Starling slowed down to go over a speed bump, and something rattled within the bowels of the Pinto. Vehicles communicate quite a lot by the noises they make, and Starling put off the thought that a new car was probably in store, for another time and place. She was driving down a residential road in Woodland. She'd been here before for different reasons, usually to do with local, territorial beefs between Lench Mob and Big 3-0. The last time she was in the area she was wearing tactical gear. This time, she was carrying no more than anyone else walking down the street.
Some of the buildings, red bricked and blocky, reminded her of the Lutheran Home, and she recognized the looks in many eyes here, one of suspicion and a readiness to fight for oneself. There were distant sirens, and when she turned onto 30th street, a parked, armored ice cream truck carried over the sirens with its brassy melody over the loudspeaker. There were some kids gathered around it and a couple of young, African American men standing nearby, leaning against the hood of the car. One of them was wearing a wife beater with a black shirt thrown around his neck and he eyed her as she passed. The trees along this street bent and twisted into deformity from having grown around power lines.
When she pulled into an apartment complex, she parked next to an old, blue minivan. She walked around an overturned portable basketball hoop and knocked on one of the doors on the first level. She looked over her shoulder where a group of kids stood around laughing and yelling. She turned back around when the door opened.
"It's just you?" he asked.
"Yes, Mr. Vidal?"
"Yes," he said, pausing to look behind her," Come in, come in."
When she was seated at a small kitchen table, the young man pointed to the coffee maker. "No, thank you. Mr. Vidal I'm actually on my way out of the city tonight, and I'll need to be on a plane in a couple of hours. I won't take up too much of your time. Please, sit."
Starling had found interviews went better when she made it clear it wouldn't last long, right off the bat. They always relaxed a little, and with that small amount of released tension, with the thought that she would soon be a memory, their answers came forth more readily, the truth peppering the discussion more consistently. He sat and held his hands on top of the table.
"Are you going to interview him, next?" he asked.
"Interview who, Mr. Vidal?"
"Guido. He must be the only one left, by now."
"Mr. Polenta, yes."
"Ever been to Buenos Ares?"
"No. I've been Quito."
"You should visit some time, not for work. It's nice."
"I'm sure you're right. Before we get started, I need to record this, is that alright with you?"
"Well I get protection?"
"Of course. You'll stay anonymous, but I need your testimony on record."
He nodded. Starling had already taken out the handheld recorder and turned it on, setting her purse aside.
"This is Special Agent Clarice M. Starling, FBI number 5143690, deposing Martin D. Vidal, CUIL Number 30-10251348-8, at 2201 Q St. NW, Washington, DC 20006, apartment number fourteen, on the date stamped above, sworn and attested. Mr. Vidal understands that he will be protected by the Witness Security Program and granted immunity from prosecution in the U.S. Attorney, District-thirty-six and by local authorities in a combined memorandum attached, sworn and attested. Mr. Vidal, please explain your former occupation."
He didn't speak immediately, and looked up at her, as though startled. "Uh…I was the executive housekeeper for the Polenta family, and then I was the family assistant to Fran Polenta and her new husband, Richard Masters in their home."
"So first you worked for the Polenta family, but you went with Fran when she was married and moved out?"
"Yes. She grew up with me in the house, I don't think she wanted to go without me. Fran was…she was young to get married, but even younger at heart than in body. She was innocent, romantic. She was maybe a little attached to me. Her parents were not always around, but I was. Me and the housekeepers and nanny."
"And how long had they been married?"
"Nearly two years. At first she seemed very unhappy. It was…well, I wouldn't say it was arranged, but…Franny felt pegged into a corner."
"They threatened to cut her off, is that correct?"
"Yes. She either married Richard or she was out of the family."
"You said she seemed unhappy at first. Did she change her mind?"
"Okay. When Guido first told her he wanted her to marry a Masters, he led her to believe it was Paul Masters, Richard's brother. When she found out it was not Paul, but his brother Richard, she was very upset, and refused. That was when they threatened to cut her out. Not just the money, the family, you see. After they were married, Richard was always paranoid that Franny was having an affair with Paul, but he'd never caught them. He was so paranoid, he sent her to America for what he called 'a vacation'."
"To Salinas, California."
"Yes."
