White Noise

White Noise, Part 4 of 10

z119z

© the author 2015

Comments are appreciated. Please send them to z119z2000@yahoo.com. Thanks.

Chapter 7

"Is Jeff Ange around?"

It was only a fluke that Jeff was at Foster's Sandman Shop at that hour of the day on a Thursday. Most afternoons he was working on other aspects of Sandman's business. But he had no outside appointments scheduled for that day and, having nothing better to do, was in the back room taking inventory. At the edge of his consciousness, he heard the bell over the shop door ring and Cindy, their sales clerk, greet the customer. It wasn't until he heard his own name that he began paying attention.

"He's in the back. Can I tell him who's calling?"

"I'm Lieutenant Matteo Dell'uomo of the NYPD. He knows me."

Oh shit, thought Jeff. Yeah, he knew Dell'uomo. He wished he didn't. The previous meetings had not been pleasant. He had told Kenneth that they should use a unit to staff the store rather than hire a civilian like Cindy. A unit could have been programmed to respond to the police with denials, but Kenneth had said no, it would be a waste of a unit. Cindy probably had taken one look at Dell'uomo and gone weak in the knees. Right now, she was no doubt slobbering all over his badge and ID folder. If Cindy hadn't already told Dell'uomo that he was in the back, Jeff would have been tempted to sneak out. But she'd sell him out in an instant for a smile from the cop and then chase him down the alleyway and hand him over to the police.

They had had a few early failures with the units program. Not with the units themselves but with the clients. That had forced them to begin working with the clients to develop and sustain customer satisfaction. Before they took this step, however, many clients grew bored with their units. Some people apparently tire of perfect obedience quickly. They begin to wonder what their unit would do for them. Were there any limits? Was there something it would refuse to do? Would it protest if I hurt it? And then, all too soon, the question became How much can I hurt it?

One night Kenneth Foster received a call from Philip Talbert. His unit, Talbert angrily complained, was broken. Foster had sold him damaged goods, and he wanted an immediate refund or a replacement. Kenneth called Jeff, and the two of them went to Talbert's place. His unit was a successful arbitrager named Michael Sorenson who worked at a large investment firm directing its currency-trading unit. Michael was a distinguished looking man, well educated, personable, but with a desire to be dominated, which they had developed and strengthened. Philip Talbert was the scion of a prominent family much involved in civic and charitable affairs. At that time, his name and picture were often featured in the society columns of local newspapers.

When they arrived at Talbert's place, they found Michael beaten and unconscious. Talbert had done nothing to help him. All he had done was to call Kenneth and blame him for Michael's failure to withstand Talbert's maltreatment. Talbert claimed that this was all Foster's fault. Kenneth had been impressive. Jeff still remembered the way Foster immediately took charge and arranged for an ambulance to take Michael to a hospital.

Jeff had felt so cold. They had given this man a great gift, and he had treated it so badly. Later he could not explain his anger and the power it gave him. He had never since been able to duplicate it. In his most soothing voice, he calmed Talbert and relaxed him. He soon had him in a deep trance. Under Jeff's direction, Talbert phoned the police and confessed to beating Michael.

During further sessions with Talbert, Jeff turned his sadistic tendencies inward toward himself. Talbert was soon regaling his dinner partners with detailed descriptions of his visits to the "docks," the city's notorious site for S/M encounters. His facial bruises made it apparent to his fascinated audience that his accounts were true. Soon his private life became the subject of much gossip. Even Suzie, a local newspaper's society columnist, began hinting at Talbert's escapades and his "peculiar penchant."

The opening night of the opera season is one of the city's premier social occasions, a chance to display one's patronage of the arts by having one's photograph or one's wife's photograph taken wearing the latest in haute couture and the family jewels. Talbert's family had occupied the same box at the opera house for four generations. Pictures of the women of his family attending opening night were an annual feature in media coverage of the event. Usually the men in the family were content to appear beside them lending a supporting arm. Three years ago, Talbert broke with that tradition. His attire of knee-length black leather boots, leather chaps open at the crotch and in the back, a studded leather jock strap, and a leather collar may have strained the usual custom of black tie for the gentlemen attendees, but it was the liberally tattooed bare-chested master dressed only in black leather shorts and holding the leash attached to Talbert's collar as well as his frequent application of a riding crop to Talbert's buttocks that caught the media's attention. Talbert and his masked "guest" were featured in every report. The welts across Talbert's shoulders and the blood smears on his back made it apparent that his pre-opera activities had not been devoted to studying the score. Neither the great diva Marta Kahlmann nor the rest of the audience was amused when Talbert's master interrupted the show by keeping time with his riding crop on Talbert's body during Kahlmann's usually riveting rendition of the great second act aria "Dolce sonno."

Along with a bill for reupholstering his blood-stained seat and replacing the drapes in his family's box, the opera house refunded the money for Talbert's season tickets and informed him that "in view of his conduct" he would not be admitted to future performances. His friends deserted him, his master took him for most of his money. Today he survived on the income from a small trust fund, endlessly searching for someone to satisfy his lust for punishment.

And what of Michael? Michael became Jeff's responsibility. Jeff had helped turn him into a unit, and as he sat beside Michael's hospital bed, he vowed to help bring him back. The doctors had removed his right kidney, which Talbert's kicks had damaged beyond repair, and stopped the internal bleeding. They had reset the broken arm and fingers and the cracked ribs. They had reassembled the fragments of his right knee bones back together in roughly the right way. Michael lay in bed, bandaged, his eyes black and swollen, his right arm and leg encased in plaster casts. The doctors had pushed his nose back into its approximate shape, and a metal guard held on with tape protected it from further damage. Intravenous feeds led into his arms, and drains led out of his abdomen. Jeff tried not to look at the bag of bloody liquid at the end of one of the drains.

As Michael drifted in and out of sleep, Jeff held his hand and took him back to that warm sunny beach. "Just drift on the wind. Rising and falling with wind as it supports you, and you soar up and down in the warm golden sun."

"Does that work?" Someone was standing in the doorway behind him.

"It helps. It gives him something to focus on that's not painful." Jeff didn't look to see who was speaking and concentrated on helping Michael, as if his thoughts could reach into Michael's mind and comfort him.

"Does he hear you?"

"Perhaps at some unconscious level, Doctor."

"I'm not a doctor."

Jeff turned around, and there in the doorway stood the police, all 6 feet 4 of him, broad-shouldered, big-chested, curly dark brown hair, bright eyes so black that the iris merged imperceptibly into the pupil. You didn't need to read the name on the ID he was holding out to know that he was Italian.

"I'm Detective Sergeant Matteo Dell'uomo. I'm here to talk with Mr. Sorenson about what happened."

"I think he's sleeping now."

"I'll wait. And you are?"

