Ring, ring! 

    I groan as I grope through the darkness in hopes of finding the offending sound.    

     Ring, ring!

    Oh, it’s only the phone. I hope it’s Marla. 

    Ring, ring!

    A smile breaks my face just thinking about the beautiful dame. Marla.    

    Ring, ring!

     It’s not her real name, but I like to call her Marla anyway. She’s feisty like that Marla Singer in the Brad Pitt movie. 

    Ring, ring! Ring, ring!  

    “Marla,” I say in a sing-song voice. I sing like a canary. 

    “Charlene. It’s Charlene, Frank,” she says, annoyed. Always. Oh Marla. 

    Ring, ring! Ring, ring! 
    But it’s not Marla on the phone. 

    “Frank? Frank, we’ve got another one. You’ve got to come in.” Damn it. 

    “Sure thing, sarge, I’ll be in in a few minutes.”

    I was hoping for Marla. We haven’t seen each other in a few weeks. I wonder what she’s up to. I reminisce about our last night together as I take a shower. I continue my normal routine of brushing my teeth, then getting dressed, then carefully combing my hair to immaculate perfection. And by immaculate perfection I mean I dry it with a towel before throwing on some jeans that might be clean and running out the door. After jogging down seven flights of stairs, I hurry out the door only to be bombarded by rain. 

    First a call from Not-Marla and now this: rain. Rain is not good for my profession. Correction. It is and it isn’t. You see, people get antsy on long rainy, dreary days. When people get antsy, they get out of control. When people lose control, someone dies. And that’s where I come in. A homicide detective; New York’s finest. Or something like that. But then the rain also washes away the evidence. 
    Oh well. 
    I roll up the collar of my coat and trudge through the trenches of people to reach the battleground that is the New York subway system. And stand in line for half an hour just to get on a grubby train.
    Sigh.

