by Jill Kelly
Knowing Danny was coming at the end of the week, knowing she wouldn’t be alone for a while, had changed things for her. She’d wandered the neighborhood with more purpose, scouting out places where they might eat, plays and films they might see. Danny had never been to Paris as far as she knew, and he might want to do all the tourist spots. The Thursday before he was due to arrive, she cleaned the apartment, got fresh flowers from a market vendor, stocked the refrigerator with food and white wine, and made sure there was a bottle of scotch. Buying the liquor made her uncomfortable for a moment, but it wasn’t for her, she told herself, but for Danny. Just because it was there didn’t mean she had to drink any.
On the train, she reread Sandy’s last email.
Arlen was interviewed by the police again. They kept him several hours. He said they just wanted his opinion on where the case was going. That doesn’t make sense to me. What could he know? What help could he be? He didn’t know Joel as well as you did, and they aren’t talking to you anymore. Detective Hansen was there too. Why would he drive all the way from Gettysburg just to listen to Arlen’s ideas? I don’t get it.
Roger seems to have settled in at your place, though I don’t know how much he is there. I’ve called several evenings and he’s been out. I think he’s driving over to Akron to see Carol some and probably to connect with his mom and his brothers. Maybe he wants to get back with Carol. I hope so. She’s such a sweet girl. I hope he isn’t dating someone new in Pittsburgh.
I miss you, Ellie. Lunch on campus isn’t any fun without you. I sure wish none of this had happened to us. Keep in touch, Sandy.
Ellie felt a small wave of indignation. This didn’t happen to you, Sandy. It happened to me. But she let it go. She thought about Arlen and a rush of uneasiness touched her. They had suspected him before. Did they still? It was clear he wasn’t the man in the hotel room. It wasn’t his DNA. So what part could he have played? She didn’t know why the police would want to talk with him again or why Hansen would come all that way. Had he come to see her? Maybe she should have emailed him that she was leaving.
She looked up to see that the train was one stop away from her station. She turned her focus to Danny’s arrival.
The airport was surprisingly crowded for eight on a Friday morning. She wove between the many colors of people and rollerbags and backpacks to a spot where she could see the arrival times. Flight 490 was delayed. With customs and immigration, that meant she wouldn’t see him until sometime after ten. She took her book to a café and ordered tea and a croissant and pretended to read. But after forty-five minutes, she was too nervous to sit there, so she gave up her table to a handsome African couple in Kente cloth dashikis and started to pace.
Suddenly this all seemed foolish. She hadn’t seen Danny in four years or even talked to him on the phone. In those last years together, they’d only gotten along when they were both drinking and, even then, not all that well. He liked women too much to not have moved on to someone else. But maybe not. Maybe he still loved her, maybe he wanted to be with her again and had just been waiting for her to make the first move. Why else would he have responded so promptly to her invitation, been willing to drop everything and come meet her in Paris. How romantic was that! They’d been good for each other for a long time. Maybe they were fated to be together and the whole experience with Joel was just the universe’s way of bringing them back together.
Reassured, she spent the last forty-five minutes shopping for perfume and a new scarf before heading to the customs waiting area.
There were lots of arrivals. Families, businessmen, a group of older women in red hats who looked for all the world like a gaggle of geese. A Japanese tour of couples, newlyweds, she guessed. Then ten-fifteen came. Then, ten-thirty. She checked the monitor. Flight 490 had arrived at nine-fifteen. At eleven, she stood in line at Air France. At eleven-fifteen, she reached the counter.
No, Daniel Lewis had not been on Flight 490. Yes, he had had a reservation. No, he was not scheduled on a later flight. Did she want to make him a new reservation?
No, Ellie shook her head, no.
Something dark descended on her then. It perched on her chest, wrapped itself around her heart, settled into her throat. It helped her into a cab, it paid the driver, it offered her a hand up the twisty stone steps to #4, 6 Rue des Ciseaux. It put the perfume and new scarf on the table. It helped her off with her coat and her shoes. It found her a glass and a corkscrew and it settled beside her on the velour sofa. What else are best friends for?
