Choke: A Thriller (4 page)

Vincent and his lawyer are standing on the sidewalk in front of the police building.  In the background, there is a statue of Justice.

“Talk to me, Ken.”

“They've got nothing,” Lamm says.  “They have no idea who did this, but they know they’re going to be under a ton of pressure to solve this one fast.  Christ, Vicki was the hope of America in the Olympics.  Can you imagine the publicity?”

Vincent nods while his attorney checks his phone.

“So why did she say that my lawyer better be good?” Vincent asks.

“She meant nothing more than to intimidate you, Vincent.  They don't think you did it, I mean come on.  You get a call from Vicki, have your secretary call the cops, go there, then hang her?  It makes no sense.”

Lamm slides his phone back into the inside pocket of his suitcoat.

“You don’t think they have any leads on who might have done this?”

“I doubt it, otherwise they wouldn’t be putting on this big charade.  Besides, I overheard someone saying that Vicki’s boyfriend has an alibi.” 

“Boyfriend?”

Lamm looks at Vincent strangely.

“Yeah, her boyfriend.” 

Vincent tries to appear nonchalant.

“What's wrong?” Lamm says.

“Nothing.”

“No other suspects.  Just you - the witness.”

“Me the witness or me the suspect?”

Lamm shrugs his shoulders.

“Believe me, Vincent, the cops are looking into whether or not this was about you.  In their minds, if you didn't do this, then the killer was probably there with Vicki, forcing her to make the call to you.  Why you?  They don't know.  They do know, however, that the press is going to be all over them.  With all the hype over her recent performances and the attention figure skating has been getting, Vicki was starting to become an icon for Asian Americans.  Cereal boxes, endorsements, the whole thing.”

“So what am I supposed to do, Ken?”

“Sit tight.  Let them do their jobs.  At some point, the cops will want to sit down with you and take a formal statement.  I'll be with you when that happens.”

“Let me ask you something.”

Lamm concentrates, as if he knew something was coming.

“Let's just say that Vicki and I had...had more than just a doctor-patient relationship.”

Lamm has his poker face on and shows no signs of surprise.  “Well, for starters, there are no laws prohibiting that kind of relationship between psychologists and their patients, at least not in California,” he says.  “So no legal trouble there.  Ah, was there anything unusual about the extracurricular relationship?  Was the boyfriend jealous?  Did he threaten you?”

“I didn't even know there was a boyfriend.”

“Nothing out of the ordinary?”

“No.”

“Then I think we should be open about it when it comes time to make your statement.  If in fact, there was a relationship.”

Vincent puts his hand on Ken’s shoulder.

“Thanks, Ken.  And thanks for getting here so quickly.”

The two men start walking toward their cars.

Another thought occurs to Vincent.

“What about the incident with my car where Rachel and I almost died?” he asks.  “Did the cops say anything about that?”

“Just that they called the mechanic and he confirmed there were no signs of tampering,” Lamm says.

“Of course not.  Whoever's doing this is too smart for that.”

“Like I said, the cops are considering all the angles.  Don't get upset about Ponko giving you shit, she was trying to see if you'd get pissed and say anything she could use.  It's not personal, she's just doing her job.”

“I didn't do it, Ken.  I didn't kill Vicki.”

“I know, I know.”

“This is about me.  The car, the phone call from Vicki.  Someone's doing this to me.  And I have absolutely no idea why.”

Rachel is sitting on her couch, watching the television.  Her apartment is modern chic and very sparse.

A Special Report is being broadcast.

“There are no witnesses or suspects at this time, according to police sources,” the newscaster says.  “Again, figure skater Vicki Lee, an Olympic hopeful, was found dead this afternoon.  Although the police won't confirm, sources report that she was murdered.”

Rachel looks oddly at the television set, as if she's thinking about something.  She grabs the remote from the small glass table in front of her and clicks off the television set.

She continues to stare at the television even though it's turned off.

The basketball star's living room reflects Demetrius’s ten million a year salary.  Bearskin rugs, expensive leather furniture, exotic African sculptures combined with Roman style columns between rooms.  A big fire is going in the fireplace and the sound of loud hip hop music pounds throughout the house.

The house is full, but because it's so big, it doesn't seem crowded.  Partiers range from Brooks Brothers clad businessmen to hipsters wearing unlaced sneakers and gold chains.