"My name's Jeff Ange. I'm Michael's friend"

He gave Jeff that cop look—the one that leaves you wondering what he suspects and what he knows. The look that says he's certain that you know more than you will tell him and that you are guiltier than you will admit.

"Was that hypnotism you were trying?"

"Sort of. I'm just trying to help him imagine a better place." Jeff realized that he was squeezing Michael's hand too hard. He placed it back on the bed and folded his hands in his lap, trying to look innocent. Why did cops always make him feel like a little kid who had been caught doing something wrong?

"Mr. Sorenson is lucky in his friends. Looks like he can use all the positive images he can get." Detective Dell'uomo's attention drifted away for a few seconds, his thoughts turned inward on something that left his face sad and weary.

And that was how Jeff had met Detective Dell'uomo. He returned often as Michael recovered and could begin to talk. He seemed to accept Jeff's presence as helpful, and in time when Michael's good hand sought Jeff's, he would nod at Jeff as if to tell him it was OK that they touched.

At first, Michael was not as forthcoming as the detective wished. His training as a unit gave him a lingering reluctance to say anything bad about his patron. When Jeff could speak with Michael privately, he reprogrammed him to speak of his experiences as a relationship that had gone bad and to talk about what Talbert had done to him. But in the end, it didn't matter. In return for a plea bargain to a lesser charge, the district attorney's office dropped the worst of the charges against Talbert. Michael never had to testify in court. Detective Dell'uomo delivered the news of the arrangements. The lack of emotion on his face and the stiffness with which he held himself betrayed his feelings. He was not happy about the outcome of the case. But then, Detective Sergeant Dell'uomo didn't impress Jeff as someone who was often happy.

Jeff took Michael home. When Michael recovered enough to work, he took over the financial operations of Sandman Enterprises. In Jeff's monthly follow-up sessions with the clients, he sometimes acquired financial tips. With the knowledge he gained and with Sandman's lucrative business, they became financially secure. Michael has increased their wealth many times over.

And in time, Jeff had helped Michael to be happy. He knew that Michael was one of his greatest successes. Michael would never walk without a limp, and his face still bore the marks of the damage Philip Talbert had done. His chest and abdomen were crossed with surgical scars, and his right knee was misshapen, and its lumps and knobs bore only a passing resemblance to a normal knee. But Michael accepted this, and he accepted Jeff as his partner. Jeff acknowledged that perhaps at first Michael's feelings for him arose only because Michael depended on him so much, Gratitude had somehow developed into love, but gratitude didn't explain his feelings for Michael. Their relationship may not have come about in the usual fashion, but it was no less real for all that.

And now Detective Dell'uomo was invading their lives again.

"Detective Dell'uomo." Jeff pushed aside the drapes covering the entrance to the backroom. "It has been a while." Jeff hoped that his dismay at seeing Dell'uomo again was not apparent. Both Kenneth Foster and he had been interviewed by Dell'uomo about Talbert's mistreatment of Michael, and Jeff suspected that Dell'uomo was not convinced that their involvement was as innocent as they had made out. Since it wasn't, their encounters with him, separately and together, had been tense. Philip Talbert's plea bargain saved not only himself but them.

"Mr. Ange, I wonder if I might have a word with you?"

"Of course. What can I do for you?"

"I believe that you know something about hypnosis."

"Oh, Jeff's the best." Cindy, who had been staring at Dell'uomo with open-mouthed fascination, interrupted. "He can put anyone under."

Dell'uomo's attention shifted from Jeff to her and then back to Jeff. To judge from the look on his face, "best" was not a word he would have applied to Jeff.

"Is that coffee shop down the street any good?"

"It's OK. Lanning's around the corner on Warnack is better."

"Will we be able to talk privately there?"

"There shouldn't be too many people there at this time of day."

"It's cold out. You'll need a coat."

Jeff reached behind the curtain to the backroom and pulled his jacket off a hook. It did not occur to protest that he had work to do or to plead another appointment. He resigned himself to "having a word" with Dell'uomo. The lieutenant waited while Jeff got ready and then held the door open and motioned for Jeff to precede him. He nodded to Cindy. "This may take a while," he told her.

"Will I be back by 5:30?" Jeff asked.

"Maybe." Dell'uomo put his hand in the middle of Jeff's back and steered him out the door.

Jeff turned around. Dell'uomo was much taller and broader through the chest than Jeff, and he pushed himself up on his toes in a vain effort to be visible to Cindy. "If I'm not back by 4:30, call Mr. Foster and let him know that I've gone out with Detective Dell'uomo and haven't returned yet. He'll come over and . . . ."

Dell'uomo pulled the door shut firmly before Jeff had finished speaking. "Where is this place?"

Jeff pointed down the street to the next block. "It's around the corner and down two blocks." Dell'uomo set off down the sidewalk at a fast pace. Jeff, whose legs were much shorter had to scurry to keep up. It felt strange to Jeff not to say anything, but the only thing that occurred to him was "Did you get a promotion? The last time we met you were a sergeant." To his own ears, he already sounded out of breath.

"Yes."

"What sort of crimes do you investigate now?"

"Homicides."

"Oh." Dell'uomo's advancement in rank had not made him talkative. Jeff gave up on conversation, and the two walked the rest of the way in silence. Other than speaking to place his order, Dell'uomo said nothing more until they had their coffee and sat down. They had the place to ourselves, and he chose a table as far away from the counter as possible. Underneath the table, Jeff twisted a paper napkin into a knot.

"Do you know this person?"

Dell'uomo pulled a photograph out of his briefcase and handed it to Jeff. It showed the head and upper torso of a young man dressed in a dark suit and tie and a white shirt posed formally in front of a dark background. It looked like a high school graduation photo—it had that stiff, studied look of someone who had been told to smile and focus on something to the left of the camera lens. Jeff took a minute to examine the photo carefully. He knew immediately that he had never seen the guy before, but he didn't want Dell'uomo to think he wasn't trying to help. The young man was handsome in a bland, unexceptional sort of way. His features were regular but rather soft and fluid. His face didn't have a special feature that set him apart from others. He wouldn't be the actor in a TV show but the guy who appeared in an ad between segments and looked reassuringly average. He would be there to help sell something normal and everyday like paint or a four-door family sedan, not something that needed a sexy male model like an expensive sports car or razor blades.

Jeff handed the photo back to Dell'uomo. "No, I don't know him. Sorry. Who is he?"

"I can't give you any details, but two days ago the body of this young man was found in Garfield Park. He had been dead for over a day."

"Oh my god. I didn't see anything about this on the news. That's terrible. His poor parents." Jeff shook his head sadly. Then a further thought occurred to him. "But why do you think I might know him?"

"We didn't identify him until this morning. He was a student at City University. The campus paper will have an article on him tomorrow. The newspapers and the television news programs may pick up the story if they can find an interesting angle."

"Will they?"

"Not from me. And not from you."