35
There’s been a similar rape.”
Hansen looked up to see Capriano at his desk. It had been most of a month since the two men had spoken. Hansen stood and shook Capriano’s hand. He grabbed his heavy jacket from the row of coats along the wall and the two men headed out without another word.
There was a bakery three doors down from the station and they pushed into the November wind to reach it. The air inside was heavy with baking yeast and sugar, and the window by their booth was dripping with condensation. Both men ordered black coffee but the waitress brought a plate of mini-glazed doughnuts and chunks of maple bar with the mugs. “Specialties of the house, gentlemen,” she said.
Capriano groaned. “This will do nothing for my girlish figure.” He reached for a doughnut.
Hansen smiled. “Discipline, Larry, discipline.”
Then the waitress walked away and the two men grew serious.
“Tell me,” said Hansen.
“The woman was an elementary school teacher from Sewickley named Amanda Carlyle. Found drugged, raped, tortured in a three-hundred-dollar room at the Hyatt Regency.”
“Was?”
“Dead when they found her.”
“You weren’t on the scene?”
“No, I’ve been in Philadelphia. On my way back now, that’s why I stopped by.” He paused. “Here’s the kicker. The room was registered to Joel Richardson.”
Hansen frowned. “A copy cat using the details from the press?”
Capriano shook his head. “The credit card was Richardson’s.”
Hansen reached out with his paper napkin and cleared a circle on the steamy window so he could look out. He didn’t say anything for a while.
“Anything that doesn’t fit our case?”
“So far, only that the woman was much younger. Thirty-four.”
“How’d she die?”
“They’re not sure. She’d been choked—bruising on her neck—but they won’t know until the autopsy.”
“You’ve got a serial on your hands,” Hansen said. “I don’t envy you.”
“Well, the McKay case will get more attention now. Have you seen her recently?”
“No, she’s gone to Europe. Her college pushed her to get away so the publicity would die down.”
“Got contact information?”
Hansen shook his head. “I can get it, either from the school or from the Gersteads, I suspect. Do you want it?”
Capriano shrugged. “Only to ask her if she knew Amanda Carlyle. If there’s some link there. Could you ask her? And find out if she’s remembered anything more, now that time has gone by.”
Hansen nodded. “By the way, I met Gerstead’s son, one of them anyway. He’s house-sitting for Ellie McKay while she’s away.”
“Chip off the old block?”
“No, he was a nice kid. Friendly, helpful. I liked him.”
“Not a suspect then?” Capriano took the last of the mini-glazed.
“Well, everyone’s a suspect, but no, I don’t think so, convenient as that would be.” Hansen looked out the window again. “Anything I can do to help?”
“Not at this point. Well, yes, one thing.” He stuffed the last doughnut in this mouth. “Don’t bring me here again.”
36
Thanksgiving Day dawned clear and sunny in Paris. The late fall had been unseasonably dry and Ellie had been grateful both for the warmth and the sun. Grocery shopping in the rain without a car wasn’t much
fun, and she needed several things for the pumpkin pie she was taking to dinner.
It was eleven-thirty when she left the apartment. She got up later each day as the winter sun took its time arriving. And she was back to the old slowness in her routines of journal and tea and shower. She didn’t care. There was nothing to hurry for.
She stopped and knocked at #2 to see if Maryann needed anything from the épicerie but there was no answer. Checked her own mailbox. Empty as usual. Then she pushed open the heavy wooden door and blinked into the sun.
The early lunch crowd was filling the outdoor tables at Chez Panisse and she could hear the familiar sound of chairs on the cobblestones and voices ringing out with drink orders. Her favorite waiter, Carlito, hurried past her with a brief smile and a tray of green and gold aperitifs, and she watched his slender figure move toward the tables.
