Stalked

by Allison Brennan

  “Cami? Cami? It’s Peter.”

  The cries stopped, and I ran down the short hall to where she stood in the doorway. I looked over her head and saw everything.

  Arcs of blood on the walls. The smell of death. The butchered pig in my bed.

  Cami turned to face me, her face white and wet with tears. “I can’t be here,” she said. “I’m sorry. Oh, God!” She ran out and I let her go. I stared at the gross violence and knew that next time it would be me.

  I called the police, and this time a new cop came to my apartment.

  His name was Charlie Mead. He looked at my room, then looked at me and said, “Tell me about it.”

  I told him everything. I told him about being followed in high school, about the roadkill left in my locker, about my bike being sabotaged. I told him why I ran away, how I was sent to live with my father, and why I filed for emancipation. It all came out in a rush; I don’t think I’d ever said as much at one time in my life.

  Charlie said, “Let’s make sure your girlfriend is okay.”

  I nodded, and he drove me to her aunt’s house. I’d never been inside, but I’d dropped her off several times over the year I’d known her.

  Charlie walked with me to the door. I stood behind him, mostly because I didn’t want Cami to be scared. Charlie could convince her that she’d be safe, and he had some smart questions I hadn’t even thought about. Like had she seen anyone, had she touched anything, had she ever seen someone following us.

  Charlie was the first cop I’d met since I filed my first report who I thought might find the person who was doing this to me.

  An elderly woman answered the door.

  “Ma’am, I’m Officer Charles Mead. Is Cami here?”

  “There’s no one by that name here.”

  “Cami Jones,” I said. “She goes to SU. This is where her aunt lives; I’m her boyfriend, Peter Gray.”

  The woman scowled. “I don’t know any Cami Jones. My name is Edith Jones, Jones is a very common name.”

  “You’re her aunt!”

  Charlie put his hand on my arm, but I shook him off. “She calls you Aunt Edie.”

  Mrs. Jones glared at me. “I don’t have any brothers or sisters; I have no nieces or nephews. I’m a widow, and my only son is married and lives in Montreal with his wife. I’ve lived in this house for fifty-two years!”

  I didn’t believe anything she said, but Charlie walked me back to his squad car and made some calls. I sat in the back and stared at the house. This was it. Jones was on the mailbox. I’d driven Cami here a dozen times.

  I looked at the houses nearby, and I wasn’t mistaken. Was her home life so bad that she didn’t want me to know where she lived?

  Charlie said, “Let’s get some coffee, Peter.”

  I didn’t say yes or no, because I was still trying to figure out what I had missed with Cami. I understood pain and knew she was a kindred spirit. She’d suffered but never talked about it.

  Charlie drove to a nearby Starbucks and we went inside. He paid for me and we went to a table in the back.

  “Thank you,” I said, and sipped the black coffee. I didn’t like coffee much, but I needed something to do with my hands.

  “You need to listen to me, Peter. This is important.”

  I nodded.

  “Edith Jones was telling the truth. She has no nieces. There is no Cami Jones registered at SU.”

  “Cami must be short for something. It’s a big school.”

  “I had them run every C. Jones registered. There are four. Three are men. One is a senior from Albany, lives with her boyfriend in town. Christina Jones.”

  I heard what Charlie said but didn’t understand.

  “Maybe—”

  Charlie interrupted. “The crime scene unit dusted your apartment for fingerprints. There were none.”

  I frowned. That made no sense.

  “Someone cleaned your entire apartment,” Charlie said. “Your fingerprints were on the door and the doorframe of your bedroom. That’s all we found.”

  My stomach clenched. I looked at Charlie but didn’t see him. I saw Cami put her hands to her mouth.

  She’d been wearing gloves.

  I ran to the bathroom and threw up. There had to be an explanation. There was an explanation.

  Why? I didn’t know her. I’d never met her until last fall. Who would do that to me? How could I not see it?

  A knock on the door startled me.

  “Peter, come on out.”

  I washed my face with cold water and came back to the table.

  “Do you have a picture of Cami?”