"And Richard, he stayed behind?"
"He said he did."
"Did you see him around during that time, around the house?"
"Yes, at first."
"Francesca Polenta was in California for less than a week before she died. When did you stop seeing Richard Polenta?"
"Three days after she left."
"And Paul?"
"I don't know if Paul went with her or not."
"Do you know if Francesca Polenta and Paul Masters were having an affair?"
Mr. Vidal looked away for a moment, a guilty look about him, as though he were on the verge of betraying someone. "Yes," he finally said. "I was sworn to secrecy. Understand, that was not uncommon. You see things in the house you run."
"Naturally."
"And I loved Franny in my own way, we all did. But yes, she was unfaithful. Can you blame her so easily? She and Paul were in love, and had been before she was forced into an unwanted marriage."
"You say Richard never caught them, did he have some evidence?"
"Not really, but he heard things. Not from me."
"Do you have any information on the whereabouts of Paul Masters or Richard Masters?"
"No, Ma'am."
"Okay. Thank you, Mr. Vidal. We'll be in touch," she said, turning off the recorder, and he watched her stand.
"Agent Starling, now I've given my story, I will be protected?"
"Yes, twenty-four hour protection."
"The Polentas don't want this out any more than the Masters, and they're both powerful families. It's disgusting," he added, nearly under his breath. "He would rather his daughter's murderer go unpunished than to face another scandal."
"You're referring to the bribery scandal?" she asked, arranging her purse on her shoulder.
"Yes. It's why Guido can't leave Buenos Ares, right now. It's why he married off Franny. He wanted to make peace, publicly, with his greatest financial and social competition."
"Richard and Paul's father, Raleigh Masters."
"Yes. Despite the scandal, Franny was still a valuable diplomatic pawn in the power games of rich men. And still is," he said, crossing himself, "Rest her soul."
Vidal was right about one thing, Starling reflected on her way out of Woodland. Guido Polenta was, in fact, the last person she needed to interview, not counting Paul and Richard who were both still missing. She suspected only one of them was still alive. She'd tried calling Mr. Polenta, and always reached his secretary who told her he was unavailable and would call her back, but he never did. A part of her looked forward to showing up at his home the following morning.
Starling had been assigned the Polenta case two months previous. Ordinarily, it would not have been a federal case. However, the missing alleged lover of the deceased Francesca was a federal official. She'd heard various sides of things, much of it sounding like gossip of the help, which Starling knew to never discount. Unfortunately, it was not enough to come to any conclusion, and no testimony thus far had given her any clue as to the whereabouts of the husband or lover of Francesca Polenta, the beautiful daughter of Guido Polenta of the Polenta Group.
Accounts of Paul's personality varied more than Francesca's. Some people deemed him to be romantic, and others claimed he was not particularly interest in the world around him. Yet, he was apparently interested enough to lend his voice in support of his father, a co-founder of a prestigious investment bank. What was beyond dispute was that he was handsome. He was also married with children.
In a way, it was cases like this that bothered Starling the most. It seemed glaringly obvious what had occurred, and yet no action could be taken based upon reason- only evidence, of which there was next to none. Francesca Polenta had been shot, the slug removed. There were fingerprints of all three of them, as well as the maid who cleaned the hotel room where she was found, and about twelve other people. Half of what Richard's fingerprints were found on were on his belongings. As for Paul, his fingerprints proved only that he'd been with Francesca in California. They only hinted at infidelity, not murder. Fingerprints are notoriously unreliable. Starling shared all of these thoughts with Mapp when she got home.
"It's sad," Mapp agreed, and leaned back in the kitchen chair across from Starling. "Hey, you want a beer?"
"Sure. I can't help but feel sorry for Fran. She was only nineteen. Who the fuck knows what they're doing at that age?"
"Hell, I don't always know what I'm doing, now," Mapp said with her head bent at the refrigerator. When she turned around with two beers, she handed one to Starling and sat down.
"It's hard for me to relate to falling for a married man, with children, no less. But I still feel for her."
"I know, Baby. One of them will turn up. One way or another."
Starling opened the beer and took a swig before leaning forward on her elbows. She glanced out the window. She would need to leave, soon. God, she didn't want to leave, but she had to.
