“This used to be the go-to place back
in the day.”
Jimmy Stoner looked at me as if I
cared to reply to that. We were standing near Elaine’s on 2nd Avenue
where I used to drink when I was a greenhorn junior trader like Stoner. He was
on the rise. I was a senior forex trader on the down elevator. I used to see an
arbitrage coming a mile away. Now it had to hit me in the face before I could
spot it. I’d lost the firm a sizable amount on the margins with Deutschmarks.
Our hedge fund manager had as much mercy for staff who couldn’t cut it as a
racer snake for a newly hatched gecko.
I stood watching the traffic while the
wind howled among the canyons of the Upper East Side skyscrapers. I used to
love this town. My divorce was finalized on Thanksgiving. No great loss, but
she got the apartment and the dog.
When I turned around, Jimmy had
finished his smoke and had gone back inside to celebrate with the others. When
you’re part of the king’s retinue, it’s a good idea to stay close. In my case,
it was irrelevant. Even if I was demoted back to junior trader, which was
doubtful, I’d be wearing a sign around my neck that proclaimed LOSER.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing,” I said to the voice behind
me. “Just talking to myself,” I replied.
No passerby on a New York sidewalk in
Manhattan or Hunt’s Point would ever ask a mumbling stranger on the street
anything. I didn’t recognize her voice at first.
Kori Andolsek. She was one of the few
women on our floor and she was damned good. I know, I mentored her during her
probationary period. She had a killer instinct to go with her degrees, one in
math, and she advanced in record time.
“Why aren’t you inside where it’s warm
with all that hot air being blown around our head trader?”
“You mean the ass-kissing? I’m not feeling it now. Besides,
going on about his spoiled brats in some Connecticut prep school and Randolph
is boring everyone, including our boss, with some artsy-fartsy gibberish about
a Tang dynasty exhibition of Chinese tomb figurines at the Guggenheim.”
“So, what are you doing out
here in the cold with me? I see no plumes of vaping smoke around your head like
a cotton halo, I hear no intense cell phone conversation with clients about
“Shut up, Dave. You used to be clever.
No one thinks so now.”
Kori could wield a scalpel as easily
as a hedged grid on market volatility.
“Tell me how you really feel about
“Dry wit isn’t your forte, either.”
“Where’s your plus-one, the little
blonde you brought to the Christmas party?”
“Are you being stupid now? She was
just a date I arranged.”
“I never took you for a
one-night-stand kind of girl.”
“She was there to keep you boys from
hitting on me. A single girl at a party where you guys get a couple dirty
martinis in you, and it’s ‘Hey, gorgeous, wanna see my dick’?”
“That’s us, all right. Depraved,
sex-crazed maniacs, one and all. The toughest motherfuckers in our ivy-league
“Speaking of finance, how bad was your
margin call the other day? Everybody’s talking about it around the water
“I burned the company for a couple
“You’re losing it, Dave. You’re
supposed to take profits from a dead cat bounce, not give away the company’s
“Yeah, I fucked up.”
I was shivering from the bitter wind
and just about to make a farewell gesture when she stunned me to silence.
“I want you to be quiet while I say
something and then you can say something.”
“Sounds mysterious, Kori.”
“Does ‘be quiet’ register in your
I stretched out my arms to passing
traffic. “Floor’s all yours, m’lady.”
“I want you to come over to my place
and have sex with me.”
“Shut up, I said! No talking yet . . .
Here’s how I want it to happen . . .”
Some kinky thing she’d picked up off
the classifieds in Backpage.com for hookups between total strangers.
Anonymous internet sex, the latest moral degeneration of her age group. One
party goes to a person’s apartment at a designated time; the other party is
waiting in a specific place. No talk, just sex. Stoner once started a wicked
rumor around that same water cooler years ago; he said she got her career
started thanks to a sugar daddy on Seeking Arrangement.
Kori had conditions; the main was
silence, not easy when the rockets go off, but she was adamant about it. “I
don’t want you to speak a single word, got it, from the moment you walk in, to
the moment you stick it in me, and you will leave. No hanging around for
pillow talk and that bullshit. I mean it: Get dressed and get out.” You won’t
find subtlety next to Kori Andolsek’s name in the dictionary.
I’m no prude but it struck me as too
weird, even for Ms. Charm.