Jeff got the message. His role, whatever it might be, in Dell'uomo's investigation was to be anonymous. "Why would they ask me?"

"No reason." Dell'uomo didn't speak for a moment. "You and your boss have reputations for being skilled in hypnosis. I need information from someone who won't talk to reporters and who won't ask many questions."

"I won't talk."

"What about asking questions?" For the first time, Dell'uomo smiled.

"I'll try not to."

"That would be best."

Dell'uomo took a drink of coffee and then sighed. He looked around and then gazed out the window for several seconds. Whatever he wanted to know, he was reluctant to begin asking. He sighed again and then reached inside his briefcase again to pull out a piece of paper. "Do you know these books?"

Jeff scanned the list of titles. "I know some of them. The NLP handbook is a standard text. Elman's work is a classic. They're both good resources. The others—well, to judge from the titles, they're basic how-to guides. I couldn't say without seeing them." Jeff tapped one of the titles with a forefinger. "This one I know. It's just junk—how to hypnotize your girlfriend and make her put out—that sort of thing."

"There was also a three-ring binder in the victim's room. It had articles downloaded from the Internet on hypnotism and stuff like that. One of them was by you."

"Is that why you wanted to talk with me? Anybody can download something from the Internet. It doesn't mean that I know them. Anyway, what's hypnotism got to do with the kid who was murdered?"

"You're asking questions, Jeff. I told you not to do that."

"Sorry, Detective. I'll try not to do it again." Jeff hoped he didn't sound as annoyed as he felt. The interview was becoming everything he disliked in dealing with the police—the arrogance and the bullying and the attempts to unsettle the person being questioned. Dell'uomo ought to realize that Jeff knew more than a little about interview techniques. In fact, he was sure that he could teach the lieutenant a thing or two.

"Can someone be hypnotized into doing something against his will?"

This was surer ground. "No. We always say, `All hypnosis is self-hypnosis.' All a good hypnotist does is to break down the barriers that prevent someone from acting the way he wants to or help the person develop tendencies that are already there."

"Could you convince someone to do something he didn't want to?"

"The general consensus is no. There are some who believe that given enough time and a good subject, you could gradually change him by utilizing pleasant experiences and leading him in a direction he might not normally take."

"You don't buy that?"

Jeff shook his head. "No. It's not possible."

"Not ever?"

"No. The hypnotic trance is just a state of altered consciousness. All of us, you included, go into a trance several times a day. Every time you get engrossed in a movie or a TV show or a book, you're in a trance. Every time you daydream, you're in a trance. A good movie or book will draw you in and make you into a participant in the story, but you eventually emerge from it, still the same person you always were."

"It's that easy?"

"Yes."

"What's a furry?"

Jeff sat back. The question startled him, and he paused to gather his thoughts. "I don't know much about them. From what I understand, some people like to dress up in animal costumes and play. A lot of the time it involves sex. I've heard of people using hypnosis to make themselves believe they are an animal—a cat, a wolf, a bear, whatever. I haven't had any direct experience with it. It's not one of my interests. But I suppose a person skilled at self-hypnosis might be able to actually see himself as the animal. Probably most people could achieve some sort of perception of being the animal briefly. I don't think they could sustain it for long, however."

"What's the attraction of that?"

"I don't know, Detective. I don't understand it myself. I read somewhere that some people have suggested that it's a reversion to childhood and the comfort of plush toys. Or that it makes sex less threatening for people who have trouble dealing with other people."

Dell'uomo paused again. He gave the impression of a man who had nothing better to do than sit in a coffee shop but had nothing particular to say to the person he was with. Jeff was certain that if anything he had said had answered Dell'uomo's real questions, he would never know.

"There is another matter."

"Yes, Detective?"

"First, it's `lieutenant.' Second, the guy who lives across the hall from the victim at his dorm at City University saw him with a stranger in his room several weeks ago. The kid is very upset and isn't able to give us a clear description of the stranger. But they were in the same room for several minutes at least. We had the kid work with a sketch artist, but the results aren't any good. I've heard that hypnosis can help in such situations."

"It might. Depends on the person."

"Could you try?"

Jeff `s immediate reaction was that he didn't want to become involved. Some of Dell'uomo's questions were getting too close to Sandman Enterprises. "There's no guarantee of success. It could well be a waste of your time."

"The young woman in your store says you're the best."

"Employee loyalty. Cindy exaggerates."

"This kid's downtown at my office. My car's parked outside your shop. You can let Cindy know on the way back that you're `assisting the police with their inquiries.' " The quotes around the detective fiction cliché were audible. Somehow Jeff's help had become a given. He hoped that "assisting the police with their inquiries" was not another way of saying "prime suspect." Dell'uomo stood up and carried his coffee cup back to the counter. "It might take a while. If you've left anything in your store, you had better bring it with you. I'll have someone take you home afterwards." Jeff was impressed. The detective had done his homework. He knew that Jeff didn't drive to work.

"How did you become interested in hypnosis?"

Sergeant Trent settled back into her seat. Buses and cabs clogged the street. They were caught in rush-hour traffic, and progress was measured by successfully making it through the next stop light. They weren't going anywhere. Jeff Ange cursed himself for accepting Trent's offer of a ride home. He should have taken the subway, but the session with Mike had exhausted him emotionally. Lieutenant Dell'uomo and Sergeant Trent hadn't told him much, but it was clear that something terrible had happened and Mike's memories had been interfered with. It was the dark side of hypnosis, and it upset Jeff to deal with it, especially because of his experiences with Michael. When Sergeant Trent—he didn't even know her first name—dangled the prospect of not spending an hour on a crowded subway, he had accepted readily. Now, it was clear that he would have to be sociable and answer her questions. Jeff wondered if that might be the reason she was giving him a ride. It couldn't be convenient for her, but maybe Dell'uomo had told her to do this so that she could probe him on the pretext of making conversation.

"Oh, I started at a young age. Do you remember the Red Dragon show?"

"Yeah, sort of. My brother liked superhero cartoons, and he used to watch it. I didn't pay much attention to it, though."

"OK, one of the recurring characters was The EYE. Do you remember him? He didn't really have a name. He was just The EYE. Practically every episode, The EYE used hypnosis to bring the Red Dragon under his control. While he was under The EYE's power, the Red Dragon turned into a bad guy. He would steal ice cream cones from kids or drive the Dragonmobile through mud puddles and drench old ladies. Then he would speed away laughing maniacally. The Red Dragon had this sidekick—the AlleyKatt. AlleyKatt was, well, he was a smartass, but he always ended up rescuing the Red Dragon and helping him foil The EYE. When he recovered, the Red Dragon would buy the kids triple-scoop cones and dry the ladies' wet clothes with the magic heat rays that emerged from the ring he wore."

"It sounds like you liked the eye."