"Richard has to be in the U.S. He would've been caught at the border and at any airport."
"You know he came here, for certain?"
"Yeah. We have records of the flight. None of the witnesses say they knew for sure. So far, just about everybody I've talked to have either protected him, or were ignorant. Vidal has been the most forthcoming so far, and he's terrified."
"Hell, I don't blame him," said Mapp, and yawned. "I got to get to bed. I have an early morning," she said. "Want to finish mine?" she asked holding up her beer.
"Girl, finish your drink."
Mapp grinned and downed it in about a minute. Starling laughed when she burped. "Goodnight. No, don't kiss me."
Mapp laughed. "Fair enough. Be safe, Starling."
"Always am."
The Polenta estate was about as impressive as Starling expected. She was greeted by staff, and seated in a study and offered a beverage. She declined and listened to the ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner.
Starling did not have many quiet moments to herself. There were car rides, and lying awake at night. Starling did not think of him often, exactly. Yet, he was always there in his way. She did not think of him actively. Sometimes, she almost convinced herself that what had happened six months ago was merely a dream. Sometimes. Starling liked to believe that on some level, it was. That somehow, what had occurred that night- his voice, his mouth, his hands- it was all out of time, somehow.
A stolen night, came a verse in her own voice. A stolen night which was to be repeated six more times. What if she did not appear when and where she was to appear? He would kill again, but would he kill her? She did not acknowledge that she knew she would appear, but she knew it. She would always appear. She would appear six more times, anyway.
The door opening behind her made her jump. "Apologies," came a voice, and she stood. Guido Polenta was close to seventy years old, but looked good for his age. Money did that, Starling reflected. His hair was white, but he had plenty of it, and his skin was in good condition, despite the wrinkles.
"Not at all," she said, coming forward. "Mr. Polenta, my name is Clarice Starling. Thanks for seeing me. May we talk?"
"Well, I didn't think you'd come to swim," he said, smiling.
He was playing the charm card. Starling could see how that would work a lot of the time. Considering the recent murder of his daughter, it was wildly inappropriate. He seemed to realize it under her gaze, and his smile faltered. Clearly, being charming was a knee-jerk reaction to intimidation.
"I've been trying to reach you," Starling started as she sat back down. She waited until Polenta was seated.
"Have you?"
We both know I have, you little prick. Starling smiled.
"Yes, Mr. Polenta. For some time. I'm glad you could make the time, now."
"Of course."
Starling nodded to a framed picture on his desk. "Is that your daughter there?" she asked.
How does he react? Is there sadness? Anger? Bitterness? Nothing? It was a bit of everything, reflected in the glassy eyes of denial.
"Yes, that's my Fran. She's-she was beautiful, wasn't she?"
"She was, Mr. Polenta. And from what I've heard, very kind and charitable."
"Yes," he said, perking up, slightly. "Franny was always involved with charities. We're so-we're so proud."
"Of course. And her husband, Richard Masters. Was he also charitable?"
"He was a political tycoon. They were different, but sometimes different is complimentary."
"How did they meet?" Starling asked.
"Here."
"Here, at your home? What were the circumstances?"
"We were having a dinner party."
"Who else was in attendance?"
"My secretary can prepare a list for you."
"That's fine. And that was the first time they met?"
"Yes."
"Was his brother Paul at this party, too?"
"Yes, the whole family."
"And you've known the Masters for how long?"
"I've known Raleigh for nearly thirty years."
"Old friends?"
"Old rivals," he said, a faint grin, a glint of nostalgia.
"Now, I know this is some time ago Mr. Polenta, but I need to try to get something straight. It's been explained to me that three years ago, you and Raleigh Masters had a bit of a scuffle. Where was that?"
"Oh, that was nothing. It was at a fashion event, and we'd both had a bit to drink. We both made amends."
"So on the evening of March 12, at the Latiwa Art and Fashion Show, you and Raleigh were in attendance?"
"Yes," he said, slowly.
"Mr. Polenta, I have a record that both the Polenta family and Masters family were all in attendance, including Francesca, Paul and Richard Masters. If you're going to lie to me about things like when your daughter met her husband, or anything else, it's going to make it harder for us to get along."
"Ms. Starling-"
"-Special Agent Starling."
