They're Watching (2010)

by Gregg Hurwitz

  Back outside to dial. The phone rang, and finally he picked up.

  "Joe Vente."

  "Patrick Davis."

  "Patrick. Don't you think it's a little late to sell out Keith Conner?"

  "I need to see you."

  "That shouldn't be hard."

  "Why not?"

  "I'm camped out in front of your house."

  I hung up, walked back inside, and peeked through the living-room window. Shadows in drivers' seats, but I couldn't make out faces. My car and Ari's remained floating off the curb; I'd have to move hers into the garage before I left for my meeting at school. From the kitchen Ariana called out, "Poached eggs?"

  "I don't think I can eat."

  "Me neither. But going through the motions seems like a good idea."

  I pointedly didn't say anything, and a moment later I heard a click--her turning on the jammer. After sixteen years her ability to read my mind was staggering. I called out, "I'll be right back. I'm going to see Keith's paparazzi stalker. He's right outside."

  She said, "Play the hand you're dealt."

  When I stepped onto the porch, a few car doors opened and slammed, and then a couple of guys jogged toward me toting cameras and trailing wires. A female reporter ripped the paper makeup collar from around her neck and charged, wobbly on her high heels. I felt tentative, exposed in the sunlight, but I had the world to face and everything to prove, and I wasn't going to prove it holed up in my house with the curtains drawn. On blind faith I walked to the end of the walk, and sure enough a van materialized and the door rolled open. I stepped in, and we pulled out and away. Joe hunched forward, smoking, humming along with Led Zeppelin on a crackly stereo and tapping the wheel. His shiny scalp was visible through thinning yellow hair, and he was growing the back out into a ponytail that hadn't quite gotten there. The van was equipped for a stakeout--cooler, sleeping bag, hot plate, camera with giant zoom lens, swivel chairs, stacks of magazines and newspapers with porn mixed in.

  He drove around the block, pulled over, then climbed back to sit opposite me. The carpeted interior held the fragrance of incense. "You're a hot ticket."

  "I want to talk to you about Keith."

  "Lemme guess: You didn't do it."

  "No," I said. "I didn't."

  "Why are you bothering with a scumbag like me?"

  "I need to know what Keith was up to in the days before he was killed. I figure nobody followed him as closely as you."

  "You got that right. I know every fucking coffee house and production office and midnight booty call. Hell, I know every dry cleaner his clothes visited." His cell phone piped out an old-fashioned ring, and he snapped it open. "Joe Vente." He chewed a chapped lip. "Britney or Jamie Lynn? What's she wearing? How many frames they have left to bowl?" He checked his watch, rolled his eyes for my benefit. "Not worth the drive. Call me next time right when they get there." The phone disappeared back into a pocket, and he bared his teeth at me. "Another day in paradise."

  "Did Keith ever overlap with a company called Ridgeline, Inc.?" I asked.

  "Never heard of it."

  "Do you know his life coach?"

  "Life coach?" He snorted. "You mean that hot blond bitch? Course I do."

  "Can you get me an address?"

  "I can get you whatever you want."

  I waited. Waited some more. Finally asked, "In return for what?"

  "Photos of you and a rundown of exactly what happened in that hotel room. And I want it for tomorrow's headlines."

  "Not gonna happen. Not for tomorrow. But I can promise you an exclusive as this thing unfolds."

  "'As it unfolds'? My business is all about tomorrow. No one's gonna pay my quote as it unfolds. As it unfolds, everyone gets it. It becomes a court and press-release game, not an inside sneak peek. The more it drags on, the more it favors Big News."

  "Big News?"

  "You know, legitimate--and I use the word with great reverence--news outlets. Not opportunistic camera whores like me. You need to understand that you're a perishable commodity. There's a limited window for Patrick Davis in His Own Words. Look at your front yard. There were, what, fifty of us there last night? Eight this morning? By next month it'll be the lone sharks sipping from brown paper bags and hoping to catch you sunbathing nude so they can make page four of The Enquirer, because pages one, two, and three will be filled with bullshit leaks from RHD and squalid details of the investigation."

