“I’m honored.”
“You should be.” He changes the subject. “Linda Pohjola is fucking hot.”
I nod. “She looks like Bettie Page.”
“Who?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“She collects 1950s pinup magazines and movies. A lot of it is S amp;M and bondage, fetish-type stuff. She also has an excellent lingerie collection, which she scents with perfume.”
I take this to mean she consciously impersonates Bettie Page. “So you break into apartments and sniff women’s undergarments.”
“Not necessarily, but in this case, I had to search her underwear drawer. You know the old joke that goes, ‘What’s a Russian ass-shaker?’”
It’s a classic. “Yeah. It doesn’t shake and it doesn’t fit in your ass.”
He grins. “That’s the one. Well, lovely Linda has a non-Russian ass-shaker. A big green double-donged dildo. Big end for * and small end for ass.” Milo starts to sing a Beach Boys’ tune. “I’m pickin’ up good vibrations. She’s giving me excitations.”
I want to see if anything causes him shame. “How did Linda’s dildo smell?”
“Like soap,” he says. “She washes it.”
My tolerance level just maxed. “You didn’t ask me to come here so you can tell me about your proclivity for voyeurism and Linda’s underwear and dildo.”
He’s having the time of his life. His eyes sparkle, their dark circles have a liquid sheen. He folds up his lockpicker’s wallet, puts it back in his pocket, and puts a digital audio player in its place on the table. “I found her MP3 and bumped this over to my iPod. Listen to the second-to-last track,” he says.
I put the earbuds in and listen. I hear smacks, followed by high-pitched grunts and squeals. Slurping sounds, like a blow job. Muted low moans at intervals, some of which are from a male voice. I’m nearly certain it belongs to Filippov. It goes on for eight minutes. Milo has a recording of Iisa being whipped to pieces. I stop the machine.
“No, keep listening,” Milo says.
A Nine Inch Nails song, “Closer,” from The Downward Spiral album, starts. It’s a dirgey anthem to self-hatred and sadomasochistic sex.
This isn’t the studio version. It’s a home mix. The sound track from Iisa Filippov’s torture session has been dubbed over the song. Her blunted cries syncopate with the song’s rhythm. It’s sickening, makes my stomach churn.
“Pretty cool, huh?” Milo says, “and ingenious. Linda and Filippov have sex while they murder Iisa and make a recording, so that later they can fuck along to the sound of Iisa dying. I’m picturing them killing her, that dildo in Linda’s cunt and ass. Filippov’s dick in her gorgeous mouth. If you listen close, it sounds like they come together when Iisa dies and goes quiet.”
I listen again. He’s right. The idea is so appalling that for a moment I sit stunned.
“‘Closer’ may be the best fucking song of all time,” Milo says, “paralleled only by Led Zeppelin’s ‘Kashmir.’ You ever fuck to the rhythm of ‘Kashmir’?” He hums the bass line, makes little grinding motions with his crotch.
In fact, I’ve fucked to both songs, but that’s not his business. “To your credit,” I say, “you were right. Filippov and Linda colluded in Iisa’s murder, but you fucked everything up. Now we have the evidence, but it’s inadmissible in court. What, Sherlock, are we going to do with it?”