Obsessed

by Devon Scott

  On their third day there, a Friday, Michael and Kennedy got dressed for dinner and walked hand in hand along Ocean Drive toward their destination. The concierge at the hotel had recommended B.E.D., an eclectic place two blocks up and two blocks over. B.E.D. was unlike any place they had been to before. No tables, no chairs. Instead, large oversized beds where meals were served on an oval rattan tray. They had ordered drinks—mojitos—and an appetizer—hot passion-fruit caipirinha. Wonderful atmosphere—low lighting, mood music, and waiters that attended to your every need.

  Kennedy recalls nibbling on the appetizer and sipping on her mojito, enjoying the conversation that she and her husband were having when a trio of women came in. They must have been early because the maitre d’ put them at the bar while their bed was being made.

  One woman stood out from the pack.

  Tall, butterscotch complexion, long hair done up in a ponytail. Fairly conservative dress—Kennedy remembers the woman wearing a plain dress and shoes (at least for South Beach), as if she were trying to tone down her appearance. But her beauty shone through like bright rays of sunlight breaking through the clouds. Even though her dress did not accentuate her curves, Kennedy remembers thinking that underneath it all there was a very healthy body.

  Women know.

  Kennedy remembers that night. Remembers seeing her, thinking to herself, What’s her story? Who is she? What is she like?

  She forgot the woman quickly.

  Their entreés arrived.

  Lamb chops served with chimichurri sauce for her.

  Stuffed rigatoni for him.

  A wonderful dinner followed by an equally delicious dessert.

  The next day Kennedy and Michael were on the sidewalk parallel to the beach, a short walk from the Tides, when they spotted her.

  The woman from the previous night at B.E.D.

  Alone.

  Kennedy went up and spoke to her. Said she had seen her last night. Inquired about her meal.

  That’s how it began.

  A friendly conversation on a delightful Saturday afternoon.

  Conversation that moved to an invitation to join them by the hotel pool.

  She accepted.

  Soon the three of them were lounging by the pool, sipping on something frozen and something sweet while the conversation flowed freely.

  Kennedy calls to mind certain details.

  The woman was married four years.

  Had flown in from out of town (Kennedy can’t recall from where) for a conference.

  Nursing? Therapy? Something health-care related.

  The conference had ended Friday afternoon, but she was staying the weekend by herself, taking a much-needed minivacation.

  They talked for hours, she and Kennedy and Michael.

  Afternoon turned to evening.

  They invited her to dinner.

  She accepted, taking a cab back to her hotel to change into evening attire.

  They dined that night at DeVitos, at the southern tip of South Beach.

  Great food and even greater conversation.

  Libations flowing like a Jamaican waterfall.

  Kennedy and the woman got along splendidly. They talked about everything under the sun—their relationships, marriage, men, their careers. The conversation moved to sex, but the woman seemed to be reluctant to share her true feelings.

  Kennedy didn’t push things. There was no need. She was in no rush.

  That night, after they had returned to their hotel alone, Michael and Kennedy discussed the woman while getting undressed.

  It was clear Kennedy wanted her.

  Michael told his wife she could have her.

  The next day the woman met them at the Tides for brunch. The rest of the afternoon was spent by the pool. Kennedy and the woman got facials while Michael walked the beach, recording the sights with the camcorder.

  When he returned, he found his wife and the woman deep in conversation. He knew where things were heading; she knew Michael could sense the change in his wife’s demeanor.

  Celestial had arrived.

  In the woman’s space, leaning in close, stroking the woman’s forearm as she laughed heartily.

  Michael took out the camcorder and videotaped the two of them splashing around the pool.

  Shortly thereafter, Kennedy took the woman by the hand. Water dripping from sculpted calves and sensuous thighs. Michael watched them go, the camcorder zooming on their departure.

  The woman, acutely aware that she was being filmed, turned on the balls of her bare feet and, still holding Kennedy’s hand, smiled for the camera.

  She uttered two words before blowing Michael a kiss.

  Two words that spike Kennedy’s heart even now as she plays the videotape on the floor of her family room.

  Ciao Bella.

  Chapter 50

  She waits until after dinnertime to call him.

  Places the call around eight.

  Glances at her nails as she listens to the ringing on the other end of the phone.

  Starts when a female voice answers.

  “I’m trying to reach Joe,” Kennedy says, somewhat cautiously.

  It’s now dark outside. Kennedy has the blinds drawn and the lights on. Still she feels a certain chill from being alone.

  “Joe can’t come to the phone,” the voice says. “It is Thanksgiving, you know.”

  Kennedy stares in amazement at the phone.

  “Excuse me,” she begins, the attempt at controlling her rising anger gone, “this isn’t a social call. I’m calling about a case.”

  “Your case, Kennedy. Isn’t that right?”

  “Whom am I speaking to?” she asks.

  “This is Tara, his fiancée,” Tara responds acidly.

  “Look, Tara, tell Joe I found the information that we were searching for earlier. Do you think you can do that?”

