The Craigslist Murders Read Free Page A

prolonged applause, Charlotte rose to her feet with the crowd. They were cheering the gnome-like giant of finance at the podium. Charlotte could see his spittle as he stammered through the beginning of his speech. Returning, gratefully, to her own musings, she smiled. Vicky’s adoption of her as official best friend had been marked with the gift of two cashmere sweaters. They were hand-me-downs from her father. One was a pale shade of beige, “The color of a baby fawn,” Vickyhad said. And the other, a deep emerald green, “To match your wonderful eyes.”
    Charlotte still wore the green one around the house. The sleeves had unraveled and there were gaping holes beneath the armpits. As worn-out and frayed as their friendship, Charlotte had neither the heart nor the courage to throw it out. Throwing it out would imply that she had abandoned her youth; that she’d given up on the pleasures of being needed. This is what Vicky had taught her. That being needed was almost as good as being loved.
    The rattle of dinner plates as waiters cleared the table and refilled water glasses jolted her back into the present. Eyeing her nervously, the curator scribbled something on the back of his menu and slid it in her direction. She peered at the tiny, crabbed handwriting.
    “May I ask you for a drink later?” it said.
    She scribbled back, “Maybe next time!”
    Charlotte would never have dreamed of taking the boy up on his offer. But at thirty-seven, she still appreciated the gesture. Waiting for Philip’s cue to leave, (she’d agreed to join him only if he promised that they’d escape before dessert) Charlotte tapped her foot. The cue came in the form of his hand, pawing her thigh. Placing her own hand gently on top of his, as if to stroke it, she proceeded to pinch the flesh so hard between her fingernails, he yelped.
    “Ready to go?” Charlotte asked, sweetly.
    As the curator stood up and gallantly handed over her sequin clutch, she caught Philip whispering into the ear of the Russian girl while pocketing her business card. Had the man no shame? She wanted to kick him. His secret wassafe with Charlotte, of course. To tell Vicky would wound her pride. As bright and polished as the shiny shell of a ladybug, this thin veneer of pride was all that remained of the girl Charlotte had known in college. It had to be protected. And this was Charlotte’s job. Not just with Vicky but with clients, too.
To protect and to serve
, she muttered to herself as Philip glad-handed his way towards the exit.
That’s my motto. Just like the L.A. cops
.

3
    It was 8:30 Monday morning and Charlotte was trawling through the List at a newscafe on Lower Broadway. The place was getting busy. Too busy. She didn’t like the idea of strangers seeing what was on her screen. Not that it was dangerous. Thousands, maybe millions, of New Yorkers, surfed through the List every day. She just preferred to hunt alone. A teenage boy with huge wooden plugs in his earlobes sat sprawled in the chair next to her. The skin of the lobe had stretched so much, the flesh seemed to drip, like clocks in a Dali painting.
    “Hey, lady,” the boy said, tugging hard on his ear when he caught her staring. “You want the name of the guy put these in?”
    Charlotte winced. “Sorry,” she said, shifting her eyes back to the screen.
    The boy continued tapping at his keyboard as she clicked on a posting in the Collectibles section of the List and chuckled.
    “Outta here! Every stick of his louzy, rotton furniture!”
    With the exception of the atrocious spelling, Charlotte could relate. When she’d been dropped by her ex-boyfriend Paul, she’d felt that same urge to dump every item in her house that he’d touched. Every item but the Dustbuster and the ring that he’d given her in Venice. Paul was a passive aggressive, self-serving, pretty boy who had happily moved on from the pittance he’d earned at Christies to a new job as a “decorative-arts advisor.” They’d both