  I slid over my cell phone. “The only pictures I have are on my phone.”

  Charlie started scrolling through my phone. He frowned and said, “Your SIM card is missing.”

  I took the phone and looked. The card was gone.

  Cami had used my phone earlier, before I went to class.

  “She planned it.”

  “We’ll find a picture of her. On Facebook maybe?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t have any social media. I hate the Internet. I don’t even have a television. I had an e-mail account once, and a reporter found me and wanted to interview me. So I deleted the account. I have an e-mail account through the university because I had to get something for my classes.”

  “You shouldn’t go back to your apartment. Do you have someplace to stay?”

  I shook my head. “I need to disappear.”

  “You don’t want to do that.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  I’d never thought about killing myself. Maybe in passing, but then I’d think of Grams and knew she’d be heartbroken. She was dead, but sometimes I felt her. I lived for those moments.

  “Don’t run, Peter. Someone had been stalking you since high school. They’re escalating. Only you know who it is.”

  “But I don’t! It was all a lie. Cami was a lie. But I swear, she was not at my high school.”

  “Let me do a little research on her. Maybe something will come up. You can work with a sketch artist; we’ll get a good picture of her.”

  Charlie Mead really wanted to help me.

  “I’ll try.”

  “Stay with me tonight,” Charlie said. “I’ll find a safe place for you tomorrow.”

  One night turned into two years. I lost a sister when I was nine, but I found a brother when I was nineteen.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  New York City

  Jimmy Bartz was picked up late Saturday night by uniformed officers in Queens. Suzanne and Joe decided to let him stew the rest of the night, and Suzanne arrived at DeLucca’s precinct at eight Sunday morning.

  “We could have come in together,” Joe said.

  “No, we couldn’t,” Suzanne said. Joe had wanted to go home with her last night, but she had put her foot down and after one beer had left alone. The worst thing was that she had wanted to give in, but reason vetoed her heart. Heart? Who was she fooling? It was her body that craved Joe. She didn’t want to fall back into bed with him because then her heart would be at risk and it would only end badly. Just like last time. Because she would not give him any ultimatum that affected his relationship with his son, nor did she want to play the role of mistress with a man who was hiding her from his ex-wife.

  “Has he talked?” Suzanne switched the subject back to the case at hand.

  “No.” Joe checked in with the desk sergeant. “Can you bring Bartz to interview?”

  “Room one,” the sergeant said. He got on the phone.

  Joe led Suzanne through the bullpen to his desk. It was a quiet Sunday morning. Joe sat down at his tidy desk. Suzanne glanced around at the stacks of paper on everyone else’s desk. “You have the cleanest crib in town.”

  “Just in this neighborhood,” Joe said. He quickly checked his e-mail, then brought up Bartz’s rap sheet. Joe turned his monitor so both he and Suzanne could read it.

  “Worst thing is assault—no weapons charges.”
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br />   “The guys who know him said he never carries a weapon, and it’s served him well. Three arrests, all bumped down to misdemeanors, one time-served, and a three-month, then six-month stint in county. No hard-jail time.”

  “And he then kills a woman for a ring?”

  “Could have been hired.”

  They both shook their heads at the same time.

  “Let’s play with him a bit. He’s a two-bit thief. Money drives him.”

  The on-call detective said, “Hey, DeLucca, you need to pressure Bartz? Drop his buddy’s name—Franks. His stats are in the rap sheet. They’re friendly rivals.”

  “Thanks, Parker.”

  He turned to Suzanne. “Let’s see what this guy has to say.”

  Jimmy Bartz was a scrappy forty-year-old who didn’t look strong enough to snap a toothpick. Suzanne could see why he was an effective thief—he looked harmless, skittish, and had quiet gray eyes. But his eyes became fearful when he saw Joe’s stern expression.

  “You’re not Detective Kramer.”

  “I’m Detective Joe DeLucca. This is Special Agent Suzanne Madeaux with the FBI.”

  Bartz looked at Suzanne. “FBI? Why’s the FBI here? Detective Kramer handles property crimes in this jurisdiction.”

