I pour more, drink.
It works so wonderfully fast. Wine is the answer.
What was the question?
I feel myself levitate on my booze cloud, and resume fretting about Greer. If he does come after me, he’ll likely try something like…like… Oh, hell, maybe I should have gone to a hotel. I can still go…just get out of this sloppy clown suit and away from the window-
Christ! – the window – the goddamn kitchen window, I’m not thinking! The overhead is bright and here I am sitting with my reflection on the glass, visible to anyone across the way or…
On the fire escape out there.
I leap to turn off the overhead. The kitchen falls into shadows, and from the side, shaking again, I sneak up to the old window with the mildewed frame that - sure, is painted-over but could be shot through - or pried open easily because the wood is old like everything else in this place. A putty knife could pop it in a jiff, I think hysterically, and Greer back in his alley looked demented enough to drink more, get stoked all over again and maybe climb up, make it look like an intruder came….
I tiptoe across to the counter. From the wooden knife block I pull the longest and sharpest: a nine-inch chef’s knife. I hold it up, appraising it in the semidarkness. It glints as I turn it. The thought of having to really use it horrifies me.
Desperate times, I think, and carry it to the bedroom. Next to the window I stop, reach, use the knife to move the drape carefully aside, and peer out.
No one.
Fool, I tell myself. Of course no one; it’s only eleven-thirty - he came back for Chloe after two in the morning!
I slide the knife under the pillow, blade pushed to the wall, handle near my head and my hand. Then I get under the covers, trying to let the wine work, trying to persuade myself again that tonight really should be a time-out. Greer’s had a bad two nights. He isn’t likely to try anything right away, I storm at myself, so sleep while you can, dammit….
Instead I thrash, worry in circles. If he knows neither my name nor address, he can’t use White Pages like I did with Chloe, right?
Right, for tonight.
Tomorrow will be different. No way out. I know I’ll be colliding again with him.
Then a new feeling starts to nag, builds to the point that I start gnashing my teeth and breathing faster.
In the worst way I don’t want anyone to know about tonight and how crazy I was and my run in with Greer.
But the nagging builds. I can’t stand it. I know what I have to do…and finally give up.
Groaning, I yank my phone to me, and on its glowing screen I text Joe: Give my name to no one, ok? I’ve been pulled further into the Chloe Weld murder & want to lie low. C U tomorrow, tx, sleep tight.
If he’s still up he’ll see that I’m signing off; will wait till tomorrow with not too many questions, I hope.
Fat chance….
I close my eyes, feeling my heart thud, waiting for sleep debt and my new drug combo to kick in.
18
“What happened?” Joe whispers as soon as he sees me. He’s just finished watering the plants and bless his heart; he’s so concerned. “Thought you were just going to Régine’s and then home.”
How could I have hoped there’d be no questions? I blame the wine. You don’t text a friend at midnight telling them you’ve been pulled further into a murder, and not expect them to be alarmed.
I help him rewind the hose; try for a casual shrug, “I ran into Peter Greer but it’s okay, the police are on him.”
“How ran into him? Christ!”
“He threatened me,” I say evasively, trying not to shudder. “Don’t worry, they’ve got this.”
Coming to work, I struggled to rationalize. It helped to have slept okay – just one quick nightmare – then more antihistamine that worked, and now I’m feeling almost good.
Trying to hang on, persuade myself….
The police know about Greer. He’s their prime suspect and they’ll find better evidence soon; he knows it and his lawyers know it. So he must be lying low, bothering no one, speaking and interacting with no one because that’s the warning lawyers holler loudest to their clients.
“Talk to no one not even your mother!” Alex on the phone; I can’t count how many times I’ve heard him say that.
It reassures. Last night was harrowing and I was an emotional mess…but now I see it – try to anyway - through a calmer lens. The weather helps. Today is another sunny, mid-September day; seventy degrees, thirsty plants.
“…where did you run into him?” Joe is asking, low and urgently. “He shouldn’t even be out!”