"Special Agent Starling…I had simply forgotten that they had met, back then. It was probably only in passing."
"Was it also only in passing during the United Through Sport charity event, seven months before that? And at the annual wine tasting event at the Embassy three years before? Mr. Polenta…" She let herself trail off and watched him sweat.
His mouth screwed up and for a moment, she wondered if he'd shove everything off of the table and throw her out. A part of her hoped he would.
"What does it matter, when they met?"
"Mr. Polenta, it's a federal process crime to knowingly and willfully make false statements or conceal information in any matter within the jurisdiction of the federal government of the United States. That includes lying to a federal agent. Now, come on. Mr. Polenta, I need you to be straight with me, or you're going to end up with a worse scandal than bribery, believe me. Cooperating with me is the best chance you have of ever leaving this country again, and saving your family from even more embarrassment."
"You-"
"Take a moment, Mr. Polenta. I won't be here long. My flight leaves tonight, and I have other business here between now and then. But we have a little time. A little time to do this right."
She let a minute or so pass, and was pleased she didn't have to wait longer.
His face was still red. "She met Richard, I think, at a juego del pato game. She never liked him much, but he was taken with her. He was easily taken though. I didn't take it seriously."
"But she decided to marry him?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"Almost two years ago, not long before they wed."
"And what led her to suddenly want to marry a man she never particularly liked?"
"She did it for the family. Don't you have family, Special Agent Starling?"
"Was it your idea, Mr. Polenta?"
"Special Agent-"
"Was it your idea?"
"Mine and Raleigh's."
"And what did Fran think of that?"
"What young girl would be happy about it? But she did it for her family. She was a good girl."
"So it's not true that you threatened to cut her out? I have it on multiple accounts that you did."
"¡No (me) jodás! I had to! It was for the family."
"Mr. Polenta, was Francesca Polenta having an affair with Paul Masters?"
"I don't know anything about that! If she was, it was her own damn business!"
"Not anymore. Now, it's the business of the federal U.S. government. Your daughter was shot in the U.S., her alleged lover a federal official. We suspect whoever did this is still in the U.S. When we find that person, and you've lied about any of this, you will face criminal conviction."
I told you, I don't know anything about Fran and Paul! I've only heard what everybody else heard."
"And that was?"
"That they were fucking!"
"I see. Thank you for your time, Mr. Polenta. I'll get out of your hair," she said, smiling and standing. Starling thought she heard him say, 'Zorra' as he left, but she couldn't be sure. It would not be the first time she'd been called a bitch. Starling wondered in how many languages she'd be called a bitch by the time she retired.
On Thanksgiving, Starling helped Mapp with the food as much as she was allowed, and otherwise stayed out of the way. Starling lay across the sofa in their shared living room, slumped against the arm rest with one leg thrown up onto the seat back. When Mapp came in she flipped on the radio and tickled Starling's foot.
She jerked and frowned. "What are you doing, lying here in the quiet?"
"Thinking."
"About?" Starling watched her lean a hip against the opposite arm rest and cross her arms. Starling raised an eyebrow. "Nonna your business."
Mapp looked away with her lips pursed and nodded. "Okay. I see. Is it about that guy you hooked up with six months ago?"
Starling toed one of the upholstered buttons on the couch back. "Seven. No."
"Liar. Why don't you call him, or something?"
"It wasn't like that."
"One night stand kinda thing?"
Starling's eyes were a little glossed over, as she watched her own foot, her toes running along the contours of the arm rest now, along the gimp braid.
"Yeah."
"So he wouldn't want to hear from you?"
"Don't you have cooking to do? What's this?" she nodded her head toward the radio.
"Girl, that's 10,000 Maniacs. And don't pretend with me. You know what this is, and if you want food, you'll talk to me for a minute."
"You'll still feed me."
Mapp rolled her eyes and moved Starling's feet to sit. "Yes, I'll always feed you. And you know it's fine that you keep your private life private. But if you're hurtin', you should talk about it. You don't need to give me the details. Did you hear me?"
"Yeah."
"Are you hurtin'?"
"Yeah."
"Tell me."
"I don't like how I feel about it," Starling said, sitting up and groaning. "I don't like that I think about it."
"How do you feel about it?"
