That isn’t enough for the killer.
The guy in the park was the same one who attacked me in the alley. Yes, I’d surprised him there as he’d been following me, but he’d acted swiftly as he had tonight. That arm hold told me he knew what he was doing. He wasn’t some random guy who made it his mission to find me in hopes of a reward.
And he has found me. Twice now.
Or is it three times? I keep thinking of that first night, the man I’d briefly seen step from an alley and then sink back into the shadows when I spotted him.
He hasn’t “found” me three times. He’s never lost me. He’s been tracking me from the start, waiting for the right moment to . . .
To what? Turn me in to the police? That only takes a phone call.
The killer is framing me for Isabella’s murder. Yet, being innocent, I would fight like hell.
What if I never get to trial? What if I die in an alley? In Central Park? Die with further evidence planted on my corpse?
Again, I recoil from the thought. No one’s going to kill me. I’m not worth that.
If I want to succumb to that voice whispering about my worth, then perhaps I should listen to it here. My lack of importance, my lack of roots, my lack of ties, all that makes me easy to kill. I’m single, childless, living abroad with only a school-teacher mom to care whether I die. It would be easy to get rid of me.
Is that the plan?
I honestly don’t know.
There’s also the possibility that my stalker is Isabella’s killer. That it could even be her mystery lover. I balk at that—it doesn’t fit the man from those texts. But I already consider him a potential suspect. Why couldn’t it be my stalker, too?
I feel eighteen again, lost and confused and alone. So damned alone.
I could have died tonight.
That’s what it comes down to. I could have died.
I sit and I stare, my coffee and pie untouched. When the sixty-something server comes by with her pot of coffee, she sees I don’t need it and murmurs, “Everything okay, hon?” in a soft Southern accent, and I start to cry. I’m mortified, of course, wiping tears and stammering apologies, but she brushes them off and slides in across from me and says, “You need me to call anyone?” When I don’t answer, she leans over and lowers her voice. “A friend?” She pauses. “The police?”
I shake my head.
“You sure, hon?”
I nod. “I just . . . I had a close call. I did something stupid and had a close call.”
“Everyone’s entitled to do stupid things, especially when they’re young.” Her dark eyes meet mine. “No one deserves a ‘close call’ for doing them.”
Tears spill, and I wipe them away and thank her.
“You sure you don’t want me to phone someone?”
I shake my head. “I just need a place to sit. I know I’m taking up a table.” I reach into my pocket and pull out a twenty. “I can pay for more food, and you can give it to someone who needs it.”
Her plump hand covers mine. “You keep your money. We’re empty tonight, and I don’t mind not being the only person in here. Hal in the back is too deaf to come running when there’s trouble. Or that’s his excuse, lazy old fart.”
As she rises, she takes my pie. “This apple isn’t fit for a dog. It comes straight from the freezer. You want the sweet potato pie. I make it myself. Only place in New York you can get it this time of year.”
She brings me a slice, and I take a bite and pronounce it perfect, as if I am a connoisseur of the dessert. She tells me to wave if I want more, and otherwise, she’ll leave me be.
Before she walks away, I make note of her name tag. Phyllis. When all this is over, I’m sending her the biggest gift basket I can find. I’m sure that, for Phyllis, this is just another shift, and I’m just another 3 a.m. customer needing a place to be for a few hours. For me, though, it’s an unforgettable act of kindness when I needed it most. I won’t forget that.
I eat my pie, and sip my coffee and read the paper. It contains nothing on me or Isabella’s death. That would have come yesterday, and with no updates, they don’t mention it. I’m fine with that.
It’s barely five when PCTracy pings me.
PCTracy: Checking in. How’d last night go?
I want to say fine, but I need him to know it was not fine. I need him to have at least some inkling of what I’m facing if he’s going to help me decide my next move.
PCTracy: You there?
LlamaGirl: I had a problem.
PCTracy: Are you okay?
LlamaGirl: I was accosted.
Yes, it’s an odd word to use, but I’m not ready to share my theory.