“He won’t be out for long,” I say, fiddling with the faucet. His second comment helped me duck his question. I stand and wipe spilled water from my gray jeans and chunky blue sweater. No dark track suits today, thank you very much. Just looking at them this morning flashed every terrible image from last night.
Joe shakes his head, knowing he’s hasn’t heard even half the story. Is it me or has he gotten more mother hen since this started? He starts pressing me for more and - oh, good…I’m saved as a woman comes up demanding to know why pumpkins aren’t in yet. No way am I going to mention getting Greer’s gun in my face or visiting the police. Joe looks rattled enough, plus I don’t want to talk…at all…period.
I’d like a few hours, at least, to pretend last night never happened.
Ninety minutes go by. Joselito arrives with a truck full of plants. They unload, restock emptying tiers inside the store…and then Joe comes back out with his face still intent on questions.
“I thought the Weld murder was open and shut,” he says, using a box cutter to help me open a carton of florist paper. “You saw that guy. How can he still be out?”
“Insufficient evidence…plus his alibi,” I say vaguely.
“But you’re a witness. God - you thought he might have seen you!”
“The cops are on it,” I say slowly, almost showing my annoyance. He hears my tone that says no more. “Seriously, don’t worry.”
He gives up, goes back inside.
Instead, I worry. The feeling creeps back up on me. Last night’s conviction returns that I’ll be colliding again with Greer.
Nervously I scan the sidewalk, the passing traffic. Nothing but the usual blank, strolling or hurried faces. I chide myself: in broad daylight I’m jumping at shadows?
The thought reassures me. I lift my face to the sun; for grateful moments its warmth mesmerizes me.
The day progresses. Joe looks mystified for a bit longer, then loses that expression as I continue to seem calm.
Too calm, I realize around three o’clock. Maybe it’s the great weather or some weird kind of acceptance or the fact that nothing has happened…yet, but I’m feeling a new energy, better focus.
It hits, suddenly, that I want to collide with Greer.
My anger – dangerous, but there it is – comes back. I really could have saved that girl. Greer must not be allowed to go free like Brett Moore.
But no more flailing! No frantic tearing around like a fly in a jar. I need a better plan. I’m going to avenge my sister (and myself), go after both monsters Moore and Greer, and make them pay.
Moore we can maybe get in the trial.
But how can I go after Greer? My guilt wracks. In the space of another hour, I’m on fire…
…a little hyper, actually. My resolve burns with impatience and I’m back to feeling shaky.
I wrap bouquets and tie ribbons and carry big plants to cars double-parked.
The sun drops lower. People surge from the corner subway onto the getting-busier sidewalk. Customers crowd the stand, smiling and pointing. I sell something like thirty bouquets in my last hour, then text ‘bye to Joe, who’s inside labeling tropical plants.
He comes out looking concerned.
“You going to be okay?”
“Yes. Don’t worry.”
“You going straight home?”
“Yes. I feel like
cooking, can you believe it? Rattle those pans.”
“Good. Stay in. Lock up.”
I wave, then head around the corner to Eighth Avenue, to a fruit and vegetable stand half under an awning that reads Jae-woo’s. The stand faces the setting sun. Piled-high oranges, apples, tomatoes and zucchini look beautiful in the golden light. My eye falls on a pyramid of purple eggplants.
“Hey, Ava!” Jae-woo says, carting a box of onions out from inside. “Haven’t seen you in a bit, how’re you doing?”
“Maintaining,” I smile at him. “You?” I decide to make ratatouille; celebrate my new energy.
Jae-woo throws his hands up griping about his aches, and turns to go back inside. I call feelingly to him, take a basket, pile in zucchini.
Tomatoes next. I reach up for one…
…and a man’s hand reaches past mine; grabs a plump one, puts it in my basket.
I look at him. Freeze.
It’s Peter Greer, standing close, moving a second tomato to my basket. His eyes meet mine, somber, a bit red-veined. “I’m sorry,” he says.
I stop breathing, say nothing.