"Yeah, he was my favorite character. He was the only reason I watched the show. If I found that he wouldn't appear in that week's episode, I usually switched the channel. For me, the Red Dragon was interesting only when The EYE had him firmly under his power. The EYE was kind of this cool, suave, dangerous, sexy guy. I didn't know the word until later, but The EYE had panache. In comparison, the Red Dragon was a wishy-washy do-gooder prone to giving good advice like `Always look both ways before crossing the street.' That sort of thing. He just struck me as lame."

Jeff wasn't about to tell Sergeant Trent that he loved to imitate The EYE, especially The EYE's trademark gesture as he hypnotized his prey. Pulling a decrepit fedora of his father's that he had rescued from the trash low over his forehead and twirling a black magician's cape he had bought with several weeks' worth of allowance over a forearm, he would lift the cape to cover the lower half of his face so that only his gleaming eyes were visible in the space between the rim of the hat and the cape. As Jeff gazed intently in his victim's eyes, he would declaim in a heavily accented voice: "You vill obey me. You can nawt resist. Look eento mine eyes and obey, mine leetle pet." Poor Joey Pritzer had spent one summer vacation playing the Red Dragon under Jeff's command. Perhaps he enjoyed the experience of being a mindless robot as much as Jeff enjoyed ordering him about. At least, Jeff hoped so. He couldn't imagine why else Joey had cooperated in his fantasy.

Sergeant Trent leaned on the horn to protest a cab that had nosed into the two feet of space that had opened in front of her car. "Idiot," she muttered and shook her head. She waited until the cab had bulled its way into her lane and then, after a couple of beats, said, "So this eye character got you interested in hypnosis?"

"That was part of it. I met my first real-life hypnotist when I was eleven or twelve. It was at a friend's birthday party. The hypnotist did the usual stunts—making people crow like chickens, locking their legs together so they couldn't move. The act was pretty lame, but I was fascinated with it. It was my first experience with something I had seen only in cartoons. I went to the library and found books on hypnosis. I began to practice on my friends. I think I wanted to be The EYE and turned all of them into zombies."

"Did they like that?"

"Probably not. In any case it didn't work. The only thing it accomplished was to alarm my parents enough that they forbade further experiments."

"Did that stop you?"

"Not really. But it did make me more cautious. I used the yellow pages to find Foster's Sandman Shop. It wasn't that far from my parents' house. I pestered Mr. Foster to teach me hypnosis, but he said I was too young. But I kept going back. I was fascinated by all the stuff in his shop, and I spend a lot of my allowance on self-hypnosis tapes. I actually got pretty good at going into a trance. When I reached sixteen, Kenneth offered me a part-time job in his shop. For two hours after school every weekday and all day on Saturday, I got to work in the shop of my dreams. I was the perfect salesperson for the stuff in the shop. I had tried everything, and I was a true-believer.. When I was eighteen, during the summer between high school and college, Kenneth taught me hypnosis, not stage hypnosis, but Elman inductions and neurolinguistic programming. It was glorious. Occasionally he would even allow me to practice on him. When I went to college, I majored in psychology and took some courses and workshops in hypnosis. When I graduated, Kenneth offered me a job helping with his seminars. And here I am."

It wasn't that simple, of course, but Jeff thought it best to give Sergeant Trent a sanitized version of his personal history. There was much that she didn't need to know. What he didn't say and what he had never admitted to anyone but Kenneth and Michael was that he liked controlling other people. Part of successful hypnosis is finding what entrances a particular person and using that to develop him or her in the desired direction. The psych courses had helped him understand people and to hone his skills in leading them. College also provided a willing pool of subjects to practice on. His classmates needed help improving their concentration and study skills or their athletic abilities; a few even wanted to experience their fantasies. Being in control intoxicated him. It was a form of seduction, and it was addictive. Even as he helped a guy improve his tennis game, he imagined taking him further step by step and turning him into an obedient puppet, eager to cater to his every desire.

On weekends and during vacations, he had worked for Kenneth Foster in the shop. After he had demonstrated his skill, Kenneth invited him to help with his seminars on motivational techniques and performance enhancement. It was at one of these seminars that the germ of the idea for the units came up. Kenneth took a female employee through a relaxation session and demonstrated some elementary concentration exercises. Two men were sitting in front of Jeff, watching the performance, and one of them remarked to the other that he wished he had that kind of control over his wife. She was spending money faster than he could make it, and frankly he would divorce her if he thought she would walk away quietly.

The business axiom is to find a niche and provide a product that satisfies it. When Jeff suggested to Foster that there would be a market for obedient "assistants," Foster saw the possibilities immediately. It took a while to hone their training procedures, but, except for a few failures at the beginning, they had been successful. Every unit was performing optimally, and every one of their clients was satisfied. In fact, the reputation of Sandman's Personal Assistants for quality and customer satisfaction allowed it to set the price for the initial leasing fee at $1.5 million and the monthly maintenance fee at $7,500. Demand outstripped supply. If the transformation were not so time-consuming, they could easily sell twice as many units. It wasn't just the money, of course. As Kenneth said, part of it was the challenge and the fun. Right now, they were programming a set of identical twins. They would fetch a substantial premium. But he could hardly tell Sergeant Officer Trent that.

Luckily she changed the subject. "Sounds like you found the perfect job."

"Yeah, I was lucky. Just as I was graduating from college, Mr. Foster—he's the owner of the shop—felt that his business was expanding enough because of Internet sales that he could take on a full-time sales clerk to look after the shop most of the time and hire me to help him with his motivational seminars. They're his real interest. He still comes in on weekends and some evenings, but most of the time he leaves the shop in Cindy's hands and has me take care of the business side of things—inventory and order fulfillment, that sort of thing. He devotes himself to the seminars and to product development."

Sergeant Trent nodded. The details of Sandman Enterprises staffing and operations didn't appear to interest her. Jeff decided if she asked any more questions, he would overwhelm her with details until she got bored with the subject. He couldn't tell her that Kenneth spent most of his time training the units and that he, Jeff, handled the follow-up visits with the clients and units. The only reason either he or Kenneth worked in the store occasionally was to keep their skills in enticement sharp. The ability to persuade, to sell someone on a product, was an important factor in their real business. For that, Kenneth made the perfect front man. His upper-class manners and his connections reassured potential clients that they were dealing with someone like themselves, someone they could trust. Jeff knew that he came across more as the technician and helper. Together they made a good team, he thought.

Chapter 8

"So what happened?" Michael handed Jeff a glass of red wine and then sat down next to him on the couch. He put an arm around Jeff's shoulders and snuggled in close.

"Well, Dell'uomo—he's a lieutenant now by the way, and he's in charge of investigating murders—he took me downtown and turned me over to this woman cop named Trent. No first name. Just `Sergeant Trent will look after you.' She stuck me in some sort of office and then brought in this kid—Mike—and the police sketch artist. She sat up a tape recorder and then mentioned all of our names and the date and time and explained what I was about to do."