  "I don't even have a lawyer yet. I can't go on record. I can't talk about anything to do with this case."

  "Then why are you coming to me about Conner's schedule?"

  "I can offer you a long-term play. And it's a good one."

  "I'm not a long-term thinker."

  I leaned over and rolled the door open. When I turned, the giant zoom lens covered his face, the clicking a continuous whir. I held up the film I'd stripped from his camera, then tossed it past him into the messy interior. "If you change your personality, give me a ring."

  Chapter 39

  Pulling in to the faculty lot, I felt enormous relief. Finally something recognizable. Some part of a routine preserved from the time before I entered Room 1407. I was human here, again.

  I checked my rearview to make sure the news-van tails hadn't reappeared, then parked and headed for Manzanita Hall. At the edge of the quad, a few guys sat on a bench, spitting sunflower shells, and it was only once I passed behind them unnoticed that I registered the camera straps around their necks. Like most of the other paparazzi I'd seen, they weren't the sweaty pigs of the movies, but attractive young men in trendy shirts and slick North Face jackets, their designer gloves cupping lenses. They looked like you or me. Chagrined, I noted a few more camped out on the front steps of Manzanita, along with a news crew. My soft leather briefcase, full of student papers, felt suddenly like a prop. A few heads swiveled my way.

  I hurried around behind the building, startling an Asian student, who took one look at my face and gave me a wide berth. The back door was locked. I could hear approaching footsteps from around the corner, so I banged on the window. A face appeared inside.

  Diondre.

  For a frozen moment, we regarded each other. His trademark do-rag was off, his hair made up in cornrows. Down the length of the building, a cluster of photographers spilled into view. One spotted me, and they surged forward. I gesticulated behind me helplessly, then at the door.

  Finally Diondre got it, reached over, and pushed down the door handle.

  I slid inside, yanking the door shut after me. It locked just as the paparazzi swarmed into sight. Diondre tugged down the window shade.

  Though I was shaking, he gave me the carefree grin. "Guess I was wrong about Paeng Smoke-a-Bong. Couldn't be a student stalker. No-o-o--you had to have bigger plans."

  I managed a weak smile and nodded at the door. "You just saved my ass."

  "Did you do it? Kill Conner?"

  After everything, it was refreshing to have such a straightforward conversation. "No," I said.

  "I hear that." He clasped my hand, grabbing it around the thumb, and we parted ways. That was all he needed to hear. That's what I loved so much about students--they could distill the complexities down to simple questions. And answers.

  A few steps away, Diondre paused. "I know it ain't the most glamorous job in the world, teaching. But I'm glad you're doing it."

  I looked down, my face warm. I couldn't manage to get the right words together, so I said, "Thank you, Diondre. I'm glad, too."

  He half nodded and walked away.

  I took the stairs up and slunk through the halls, my name audible in the whispers that followed me.

  The department assistant's hands were folded on her blank desk. "She's waiting for you."

  When I entered, Dr. Peterson looked up from some papers. "Patrick. Please, sit down."

  I did, mustering a faint grin that felt hard and rigid on my face.

  She said, "The department has been inundated with press inquiries. It's been somethi
ng of a spectacle."

  I waited, my dread mounting.

  She said, "We received numerous complaints even before the unfortunate events of . . . of--"

  I said, "Keith Conner's murder."

  She flushed. "Not just about the missed classes, but I guess your grading on their scripts has been delayed?" She nodded at my briefcase, which sat on my knees, a beacon of my incompetence. "Are they done now?"

  "No," I said. "I . . . I'd like the chance to make it up to them." She started to say something, but I held up my hand. "Please," I said. "I'm sorry for the impact that this has had on the department, but just because I'm a suspect doesn't mean . . . I don't know how long the investigation will last. Months, maybe. Life has to go on, even if . . ." I was crumbling. I hated the sound of my voice, but I couldn't stop. "Our financial situation--I really need to earn a living. I know there's some damage control I'll have to--"

  Mercifully, she cut off my rambling. " 'Damage control'? I don't believe you have any idea what kind of a disruption this represents for this college."

