlled strikes to concrete walls, L has conditioned his forearms and shins, hands and feet; remodeling his very bone structure to adapt to immense loads. His body follows Wolff's Law.
L's digestive system has dissolved more snake venom, arsenic, illegal narcotics and alcohol combined than leafy greens. His tolerance has dismayed espionage agents and town drunks alike. His body practices mithridatism.
The neurotypical responses firing in L's brain can assume the perspectives of others based on his own senses. He can accurately recreate identity, and therefore motive, of any individual, while maintaining a core personality. It's not a disorder. The word implies a lack of premeditation. His body feels empathy.
The soft tissues that cluster themselves as the body of L have hid under wool knits in Winchester, bisht cloaks in Arabian deserts, satin bedsheets in Moscow. They have been vulnerable to attacks, but never breached. Never compromised.
When L wakes up, he's surrounded by gnarled trees.
His feet are pulped with rotted apple, sore from graveled paths.
L is well-versed in Kyokushin karate, and has a gu-dan black belt in Taekwondo. The roundhouse kick he delivers could shatter bones. Certain South American death squad members can attest to that.
But there are no bones here, only acres of shriveled fruit and termite hills and oriole birds flitting from green to dark tree. There is no one to see the empire collapse, the dictatorship L's mind held over the rest of him overthrown.
L never felt powerless, until he started sleepwalking.
Protective glasses and earmuffs subdue the gunshots, but do nothing for the heat shimmers dancing in his vision.
Maybe he's still enveloped in a dream. Maybe the paper cutout targets are breathing human beings. He can't be sure of anything right now.
Mail loved Hogan's Alley as a kid. An 80's Nintendo light gun shooter, you'd use the NES Zapper to fire at targets in a virtual gun range. When they moved across the screen, you'd hold your plastic orange pistol in a death grip, aiming at pixelated bank robbers. If you shot the wrong guy, like a mustached cop or the one lady character, the game's colour palette would invert itself, pulsing onscreen with the word MISS hovering over who you should've shot, calm tones of the game becoming angry beeps. It always shook Mail up, made him want to be quicker at the draw because the alternative was a nightmarish shock to the senses. Fear made him a sharp shooter.
He won't run out of ammunition for a few more hours. He aims for the head, but only hits white borders. Sometimes, he doesn't even make the target and his bullets meet the rear wall in whishing clickclackclunks.
Mail's first gun was his mom's. A .38 caliber double barrel, ultra-light even in his 10-year-old hands. He found it digging around in her purse, looking for spare change. Instead he met The Bride, a canary yellow revolver, her name emblazoned on her muzzle in faded gothic font.
He tries not to blink. Under his eyelids, blue eyes stare back, pleading for something he can't give right now.
He reloads.
It was love at first reload. Recycling bins all over the neighbourhood were emptied of pop cans and bottles. Mail saved up a month's allowance for cardboard boxes brimming with shiny golden rounds. Fences were riddled with his misses, until gradually, they weren't.
Eventually, he took to wearing a pair of shooting goggles at all times. The amber tint cut down on daylight glare, turning the world's palettes into ones he could stand, shades of binary codes and bullets and the 8-bit words YOU WIN at the end of a good day.
All the world's a system and Mail wants to hack it all.
"Can't sleep?"
L turns and it's the boy Mihael went doe-eyed around earlier. He's wearing the same clothes too, a dark green military jacket and black jeans muting the impression his tinted goggles and biker gloves leave.
They had been standing side-by-side for most of the night. L hadn't noticed.
"I can never sleep," L says. "Tonight was the rare time I did."
"I hear you," Mail says. "Thank fuck for Hogan's Alley. I never figured if they named this place after the video game or if the game came after."
"The game was out after," L says, and Mail grins.
"You're Hideki right? The guy who killed Mihael's dad?"
"Yes."
"Cool," Mail says. "So you have insomnia too? Sucks, innit."
"Yeah," L says. Contrary to what Watari says, L doesn't revel in sleepless nights. His inability to regulate his sleep is depriving his brain of a resting period. Rest aids thinking, like cool fans on an overheated processor. But the time in India isn't the time in Spain, and Australian kidnappers don't sleep when Canadian human traffickers do.
L shakes his head, trying to clear it of the crimes creeping into his periphery. He focuses on the one in front of him.
"This is an FBI facility with restricted access. You're 17 years old," L says.
"Aww shucks, you got me," Mail says. He throws his hands up.
"Guess I'll be heading home with my tail tucked between my legs now." He walks towards the exit. "So long!"
L is almost certain he is dreaming.
Abruptly, the boy turns back. He stands behind L, lifts L's right arm and lowers his left elbow. Then, he pushes down on his tense shoulders.
"See if that helps with the recoil," Mail says, before leaving.
L fires. It does.