  Joe smiled slyly. “You know our system well. Kramer is off today. I’m in Homicide.”

  “Homicide? Why is Homicide handling property crimes? Why is the FBI here?”

  This guy was either a great actor or truly clueless.

  Joe said, “You tell us the truth and you’ll be able to walk out the door today. You lie to us and you’ll be in Rikers before lunch.”

  “I told the officers exactly what happened. I found that ring, just wanted to know how much it was worth.”

  “You pawned it for two thousand dollars.”

  “It was worth a lot more than I thought. I thought it was fake, thought I’d get two bills, maybe three.”

  “Where did you find the ring?”

  “At Citi Field.”

  “In the stadium?”

  “No, in the parking lot.”

  “Inside someone’s car?”

  “No, just lying on the ground.”

  Suzanne said, “Was it on the finger of a dead woman?”

  Bartz’s eyes darted back and forth between the two of them. “Dead woman? There was no dead woman. It was just lying on one of the white lines. I saw it sparkle, picked it up. I swear to God, I didn’t take it off any dead chick. I didn’t even steal it, I swear I found it.”

  Joe leaned back. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Kramer would believe me. Call him; he’ll tell you if I’m lying. He always knows.”

  “I’m telling you, you’re lying.” Joe stared at Bartz. The thief fidgeted.

  Joe glanced at Suzanne and gave her a subtle signal. She stood up. “Well, you can have him, DeLucca. He doesn’t know anything, I’ll talk to the other guy about the reward—what was his name?”

  “Carmine Franks.”

  “Franks. That’s right. Is he next door?”

  “Yes, just tell the desk sergeant you’re ready.”

  “Reward?” Bartz said. “What kind of reward?”

  “For information leading to the murderer of Rosemary Weber,” Suzanne said. “You found her ring, we thought you might have seen something. I didn’t want to deal with this Franks guy—he’s a jerk—but I need to get information any way I can.”

  “I don’t know anything about a murder, but neither does Franks!”

  “How do you know what Franks knows?” Joe asked.

  “He’s been in Jersey with his daughter all week. Just came back yesterday. His oldest had a baby boy. First grandson and all that. Ask him, because he saw nothing.”

  “And you did?”

  Bartz hesitated, trying to think up something to tell them to get him closer to the fictitious reward. Joe nodded at Suzanne, and she left the room, watching through the one-way mirror.

  “Look,” Joe said conversationally to the suspect, “you have a ring that was last seen on a dead woman. You hocked it. Now you’re telling me you found it at Citi Field.”

  “Right. Because I did.”

  “I believe you.”

  Bartz looked relieved.

  “What day?”

  Bartz thought about it.

  “It’s not a hard question, Jimmy.”

  “Tuesday?”

  “Morning or night.”

  “Night?”

  “Why are you asking me? Either you found it Tuesday night or you didn’t.”

  “I did.”

  Then Joe hit him with the facts. “The woman was killed at Citi Field. In the parking lot. On Tuesday night. And I’m going to book you for murder.”

  “You can’t!”

  “I’m a homicide detective. It’s what I do.”

  “But—but—”

  Suzanne came in and handed Joe a file. It was blank, but Joe smiled. He didn’t say anything.

  “Special circumstances,” Suzanne said. “We’ll take the prosecution, since we can try him for the death penalty.”

  “You got it,” Joe said. “I love this new task force, Agent Madeaux. Especially since New York no longer has a death sentence.”

  Bartz was shaking.

  “I didn’t kill anyone. I didn’t. I swear to the Almighty God, I swear on my grandmother’s grave, I didn’t kill anyone, ever in my life.”

  Joe stared at him. “How did you get this ring?” He slapped the ring, in an evidence bag, on the table.

  Bartz stared at it. He seemed to weigh what he should say.

  “You just told me you found it Tuesday night in the parking lot at Citi Field. The victim was murdered at Citi Field on Tuesday night. Every jury will agree you just confessed.”