What the hell, I thought, I’m
divorced, unattached, celibate as a monk in a nunnery. The better dating
sites required a courtship period, the sleazy ones shouted STD’s, mental cases,
con jobs, and trouble. Paid escorts and gentlemen’s clubs not being my thing,
Kori’s out-of-the-blue offer sounded weird, like an Amish electric chair.
“Am I speaking Tagalog, Dave?”
When I agreed to every condition,
committed the directions to memory, she left me standing there without a word
and returned inside. Cabs wove in and out of traffic, pedestrians played their usual
dangerous game of skipping across the street like gazelles at a
crocodile-infested crossing. Bits of windblown confetti from the Thanksgiving
Macy’s parade decomposed in the gutter.
I flagged down a cab. One of the
nearby restaurants had rigged a loudspeaker to a pole playing schmaltzy
Christmas music. Judy Garland told me to Have Myself a Very Merry Christmas.
I’m sure I had a smile on my face.
* * *
I dropped my clothes behind me in the
semi-darkened bedroom. The white skin of a naked thigh glowed on the bed a few
feet from me. In contrast to the rest of the condo I’d just passed through,
this was a descent into the macabre, a discordant note. Black-and-white erotic photos
of women entangled with men and other women lined the walls, a Mapplethorpe-esque
exhibition of sexual frenzy, phalluses ejaculating onto women’s faces,
buttocks, hair. Black satin sheets, black pillowcases. Kori, unmoving, lay
stretched out, her wrists dangling from the bed posts where they were tied in
black silk scarves. The Fifty Shades of Gray ambience, however,
disappointed. I’d expected a more aggressive tableau from a woman like Kori,
more sado, less maso.
Twelve years of marital copulation
isn’t the best preparation for kinky sex. Even so, I crawled toward her on the
bed on my knees, member stiffening, and felt among the sheets for the contours
of her body. My orders were simple. That’s exactly what I did.
After the orgasm, I lay down beside
her, panting. Her hair had tumbled over her face during coitus, although she
too observed her own rules about no talking. She hadn’t made a sound despite
“Kori, enough games,” I said. “Let’s
be adults about this.”
The same silence.
“Kori, hey, Kori—”
A pungent odor filled the room. I
realized what it was immediately—her bowels had evacuated all over the bed
Fuck this, I thought.
I jumped off the bed and hit the light
switch beside the doorway.
It wasn’t Kori lying on the bed.
The woman with the wig to match Kori’s
hair was younger by many years. Her face was suffused with blood and the tip of
her tongue protruded. I stepped closer to the body and brushed the hair from
My brain finally caught up. I knew her!
Kori’s date from the office party, the little blonde. The girl was ten years
younger, tattooed, dirty-blonde hair in one of those chi-chi,
ragged-looking shorn cuts New York fashion was so enamored of. Jimmy had mocked
her at the party as a cheap-looking club girl. Among our klatch of
financial sharks, all speaking shoptalk, she seemed out of her element, but we
dismissed her as easily as a real shark dismisses the remora fish cruising
under its belly.
It got worse in the next ten seconds:
I detected the thin steel wire looped around her neck so tight it embedded itself
into the flesh and was tied off to a dowel obscured by a pillow. The word necrophilia
leaped into my neocortex as if branded there with a white-hot iron. Then total
What the fuck . . . what the fuck .
prints, my semen—I had to get dressed, get
out of there fast . . .
I should have anticipated it, but a
nightmare has only associational logic to offer. Two detectives were at the
receptionist’s desk in the lobby. They’d been called, obviously, and were
asking for me. Approaching, grim-faced, I overheard their commands to the
concierge; they were not very polite about it.
* * *
My lawyer assured me the jury would
never go for a full murder count because there was no motive provided by the
prosecution. Maybe he should have stayed in law school a bit longer because
juries nowadays want forensics, not motives, and when they hear words like “the
suspect’s DNA was found inside the victim,” they don’t much care about the why
My lawyer struggled with that: “You
screwed her, she didn’t move, her bowels evacuated—yet you’re still doing the
whango-tango with a corpse? Christ Almighty, Dave, you’re one prize perv.”
“Kori told me to do it that way,” I
said. “She insisted!”
“And you always do what your domme
says like a good little boy?”
“It wasn’t like that, I told you.”
“Jesus Christ, you’re a wonder, Dave.”
“She said she’d grease her vag with a
little extra-fine olive oil in case I needed a lubricant. She was concerned
about my age. Her exact words were ‘You’ll be hanging on by your fingernails
before you know it, cowboy.’”