Demetrius is stretched out on a big couch, watching two of his friends play foosball.  A gorgeous black woman is snuggled up next to him.

The friends playing foosball are nicknamed Hamburger and Hot Dog.  As expected, Hamburger is short and extremely fat, while Hot Dog is tall and thin.  Both are dressed like they're from the street; sweat suits, gold chains, gold rings, and beepers.

“I'm tellin' you, D, index funds are the shit.  Instant diversification, low expense ratio.  No 12b-1 fees.  No headaches.  You go as the market goes,” Hot Dog says.

Hot Dog slams a shot on the foosball table to punctuate his point.

“That’s bullshit.  With an index fund you’re just playing it safe.  Blue chips are the way to go.”

Demetrius ignores the financial advice and gives the woman a long, deep kiss, then breaks apart from her.  He stands up and lifts the girl into his arms.

“Let's go somewhere private, baby.”

He carries her into a bedroom as one of her stiletto heels falls to the carpet.

Vincent is standing in front of a bookcase.  In his hand is a glass of wine.  The picture he is looking at is one of himself and Vicki, their arms around each other, standing in front of a beautiful sunset.

It was taken in Cabo on a secret getaway.  Vincent shakes his head, tries and fails to put the images of Vicki dying out of his mind.

The phone rings, and Vincent puts the picture down, looks at his cell.  He doesn’t recognize the number.

“Hello,” Vincent says.

“Vincent.”

The voice is male.  Vincent doesn’t recognize it.

“Who is this?”

“What took you so long, Vince?”

“What are you talking about, I got it on the second ring.  Who is this?”

Vincent feels a tremor inside.

“No, I mean what took you so long to help out our little friend Vicki,” the man on the other end of the line says. 

At the sound of her name, Vincent freezes.

“The way I arranged it, if you had thought quickly, you had time to get her down safe and sound.”

“Who is this?”

Vincent feels himself panicking.  He wishes he could call the cops.

“What'd you do, stand around with your thumb up your ass?” the man mocks him.

“I'm hanging up now,” Vincent says, even though he has no intention of doing so.

“You probably froze, like you always do.”

The man on the phone laughs.

“Fuck you, I'm hanging up,” Vincent says through clenched teeth.  “Who are you and why are you doing this?”

“So what took you so long to get her down Vince?  You didn't freeze up, did you?  Did you choke just a little bit?  Did your palms sweat?  Breath get shallow?  Did your hands shake, Vince?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.  I'm calling the cops right now.”

“I'm sure Detective Ponko would love to talk to you.”

Vincent, about to hang up, suddenly brings the phone back to his ear.

“What did you say?”

The killer laughs again.

“Yeah, I know all about you Vincent.  This Detective Ponko?  I think she thinks you killed that little figure skater.  And you know, technically, she's right.”

“Who are you, you bastard?”

“I'm the man who's going to teach you how to conquer your fears.  I'm the man who's going to help you be the best that you can be.”

The man laughs again, and then all Vincent hears is a dial tone.

Detective Lori Ponko knocks on the door of Apartment 220.  The hallway she is in is nondescript.  The door is solid, but cheap looking.

She waits, then knocks again.  Finally, the door opens.

“Who is it?” a high-pitched male voice asks.

“My name is Detective Lori Ponko.  Are you Curtis May?”

The man hesitates before answering.

“What can I do for you?”

“I want to ask you a few questions regarding the death of Vicki Lee.”

The man unchains the door, then opens it.  He is a slim, scholarly looking man with horn-rimmed glasses and a short haircut.

He is awkward, clearly not used to guests.

“I was wondering if you'd come out and ask me some questions,” he says. 

Ponko enters the apartment, and looks around, taking everything in carefully.

“Oh, really, why'd you think that?”

The man laughs, realizing he shouldn't volunteer anything too quickly to this woman.

“Do you want anything to drink?  I've got some tea boiling.”

“No, thanks, this shouldn't take too long.”

May's apartment is drab and sparse, typical of a college student's digs.  There is a table in the eating area piled high with books.  A couch that sags in the middle.

“I take it you're a student?”

“Working on my Ph.D.  At UCLA,” he says, anticipating Ponko’s question.

“What field?”

“Microbiology.  I'm going to Costa Rica to study in the rainforest.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Don't worry, I'll be here for another six months,” he says with a tired smile.  “Plenty of time for you to find Vicki's killer.  I would hope, anyway.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Hey, this is L.A., what do you want?”