"Wrong. Did you ever do something really bad, bad for you and whatever standard you have, and you just can't swallow that you did it? And it eats at you, and physically hurts? It's like," Starling paused, her hands becoming taut. She closed them around her stomach.
"It's like there's something inside and it's burrowing. But there's no other side for it to get to, so it just scratches and scratches. I almost feel like I can hear it, Dee. Little scratches on the other side of a door I can't open."
Mapp was quiet for long enough that Starling got nervous and looked at her. She was nodding, staring at the coffee table in thought. "Yep. When I was around nineteen I had this friend, Michael. We'd been friends through high school, and we were really close. He had a thing for me," she said, shaking her head.
"I knew it, but I didn't feel that way, you know? I knew I never would, and he had a tendency to be a bit unstable, emotionally. He fought with depression. Anyway, we went to a friend's house to pregame for her party. We were already drinking before people started to show up. We ended up getting shit-faced, and Rhiannon, our designated driver, drove us back to my dorm room. "I told him he could take the couch, and he suggested we just share the bed. If I hadn't been drunk, I would've known it was a terrible idea. We had sex, he lost his virginity. I took his virginity, Clarice. The next morning, I could see it in his eyes, you know? He thought we were in a relationship. Explaining that it had been a mistake was tough. He agreed and seemed okay, but that weekend he tried to hang himself. I didn't even know until his mom called me. I talked to her for a long time at the hospital, I had to tell her what happened. We both agreed I needed to disappear from his life. I've never spoken to Michael, again."
She looked at Starling again, finally. "I never told anybody about that."
Starling's smile was sad. "Thank you."
"For what? Telling you a depressing story?"
"Yeah. It's horrible, isn't it? Human nature. Suffering loves company. The torment is so much more bearable when you know you're not alone."
"Hell is no one but yourself, forever and ever," said Mapp.
"According to a Christian apologist. According to an existentialist, 'Hell is other people.'"
"It's so damn hard, sometimes. The whole, 'How can God let monsters do this and that', thing. It's even harder when you can see a little bit of that monster in the mirror. It wears different faces, but you can always recognize it."
Starling wanted to say, 'What if you invited the monster in? What if you made a deal with it?' She stopped herself before the sentence even formed fully in her mind. Instead she put her head in her hands, and felt Mapp's hand on her shoulder.
"Hey. Would bacon wrapped scallops help?"
Starling nodded with her head still in her hands, and Mapp patted her.
"Okay, Baby. You can have a freebie. And when you're through wallowing in guilt and bacon, come help me in the kitchen."
"I'm allowed back in the kitchen?"
"You can be in charge of the monkey bread."
The letter came the day before Starling's birthday. She didn't realize she'd been waiting for it until it came. She held it in both her gloved hands while sitting cross-legged in her room. She still hadn't decided what to do with it. Her heart was hammering.
Dear Clarice,
Do you find that time heals all wounds? I, for one, do not. The notion presumes that the source of grief is finite. People will tell you all manner of things when it comes to healing properly. Whichever way you choose, never search for it at the feet of those who harmed you, Clarice. Do you find your scars unsightly? I find that scars remind us that the past is real. I trust yours are healing, nicely.
As I write this, there is a conjunction of the moon and Saturn. The pair will be too widely separated to fit within the field of view of a telescope, but will be visible to the naked eye. I hope you did not miss it. If you did, be sure not to miss the upcoming Lyrid meteor shower. Astronomical events are an uncommon feast of the senses, and it would be tragic should you miss it.
As I know you will not ask, I will tell you: I am both consistent and faithful in my proclivities. Are you? Have you betrayed yourself with belief? Have you been deluded by love or tricked by sex? The bottle is damned faithful, Bukowski tells us. The bottle will not lie. Succumbing to carnal desires is less abysmal than duplicity. Be, at least, as honest as the bottle, Clarice. You pay me the compliment of acknowledging my superiority when you lie to me.
The ultimate realization of truth is not cheap; you will never find a ready-made path. You must create the way by your walking. Birds fly, but do not leave footprints in the sky. If ever you come to that ultimate truth, I hope to be there for it. I hope to be in attendance in that moment more than any symphony or sunset, more than the blooming of a century plant or the raining of fish, more than any coronation or celestial phenomenon.