That’s when she saw him. Rumpled brown suit. Graying blond hair a little too short on the sides and a little too long over the forehead. He looked older, sadder, but he smiled when he caught her eye and he got up and held out a chair for her.
She said nothing for a moment, just looked him in the eyes. He smiled, almost shyly. Then she laughed, walked over, and sat down. “Hello, Detective.”
“Doug.”
“Hello, Doug.”
When she came back from doing the shopping, he was sound asleep on her bed, his suit jacket neatly folded next to him. She watched him sleep for a moment, saw that the lines of his face had eased smooth. Then she closed the French doors, poured a glass of wine, and made pie.
At five, as the dark crept on, she woke him. He startled from wherever he’d been dreaming, grabbing her arm.
“It’s okay,” she said. “It’s Ellie. You’re all right.”
He lay back, breathing hard. “Weird dreams,” he said.
“Jet lag.”
“Yeah, maybe, but old demons, too.” He yawned and stretched and pulled himself up against the headboard.
Ellie could feel the heat of sleep coming off his body. It was soothing, comforting somehow. She knew something was coming between them and she didn’t know if she should hurry it up.
“What time is it?” Hansen yawned again.
“A little after five.”
“A.m. or p.m.?”
“Afternoon. You’ve been asleep about four hours. If you want to get over the jet lag quickly, you need to get up now.”
“Okay. What time’s your dinner?”
“Seven. But we don’t have to go.”
“No, that’s fine. As long as they speak English.”
She smiled at him. “They do.”
While he showered, she changed into a cherry-red silk sweater and her dressier black pants. Earrings and a bracelet. The scarf she’d bought at the airport weeks before when Danny hadn’t come. Then she poured more wine and sat and watched the lights of the city.
“Suit or jeans?” Hansen called from the other room.
For some odd reason, she found his question endearing. “Doesn’t matter,” she said. “Jeans are fine.” She hesitated a moment, then said, “Do you want a drink? I’ve got white wine and bourbon.”
“Bourbon, neat.”
She took the glass in to him. He stood shaving at the bathroom mirror, his chest bare. He looked over at her and she realized after a moment that she was blushing. That made him grin and she blushed even more. “Your drink, sir,” was all she could manage to say. She put it down on the sink and hurried out.
Maryann drove them to the party, which was across town, somewhere on the edges of Montmartre. She and Hansen sat in front and talked rock and roll. Maryann, who was eighty or more, was an expert on British bands of the Seventies and Eighties, as Andy Summers of the Police was her nephew. Hansen had been a Rolling Stones follower in his youth and they carried on a conversation of concerts and albums with minutiae that made Ellie’s head spin.
There were fourteen at the table, mostly British and American expats, a couple of long-term tourists like Ellie, and three American students, including Ellie’s friend Michelle and her boyfriend, who was from Indiana. Lenny was good-looking, a smooth face, a strong jaw, and beautiful blue eyes. His hair was Paris-long and had an easy, affable manner, and Ellie could see why Michelle was smitten. Even though he was too old for her—he had to be close to thirty—she was also glad Michelle had found an American boyfriend. She knew from years of experience that relationships with French guys were doomed from the start.
There was most of a traditional Thanksgiving feast, but the wine and political conversation were strictly European. When the conversation turned to George W. Bush and why Americans had elected an idiot for two full terms, Ellie could see that Hansen was ready to go. Maryann wasn’t ready to leave so they went on their own.
They walked out into a clear night turning cold. The nearest Métro station was a few blocks away, and Ellie put her arm through his. Neither said much. When they’d found seats in the train, Hansen turned to her. “Does the name Amanda Carlyle mean anything to you?”
“Is this about the case?”
“Yes, it’s a name Capriano passed on to me.”
“No,” she shook her head. “I had a student named Mandy some years back.” She thought a moment. “Mandy Simmons. She’d be twenty-three or twenty-four by now.”
“No,” said Hansen. “That’s not her.”
They were quiet a minute. Then Hansen said, “Had you met Lenny before?”