“So how long did you and Vicki see each other?”

“Three years.  We met when she was an undergrad at UCLA.  I was her TA.”

Ponko takes out a notepad and starts writing.

“What class would that have been?”

“Life cycles of the Amazon.”

“Was she a good student?”

“Best in the class.  Very bright, very articulate.”

“When did the two of you get romantically involved?”

“After the semester was over.  She took another course and needed help, so she came to me even though I wasn't the TA.  It continued to grow from there, until she dumped me about a month ago.”

Ponko looks up from her notebook. 

“Did she say why?”

“She said she met someone else,” May answers, for the first time showing some emotion.  He sits down in a chair at the kitchen table.  The chair’s seat is made of wicker and a few loose strands hang down.

“Did she say who?” Ponko asks.

May shakes his head.

“How did you first learn of her death?” the detective asks.

“On the news just like everyone else.”

“You don't seem very upset about it.”

“I can't say I was.  And isn't that interesting?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, we used to, you know. And then suddenly I find out she's murdered.  And what do I do?  Nothing.  I just change the channel.”

Ponko absorbs this.

“Human beings are capable of great violence, but worst of all, tremendous indifference,” she finally says.

May doesn't answer.

“When's the last time you spoke with her?” Ponko asks.

“When she told me good-bye.”

“And that she was leaving you for this other man.”

“Yeah, it's funny, I'm just about to get my doctorate degree, and my fiancé leaves me for a doctor.”

“Pardon me?”

“What?”

“A doctor?  I thought you said she didn't tell you who he was.”

“She didn't tell me his name.”

“Did she say what kind of doctor?”

“She just said he was a doctor.  That's all.  Believe me, it was enough.”

The party has ended, and there are empty bottles of champagne scattered around, as well as the occasional article of clothing.  It's apparent that a good time was had by all.

Hamburger and Hot Dog are sitting on Demetrius's huge, L-shaped leather couch.  They are passing a thick joint back and forth as they watch The Discovery Channel on the giant, big-screen television.  A pack of hyenas are tearing apart a carcass.

“Reminds me of your Mom at Thanksgiving,” Hot Dog observes.

Hamburger takes a deep hit, speaks on the exhale.

“Reminds me of your sisters fighting over my dick,” he responds.

A man walks toward the couch where Hamburger and Hot Dog are watching television. The two look up at him.

The man lifts his arm and in his hand is a pistol with a silencer attached.

He pumps three rounds into Hamburger's chest, which immediately begins seeping blood.

Hot Dog jumps up and reaches in his waistband for his gun, but it's too late.  The man squeezes off five more shots, all of which turn Hot Dog's white sweat-suit top into a perforated, bloody mess.

Hot Dog sinks to his knees and The Man fires one more shot that takes Hot Dog in the middle of the forehead.  He drops onto his face.

A woman's legs are wrapped around Demetrius's muscular back.  The rest of his body is covered in a sheet.

The woman is calling out and moaning.

Suddenly, the door slams shut behind them, but Demetrius doesn't bother turning to see who it is.

“Get the fuck outta here, I'm busy,” Demetrius says without turning his head to see who has intruded.  “This ain’t the goddamned Playboy Channel.”

There's no answer.

Demetrius stops in mid-stroke, and looks back over his shoulder.

“Who the fuck are you?” he says.  He climbs off the woman and faces the man who has entered the bedroom.

The woman also sits up.  Her bare breasts are visible and she makes no attempt to cover herself.

“Who the fuck are you?” she says, her voice angry.

The man raises his pistol and shoots the woman in the face.  Her body is thrown backward and then she slumps off the side of the bed, leaving a streak of blood that marks her fall.

The man lowers his pistol.

“What do you want?” Demetrius says, his voice calm and contrite.  “Everything's cool.  There's cash in my wallet.  Take my car.  The Ferrari.  Keys are on the table.”

“Shut up,” the man with the gun says.  “Put on your pants.  You're coming with me.”

Demetrius hesitates and the man smoothly raises the pistol again and fires a shot that knocks a hole in the wall right next to Demetrius's head.

“Okay, okay.” 

Demetrius climbs off the bed and starts putting on his pants.  He looks down at the dead woman on the floor.

“Shit,” he says.