“My appetite for salads just left town
“Fuck you, just get me out of this
He tried, I’ll give him that. Three
weeks of trial ended in twenty-five-to-life. Kori on the witness stand denied
everything, the talk in the street, our secret “arrangement,” which she said “nauseated”
her when she heard it from the detectives. She openly wept for her murdered
“friend” on the bed and even added a lagniappe, as they say in New Orleans, a
little something extra for the jury:
“She saved my life by being in the apartment instead of me.”
I watched the jurors’ faces when she sniffled
through her testimony. Some of them had their mouths so wide open they could
have hit high C at the Met. The judge added three years concurrent for the
“abuse of a corpse.” I can still see his mouth wrinkled in disgust when he
tacked that on.
“Be grateful it wasn’t LWOP, Dave,” my
lawyer said as the bailiff put the cuffs on me from behind.
Why did she do it? Why me?
I’ve spent a lot of time thinking
about it. I’ll have decades more to ponder if I don’t find the correct answer.
My lawyer said he’d file the appeal that afternoon and assured me I won’t do
the full sentence. Easy for him to say, the prick. He was all about billable
hours, not my freedom or a new trial.
Kori beat out Jimmy Stoner for my
position after the trial. The most my lawyer’s investigator could discover
about the dead girl was that she was a runaway from Iowa, lived in several
places in a couple boroughs, met Kori at a club in Soho. CCTV cameras showed
the girl coming and going from Kori’s apartment. A girl with no history, no
The prosecutor’s lame theory was that
I broke into rape Kori, in some kind of frenzy of goatish lust, found the girl
there instead and forced her into the bedroom, tied her up, and killed her with
a ligature while engaging in deviant sex. The autopsy could not establish a
time of death. No rigor, little blood pooling, just the telltale petechiae of
the eyeballs from strangulation.
My attorney went at Kori hard on the
stand, but she came across as sincere, vulnerable to “an older man’s
manipulation from his position of power” at the company. Kori hinted strongly
at my “pattern of unwanted advances” over his numerous objections, although no
one at the firm supported her allegations. The jury gave a big yawn to the
witnesses testifying about my character. Even Jimmy Stoner left a bad taste in
their mouths with his nonchalant testimony about how often he’d seen me with
Kori on the trading floor.
“What physical positions were the
defendant and Miss Andolsek in as you observed them?”
“Objection, your honor. Irrelevant,”
my lawyer chirped.
“Dave was usually leaning over Ms.
Andolsek’s shoulder to point out something on the screen.”
The prosecutor objected to any attempt
to portray Kori as anything but a woman struggling against the male bastion of
her workplace and then having her very home invaded, desecrated—here, a lip-curled
glower in my direction at the table—that the judge’s sustaining them had a
couple jurors openly grimacing. They all got the same message: any attack on a
dead girl’s character or on my co-worker was going to backfire and fast.
The fact that Kori was seen on
security cameras leaving 15 minutes before I arrived never got in. The judge
ruled in the prosecutor’s favor at the pretrial hearing.
“She killed her just before I walked
into her place,” I told my lawyer during deliberations. “That’s why the body
was still warm. That’s your proof, damn it!”
“No, Dave, it’s proof of nothing. No
lividity. It’s in the autopsy that way. Did you think she evacuated her bowels
out of some sexual turn-on?”
“At first, I didn’t know what else to
He chuckled and then coughed to cover
the stupid-sounding comment. Yet he was only echoing what the Post had
been saying about “The Backpage Killer” all week.
The whole invitation “excuse” was
deemed so off the wall that, when I testified why I was at Kori’s apartment in
the first place and about our conversation in the street, even my ex-wife
refused to believe it. She got up and left the courtroom.
* * *
Metropolitan Correctional Center is a
rathole. I’ve done six weeks and am scheduled to be transferred upstate to
Dannemora. It can’t come too soon. Every other guy in the chow line is a gang
member. Every tenth inmate you pass here has a zipper for a neck scar from
being shanked or shivved, whatever the right term is. It’s pandemonium from
morning wake-up to lights out. I live with fear every day. I’ve fallen so far,
“It could have been worse,” my lawyer
said, a useless Job’s comforter if ever there was one. “MCC is a charm school
compared to Riker’s.”