“Booze makes me crazy.” His eyes are earnest. “You’ve seen me at my worst, Ava. I’m sorry,” he says again.
“How do you know my name?” I manage, heart – stop it! – pounding.
He gestures. “Heard Jae-woo. Also heard it from Beth Jarrett.”
He’s handsome in chinos, blue shirt collar open, sleeves rolled up, dark hair askew. I’m stunned and his cologne roils me worse. He reads my expression.
“Yes, Beth,” he says. “I called her back, reassured her about a terrible misunderstanding, and she’s sorry. I asked her not to give out my number and she apologized again; said she’d given it to you.”
He puts a third tomato in my basket. I recall Beth sounding drunk when we spoke in front of Régine’s. She’s still boozing.
Trembling, I remove his tomatoes, plunk them back on their pyramid. The zucchini follow as I feel his eyes on me. I replace my basket, start to walk jerkily away.
He follows. “Please listen.”
I cringe and weave through pedestrians. “How did you know where to find me?”
“Waited for you. Didn’t you see me leaning on the lamp post?”
“No.”
“You should be more alert. There’s a killer on the loose.”
“Yeah, you.” We round the corner.
“Now see, that’s what I had to straighten out with Beth. I do feel for her, she lost her friend. And your words last night hurt. I didn’t do it.”
He touches my arm above my elbow. I recoil; feel again the butt of his gun on my cheek, yank furiously away and bump into someone. “Oh, sorry!”
He grabs me again, pulls me closer. There are people around and a cop across the street, but I call no one. Can’t believe this – so fast, he’s come after me?
“Please listen,” he says low, his eyes even more earnest. “I’ve been a shit, but I don’t kill people.”
The heart’s whamming and I want to run, but I also want to bring the bastard down. I grit my teeth. “Prove it.”
“Can’t.” He lets go and gestures. “Except for the fact that my wife hates me, but confirmed I was home and passed out the whole night.”
“Oh, well that settles it,” I snap, moving again. “Do you sleep in separate rooms? Did she go back to hers after the police left?” I fire my final shot. “What about your other dead girl?”
He stops, frowns.
“My what? No connection.” He resumes dogging me. “Anyone leaving Rocco’s at three in the morning is taking a chance. That place is a pit; I didn’t know she was doing drugs.”
We’re yards from Cooper’s and I walk faster.
“You’ve got it all wrong,” he calls after me.
But I’m in, through the door on shaking legs, heading for the rear where Joe is back to battling invoices.
I reach the chair next to his desk. Fall into it, try to stop gasping.
19
A statue, he looks like. He’s one of those metal sculptures you see outside cafes and museums. Worried Man in Chair, he’d be called.
“I knew it,” Joe says when I finish.
“Knew what?”
“You only told me half the story.”
“Didn’t want to worry you. Happy now?”
He falls back, as if hearing about Greer’s gun in my face and my visit to the police has knocked him over. I’m still catching my breath.
“This is serious,” he frowns.
“’Fraid so.” Adrenalin leaves me like a pulled trap door, and I’m suddenly drained. But at least it’s out…I’d felt guilty that I hadn’t told Joe everything. He should know a killer is after his employee.
He leans forward again, shaking his head as if to clear it; starts fiddling incredulously with a chopstick. “Greer was watching you?”
“Yes and followed me to Jae-woo’s. Got my name and number from a friend of Chloe’s.”
I tell him about Beth Jarrett who’s fled to Maine and uses liquid comfort.
He groans.
“You should go to Maine too. Or the Bahamas – somewhere till this blows over.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I want to see Greer nailed.” My heart still thuds, more slowly but too forcefully.
“For God’s sake, Ava, this is crazy. Lie low someplace, take time off. Mel will pinch hit.”
Melanie is Joe’s sister, who is semi-holed up studying for the New York bar exam. She’s worked here lots and tutors part time at forty dollars a session. Smart girl, following in their prosecutor mother’s footsteps.
“Don’t bother her,” I say, drooping lower in my chair, shakily pulling out my phone. My overburdened mind has raced ahead and I start tapping at its screen. “I’m not going to Maine or the Bahamas.”