    Not-Marla. Rain. Train station. Too many people. And none of them Marla. 
    A psychotic grin appears on my face every time I think about Marla. Her frizzy, faded auburn hair. She hates it, but it’s my favorite color. It matches nicely against her porcelain skin. I have no idea how she does it, but she always adds just the right amount of make-up to that porcelain face of hers that brings a beastly desire from within. But the train ride is over all too quickly and I am jerked from my carnal reverie of Marla. Another two-block walk in the continuing rain and I have finally reached my destination. 
    “Jesus, Frank! What took you long enough?”
    “Sorry, sarge. Too much rain and too many people on the subway.” 
    “At this time of night?” The sergeant gave a sleep-deprived bewildered look. 
    “It is ‘the city that never sleeps.’”
    “Well it wasn’t very kind to this young lady.”
    “Another one, you said?” I crossed the police tape and lifted the drenched white sheet with the toe of my muddy boot. Yep. Another one. The sarge was talking again. 
    “Female, maybe 25 years old at the most. Throat slit, most likely from behind, like the others. Her driver’s license says she’s from out of state. No one is likely to come looking for her immediately.”
    “Occupation?”
    “Not sure yet.”  
    Picking up the sheet a little further so I could get a better look at her features, I said, “She’s not a natural blonde.”
    “What’d you say?” The sarge looked as if I had grown a second head. 
    “She’s not a natural blonde. Look here. Her hair is a different color closer to her head.” I received more quizzical looks. 
    “O...K….”
“So, that means that her real hair is a different color, this dark red color.” 
 No, I’m not gay. I have a mother. She fusses about her hair all the time. Just so you know. 
 “Dark red?” 
“Yeah. Hopefully the dye didn’t kill the DNA in her hair.” 
Marla. Auburn hair. Red. Red desire.My manhood groans for her. 
“Yeah, hopefully not. We’ll have to wait and see.”
Sarge motions for the coroner to load up the poor dead girl in his truck.  
“Come on, Frank. Back to the drawing board with this one. He’s upped the ante; he hasn’t waited as long since the last time he killed a victim.” 
“Have we decided the serial killer is a he, sarge?” 
“Well, no, I suppose a woman could kill from behind too. But she’d have to be one hell of a woman, towering over 6 foot tall! We’ll have to start calling her Brunhilda.” 
He guffawed at his joke. I faked an appropriate smile for a joke from one’s boss, but cringed on the inside. Brunhilda? No. But Marla….oh Marla! Marla, Marla, Marla. My Marla. The sarge was talking again, interrupting a very nice fantasy involving Marla and my handcuffs. 
“I said, do you want to stop for coffee on the way back? You look like death warmed over, son.” 
“Oh, yes. Well I was asleep when you called. It’s nearly midnight after all, sarge.” 
“It’s also ‘the city that never sleeps.’”
Another guffaw. Another inner cringe. We got in the car (and finally out of the rain) to drive down the street to the corner starshmucks, or whatever the hell these chain coffee shops are called these days. At least this one is open all night. Out in the cold rain again. Inside the starshmucks. 
Ting-a-ling!
Oh, I love that sound! The sound of a bell ringing when a shop door opens. 
Ting-a-ling!
There it is again! If only it didn’t have to signify that more people were entering the shop. Not-Marla. Rain. Train. Too many people. You can add burnt coffee to the list now. If you are keeping a list. Are you the type to keep lists? I’m not sure if I am. You’ll have to let me know.  
“So she’s not a natural blonde, eh?” 
“Yeah. It’s something my mother always fusses about, having to get her hair done again because her roots are showing.” 
Sarge nodded over his piping hot cup of burnt coffee. I blew on mine to cool it off some. 
Ting-a-ling!
“So how is your mother?” 
I hate small talk. At this point, you might be wondering if there is anything I don’t hate. Marla. I don’t hate Marla. 
“Fine. She had her hair done again yesterday and called me to tell me all about it.” 
Polite chuckle. Sip of hot burnt coffee. 
Ting-a-ling!
That time a group of people left. It being after midnight, there aren’t many people in the corner starshmucks to begin with. But now I can enjoy the tap-a-tap tap pitter-patter of the rain coming down. Rain isn’t all that bad. Especially when I’m not out in it. 
Ting-a-ling! Tap-a-tap, pitter-patter! 
“How’s the missus?” 
The sarge’s wife is...Not-Marla. She’s quite...curvaceous. In places there shouldn’t be curves. But whatever. Carpe diem, and all that jazz. 
“Oh, Jennifer is lovely. Such a doll, that one. Worried about me being out late all the time with this case. Bless her.” 
He beamed at the thought of his little wife waiting on him at home. She does things like cooking and cleaning, laundry, worry. Marla doesn’t worry. I like that about her. I like a woman who understands I need my space. I’d probably strangle Jennifer if I had to live with her. She’s barely tolerable at the station Christmas parties. Well, anyone’s tolerable after a glass or two of brandy. But I digress. 
Ting-a-ling! Tap-a-tap, pitter-patter! Tap-a-tap, pitter-patter! Ting-a-ling!
“Drink up, Frank! Got to keep some fuel in you if we’re to ever crack this case wide open.” 
Looking down into my still steaming cup of what smells like burnt rubber, I take the plunge and sip a bit. Meh, I’ve had worse. I’ve had better, but I’ve had worse. 
“So let’s start from the beginning. Again,” I say after taking the plunge once more. 
“Well, this one,” he looks down at his notebook, “Brittany’s her name. So Brittany is victim number four. Just with the previous three victims, her throat was slit from behind. Still trying to figure out exactly what was used. So far none of the young girls have any connection to each other, outside of their physical similarities. All roughly the same height, about five foot two. All roughly the same age, mid-twenties.” 
“Twenty-five at most,” I nodded. 
“Right, twenty-five.” 
“Occupations?”
“No connection. We haven’t learned about the last one, Brittany, yet. But they were all people no one would easily miss. One was a clerk at a grocery store, one worked at a bar, and one was a prostitute.” 
Marla. I want to see her soon. 
Ting-a-ling! Tap-a-tap, pitter-patter! 
Sip of burnt coffee. 
“And we’ve mapped where they lived, sarge. No connections there. Not even in the same part of the city.” 
“That we know of! Wait till we get the information back on the latest, what’s-her-name...Brittany.” 
“That’s true. He, or she, has started killing sooner in between each girl. Perhaps he, or she, slipped up this time. Rushed things.” 
“That’s right. The first three had eleven days in between according to the times of death. This one was only a week! Seven days, not eleven!”
He’s getting brash. 
“He’s getting brash! Brash, I tell you. And we have to stop him. I won’t settle for a serial killer in my district.” 
Ting-a-ling! Tap-a-tap, pitter-patter! 
Glares from the straggling strangers. 
“Keep your voice down, please, sarge!” 
“Right. Sorry. Sometimes I get a little passionate about hunting down murderers. But we don’t want to scare the public, do we?” 
The sergeant fancies himself an important figure in the city hierarchy. He’s not even the station captain. Just a bottom-level detective, like me. His one claim to fame is that he’s the head detective for our group of detectives. I suppose that’s something. We call him sarge as a joke. He thinks it’s respect. Whatever works, I suppose. The sarge finished off the dregs of his burnt rubber and slammed his mug down on the table. 
Ting-a-ling! Tap-a-tap, pitter-patter! Thunk! 
“Well, we should head back to the station and see if we can’t dig up more information about poor Brittany.” 
“Aye, aye, sarge.” I, too, finished off my burnt rubber before following him out into the rain. 
Marla. Marla on my mind. 
 