I glared at him through the scarred
plexiglass. “That makes me feel much better, you asshole. Scuttlebutt says they’ve
already got the word on me up there. I’m the ‘Corpse Man’ and they tell me I’d
better pay off the first time I’m asked or I’m going to take a suicide dive off
the top tier.”
“Just con talk, Dave,” the lawyer
said. “That’s how they scare the new arrivals.”
“It worked. I’m fucking scared to
* * *
Prep school, Dartmouth, and a corner
desk at an elite Wall Street brokerage firm were not an adequate preparation
for a maximum-security prison. My cellmate back in MCC was a normal street
hood. My cellmate in Dannemora was a bona fide homicidal, paranoid
schizophrenic. Every day was a new challenge to stay on his good side—if that’s
the right word for a maniac. Cons who have beefs with their cellies settle
differences in private inside their cells. Guards don’t interfere.
Every night at bed check, Michael
would count every personal item in his space to make sure nothing was missing
or had been replaced by something inferior by me while he was in the yard or in
the shop. I sweated bullets until he was satisfied with the count. At night, I
slept with the proverbial eye open. A filed-down toothbrush with a razor
soldered into the plastic from a contraband Bic was considered de rigueur at
Dannemora, essential accoutrement for all fashionista killers.
After my cell assignment, three burly
cons slathered with helter-skelter tattoos paid me a visit. Clowns collided
with spiderwebs and shamrocks on arms bunched with muscle. The two bigger ones
stayed silent, allowing the smallest—a clean-shaven hillbilly with a pronounced
brow ridge, to do the talking. He quietly informed me in his bollixed-up, inflated
diction precisely how much I was to pay “henceforth” and how the deposits were
to be made into the four accounts “so as not to incur undue curiosity among the
Penal staff . . . Jesus, Mary, and
I said nothing, they said nothing
further, turned around and walked out, the bigger ones like two pulling guards
shielding a running back. The whole shakedown occurred in less time than it took
me to urinate in the morning.
I summoned my lawyer, relayed the shitkicker’s
instructions, and told him if he said one word about not paying these
scum off, I’d use every dollar left in my savings to have him “visited” by one
of those muscle-heads’ friends on the outside. He thought I was kidding, then
he nodded, sighed, and put the instructions of numbered accounts I had him
write down inside his expensive Armani jacket in deconstructed weave. My transition
from shark to minnow was
formally and totally complete.
Three months in, I’d had enough. The
whole mind-numbing routine of stupid male chatter, the ragged sleep because of
my crazy cellmate, the starchy food, fluorescent lights everywhere, the clang of
cell doors sliding into locks, the fart-smells wafting up and down tiers, the
body odor of mentally deranged and unhygienic men was taking too big a toll.
The boredom of prison is exacerbated only by abrupt moments of terror, punctuated
by the shrieks and cries of the unlucky, vulnerable men singled out for
“demonstrations” by one gang or another for rules infractions, real or
suspected. It was like living inside a combat zone—only one planted inside a rotten
jungle atmosphere. I wasn’t inclined to wait 15 years for a first parole
I got word to the clean-shaven con
who’d entered my cell that first week of my arrival.
No pleasant greeting this time. He
walked in and stared at me sitting on my bunk, shoeless feet dangling.
He cut his eyes to my hands in case I
had some foolish notion of leaping down and sticking him.
“This visit ain’t free,” he said. “You
Jailbird lingo for a ‘legal
“I understand,” I replied.
“Have fifty in my commissary account
by the week’s end. Two twenties and a ten. Don’t be stupid and put the whole
amount in at one time.”
“I understand.” You motherfucker .
I told him what I wanted him—or wanted
his outside associates to do for me—and we negotiated a price. The haggling
over his fee took half as much time as my little speech. I agreed to his
terms—specific amounts to be paid to addresses he’d provide me later. Like that
first time, he turned around and walked out sans another spoken word.
When my cellmate returned from shop,
he demanded to know what I’d discussed with “the lifer” from another cell block.
I gave him an abridged version, leaving out pertinent details and names by substituting
a scenario I hoped his deranged, paranoid brain would find acceptable.
I admit I was relieved when he
“You know, man, that guy, he’s an
enforcer for the Brand,” he told me after supper, briefly interrupting his
count to glare at me.
“You just bought yourself a pig in a
Subtle as a rain-wrapped tornado, as
I hadn’t heard that colloquialism pig
in a poke spoken in my entire life, but it rang inside my head with the
authority of a papal bull from the Vatican balcony. I was down to the slimmest
of hopes. I knew in my brain, heart, and guts, I could never last three more
months in this place, let alone face the likelihood of parole denial my first
time up, which was the norm. Doing the full life sentence—hell, that was
something you’d ascribe to a glacier’s speed, not to an innocent man trapped in
a steel cage.