Until then, I think of you often.
Hannibal Lecter
Starling realized she was holding the letter close to her face, and she set it down in front of her. Mapp was on a date, so she had the house to herself. Before his letter had come, she was bracing herself for the inevitable attention she would get the next day. Mapp was good about not taking it too far, but there was always a 'Happy Birthday' in a sing-songy voice, meant to make Starling laugh. She knew how Starling felt about birthdays and celebrations, in general.
As a rule, Starling's distaste for celebration was not excessive, but it was visceral. She saw them as occasionally necessary, at the very most to serve as bookmarks in life's prattling drudgery for those less purposeful. Her birthday held no meaning for her. It only meant she was still here, and while she was glad of it, she didn't see it meriting ceremony.
Following the 'Happy Birthday', there was usually a lot of brouhaha about a dinner. Starling liked the dinner, overall. Good food was good food, but it always brought a sort of clamor and always involved last-minute errands. A number of times, there were guests. The unfortunate proximity of Christmas to her birthday tended to make it a footnote in the holiday commotion. It could have been one reason, she reflected, she'd learned to not give the day of her birth much ado. It had never been toys on holidays or birthdays that made the true bookmarks in her life, anyway. The real bookmarks were not all joyous, but they were hers.
She looked at the letter on the kitchen table, and then at her gloved hands. Then, she removed her gloves and hesitated only a moment, before running the tips of her fingers along the page. After a few moments, she lifted it carefully back up, bringing it close to her face. She sniffed it once, twice, and then set it down. She could swear she smelled him on it, but wasn't sure. A good indication that she had smelled him was the fact that the scent immediately brought forth memories, and the memories brought forth sensations...
She stood abruptly, the ladder back chair making a shrill squeal on the tiles. She stood looking at the letter for a few beats before heading into the living room.
They had a gas log set installed in a masonry fireplace; at one time in her life, the thought of a gas fireplace would have seemed like the height of luxury. She took a knee to open the flue and light the pilot. She watched a moment, then brought the letter in and sat down, cross-legged. She read it again, and then again. Then she balled it up and threw it in, watching for long minutes as it coiled, darkened and disintegrated beneath the logs.
The next day, Starling came down with her blanket wrapped over her shoulders. It was early, but Mapp was already up. She smiled at Starling and handed her a cup of coffee when she came into the kitchen.
"You running this morning?" asked Mapp, taking a seat across from her.
"Nah."
"You going in today?"
"Not unless I'm called, no."
"Good. You can help with dinner tonight. I have a few errands to run, but you can be my grocery store buddy, right?"
"Always and forever," Starling said around a yawn and took a noisy slurp of the coffee.
Mapp laughed. "Well, alright. Oh, and Starling?"
"Go on, then."
"Haaaappy birthdaaaay."
"Thanks."
"I can't imagine the spoilsport you're going to be on the big 3-0."
"Well, you have two more years to imagine it."
"Or, you have two more years to gain a sense of fun. Folly has an important place in life, Clarice."
She looked up at Mapp, her eyes narrowed in consideration. "You're probably right."
"You're not the only one who's learned to cope. I'll share mine if you share yours."
Starling smiled and removed a pale arm from the blanket, offering her hand. Mapp smiled and shook it.
"Deal," said Starling, a spark in her eye Mapp didn't entirely recognize. "Deal."
January, and Dr. Lecter meets Etienne Alorie at the Kriminalmuseum, a macabre museum dedicated to historical Viennese murders. It is housed in one of the oldest buildings in the Leopoldstadt area, the Soap Boilers House. It holds twenty-two rooms to explore skulls, medieval torture devices, bloody gloves, death masks, and rusty axes. It was Etienne's idea.
Etienne walked with her hands in the pockets of her overcoat, the tip of her nose still pink from the cold. They were standing in front of a guillotine, watching people look.
"Personally, I find it disgusting," she was saying quietly, and sniffed. "They're like sniggering adolescents in an R-rated movie theatre, hoping to be kicked out so they don't have to tuck tails and leave."
"Most people are drawn to death. Death is the siren, humanity is the sailor. Do you know why I think you hate them? You hate them because you know you're one of them."
She looked at him. "Don't delude yourself into thinking you're more than a man."