"Dell'uomo wasn't there?"

"No, he went somewhere else. Mike—that's the kid, I don't remember his last name—was very nervous. He had all the usual beliefs about hypnosis. It took me a while to calm him down. When I asked him what images he found restful and peaceful, he said he liked being out in the country in a woods. So I used the hammock technique and set it in a woods. It worked quickly. He turned out to be a good subject.

"The guy who was killed—his name's David something—lived across the hall from Mike in a dorm at City University. Dell'uomo thinks this Mike may have seen the man who killed David, but Mike can't remember what the guy looks like. So Dell'uomo wanted me to hypnotize Mike and see if I couldn't help him remember better. So after I had Mike in a trance, I took him back to David's dorm room and made him see David's room and the stranger he met. I just kept suggesting that he was able to think of the stranger calmly and see his face clearly. Then I woke him up and he started working with the sketch artist."

"How did that turn out?"

"I don't know. Sergeant Trent took me outside and drove me home. Or about half-way. Traffic was bad, and she mentioned that she had to go back to work after she dropped me off. So I had her let me off at a subway station on Seventh."

Jeff nestled closer to Michael and rested his head on Michael's chest. Michael's arms tightened around Jeff and pulled him in. He began stroking the back of Jeff's head. "You've had a hard day. You're home now. Just relax for a while."

"Hmm. That feels good."

Michael continued stroking Jeff and massaging the back of his neck for a few minutes.

Jeff sighed with contentment. Michael had very sensitive fingers, and they just seemed to communicate relaxation to him. Michael knew just where to touch him and how much pressure to exert. His tensions just melted away as his body relaxed.

Michael kept up the massage for several minutes before speaking again. "I suppose Dell'uomo is as handsome as ever?" He patted Jeff on the shoulders to signal that he was through and reached for his glass of wine as Jeff sat up.

"Yes, still good looking. His shoulders are even wider than they were before and his butt is just as rounded and firmly packed."

"Should I be jealous?"

"Don't think so. He still a cop, and he's Italian. He's probably got a chestful of hair that's as thick as a rug. The only place on his body that isn't covered with hair is his upper arm, which he shaves so that everyone can see his tattoo of a heart with an arrow through it that says `Momma mia' in the middle."

"It doesn't say Momma mia.' It says To protect and to serve.' "

"How do you know that?"

"Gotcha." Michael laughed and pulled Jeff in again, this time even closer than before. His fingertips massaged the back of Jeff's neck and shoulders more firmly. "Just relax, Jeff. We're together. We're safe."

Jeff stretched out on the couch and rested his head on Michael's lap. He reached out for the remote control and switched the TV on. "Maybe they'll be something about the murder on the local news." He was curious to see if they would show a sketch of the guy's face. It was odd but he felt a bit apprehensive about seeing the man's face. He didn't expect to recognize the murderer, but he was worried that Dell'uomo wasn't telling him everything, that he had uncovered some link between himself and David or something that made him think that Jeff knew the murderer. There had to be some reason that Dell'uomo had sought him out other than the fact that he knew that Jeff was skilled in hypnosis. The police had to have their own hypnotists on call. Dell'uomo didn't need his help with Mike. No, the lieutenant had to have some ulterior motive for involving him in the investigation. Jeff suspected that he would see Dell'uomo again—and soon.

*****.

"The sketch is good, Susan." Lieutenant Dell'uomo was sitting at his desk examining the police artist's drawing Susan Trent had just handed him.

"Very good. Now all we have to do is identify this man and hope that he's the killer."

"Yeah, well, there's always a catch. Is this copy for me? I want to show it to Ange and that boss of his. The guy may be known to them."

Susan Trent nodded yes. "Do you think they're involved in this case, Matt?"

"I intend to find out. How did Ange do with the Albertson kid?"

"He's good. He just talked to Albertson for a while and then had the kid lie down and close his eyes while he talked about being in a forest. He kept going on about how it felt real peaceful and then he took Albertson into the dead kid's room and had him look at this man and told him that he would remember the guy's face clearly and be able to describe it after he woke up."

"Did Ange say anything that revealed he knew more than he should?"

"Not that I heard. Why don't you listen to the tape? Leo can make you a copy quickly and put it on a flash drive. You can listen to it when you have time. It's about 30 minutes long, maybe 40 at most. Everything Ange said is on that."

"I might do that. Maybe I'll take it home with me and listen to it later tonight."

By the time that Dell'uomo got home, changed, ate his dinner and cleaned up, it was already 10:30 p.m. He was tired, and he almost put off listening to the recording of the session until the next day. Then he thought of all the work awaiting him on his desk and decided he might as well get at least that task behind him. He called up the file on his computer, put on earphones, and then lay down on his couch.

The quality of the tape was better than he expected. It was almost as if he was in the same room with Jeff. He didn't know much about hypnotism, but it must help to have a voice as soothing as Jeff's. Every time he heard Jeff speak he was surprised at how deep and masculine his voice was.

"Now, I want you to close your eyes, lie back, relax, and let yourself just sink into the couch." Dell'uomo smiled to himself. Jeff must have had Mike lie on a couch, too. He had forgotten that there was a couch in that interview room. It was one of the "friendly" rooms used to interview witnesses and family members. It was just a coincidence that he was stretched out on a couch himself. Dell'uomo adjusted the pillow beneath his head until he was comfortable and closed his eyes.

"Just make yourself comfortable and begin to relax." Jeff continued talking in that vein for several minutes and led Mike through a series of general relaxation exercises before moving on to the specific induction. Dell'uomo followed along, letting the muscle groups of various parts of his body relax and opening and closing his eyes as Jeff directed. At first he analyzed what Jeff was saying and speculated on the purpose behind the remarks, but as Jeff continued to speak and to emphasize the need to focus on what he was saying, Dell'uomo let go of his own thoughts.

"Now, imagine yourself lying in a hammock. It's so comfortable. The hammock is swaying gently. It supports every part of your body, holding it up. Just relax and let it support you. You don't have to do anything. It rocks gently back and forth in the breeze. The sun is warm on your body, and you feel so comfortable and relaxed. The sunlight coming through the trees is so warm. You can hear the breeze moving through the trees above you, rustling the leaves and gently moving the branches. The shadows of the leaves move across your body, breaking up the sunlight. Sunlight and shadow moving gently across your body. It's so peaceful. Far away you can hear birds calling. The leaves fluttering in the breeze, birds calling, the warm sunlight on your body. You feel so relaxed, so at peace, so calm. Just take a deep breath in and let it out slowly. Now another, and as you breathe in, pull all the tension out of your right leg and into your lungs. The tension is a dark cloud, and as you breathe in, you pull all of that dark cloud of tension out of your right leg and into your lungs. Now slowly let the air out of your lungs, and as you breathe out all of that tension, your right leg relaxes totally. Now take another deep breath and pull all of the tension out of your left leg and into your lungs. The tension is a dark cloud, and as you breathe in . . . ."