If this failed, they wouldn’t have to
throw me headfirst off the tier. I’d do the dive myself.
* * *
When I summoned him again two months
later, he showed up just before bed check.
“This ain’t a freebie, neither. Fifty
in the account, same way.”
“I understand. I’ve paid up. I want results.
My lawyer is aware of our deal.”
That wasn’t true. The cash payments were
handled through an intermediary and a different private investigator. My lawyer
told me he wouldn’t get involved in any blackmail. “It’s an ethics thing, Dave
. . .I just can’t.”
“Good for your pig-fucking lawyer.”
“When do I get the results?”
“You’ll know when I do. Why? You goin’
somewhere soon, Corpse Man? Got a Caribbean trip comin’ up?”
“I’m tired of waiting for what I’ve
paid a considerable fortune for.”
His beetle-brow furrowed, making the
bump of his ridge look more Neanderthal than ever. He turned around and walked
out without speaking a word.
My cellmate, of course, with his
specialized antennae, already knew about the visit by the time he arranged his
items for the nightly count.
“They say men gossip more than women,”
I said, risking his wrath.
“You’re in a prison, shithead,” he
replied; “what else is there to do but beat off, fight, play chess, cornhole
trannies, lift weights, and send kites up and down the rows about punks who
Touché, you crazy prick—
My imagined plummet from the top tier moved
closer to the front of my mind each day from then on. Time didn’t drag, it
slipped like tectonic plates colliding. I was aware of seconds passing, then
hours passed while I barely functioned in my fugue state. The thought of
suicide slithered like a banded viper and curled a forked tongue into the
crevices between my thoughts. In no time, the thought of ending this hell
became a siren song, beckoning me when I was at my lowest.
The Neanderthal showed up in my cell
one gray afternoon in spring after rec period.
“I didn’t summon you,” I said. I glanced
at him over my copy of The Wealth of Nations.
He threw a fat manila envelope stuffed
with papers at me and walked out—once again, cat-like, in silence.
I scooped up the papers that had drifted
to the floor and quickly perused what I’d paid a king’s ransom for. It was
gold—everything I needed to end this nightmare.
I paid the ten-dollar fee to get to a
phone from one of the gang members on “phone duty.” I told my new lawyer what I
“How’d you get that kind of information?”
“Through people with better sources
and more connections than your shitty investigator.”
“I’ll be up there tomorrow.”
* * *
The nightmare, however, wouldn’t end as
soon as I wanted. The wheels of justice turn slowly but grind exceedingly fine,
as Sun Tzu said. He’d have revised that statement if he’d ever gone through an
American justice system, which grinds up the petitioner along with any
semblance of justice. But on rare occasions, it does work.
When my lawyer presented the evidence to
a three-judge panel in the court of appeals, I was granted a new trial; my
sentence was vacated—for the time being.
The explosive discovery revealed some
new facts pertinent to my case. For one thing, Kori was born Korinne May
Andolsek in Gobblers Crossing, Alabama in 1987. She was state-raised in
Tallapoosa County because both of her parents had died in a trailer fire. Each
parent, however, had a neat bullet hole in the skull in the temporal lobe
region. Both were executed in their beds from a Ruger 10/22 deer rifle. The
charred remains were found near the bed after the fire. Kori alone escaped. Or
rather, the papers said, “was spared by the killer,” a man no one could
identify from her vague description and the police composite. Being of tender
age, however, she was spared a grilling by detectives who never did find the
mystery man she claimed broke into her trailer apparently for the sole purpose
of executing the two adults inside.
Kori proved to be a brilliant student,
if a loner, an autodidact who taught herself algebra and calculus while her
classmates were still drawing stick figures for the family refrigerators. A copy
of her eighth-grade report card was notable for two reasons: the straight A’s
and the teacher’s acerbic comments about the girl’s “antisocial, hostile, and
downright belligerent behavior” in her classes.
She attended the University of Alabama
in what should have been her junior year of high school. Her SAT score missed
perfection by two points. She took an advanced degree in math and computer
technology from Brown on a full-ride scholarship.