Theory? You were attacked twice by the same man. That’s a fact.
Doubt still whispers. Not my doubt, but the doubts of those officers when I was stabbed. The doubts of old friends who’d listened to my fears and wondered whether I might be exaggerating a wee bit. Getting paranoid.
PCTracy: What? Where?
LlamaGirl: In a park. It’s okay. I’m fine.
PCTracy: That is NOT okay. I’m the one who suggested you stay out all night.
LlamaGirl: I’m an adult. It was still my choice.
PCTracy: Are you hurt? Are you safe?
I answer more questions, but they’re all about me and my safety. He doesn’t ask for details on the accosting, which seems strange. I’ve left the situation open for everything from attempted sexual assault to a homeless person yelling at me for taking her spot. Yet he only pushes to be sure I’m safe. He presumes that I escaped and that I’m unharmed, but doesn’t ask either. It’s almost as if . . .
It’s almost as if he knows what happened.
LlamaGirl: I do need to go back, though. I left my backpack.
There’s a pause. A long one.
PCTracy: You dropped it?
LlamaGirl: No, I left it where I was sleeping.
That’s the obvious answer. Yet he presumes I took it. As if he knows I took it.
PCTracy: Are you sure?
LlamaGirl: Of course, I’m sure. How wouldn’t I be?
No answer.
LlamaGirl: You seem very convinced I didn’t leave my backpack behind.
PCTracy: Sorry. I’m freaking out. I told you it’d be safe to spend the night out. You could have been assaulted, and it would have been my fault.
PCTracy: I was an idiot, and I’m furious with myself. I was thinking that I could do it, and you’re obviously resourceful and capable, so you could, too. I never stopped to consider the extra danger you’d face.
LlamaGirl: As a woman.
PCTracy: Right.
LlamaGirl: I never told you what happened to me. I didn’t say it was a guy. I didn’t say what he wanted. I didn’t say anything except that I was accosted in the park.
Pause. Pause.
PCTracy: I made a presumption, and I shouldn’t have. We need to get you a safe place to stay. A hotel room. Do you trust me to handle that?
I don’t trust you to do anything right now.
LlamaGirl: You were there. When I was attacked.
PCTracy: You think I attacked you?
LlamaGirl: No, I think you came to my rescue. A guy woke me up. I got away. I’d escaped, and I was hiding, hoping he’d run past, when someone took him down. Beat the crap out of him, it sounded like.
PCTracy: Well, good. He deserved it, and I’d gladly have administered the beating, but I’ve been in my hotel room all night.
LlamaGirl: And if we met for breakfast, you wouldn’t have a mark on you?
No answer.
LlamaGirl: It was you. I know it was. You’re asking me to trust you. Can I? Really?
At least thirty seconds tick past.
PCTracy: It was me.
PCTracy: I wouldn’t have told you it was safe to sleep out of doors unless I could watch over you.
PCTracy: I wasn’t LITERALLY watching you sleep. I was just close by. I heard the guy coming. He looked like a cop. I withdrew to moni
tor the situation. The problem was that I couldn’t hear what he was saying to you. It looked like a police interaction . . . until he grabbed you.
PCTracy: I was sneaking up when you escaped. I stayed back, hoping you’d get away on your own. I knew you were hiding behind the theater after you ran, so I took him down before he reached you.
PCTracy: I’m sorry. I should have insisted you get a hotel room, one way or another. I thought I had it under control, and I did not.
LlamaGirl: You’re tracking me. You know where I am.
PCTracy: It’s not like that.
LlamaGirl: No? Where am I? Right now.
Another thirty seconds. Then he names the diner.
LlamaGirl: You bastard.
PCTracy: Yes, I know where you are, but the only time I used that information was last night.
PCTracy: Okay, I used it this morning, too, but just to be sure you were safe. I’m miles away. I swear it. I have never been within a thousand feet of you before the library yesterday.
LlamaGirl: The library?