L tries to walk home, from Quantico to Wolf Trap, but ends up in Baltimore instead, knocking on Light Yagami's door at 10:30 in the morning.
He had hitched a ride 20 minutes into his trip, hiding bare feet under frayed jeans. He rode shotgun with a delivery truck driver, crates of honeycrisp apples jostling behind them. It felt good to lean over the window, arms crossed and head cradled, breeze blowing bugs in his hair. He kept his eyes on the rear-view mirror, watching the dawn-tinged scenery fade past them, trees into streetlights, gardens into sidewalks. The black hulking shape that lurked at the edge of his sight since last night remained a constant. Ever since entering the apple delivery truck, L could have sworn it was nearer too. But, that could have been the view. Objects in the mirror are closer they appear.
When Light opens his door, L's already asleep, slumped against the stair railing and snoring quietly. Beside him is a small basket. Light reaches in.
"I'm in the mood for brunch," he tells the sleeping man.
"Moroccan lamb tagine, baked with local honeycrisp apples and French Agen prunes," Light says. He tucks a cornflower-blue silk tablecloth into L's collar. "The side is jellied apricot."
"You've been touching me a lot," L says, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
"Define a lot."
"Every time we've seen each other. A hand on the shoulder. A palm to the forehead. A rapt of knuckle to the wrist. You pinched my arm the other day. I haven't forgotten."
"It's called human contact," Light says, enunciating his words like he's speaking to a child.
"It's called a penchant for emotional manipulation through physical imprinting," L corrects. "What do you want from me, Light?"
"Nothing, you paranoid fuck," Light says, plating the tagine in front of L. When Light swears, L sees his age. There's still a tremor of joy coursing in his cuss, tongue flicking out slower to relish the irreverent. It's cute. "Forgive me for misjudging our closeness. Believe it or not, I find it hard to relate to others, and –."
"I believe it. What makes you think that's my problem?"
Light gives him an exasperated look. "Was I the one falling asleep on your door this morning? Don't play coy. Look, we're friends. Friends seek out each other. I'm sorry if the growing intimacy affected you." At this, Light's mouth make a soft O shape. It curves quickly into a smile. If it was anyone else, L would have thought the man had realized something, but even Light's theatrics are calculated.
"Have I affected you, L?"
"No," L says, not looking at Light's Hugh and Crye slim-fit navy blazer. He looks down instead. "The food's getting cold."
L's phone vibrates.
"Group heart attack again. 184 Faucit Avenue. Come now," reads Soichiro's text.
L keeps his eyes on the lamb underneath him. "Can I get this for take-out?"
"Susanna Mountfort, Joey Flynn and Virginia Loup," Nate says, twirling a hair strand from the sink and bagging it for evidence. "They were all found submerged in the bathtub with no struggle marks, no signs of strangulation, overdosing or drowning. There's no hemorrhaging under their eyelids."
Halle heaves a concrete block off Joey Flynn's corpse. It weighs fifty pounds, but feels like fifteen. Her lifting regime is paying off. She thinks she'll treat herself to a strawberry protein shake after work.
The bodies' limbs sway in the pool-sized tub, heads hitting the sloping end softly. For such a lavish house, the residents hadn't been taking good care of it. Black mold clings to the gypsum false ceiling, thick furry blankets growing on half-eaten saucers of sturgeon caviar. Waterbugs scutter underneath crusted inky cocktail dresses, piled up in a hamper by the creaky Edwardian-style door.
"Do you think it's. You know. Kira?" Loud whispers.
Nate collects another hair. "I don't know," he says. "And she can still hear you, Stephen."
Halle tries to lift the concrete block off Virginia Loup, but finds it's too heavy. It doesn't budge, no matter how hard she strains.
"I'm sorry, Halle," Loud says. "Lemme help."
Most of the time, Halle Lidner doesn't remember her life as Halle Bullook.
"Blocks were placed post-mortem," L says. "Vics are all healthy adults. The body's instinctive drowning response wouldn't have let them be killed so easily by a moveable object on the chest, even one of this weight."
He circles the tub, Light's penny loafers itching at his soles.
It reminds L of a homemade gangland murder, too television in its presentation to be real or taken seriously.
L closes his eyes. Cast metal flashes in mind, and the ringing resounds under his skin, tintintins flaying him out. Two women, one man. One Mexican, and two Portuguese. One with glasses, two without.
No, three beautiful people. In death, their bodies haven't puffed up, swelling with the indignity of an underwater grave. They look like nymphs, peaceful poetic putas passing away into the Pacific. He had made the whores love each other, he had seized them by their dainty ankles and pulled them into mocking embraces, plunged them headfirst into the rushing bathwater. The rush of water fills their holes so fast the sluts are shocked into subconscious. The last thing they see is blacker, blacker, black.
Black mold...
He opens his eyes, and dips a finger into the bathtub. He licks.
"It's sugar water," he says. "Son of a bitch."