  Suzanne nodded. “I already ran it up to the U.S. Attorney’s Office. They say we have enough.”

  “No!” Bartz looked trapped. “I—I didn’t find it.”

  “You didn’t find the ring.” Joe’s flat voice told Bartz he didn’t believe him.

  “I—I—I got it from a guy.”

  “Does this guy have a name?”

  Bartz shook his head. “Just a guy. Said he broke up with his girlfriend and was going to toss the ring. He gave it to me instead.”

  “Don’t fuck with me, Jimmy,” Joe said. “This ring”—he held it up—“is worth over fifteen thousand dollars. No one just handed it to you!”

  Suzanne didn’t think Bartz could have grown even more pale. He was downright ghostly. “Fi-fi-fifteen?”

  “And a guy gave it to you.”

  “I—I was hustling on my corner, selling pictures, ask Kramer, I sell pictures outside the subway across from Citi Field.”

  “When?” Joe asked.

  “Yesterday morning.”

  Suzanne said, “The Mets are on the road.”

  “But there was an event. A charity game, retired players or something. I was there at eleven; game started at noon. I swear to God.”

  There was a ring of truth, but Suzanne was withholding judgment. This guy was a piece of work.

  “An-and it was slow, this guy comes up and asks if I want to buy this ring. Said his girlfriend broke up with him at the game on Tuesday, and he was going to toss the ring, but decided to sell it. See, I sometimes buy things—”

  “You knew him?”

  “No, I swear, never seen him before.”

  “What did he look like?” Suzanne asked.

  “Baseball cap. White guy.”

  “A white guy in a baseball cap. That’s the best you can do?”

  Bartz shrugged.

  “What was he wearing?” Suzanne prompted.

  “Jeans. T-shirt.”

  “Anything on the T-shirt?”

  “It was plain. White.”

  “Tattoos?”

  Bartz shrugged.

  “Height? Weight? Fat? Thin? Did he have wings?” Joe was getting irritated.

  “Um, he was taller than me.”
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  “Everyone in New York is taller than you, Jimmy.”

  “Um, six feet? A little less? More? I was sitting down. I don’t know!”

  “And you bought the ring from him?”

  “No, I thought it was hot.”

  “He was selling stolen jewelry.”

  “Yes. No! I didn’t know, I just thought, you know?” Bartz was wringing his hands, the cuffs jangling. “I said I didn’t have the money to buy it, and he said keep it. Said he couldn’t look at it without thinking about his girlfriend.”

  “And you didn’t find this suspicious?”

  “You’d be surprised what people give me. It’s the God’s honest truth, ask Kramer; he knows when I’m bullshitting. I swear, he gave it to me.” He paused. “Is there a reward? Because I found the ring and all?”

  Joe and Suzanne stepped out without answering his question.

  “What a ridiculous story,” Suzanne said.

  “He’s telling the truth.”

  “Damn, I thought so, too. I just hoped that I was wrong.”

  Joe said, “The killer reads the article, worries that we’re going to start looking at other motives and that he might be under the gun, but he’s smart enough not to hock the ring himself. Gives it to a street vendor knowing there’s a better than good chance the guy will pawn it.”

  “He’s got to know we’ll track the guy,” Suzanne said.

  “You heard Jimmy. He can’t even ID the guy.”

  “You should get a sketch artist in here anyway.”

  Joe concurred. “I’m also going to check and see if there’s a security camera that caught Bartz yesterday at that subway station. We might get lucky. And I know Kramer; I’ll see what he says about this guy.” Joe shook his head. “I don’t see Bartz as the killer.”

  “And that’s why his story has a ring of truth. Shit, we’re back where we started.”

  “No, we have an advantage. Your friend Tony played the killer, and the killer did exactly what we wanted—pawned the ring. He just used a middleman.”

  Suzanne stared at Bartz through the window, but she was thinking about the guy in the cap. Smart, but he’d have to know Bartz’s story would never hold water. “Do we pressure him or let him think he deceived us?”

  Joe said, “Give the killer a little breathing room? Announce that we’re interrogating a suspect?”