PCTracy: It’s the IP address. If you’re on Wi-Fi, I know how to get the IP address from the messaging app we’re using. I can trace that to the location. I haven’t before yesterday, though. And I won’t do it again. If you’re worried, use cell phone data. I can’t track that.
LlamaGirl: You bastard.
PCTracy: It was a stupid thing to do. A violation of your trust. I understand that now.
LlamaGirl: And you didn’t before?
PCTracy: Honestly, no. Like I said, I wouldn’t have suggested you sleep outside if I couldn’t be there. From my perspective, I’m guarding a client, which is part of my job. However, from your point of view, I’m a stranger tracking your movements and watching over you as you sleep. That’s creepy as hell.
PCTracy: I had nothing but good intentions. But you don’t know that. So I screwed up.
LlamaGirl: You did. Goodbye.
PCTracy:Wait! Tell me what I can do to make this right.
LlamaGirl: Nothing. You sent me to this app so we could chat, knowing it also meant you could track me. I’m deleting it now.
PCTracy: Please don’t do that, L. Stick to data. I will make no attempt to track you in any way.
LlamaGirl: I don’t trust you.
PCTracy: Colt was definitely not at home the night of the murder. He went to a rehearsal and then flew out on a friend’s private jet just before 3 p.m. Pacific time, 6 Eastern. I don’t have the flight plan yet, but I’m working on it. A private JET, though, suggests he wasn’t zipping up to San Francisco for the evening. If the destination was New York, he’d have arrived around 11 p.m.
PCTracy: I also think you should see this.
He sends me a link.
PCTracy: Watch the video. You might be able to reach out to her. We can discuss that.
LlamaGirl: I need some time.
PCTracy: Understood. Just be careful. Please.
Chapter Thirty
I have breakfast in the diner. I feel safe here, and that might be an illusion—by six, people are streaming in, and while I’m tucked into the corner of my booth, they could still see me if they walked past. Yet I’m still at the same point as when I walked in here. Roll the die. Accept my fate. I suppose Mom would say that I’m putting my faith in God, but God or Fate, it feels like the same thing. That moment when you look the cosmos square in the eye and say, “Do with me what you will.”
I need a good breakfast, and I need to analyze how much danger I’m currently in, and I need to process what PCTracy did. If taking that time to think and eat breakfast means I get caught, so be it.
The trouble, really, is that PCTracy knows he made a mistake. I called him a bastard, and I want him to be one and belligerently defend his actions.
What? I saved you, lady. I watched over you, and I saved you, and I beat up a guy who tried to assault you. You should be thanking me.
If he said that, I could delete this app and be done with him.
Sorry, PCTracy, but I don’t need a private investigator who’ll cyberstalk me and watch me as I sleep. That’s creepy as hell.
Except he said it was creepy himself. He acknowledged it first and never defended himself.
Was he just saying what I wanted to hear? Talking me off the ledge?
Maybe, but if he really believed he’d done me a favor, he’d be unable to let a little of that slip in.
I can’t dismiss him. But I can’t trust him, either. He betrayed that trust, and he treated me like a child.
Sure, stay out all night. That’s fine . . . because I’ll be secretly watching over you.
I feel patronized. The question, though, is whether he’d do the same for a man, and I suspect the answer is yes. To him, I’m not a woman in jeopardy needing male protection; I’m a client in jeopardy needing professional protection.
I don’t delete the app. I do close it, and I will leave it closed for a while.
It’s not until I’m nearly done with breakfast that I remember the link he sent. It leads to one of the CNR-wannabe sites, where a reporter caught up with Tiana, “caught up” being paparazzi-speak for “cornered.” Tiana is with Bess Tang, her mother’s assistant and Tiana’s ex. They’re walking out of a cafe after lunch yesterday. Tiana wears oversized sunglasses and a floppy face-shadowing hat, and she reminds me so much of her mother that my heart squeezes.
When the video begins, Tiana is throwing open the cafe door and striding out, Bess at her heels, talking fast. The camera is about ten feet away, and I expect it to descend on her, but it stays where it is. A young woman with purple hair zooms up to Tiana, saying, “Oh, my God, you’re Tiana,” as if there’s only one person in the world with that name.