It had been a long and tiring day for Matt Dell'uomo. It had started too early when a dream of a young man's mangled body woke him up. A hurried cup of sour cold coffee left over from the previous morning did nothing to quiet his nerves. A call from Susan Trent with the news that the dead boy had been identified led him to begin his workday with a long drive through the cross-town commute traffic and a visit to David Spier's dorm room. He took notes as the crime scene officers sifted through its contents. Clothes, books, a lap top, a tablet, a TV, a video game controller, a cell phone—the small room was crammed with the kid's possessions. Nothing struck Dell'uomo as out of the ordinary except several books on hypnosis. Now that they knew the murdered kid's name and where he lived, he had set in motion the interviews of the boy's friends and his neighbors in the dorm and traveled out to Brooklyn to talk with his distraught parents. No one had been able to supply any information that identified the killer. As usual, the victim was a prince, and no one had any reason to murder him. It could only be a random killing, the dead boy an unlucky casualty of a madman. No one could explain how he had come to be so blatantly and suggestively displayed in Garfield Park or suggest who might have done it. The one student who had seen anything that in hindsight might be suspicious was so upset that he was making little sense.

Perhaps the technical guys in the lab could unlock David's computers and check his email and files. There might be something on them that would yield a lead. The cell phone was also being checked for phone numbers and text messages. When Dell'uomo finally returned to the office, he had sat down and read through the contents of the binders found in the dead boy's room. As he skimmed the materials, his mind had moved to his only other case that had involved hypnosis. But instead of answers, his conversation with Jeff Ange had led only to more questions.

Matt Dell'uomo concentrated on Jeff's voice, forgetting that his purpose in listening to the recording was to find out if Ange might know too much. The lieutenant's body unconsciously slumped deeper into the couch, and his mind began to grow fuzzy. Soon he was deeply asleep. He felt totally at peace, as the flickering sunlight and shadows played over his body. So at peace, so calm, so relaxed, so warm, so trusting, all the black cloud of tension dispelled from his body. He was so safe in Jeff's hands.

Under Jeff's guidance, he remained calm as he walked into David's room and saw the stranger. When Jeff suggested that he could see the stranger's face clearly and would recall it easily and totally, he turned toward the man. He saw the face in the drawing. It was very clear. The face of a murderer.

The next morning, a Friday, Lieutenant Dell'uomo showed up at Foster's Sandman Shop even before it opened. He didn't realize how lucky he was to find both Jeff Ange and Kenneth Foster there. It was unusual for Foster to be there at all on a weekday morning, but he had summoned Jeff to an early meeting so that they could discuss the events of the previous day. Their meeting was interrupted by a knock at the door. The blinds on the door and the front window were pulled down, but the early morning sun cast two shadows on the door, one of them of a person who was very large through the shoulders. Both Foster and Jeff instinctively froze in place and lowered their voices.

"He's here. That's Dell'uomo," Jeff whispered.

"Damn. What's he doing here? Better let him in, before he begins to think we have something to hide." Kenneth Foster gestured toward the door.

"Detective Dell'uomo, Sergeant Trent. You're at work early. We haven't even opened for business yet." Jeff tried to sound more welcoming than he felt as he invited the two police officers in. "Sergeant Trent, this is Mr. Foster. He owns the shop."

"Sir." As Susan Trent stepped into the room, Jeff switched on the lights and began pulling up the shade over the door. She was about to say more, but her obvious fascination with the shop silenced her. As the low morning light filled the shop, it was caught by all the crystals and globes, and hundreds of points of light glittered in the sun. The display apparently did nothing for Dell'uomo. He was concentrating on Mr. Foster, who stepped forward and extended his hand.

"Lieutenant Dell'uomo, how are you? Sergeant Trent, I would say that I am pleased to meet you, but Jeff informs me that the business that brings you here is anything but pleasant." Kenneth Foster shook hands with Dell'uomo and Trent in turn. "We, of course, will be happy to assist you in whatever way we can, beginning with the offer of coffee. We just finished brewing a pot. Can I get you a cup? On the car radio on the drive in, I heard a report of a death of a student at City University. I take it that this boy is the one who was murdered? Why don't we go through to the back? There are chairs back there, and we can sit."

"We won't keep you long, Mr. Foster."

"Kenneth. Please call me Kenneth, Lieutenant. The news report mentioned that Lieutenant Dell'uomo of the Metropolitan Major Crimes Division was in charge of the investigation. The last time we met, I believe you were a sergeant in that precinct on the east side. You have moved up in the world."

"Yes. Thank you." The last was Dell'uomo's response to the cup of coffee Jeff had placed in front of him. "I take it that Jeff has told you about our discussions yesterday and the help he gave us." Kenneth Foster nodded. "This is the sketch of the man seen in David Spier's room. Does either of you know him?"

Foster and Jeff examined the sketch. It was a very life-like image. Foster spoke first. "I wish I could say that I do, Lieutenant, but the problem is that it could be half a dozen people I know. I mean, the sketch is very realistic, but the features are hardly unique. It's like a generic illustration for a book of a human male, age 40 or so, white, middle class."

"What about you, Jeff?"

"No, I don't know this person, but Kenneth is right. It could be anyone."

"I know. It's looks good, but it could be a great many people, as you say."

"That happens, Lieutenant." Kenneth Foster handed the sketch back to Dell'uomo. "Jeff tells me that the young man he hypnotized for you was a very good subject. Sometimes the hypnotized person is so anxious to please that his mind makes things up. He doesn't mean to mislead you. It's just that he wants to offer you something that will satisfy you."

Dell'uomo nodded. "Yes, Jeff warned me about that. He also told me that he does not believe that a person can be made to do something against his will through hypnosis. Do you agree?"

Kenneth Foster shifted in his seat and gave the two detectives his thoughtful look. "I have a darker view of human nature than does Jeff. One hears tales of drugs used by spy agencies, of mind-altering techniques. So I would say, yes. It would take an enormous effort, but it could be done. I'm not sure the investment of time would pay off, however. As I'm sure you know from your jobs, one can always find people willing to do what you want and satisfy your desires without hypnotizing them."

As Foster continued to speak at length and expertly on the subject, Jeff picked up the drawing again and held it up to the light. It did look familiar. His face must have betrayed something of what he was thinking because Sergeant Trent broke in. "Do you see something, Jeff?"

"From this angle, it looks a lot like a professor at City University. Professor Hanson. He teaches American history 101. He's a very popular teacher there. Most students take his course. He's very good. I learned a lot from him when I took his course. He recently won some sort of prize for a book he wrote. There was a story about it in the alumni magazine. The only difference is that he's much older than the man in the picture."

Both detectives leaned forward in their chairs. "Do you know his first name?" asked Dell'uomo.