“No. Michelle mentioned him when I first arrived. I wasn’t surprised to see him. I think she’s pretty serious about him. I liked him. Did you?”
“Hmmm, no. He seemed a little too smooth to me.”
“What’s wrong with smooth? We women like smooth.” She smiled at him, put a little flirt into it.
“I know women do. I just find that smooth men aren’t always so genuine.”
Ellie looked at him. “Well, after my experience with Joel, I’d have to say I agree.” She thought a moment. “Are you worried for Michelle?”
“No, nothing like that. You asked me what I thought of him and that’s what I think. How’d she meet him?”
“Mutual friend. Some boy she knew from high school had met Lenny at Ball State. Gave Lenny her address in Paris when he said he was coming to Europe on business. You know, the usual way people meet people.”
“But not us.” He looked at her.
“No, not us,” she said.
The train rumbled to a stop at Saint-Germain-des-Prés and they got off. Out of breath from climbing two long flights up out of the ground, they walked in silence down the long pedestrian block of Rue des Ciseaux. It was after ten and the outdoor tables were deserted, though the street was full of people going and coming from inside the restaurants.
“This is a lively place,” said Hansen, putting his arm around her and pulling her close.
Ellie smiled. “I like the noise. I find it comforting.”
They passed her door and walked on a block to the river. A glittering bateau mouche glided by with Big Band music wafting toward them. They could see the dancers on board. Hansen moved so that he stood behind her, warming her back with his body, his hands on either side of hers on the railing that ran the length of the river bank. She leaned back into him and they stood that way for a few minutes.
Then she turned inside the circle of his arms. “Is Amanda Carlyle connected to Joel in some way?” Fear coursed through her veins in spite of the Valium.
“Shhh,” he said, pulling her closer. He touched her lips with his, at first gently, then more deeply. His arms tightened around her, and she hung on for dear life.
Ellie woke at four-fifteen. The apartment was dark, the street quiet below. She was thirsty and her head ached. Hansen lay with his back to the wall, his right arm slung over her loosely, lightly. She moved it and got up. Pulling her robe off the hook on the bathroom door, she went into the kitchen and fixed a glass of cold Perrier with a big splash of bourbon, then sat on the sofa.
The night
had not gone well. As long as she and Hansen had stood at the river and kissed like teenagers, she’d been fine. She’d even opened her coat to his hands and felt her knees go weak. But once they’d returned to the apartment and he’d taken his clothes off and stood there clearly wanting her, she’d frozen up. Between gravity and the months of ice cream and pastry therapy, she was already uncomfortable with her body. And she didn’t have a fancy negligee to slip into and prolong the mystery, perhaps indefinitely.
Truth was, she was ashamed of the scars, the marks of her ill-fated pursuit of Joel. She hadn’t just walked into his trap, she’d made herself available by pursuing him. Some of the scars she couldn’t see without two mirrors—the slowly fading stripes on the backs of her legs, on her shoulders. But the cigarette burns on her thighs and belly, the finger marks on her throat. No amount of make-up or clothing made them disappear. The dermatologist she’d seen said they would fade, but that they were so deep and her skin so sufficiently aging, that scars would remain. Joel’s legacy to her.
But she might have gotten over her shyness, her embarrassment, with a joke or an impetuous sexy move. But Hansen didn’t make one and she couldn’t. Instead he slipped between the sheets and waited for her to join him. The moment had been serious between them and that hadn’t worked. For without his hands on her skin, she no longer wanted to do this. And she didn’t know how to say so. So she turned out all the lights, took two quick slugs of bourbon, undressed in the living room, and got into bed with him.
In the end, it had been pretty simple, and maybe that was for the best. He had kissed her, she had kissed him back. There’d been touching and, at another time, she might have liked it. When he entered her, he’d been gentle, careful, respectful. She’d helped him, he’d helped her. But she didn’t climax and she didn’t pretend to. When he had, he pulled away and then spooned her with his warm body, and he had drifted off.