  "I'll work double-time. I won't miss another class."

  "What do you think? You can defend yourself against potential murder charges and somehow improve your attendance record?"

  I didn't know what I had thought. In light of everything I had before me, it certainly sounded stupid now. I said hopelessly, "Maybe I could take a leave of absence."

  "Funny, it seems that's what you've been doing." She rearranged the papers on her desk. She jotted a note. "Our feeling is that this isn't a tenable situation."

  Through the gap in my briefcase, I could see those student papers staring out at me. For two weeks I'd kept those kids on hold. Some of them, like Diondre, could scarcely afford tuition, and yet I'd spent all this time scrambling to defend myself against one threat after another. I took a deep breath, tried to pull myself together.

  She continued, "We've kept documentation. It's quite cut and dried. I hope you won't consider . . ."

  I could hardly muster the energy to lift my head. "What?"

  "Legal . . . ?"

  "No. Oh, no. Of course not. You took a gamble on me, and I blew it." I rose to offer my hand across her desk, and she came up to a crouch above her chair, her hand cool in mine. I said, "Thank you for the opportunity."

  She did her best to disguise her relief. "I'm sorry for all your trouble, Patrick. I really am. And I'm sorry to come on like a hard-ass when you're dealing with . . ."

  I set the papers at the edge of her desk, gave them a tap with a knuckle. "Find someone good for my students."

  Walking out, I was overtaken by a profound sadness. It sank in just how much I loved my job, but that wasn't what hit me the hardest. The grief I felt came from how infrequently I'd paused to appreciate being here, as with so many other aspects of my life I'd failed to recognize and savor.

  From the outer office, I peeked out into the hall, checking that it was empty. Feeling like a fugitive, I hurried through the corridors. In the faculty lounge, Marcello reclined on the fuzzy plaid couch, pretending to grade, and Julianne was fussing irritably over the coffeemaker. Like old times.

  From the doorway I said, "I'll miss you guys."

  They both looked up, and then their expressions changed.

  "Really?" Julianne rushed over and embraced me tightly.

  "Yeah. I just relinquished the last of the student papers."

  "Goddamn it, Patrick. This sucks." Her breath smelled of cinnamon gum.

  Marcello offered his hand. I said, "C'mon," and hugged him.

  Julianne was hovering. "How's Ariana? What can I do? There's gotta be something I can do."

  "Honestly?"

  "No, I was just being polite."

  "I need a couple of addresses for people. A commercial actress and one of the producers from that documentary Keith was gonna do."

  "Industry folks?" she said. "That shouldn't be hard."

  "The cops had no luck with the former, and I'm having trouble with the latter."

  She said, "Neither of you has a degree in investigative journalism from Columbia."

  Marcello said, "Neither do you."

  Julianne shrugged. "Columbia, Chico State, whatever."

  Sitting, I jotted down, Elisabeta, aka Deborah B. Vance and Trista Koan--The Deep End.

  Julianne took up the slip of paper and said, "If I can't get a bead on them myself, I still have good contacts at the papers."

  "I should go," I said. "I've got . . . you know, a lot I have to figure out. Thank you. For the whole thing. The job. Getting me back on my feet. It was a good time for me."

  Beyond the lounge, doors opened and closed, the buzz of students growing louder.

  "I should go," I said again. But I was still sitting there.

  "What's wrong?" Marcello asked.

  I took a deep breath.

  He followed my gaze to the door. "Scared?"

  "Little bit."

  "Wanna go out like a man?"

  I said, "Yeah."

  Marcello cleared his throat. "A NEW BEGINNING . . ."

  I got to my feet.

  "A MAN ALONE . . ."

  I walked to the door.

  "AND NOW HE WILL LEARN THAT NOTHING WILL EVER BE THE SAME."

  The hall was alive with motion and noise. When I stepped out, the nearby students froze. The reaction rippled outward, faces turning in wave after wave, hands and mouths pausing midmotion, until the corridor was so silent I could hear the squeak of a sneaker against tile, a BlackBerry chiming in someone's pocket, a single cough. As I stepped forward, the nearest clique parted, drawing back and gaping anew.