The motive came like a blinding flash
of light in a darkened room—in this case, my brain, which could not fathom so
elaborate a betrayal for no reason except that it must have been owing to some
deviance in her personality, some hatred that laser-focused on me specifically
It never once occurred to me her
motive for destroying me could be personal.
The bombshell evidence was this: six
years ago, my firm interviewed a Robert Klagg for a position. He was 25, newly
engaged, and had all the right credentials. As a senior trader, I sat on the
interview committee with several partners and the head trader. Possessed of golden
reference letters from both business and academe, Klagg was highly recruited.
He was as good as hired—that is, until I noticed a familiar name in one of his
glowing reference letters. Frankly, no one gives a goddamn what your grades were
in college, it’s all about the degree. But that particular professor happened
to be someone I had once consulted for a project concerning the development of application
strategies with robots in the forex market. A robot studies peaks and suggests
reversals or opportunities; in other words, it’s a marriage of necessity
between intuition and IT nowadays.
I asked him several questions about
his relationship to that professor and received curt, dismissive answers. That
irked my pride. He was the interviewee, not me. Right after the interview, I
found that professor’s cell number in my office and called him. He had never
heard of anyone named Robert Klagg. I informed the head trader, and I went as
far as to suggest we call Klagg and tell him to clean up his résumé—a friendly
warning, nothing more. I never gave that interview or Robert Klagg a second
thought. I assumed some other firm had snapped him up.
In fact, he was never hired by anyone.
That became clear when I found a xerox of an obituary from a Charleston
newspaper six weeks after his interview. It was perfunctory as obituaries go;
none of the lavish praises heaped upon the dead. Klagg had died “after a short
illness” and the clipping stated few personal details. That translated to death
by suicide or by drug overdose. I surmised the former cause.
My hunch was confirmed by a printout
of the engagement between Robert Klagg of Charleston, SC and Korinne May
Andolsek—dated a year prior to Kori’s hiring.
Kori blamed me for her fiancé’s
death. The only person who could have
blackened Klagg’s name in Manhattan was our head trader. His memberships in the
most exclusive clubs in Manhattan and his contacts ensured every big name in
finance would know of Klagg’s dishonesty. It was mere sport for him, a boy pulling
the wings off a fly. I’m sure he never gave what he did to Klagg a second
Kori’s iron will put herself on a path
of intensive study—just to get to me. And she got to me, all right. The girl on
the bed was a sacrificial lamb to her vengeance, another step along the way. A nobody
that no one would miss, another New York girl whose life was interrupted by death.
I remember sorting the papers in my cell that afternoon and shivering despite the
warmth. The coldness shocked me.
I’m looking forward to the second
trial. It looks promising but nothing is guaranteed. I’ll be the main witness,
and I’d better be up to it. Kori is no slouch at acting for a jury.
I haven’t seen her since the day she
testified. Untouchable on the stand, a woman with a genius IQ who manipulated
authorities, detectives, and caseworkers as an adolescent would have no fear of
dissembling again. A New York jury of her peers would be another cakewalk, so I
had better be prepared. I even wrote a personal letter to the Manhattan
Southern District DA’s Office begging them to assign one of their best trial
lawyers to the case.
That “research firm” I employed back
in prison cost me most of my savings. Everything is different now. I’ve sold
all my assets, my stocks and cashed out my money-market certificates.
I’m living in a bedsit near the
Bowery, a far cry from my former plush digs on the East Side. I’m working at an
all-night diner waiting tables and learning how to become a short-order cook. It’s
a handy skill. I’ll need it because I’m almost flat broke, my last bond
certificate went to pay for a down payment and a new suit for trial. Good
lawyers cost money. I don’t want a pro bono attorney or a fresh graduate
out of Cardozo from the public defender’s office going up against Kori.
After the trial, I’m leaving to go out
West for the Big Sky country. I’ll never touch a spreadsheet again. I plan to
drop my cell service and go off the grid. Being falsely accused has changed me.
Prison has changed me. But most of all, a brilliant, amoral woman with a block
of ice for a heart has changed me for good. As they say, no one hates you like
White writes noir, crime, and hardboiled stories and novels featuring
series character Thomas Haftmann. A recent collection of crime stories
is Dangerous Women: Stories of Crime, Mystery, and Mayhem.
He published Perfect Killer and Northtown Eclipse in
2018. “Inside Man” was selected for inclusion in Best American Mystery
Stories 2019. His website is https://tomhaftmann.wixsite.com/robbtwhite.