   

Thunk, thunk.  Tap-a-tap, pitter-patter. 

   My fist connected with the locked door for the millionth time. Where is she? She must be sleeping off a massive hangover if she can't hear the noise I'm making. And at 1 AM, too! Geez!

Thunk, thunk! Thunk, thunk. Tap-a-tap, pitter-patter. 

    I tried digging through my purse again with numb, slippery-wet fingers. Nothing.

Thunk, thunk, thunk! Tap-a-tap, pitter-patter.

I would be the person to leave my keys at home on a night like this. Stupid cold. Stupid rain. Stupid New York. I really should move back home.

Thunk, thunk! Thunk, thunk, thunk! Tap-a-tap, pitter-patter.

At least in Oklahoma you don't have to worry about leaving yours keys at home because you don't have to worry about locking the damn doors! 

    Where is she?!

    "Brittany? Open up! It's cold out!" 

THUNK, THUNK, THUNK, THUNK, THUNK, THUNK, THUNK!

Tap-a-tap, pitter-patter. 

    Nothing. She has to be home. Now I'm just pissed. What kind of roommate gets so wasted she can't even hear someone at the door?! I'm moving back to Oklahoma. 

    Huffing and puffing like the damn big bad wolf, I throw my sopping wet purse on the ground--slump--and creep around to the side window. It's supposed to be unlatched for emergencies such as this. Of course it's hard to tell with numb hands at the moment. I give up feeling for the latch and just wrench the stupid window open. And to my surprise, it works! 

    Tap-a-tap, pitter-patter.

    A beautiful, dry, wave of warmth comes at me, crushing me like the Niagara Falls, only less wet. I throw my now muddy purse inside--slump--and climb in. Lucky we managed to land a first floor apartment. I don't want to know what Brittany had to do to score us such an amazing place. I land with a squelch and continue to squelch all the way to my room.  

    Squelch, squelch. Squelch, squelch. Tap-a-tap, pitter-patter. 

    I pass Brittany's room, pristine as usual. 

   Tap-a-tap, pitter-patter. Squelch, squelch. Squeak!

    Huh. I guess she's not home. But if she's not home, where is she? 

    Squelch, squelch. Tap-a-tap, pitter-patter.

    She should be off from work already, right? 

    Squelch, squelch. Squelch. Tap-a-tap, pitter-patter.

    Oh well. I'll worry about it after a warm shower. Stupid New York. I haven't the foggiest idea what demon possessed me to move all the way out here in the first place! 

    "You'll never be a real actress, you know. That city is full of them. And such filth! You'll end up working as a prostitute! I just know it!" Oh. Now I remember. Thanks mom. You know, she really should get an academy award for those crocodile tears of hers. Don't get me started on my always absent douche--I mean dad.

    Tap-a-tap, pitter-patter. 

    I walked into his office. He was wearing his usual plaid shirt, jeans, brown work boots. The holy cowboy hat hung from a hook on the wall nearby. 

    (Tap-a-tap, pitter-patter.)

    "Dad, I have something to tell you." 

    He didn't even bother to look up from his paperwork. Just gave a grunt of acknowledgment. 

    "Dad, I'm moving to New York." 

    "No you aren't." Again with the no eye contact thing. He's really good at that, avoiding you. 

    "Yes. I am. At the end of the month." 

    (Tap-a-tap, pitter-patter.)

    "No, you aren't. You're going to work at the dairy farm, like your brothers. Help take over the family business one day. Carry on the family tradition of living off the land. We talked about this, remember?" Still no eye contact. 

    "No! No more dairy farms. No more cows. No more smelling like dung! I'm moving and that's final!" 

    (Tap-a-tap, pitter-patter.)

    I turned on my heel to make a grand exit. His words cut like ice. 

    "Don't call home when you get pregnant." 

    Just like mom. Ugh. 

    I can't use this shampoo anymore. It brings up bad memories. And they would do well to remember that I've been here a year and I haven't had to sell my body in exchange for anything! 

    Tap-a-tap, pitter-patter.