  My voice sounded gruff, preternaturally low. " 'Scuse me . . . 'scuse me."

  The kids farthest away were up on tiptoes. A professor leaned out the door of her classroom. A few students snapped pictures of me with their cell phones.

  I forged my way through. A conversation burst from the opening elevator doors, gratingly loud in the strained silence, and then two girls stepped out, took stock of the scene, and ducked giggling behind their hands. I passed them stoically, dead man walking.

  The elevator had gone, leaving me to confront blank metal doors. I pushed the button, pushed it again. Glanced nervously across the sea of faces. Way down the hall, Diondre stood on a chair he'd pulled from a classroom. I raised a hand in silent farewell, and he smiled sadly and tapped his chest with a fist.

  Mercifully, the elevator arrived, and I vanished into it.

  Chapter 40

  Muted by a coating of dust, the crime-scene tape fluttered across the door. The knob hung a little crooked, broken from the forced entry, and it came off in my hand. I pushed the door open, ducked under the tape, and stepped into the lonely little prefab house I still thought of as Elisabeta's.

  The emptiness was startling. Most of the furniture had been cleared out. No bowl of cashews, no banana peels, no porcelain cats and wicker bookshelf. The coffee table stood on end. How clean the place had been. I'd taken it as a reflection of Elisabeta's quiet dignity, never guessing that the furniture had no dust because it had probably just been rented. Another misassumption I'd been primed to make.

  I'd been hustled like a rube in a Chicago pool hall.

  I crouched, my face burning, fingertips set down on the thread-bare carpet for balance. It wasn't embarrassment, but shame. Shame at my transparency, at how common my hopes and needs must have seemed to this cast of players. At how common they had proven me to be.

  With noble indignation, Elisabeta had crossed this very floor to her granddaughter's bedroom. I pictured her, that grave face taut with grief, that hand resting on the knob of the closed door. You come see this beautiful child. I will wake her. You come see and tell me how I am to explain her this is her story.

  And me, the concerned fool: No, please. Please don't disturb her. Let her sleep.

  I followed Elisabeta's path, opened the door.

  A coat closet.

  Two wire hangers and a trash bin into which Elisabe
ta's snow globes had been dumped. They lay cracked and dribbling, price tags still affixed to the bottoms. Props. Beneath them the school photo of the little girl with the frizzy brown hair. The frame had cracked. I raised it, sweeping off the pebbles of broken glass. The picture was thin and came out easily. Not a photograph, but a color copy.

  It had come packaged with the frame.

  A chill crept along my scalp, down the back of my neck. I dropped the frame into the trash again.

  When I stepped back outside, the wind whipped up clouds of dust and snapped my pants at my shins. I walked the front of the house, finally finding what I'd been hoping for: a hole in the hard dirt of a flower bed where a rental sign had been staked. Driving slowly around the housing loop, I called the numbers on various signs hammered into front lawns until I tracked down the right Realtor who also represented Elisabeta's house. When I told her I was interested in the property but curious about the crime-scene tape, she'd been only too eager to reiterate what she'd already told the cops and, from the sound of it, everyone else: It had been a one-month rental paid by money order, the transaction conducted by mail. She'd never seen a soul, and no one had even bothered to come back to collect the balance on the security deposit. Of course, she'd never imagined . . .

  Nothing linked that house to me except my word and my memory, both of which were of questionable merit.

  Elisabeta was my only breathing connection to the men who had killed Keith and framed me. She alone could corroborate my story, or at least a key part of it, which would go a long way toward clearing my name. She was also at grave risk. Valentine had been unable to locate her, and I doubted that Robbery-Homicide was knocking themselves out to do better.

  I thought about jail, about prison, the movies I'd seen and the horror stories I'd heard. That tattooed inmate I'd passed in the corridor at the Parker Center, how the metal chains seemed barely to contain his muscles, how I'd flinched away, a pebble before a crashing wave. What could a man like that, unbound, do to a man like me?

  If I couldn't find Elisabeta myself, she'd wind up like Doug Beeman.