Dr. Lecter smiled before nodding his chin. "Let's move on."
In front of a cabinet of chains, she leaned towards him, again. "Frau Strobl has been fucking Herr Baur for nearly a month. Herr Strobl has nearly caught them twice. I'm beginning to wonder if I'm going to have to give the situation a little nudge. She's more careful than I thought she'd be."
"Don't do anything without telling me. What about Herr Strobl?"
"I think he's fucked Valerie in every room of the house. They all keep just missing one another."
"What are the usual conditions for Frau Strobl and Herr Baur to come together?"
"Come together?" Etienne snorted quietly and raised an eyebrow. "I can never tell if you choose your wording that way on purpose or not. He usually comes over on Tuesday evenings while Herr Strobl is playing cards with Wagner-Artz and some others. He also comes on Saturdays, occasionally. Herr Strobl is usually out for most of the day on Saturdays. The rest of the time, she goes to him. Tuesday is the day I bet on, as Valerie comes over in the mornings when Frau Dresler has brunch with Sophie and Mizzi. It's the only day both trysts occur. Valerie and Herr Strobl in the morning, Frau Strobl and Herr Baur in the evening."
"I want you to speak with Frau Martin, we'll need her help."
"Alright. When?"
"We have four days until the dual trysts occur?"
"Yes."
"Alright. Speak with her before then. Tonight, if possible."
"Alright. She might ask for more money."
"It doesn't matter."
Etienne tried her best to look Dr. Lecter over without him noticing. He didn't look at her, but she never felt she got away with it. Herr Doctor was a very curious man. She found her body was attracted to his, but something kept her at bay. Perhaps it was the distinct sense that he was not the least bit interested. If there was more, she could not name it, not consciously. At times, she wanted to ask him what he was. A philanthropist? An investor? What did he do to have such money to buy lavish homes in Vienna and pay a fille de joie. It was not appropriate to ask.
Etienne had never asked something like this of her cousin. They had not spoken of Valerie's profession often, as it hadn't mattered. She had worried it would cause strain between them, but it hadn't, to her relief. Etienne was surprised that a professional sex worker was, well…professional.
"How are things getting along with David?"
"He's wrapped around my finger, like you asked."
"And?"
"I've managed to encourage him to flirt with Frau Steiner. It is a spectacle."
Dr. Lecter nodded. "How does she react?"
"Annoyed, mostly, to Wagner's delight. It appears to be good insurance for you."
"Good. Has she made any attempt to contact Herr Baur?"
"Oh, yes. She's been calling him and pestering him and making a fool of herself, while Herr Baur does the same with Valerie, who ignores him, as per instructed."
Dr. Lecter nodded, his hands behind his back when he turned briefly to Etienne. He smiled and she gave her head a tilt. "On Tuesday, I want Valerie to forget her purse at the Strobl's."
After his meeting with Etienne, Dr. Lecter felt slightly piqued, and decided he needed to do some quality shopping to right himself. Even though things were going according to plan, he could not help but sense a niggling feeling that it was not enough. One way or another, he would break most of them, if not shatter. It would be amusing, yes. Was it enough?
When he first began to suspect he would not be entirely satiated by the eminent result of his tangled web, he thought it was because he felt constrained by his covenant with Clarice, but that wasn't quite right. What he wanted had to wait. He could play with these people as long as he wished, make it last longer or cut it short. He could vary the degree of pain between one or the other, but it wasn't what he really wanted. He didn't want to play with these people. He wanted to play with the big cat. He wanted to play with Clarice.
Writing to her had been enjoyable. He liked to imagine her reading it, perhaps sitting at her kitchen table, cheap bourbon an arm's reach away from her gloved hands. He imagined her eyes skimming the page, her eyebrows furrowed, perhaps the corner of her coral lips twitching. He wondered if she'd turned it in.
When he arrived home that evening, he brought into his empty house many bags from the shops on Goldenes Quartier; Armani, Mui Mui, Chanel, Mulberry, and more. While the results of his game continued to unfold, it was time to prepare for the second round of his favorite one. It was time to make preparations for his little doxy. He made a call to Etienne and told her he could not be reached for a time. When he returned to this little arena, he hoped to find more than one skewered heart in time for Valentine's Day.