  Tara begins a rapid-fire response, but Kennedy, smirk painted on her face, has already hung up.

  Joe returns her call about an hour later.

  “Gee, thanks for ruining my holiday,” he says without preamble.

  “Excuse me? You asked me to call you if I found anything,” Kennedy exclaims, huffing into her BlackBerry.

  “Did you have to get into it with Tara, of all people?” Joe asks.

  Kennedy laughs.

  “That heifer answers your phone, takes an attitude with me, and you’re all up in my face? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Don’t call Tara a heifer. She’s my fiancée.”

  “Joe, I called because of the case, nothing more.”

  Joe is silent, controlling the storm that is brewing inside him.

  Kennedy doesn’t wait for a response. She pushes on.

  “I found what we were looking for. I found the tape.”

  “Okay.” Joe waits for more.

  “The woman who says Ciao Bella in the voice mails is the woman Michael and I met in Miami four years ago. It’s definitely her. Now that I’ve seen her on videotape, I’m positive it’s her.”

  That information has Joe’s attention.

  “That’s great. What’s her name?” he asks.

  Kennedy frowns. “That’s the thing, Joe. I don’t know her name. I mean, I can’t remember, and it’s nowhere on the video.”

  “Okay. Give me what you have. Everything. Don’t leave out any details. We’re closing in. This is good work.”

  For the next ten minutes, Kennedy recounts for Joe everything on the tape and what she recalls from memory. Joe does not interrupt, just lets her talk, taking copious notes. When she’s done, Joe stares at what he’s written, nodding his head.

  “Okay. Would your husband remember this woman’s name?”

  Kennedy considers the question.

  “Not sure. He’s not speaking to me right now, so . . .”

  Joe, wisely, leaves that one alone.

  “Fine. Can you go to the tape and see if there is a date? I want to know exactly when you were down there in Miami.”
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  “I can look. Give me a moment.”

  “We know she was in Miami at some sort of health conference. Shouldn’t be too difficult to backtrack and find out which one. You also said you remember her saying something about her flight. Do you recall where she was from?”

  Kennedy thinks.

  “I’m almost positive she said she was from Florida. Not sure which city, but I do think she mentioned something about a short flight. So she could be from Orlando or Jacksonville. Those don’t ring a bell, but my gut feeling tells me she’s from Florida.”

  Kennedy fast-forwards to the first day of the Miami vacation. There’s the date: November 16, 2005. She lets Joe know.

  “Great,” he replies. “This is good. Let me try and find out which conferences were being held in Miami during the middle of November, 2005. Hopefully, we can get a list of attendees and go from there. If you see her name, perhaps it will jump-start your memory.”

  “Hope so.”

  “You didn’t keep in contact with her, did you?”

  “We exchanged several e-mails, but that was when we were on Verizon. Those emails are no longer accessible. She was married and concerned about her husband finding out.”

  “This could be our guy.”

  “It’s a long shot,” Kennedy says.

  “Actually, it’s not. What’s happened to you is a crime of passion. This is coming from someone who’s been burnt. It’s got to be related to someone you’ve been intimate with. I’d bet my pension we’re closing in.”

  “I hope you’re right, Joe. I really do.”

  “Trust me. This son of a bitch is in my sights. I can feel it.”

  Chapter 51

  He sits in the cab of his Ford truck, staring out at the shimmering waters. It’s early morning, and the sun is still low in the sky. This should be a peaceful, serene time. But it’s anything but that.

  The hum of nature is strong here—the rattle of a belted kingfisher, sharp cricket songs, resonating frog calls, even reptile sounds of wretched, slimy creatures slithering mere yards from where he’s parked.

  The noise interferes with his thinking. His ability to reminisce is in serious jeopardy.

  His head is pounding. Nothing new there. He can’t remember a time when he didn’t have the pain.

  Actually, that’s not true. He knows exactly when it all began.

  Lately, the pain has been shifting. Today it’s at the base of his skull; he keeps rubbing the protrusion of skin and bone at the top of his neck, wondering if he were to hit it with a sledgehammer would the pain finally dissipate for good? He’s already downed a half-dozen Tylenol. That shit’s not even effective anymore. He imagines his bloodstream choked with miniature acetaminophen soldiers, marching along his arteries and veins haphazardly, searching (in vain) for a battle, for a demon to slay. Damian wants to scream at their captain and show them the way—incompetent fuckwads.

  What is truly needed right now is a couple shots of Evan Williams bourbon. Fuck the fact that it’s only seven AM. Only thing that stops him from reaching for the bottle this second is the meeting he’s got later in Miami. Can’t show up smelling like a distillery. That wouldn’t be good for business.

  No, siree.

  Damian shifts in his seat. Rolls down the passenger window because it’s becoming uncomfortable. Now the nature sounds are amplified, like it’s Dolby Digital up in this piece. He rubs his neck again, and thinks of her.

  Closes his eyes so he can imagine her in all of her glory.