"I can find it in a second on the computer." The detectives and Foster gathered behind Jeff as he sat down before the shop's computer and called up City University's website. A few clicks quickly took him to the faculty listing for the history department and to Professor Hanson's page. Susan Trent held the drawing next to the photograph of the professor. The face in the drawing was that of a much younger man who looked enough like Hanson to be his brother. There was a link to a campus news report at the bottom of the screen, and Jeff clicked on it. "Professor Carl Hanson wins Simon Prize for his work on the Federalist Papers." Another link led to a lengthy biography of Hanson, and there, among the pictures chronicling a distinguished career, was the model for the drawing. There was no doubt. The sketch the police artist had produced under Mike Albertson's direction was a picture of a young Carl Hanson giving a lecture.

"Can you print that story out for us and these pictures out for us?" Dell'uomo reached forward over Jeff's head to point at the photos he wanted.

"Sure, I'd be glad to." Jeff was very conscious of Dell'uomo's nearness. The lieutenant's arm hovered above his own as he maneuvered the mouse. Dell'uomo wasn't touching him, but there was a heavy weight pressing down on his head and shoulders.

A printer began disgorging sheets of paper. Susan Trent picked them up when the machine stopped. "The date on this is November third," she commented. "Almost four months ago."

"But surely you can't suspect Professor Hanson?" Jeff was doubtful. "Professors don't visit students in their dorm rooms. Students go to them, not vice-versa. Even if he was in the dead student's room, it could be for any number of reasons. It doesn't mean he killed him."

Dell'uomo didn't respond to Jeff's comments. In his experience, few people of Jeff's background could conceive that people they considered to be like themselves were capable of committing murder. Little did they know. Murder was easy, all too easy. He reached over Jeff's shoulder again and pointed to a line on the screen. "What does this mean? It says that he's on sabbatical and is a guest professor at Cambridge University in England."

Kenneth Foster spoke up. "Sometimes professors spend a year teaching at another university. It gives them a chance to use the other university's library, and they can earn money while they're on leave. Their own university hires another professor to fill in for them."

"It says here," Jeff pointed to the next paragraph and read: " `Hanson was reached for comment by phone and said that he was delighted, blah, blah blah.' It appears that he was in England when this story was written."

Dell'uomo turned to Susan Trent, "Will you check on that? Robert should be at the university by now. Give him a call, would you?"

Susan Trent pulled a cell phone out of her pocket and stepped out of the room.

"There is one more thing," said Dell'uomo. He reached into his briefcase and placed a small device on the table. "Are you familiar with this?"

"Oh, yes, Lieutenant. It's an early model of our Sandman white noise machine. May I look at it?"

When Dell'uomo nodded assent, Kenneth Foster picked it up and turned it over to look at the label on the bottom. "Yes, I was right. This is the 1800 series. This model was discontinued years ago. I think we sold our last unit in this series in mid-1997, if memory serves."

"You're certain of that?"

"I invented the machine, Lieutenant. When my wife and I were first married, I was just starting in business, and we didn't have much money. We lived over near St. Mary's Hospital on Ninth. The noise from the ambulances disturbed my daughter's sleep and that kept my wife and myself awake. So I came up with the idea for this machine. I commissioned a place here in the city to make the first units. When the machines became popular, I had to find a factory that could make them in bulk. For a long time they were made in California, in San Jose. But now we import them from China."

"So this machine was purchased here?"

"In this shop? Not necessarily. Sandman products are sold throughout the country. In fact, it's more likely that this unit was bought elsewhere. In 1997 there was no Internet business, and our products were sold in shops in most large cities. We probably sold only 2 or 3 percent of the units through this shop. I can check my business records at my office downtown. Perhaps I can trace who purchased this particular unit. Just let me copy down the serial number. Jeff, can you take some pictures of the machine with your phone?"

"I would appreciate that very much, Mr. Foster," said Dell'uomo. "It probably means nothing, but at this point in our investigations, any information may prove to be of help."

"Ah, Sir, Could I have a word with you?" Officer Trent stood in the doorway, the phone clutched to her chest.

Lieutenant Dell'uomo rose. "We're finished here, Susan. Gentlemen, thank you for your help. Mr. Foster, if you could call me at the number on this card when you find out when this Sandman machine was sold and where and who bought it if that's possible at this point, I would appreciate it. If I'm not available, leave a message with the person who answers."

Jeff accompanied the two police officers to the front door. Trent went first and opened the door on the driver's side of the unmarked car parked in front of the store and got in. As he was leaving, Dell'uomo turned to Jeff. "I forgot to ask you yesterday how Michael Sorenson is doing. Are you still in touch with him?"

"I see him every day. We live together."

Dell'uomo stared at Jeff for a moment. There was no doubt that he knew what "live together" meant in this case. What he thought about it was anybody's guess. "Then he is in good hands. Please tell him for me that I hope he is doing well. I mean that sincerely, Jeff." Dell'uomo patted Jeff on the shoulder. The squeeze of the shoulder that followed was perhaps a little stronger and more friendly than usual for that manly gesture. "And thanks for the good night's sleep."

Jeff stared at the car as it drove off. What the hell did Dell'uomo mean by that?

"Well, Susan, what did Robert have to say?"

"He had already found several students who identified the man in the drawing as this Hanson guy. When he checked in the history department, he found out that Hanson has been in England since last summer. He isn't expected to return until August."

"We'll have to confirm that he hasn't made a quick trip back. But it looks like this drawing is a bust."

"Yes, Matt. What did they have to say about the machine?"

"It's called a white noise machine. Remind to go online and find out exactly what it is that they do. Mr. Foster's company makes them and sells them throughout the country. He's going to check if he can trace this particular machine to a seller at least."

"So where are we now?"

"Back to square one, it would seem, Susan."

Susan heaved a mental sigh. "Yeah. We're moving backwards on this case."

When Jeff returned to the back room, he found Kenneth Foster studying the photographs of the white noise machine. "Do you recognize it?" he asked.

Foster looked worried. "It's one of the early machines, one of the altered machines. I have to get downtown and check the serial number to see who had it."

"It belonged to one of the units then?"

"Definitely. We gave it to someone we thought worth developing. It can't be one of the fully trained units. All of them have their own Sandman machine."

"As far as I know."

"Perhaps it belonged to one of the people who proved untrainable. I have all the records. I will check. Still, no matter who had it, it shouldn't be in the hands of the police. If anyone takes it apart for a closer look, they'll discover the receiver and the transmitter. All we can do is hope that no one turns it on."

"What will you tell Detective Dell'uomo?"

"That depends on what I find out. Probably that the unit was bought by that shop in San Diego. If he bothers to call, he'll find that that guy's records are so chaotic that he has no idea who bought that machine or whether it was even in his store. I'll also try to see if I can send the machine a signal that will disable it if someone turns it on. I've done that with the newer machines, but I don't know if it will work with the 1800 series."