Joe’s eyes are on me as if he’s watching an officially crazy person. “What are you doing? What could you possibly be doing?”
I don’t look up. “Searching something. Wait a sec.”
He shifts angrily in his chair, exhales hard. “The mind-blowing arrogance of Greer,” he mutters. “His lawyers must have told him to talk to no one, and he ignores.”
I nod but say nothing, reading.
“Arrogance that bad is narcissistic, sociopathic. To follow you openly like that? That’s scary.”
“He said he didn’t do it, ha - sounded almost plaintive. Why does it matter to him what I think?”
Joe gives a snort. “Emotional manipulation. Ted Bundy was a sociopathic monster behind his charm. He’d say anything to trick people.”
“True…” Something stops me and I frown, bring my phone closer to read faster. I look up at nothing for a moment, thinking.
Then I lean forward and reach my phone to Joe; show him a picture of a pretty brunette. “Ever see this girl?”
He takes my phone and looks. “Don’t think so. Why?”
“Just wondering. Last night, Alex said Greer is maybe tied to a second girl’s murder. That’s her, she was shot. No witnesses, no suspects, the trail’s gone cold.”
“My God. How did you find her?”
“He let something slip. I challenged him about his ‘second dead girl,’ and he said, ‘Anyone leaving Rocco’s at three in the morning is taking a chance.’ So I googled woman shot, killed, Rocco’s, NYC, and up it came.”
Joe raises his shoulders in a sad shrug, and hands back my phone. “Terrible,” he says.
I peer again at the girl in the picture, and look back to him. “Her name was Darcy Lund. She doesn’t look familiar?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Not at all? Take another look.”
He sighs, reaches again for my phone. Studies the picture with his lips pressed, brings it closer, squints, then raises his shoulders again. “Maybe. She looks like a lot of girls.” He hands the phone back again. “Now I’m not sure.”
“Maybe Mel saw her? She was killed in
late June. Greer bought his new place in mid-June, may have brought her here for Régine’s and pre-coital bouquets. I’ve only been here since July…what?”
Joe’s face is somber, almost sad. “What are you doing, Ava?”
“Going off the deep end, don’t stop me. Did Greer kill two girls? The Darcy Lund case has clearly gone cold, and the cops are already getting nowhere with Chloe. What are the chances they’re both going to go unsolved? Those poor girls…their grieving families-”
“You’re obsessed.” Joe gets to his feet.
“That’s right.” I grit my teeth, take a slow, angry breath. “It just makes me crazy - powerful men literally getting away with murder. This isn’t Cosa Nostra – it’s businessmen fooling around as long as it suits them-”
“I’m walking you home again.”
“No.”
“Yes.” He leans over me, one hand on the back of my chair. “You’ve gotten yourself into some serious danger. You should lock up, push furniture against the door, and think long and hard about leaving town for a while.”
Serious danger….
The words chill, sound unreal like Lewis Carroll’s Alice falling into a rabbit hole kind of nightmare…
…and something else hits. I look at Joe, suddenly full of contrition.
“I’ve just realized… I’ve brought danger to you. I feel terrible. If you want me to quit, I’ll understand. No hard feelings, really.”
He takes my hand and pulls me up.
“Stop, no talk about leaving. Just take a break and precautions, please? Starting with letting me walk you home.”
“I’ll take an Uber.”
“So I’ll ride with you, see you safely inside. I insist. I can be stubborn too, y’know.”
“Okay, okay. Walking’s better. I need to clear my mind.”
20
We grab our jackets, lock up and leave, stopping first to look down the block.
“Quiet,” Joe says, and I nod. In the gathering dusk, there’s only the yellow tape left before Chloe’s building. The police must be done there. It looks sad, forgotten.
We walk, both of us silent until we reach Hudson. Traffic is heavy. Waiting to cross, Joe asks again about my visit to the police. What I told him forty minutes ago may have been a bit incoherent.
Girl Watching You Page 8