  When she was pure. Untainted. Wholesome.

  God, Damian has trouble remembering when that was. Seems like a lifetime ago.

  In some ways it was just that.

  A lifetime ago.

  When things were different.

  When things were good.

  Once upon a time he was married. They loved each other very much. The two of them made up this incredible team: the envy of their friends and family. Look at those two, they’d hear, look at the way she looks at him, the way he dotes on her. They’re gonna be together for life, no question about it.

  Yeah, it sure seemed that way, back then.

  Before she turned. Before things went bad.

  What is it about women? Damian muses.

  They say they want a good man. A man who wants to settle down. A monogamous man. A man who desires a family. A big house. A stable career.

  Damian wanted all of that and more.

  She had that and more.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  Bitches always want what they can’t have.

  When they’ve got it good, they want better.

  When they reach better, they strive for best.

  Bitches.

  It don’t make no kind of sense.

  To have all that—the envy of your friends, and to throw it all away. And for what?

  Back then, in his other life, Damian was compassionate. He was zestful, the life of the party. He was everything a woman wanted in a man.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  He even forgave her for her first transgression.

  Because he loved her that much.

  But when he found out that she was infertile—and had known for years, hiding the truth from him—that shit broke him in two. Parading around in front of their close friends and family, telling everyone she couldn’t wait to be a proud mommy, going through the motions, trying to get pregnant, saying it would happen in due time, when in fact she had no intention because she couldn’t.

  That fucked him up.

  Made him a changed man.

  He saw her then for what she really was.

  A whore who used people.

  Now he didn’t even speak her name out loud.

  No longer allowed himself the luxury of uttering her name.

  She didn’t deserve the good memories they had shared.

  Didn’t deserve anything but what she got.

  What she fucking deserved.

  Damian utters a short laugh.

  She just about killed him when she said she needed some time apart.

  Time to sort shit out.

  What the fuck does that mean?

  Time to figure out what I want, Damian. What I need out of life.

  Damian couldn’t believe it when the bitch changed her numbers, changed jobs, even where she banked.

  Tried to disappear.

  Melt into the woodwork.

  Like she could actually get away from him.

  Damian laughs out loud.

  Bitch wanted to start a new life.

  Give herself room to breathe.

  To do shit that married people shouldn’t do.

  You tried to hide from me.

  Tried so hard to make it so I wouldn’t know where to find you.

  Silly bitch, you think I’m not smart enough to connect the dots?

  There are tears in his eyes now.

  Not from pain.

  But from laughter.

  You wanted to disappear.

  Start a new life?

  No problem.

  Bitch, watch me work....

  Chapter 52

  She picks up on the second ring.

  “Ken, it’s Joe.”

  It’s taken him four days to find what he was looking for.

  Four days, using a combination of the Internet and some sweet-talking phone etiquette.

  Considering Black Friday and the subsequent weekend, four days isn’t that bad.

  “Good news. You got a second?”

  “Yes. Let me close my door. Hang on.”

  It is Tuesday morning.

  It’s been an entire week since Michael and Zack left to go to Ithaca. The time apart from them has been excruciating, like the pain from a gaping wound. Kennedy has spent the days on autopilot, going through the motions, not sure how she makes it through each day.

  But she has.

  She’s back at her desk, raising the BlackBerry to her ear.

  “Go ahead,” she says.

&nbs
p; “I’ve learned that there was only one health-related conference in Miami the week that you and Michael were vacationing there. The 2005 Sports Physical Therapy Conference was held at the Miami Beach Convention Center. Six hundred fifty-two attendees. Close to a hundred from the State of Florida alone. About forty of those hundred were female.”

  “How did you learn all this?” she asks, quite impressed.

  “I’m good! Or have you forgotten?” Joe doesn’t wait for her to answer. “Finding out information about the conference was easy. Getting them to release the attendee list was something else altogether. But I used my charm, and a little law-enforcement pressure, and, well, here we are. We need to go over the list, Ken. See if any of these names ring a bell.”

  “Okay.”

  Kennedy’s mind is racing. She desperately wishes she could remember the woman’s name. She even texted Michael asking if he knew.

  No response.

  “You’re at work. I can fax over the list or swing by and give it to you in person. The sooner we narrow down these names, the better.”

  “No, don’t fax it. Call me when you’re here, and I’ll come out. I don’t need any more drama here at work.”

  “Understood. I can be there in about twenty.”

  “I’ll be here,” Kennedy replies.

  They carry their steaming coffees over to a vacant table.

  They are at Jolt ’n Bolt, a coffee and tea house located in a former row house on Eighteenth Street.

  Joe picks at his cinnamon-raisin bagel while Kennedy pores over the list. There are five pages, computer generated, and Joe has highlighted the female names with a yellow marker. She runs her finger down the names, looking for those that are familiar.

  She flips from page to page, nothing jumping out at her. Frustration lines her face.

  “Have you asked Michael about the girl?” Joe asks quietly.

  “He’s not speaking to me right now.”