"There's Cindy."

"You better get the shop opened. What's your schedule today?"

"I'm seeing three groups at the Albion this afternoon. I will be here until noon and then will be back to close up at 5:30."

"Hi. Are you here to see Jeff? He's left at lunchtime and won't be back until about 5:00."

"It's Cindy, isn't it? If Jeff isn't here, is Mr. Foster around?"

Cindy was happy to have the boredom of her day in the shop broken by the handsome policeman who had taken Jeff away yesterday. She still would like to know what all that had been about. No one ever explained anything to her. And there were definitely things about the shop and Jeff's and Mr. Foster's behavior that raised questions. It would be kind of exciting if Jeff got arrested, not that she wished anything bad to happen to him. Jeff was nice. It was a pity he was gay, such a waste of a good man. On the other hand, the policeman was even better looking, and he wasn't wearing a wedding ring. He might be a bit older than her usual date, but he wasn't that much older. Maybe if she was helpful, the cop might consider asking her out. She decided that she would accept. "No, officer. I'm the only one here this afternoon. I'm sorry, but I don't remember your name."

"Dell'uomo. Lieutenant Dell'uomo. You must be busy being here all by yourself. Does that happen often?"

"Oh, most days, I'm the only one here. We don't have that much walk-in business during the week. Most of my work is processing online orders. Saturday is the only time it really gets busy in here and then Jeff is always here. Sometimes Mr. Foster too."

"What do the two of them do then if they're not here?" Dell'uomo smiled and leaned his arms on the counter, lowering his head so that he was looking Cindy directly in the face. He was not unaware of the affect he had on some women and not above exploiting it if it helped him get answers to his questions. Yesterday Jeff had given him one version of how he and Foster spent their days. He was curious if Cindy's account would match Jeff's.

"Well, Mr. Foster has a lot of other work. He started out here, but as the business got larger, he moved to an office downtown. He gives a lot of seminars and meets with clients. Sometimes Jeff helps with that. And Jeff spends a lot of time on the phone with our suppliers and wholesalers."

"Clients? What sort of clients?"

"I don't know, Lieutenant. They don't meet here. I just know that they meet one-on-one with certain clients to help them with problems they're having. Jeff does a lot of traveling to meet with people. But I don't have anything to do with that part of the business. Sorry, I wish I could tell you more."

"Don't sell yourself short. You're being a tremendous help." Dell'uomo flashed another smile. "So the two of them aren't involved in the shop much?"

"Oh no. Mr. Foster is here only a few hours a week at most. Sometimes I don't see him at all for a couple of weeks. Jeff is here to open and close the shop. You were just lucky to find him in yesterday. Most of the time he's out taking care of things."

"Hmm, I wonder what keeps them so busy?"

"Well, Sandman Enterprises is a big business. I think Mr. Foster just keeps the shop open because he started here. Kind of, like, you know, nostalgia? We barely sell enough here in the store to pay me—and it's not like I get paid a lot. If it weren't for the mail-order business and the other stuff that Sandman does, this wouldn't be much of a business."

"The shop is just the tip of the iceberg?"

"Yeah, sort of. I guess. This is nothing. There's a lot of other stuff going on. Mr. Sorenson—he's the accountant—well, he was here to talk to Jeff one day, and I overheard him say that they were going to celebrate because they had cleared over $10 million that month. They gave me a bonus that month. Mr. Foster is very generous with bonuses."

"How many employees are there?"

"I don't know. But lots. It's not just me and Jeff and Mr. Sorenson."

"Do many people buy this stuff?" Dell'uomo indicated the crystals.

"Sure. They're popular. But the best-selling items are Jeff's tapes."

"Tapes?"

"These tapes here. We also have CDs with the same files. Or you can order them online and download them to your phone or computer. There are several series. The concentration series is the most popular, but lots of people like the relaxation tapes and the sports improvement tapes. I use the relaxation and concentration tapes myself. They're wonderful. I have them on my phone. You just put on earphones and call them up. Jeff has you imagine yourself lying on a beach or in a hammock and before you know it, you're totally relaxed and ready to fall asleep. There are nights when I can't get to sleep until I listen to Jeff. My ex-boyfriend used to say he would be jealous if he didn't know Jeff is gay. Oh, oops. I shouldn't have said that. Sorry. Forget that I told you that."

"Don't worry about it. I had sort of guessed anyway. So Jeff puts people to sleep?"

Cindy giggled. "Well, not like that. It's just that once you've listened to one of the files a few times, his voice become very relaxing and it's hard to stay awake. His tapes are very popular."

"So you would recommend these tapes?"

"Oh, yes. I can guarantee that you'll be a changed person after you listen to them."

"How much is the concentration series?"

"It has three tapes, and the set is $24.95. But you can also get the same files on a CD for $14.95. The files are in a series, though, and if you buy the CD we recommend that you listened only to the first file for two weeks. After that, you can begin listening to the other two files. The first file helps you develop an awareness of the body and how to relax it. So it's kind of like basic training." Cindy didn't tell the lieutenant that he could also go online and download the files for $9.95. An in-store sale would prolong the encounter. It would also look good for her. It would be her first sale of the day, and given the amount of business in the shop, it might be her last. She sometimes worried that Mr. Foster would close the shop because of the lack of customers and she would lose her job.

"I'll take the CD then, and I promise to follow instructions."

Dell'uomo's smile sent shivers through Cindy. How would he react if she asked him out? Probably not a good idea. A policeman was most likely conservative. He would think the man had to take the initiative. "Great. You won't regret this. I promise it will help you concentrate. Oh, rats. I don't have any unopened copies of the CD here. Jeff usually restocks the front before he goes out. But I guess he forgot to do it. He had a meeting with Mr. Foster this morning, and he must not have had time. I'll get one from the back. It will just take me a second. Please don't leave. Jeff will be so excited to learn that you bought one of his recordings."

Dell'uomo doubted that Jeff would be excited by his purchase, curious certainly, worried perhaps, but not excited. He walked around the shop examining the other items, occasionally touching one of them or picking it up to take a closer look. He recognized the white noise machine. The current version was a bit larger than the one found in David Spier's dorm room, but it resembled it enough that there was no doubt what it was.

"Here it is. I'm sorry I took so long. There weren't any CDs on the shelf and I had to go into the storeroom." Cindy held up a CD with a bright red label. "That will be $15.26 with the tax." Dell'uomo handed Cindy a twenty and waited while she counted out the change and put the CD in a bag with the Sandman logo. He folded the bag around the CD and put into a pocket of his coat.

"Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"No, Cindy, you have been very helpful. Very helpful indeed."

"Oh, that's so great. This is kind of, you know, exciting? Now, promise me that you'll listen to Jeff's files."

"I promise, Cindy. I'm looking forward to the experience."

"And come back soon. Maybe I can show you something else."