Tiana keeps walking.
The purple-haired girl chases her, saying, “I’m sorry. I know this is a bad time. I just wanted to thank you for your work with the LGBT community.”
That makes Tiana stop. She slowly pivots.
The girl thrusts out a hand. “Thank you for being out there and for representing. It means a lot to me.”
Tiana can’t walk away from that. She should—I know what’s coming. I fell for this trick when Maureen Wilcox approached me for that article. Sure enough, after a brief exchange, the purple-haired girl says, “Shouldn’t you have a bodyguard?”
“Hmm?”
The girl laughs. “Maybe you do.” She nods at Bess. “Martial arts expert, right?”
“Uh, no. This is a friend. I don’t need a bodyguard.”
“Sure, you do. That bitch who killed your mother is on the loose.”
Tiana rolls her eyes. “I’m not worried about Lucy Callahan.”
“Why?” the girl presses forward. “You think she’s innocent?”
Tiana’s voice cools. “What I think is none of your business.” She turns to continue on, but the purple-haired girl leaps into her path. The camera person, whom Tiana hasn’t spotted yet, quickly walks past the trio. The purple-haired girl cuts her gaze toward the camera and then back to her quarry.
“Please move,” Bess says. “Ms. Morales has a meeting with the funeral director.”
“Morales? Are you switching to your mother’s surname, Tiana?”
“A double-barreled surname is a pain in the ass,” Tiana says. “I have used Morales for years. Now—”
“Your father thinks Lucy did it,” the girl says. “He believes they had an altercation, and Lucy killed her. He’s been very clear about that.”
Tiana shoulders past and walks faster, Bess hurrying to catch up. Tiana says something the camera doesn’t catch, under her breath presumably. As she speaks, though, words appear at the bottom of the screen, as if in translation.
Tiana: My father needs a full-time minder.
Bess: I know.
Tiana: Damn him.
I rewind a few seconds. The words fit her mouth movements, and when I look under the video, it says that a lip reader supplied the missing dialogue. A lip reader? Seriously?
The
purple-haired girl catches up. “Colt thinks Lucy did it, and he knows her better than any of you.”
“No, he does not.” Again, Tiana mutters this, but now the camera is close enough to pick it up. She raises her voice. “I have complete confidence in the women and men of the New York Police Department. They will find my mother’s killer. If that turns out to be Lucy Callahan, so be it. Now get out of my way.”
The “interview” ends there with the purple-haired girl machine-gunning questions and Tiana ignoring them. A minute later, a car pulls up, and Tiana and Bess climb in. Once it’s gone, the girl walks to the camera.
“Seems we have a family feud brewing,” she says for her audience. “Tiana isn’t convinced Lucy killed her mother, and she’s not happy with Colt for saying so. It’s significant that she’s using her mother’s surname. Let’s just say the funeral should be interesting.”
She grins, a hyena scenting blood. I snap the browser window shut.
PCTracy wanted me to see that video. He sees a potential ally within the family—or at least a sympathetic ear. The fact that he got that out of what I just saw only proves how desperate we both are.
Well, she didn’t say you definitely killed her mother. That’s a start, right?
I shake my head. There’s no feud here.
My father needs a full-time minder.
Not “my father needs to shut his damn mouth.” This isn’t anger; it’s exasperation. I remember Colt complaining to Isabella about Karla constantly sending him packaged soundbites and then chastising him for speaking his mind instead.
I’m honest. People like that. Karla just doesn’t understand.
Karla understood just fine. She understood that Colt was indeed beloved for his honesty . . . in the same way you can’t help loving a child who says whatever he thinks. It’s endearing at five. At forty, though? Let’s just say Karla spent a lot of time that summer cleaning up Colt’s verbal vomit. She’d still been doing damage control after an impromptu interview at a spring awards show when he’d said he was happy he lost a role to a younger actor because the writing was shit and he’d have needed Isabella to rewrite the script.
Every Step She Takes Page 20
