Date Rape New York

by Janet McGiffin

  “Manuel is in Italy.”

  Grazia shook her head. “Saturday, I told Manuel that my mother could help him find a job in an Italian hotel. If he were in Italy, he would have emailed me to set up a meeting with my mother.” She pulled jeans and a sweater from the dresser drawer. “I’ll speak to Stanley. He said he would talk to Manuel’s wife. Maybe she told him where Manuel is. Nick at the Brazilian Bar said he would watch the CCTV video of Saturday night and call me. Maybe he will see some relevant footage.” She pulled out her journal and noted those items on her to-do list. She had to keep moving, keep planning. If she stopped, panic set in.

  “Bath, then breakfast,” she said. “Then Cindy. Then hypnosis with Evie. She’s coming here at three o’clock. I might remember more if I’m hypnotized at the scene of the crime.” An idea struck. “Sophia, you saw my room Sunday morning with my clothes all over the floor. Can you remember how they were?” Grazia had a flash of Francisco at his beach house exploding at his housekeeper when a pen had not been replaced exactly.

  Sophia looked around the room, bewildered. “Why?”

  Grazia spoke in a rush. “If the room looks like it did Sunday morning, my hypnosis might be more effective. I might see the man’s face.” That ambiguous wave of dizziness hit her again—was it caused by Rohypnol or by the AIDS medication? Or was her brain blocking her memory of this awful truth by making her dizzy? She felt Sophia’s hand steadying her.

  “Miss Grazia, you are pushing yourself too hard. What does it matter who he is? Forget him and go on with your life.”

  Grazia yanked her arm away. “Show me how the room looked!” she yelled, losing control. “Make this room look like Sunday morning!” She yanked open the dresser drawer and thrust her new clothes into the maid’s arms.

  Sophia’s eyes widened. Slowly she selected a blouse and turned to survey the room. She dropped it carefully, and then picked out some trousers. Grazia watched in fascinated revulsion. As each garment dropped softly to the floor, Grazia began to feel the presence of the man who had kicked them there. With a shudder, she locked herself in the bathroom.

  When she came out, Sophia was gone. The room was littered with clothing and shopping bags. A bit of paper lay on the carefully made bed: it listed the names of four more Italians, their hotels, and their dates of stay. The top name was Laura’s. Her hotel was around the corner from the Brazilian Bar.

  Grazia sat down on the bed to think. Laura had been in New York on business, which meant meetings with other contract lawyers. She probably went with them to the Brazilian Bar, like Detective Cargill had said. They might have known what Grazia meant by cement standards. They might have reported her ravings to the Naples Building Safety Department.

  But why couldn’t Laura remember their names? Was this deliberate evasion, as Detective Cargill believed? And if Laura knew who had raped Grazia, as Detective Cargill also believed, why would she conceal his identity? The only reason was that Laura was protecting him.

  Determination surged through Grazia. Today was Tuesday. After her hypnosis, she would go online and search for photos for all the names that Sophia had given her. She would show the photos to Nick this evening. He might recognize someone who had talked to Grazia that night. She would email the photos to Manuel. Manuel had to be picking up his email, even if he wasn’t replying to hers. In one of these photos he would recognize the man who had brought Grazia back to the hotel. He would have to contact her—they were friends! By tomorrow, Wednesday, she would have at least a description of the man who had raped her.

  Averting her eyes from the litter of clothing, Grazia grabbed her coat and put her hand on the doorknob. She waited for the paralyzing fear that had struck every time she left her room since Sunday afternoon. This time she felt calm. Once, she had sat through in a hurricane in the Bahamas—a day of increasingly black skies, high winds, and surging sea. Then, all at once, the wind had dropped. The sun had reappeared. Birds began to sing. They were in the eye of the hurricane. This is how Grazia felt. She had reached the eye of the hurricane, the source of the energy, the heart of the matter. Here she would find what she needed to know.

  Chapter 22

  In the lobby, Luigi was registering incoming guests. He flashed a guarded smile. “Luigi,” Grazia murmured while the guests were hunting for their passports, “Remember that phone message you took for me Sunday night? Could you give me the phone number?”

  Luigi’s smile vanished. “Sorry, Miss. I don’t have it.”

  “But you wrote down the message; you must have written down the number. It was right on the auto-redial panel.”

  “Sorry, Miss.”

  Grazia was about to argue when Stanley came out of the security office.

  “Good news, Miss Conti,” he smiled. “Manuel emailed me. He’s in Italy. His mother is still in the hospital.”

  Grazia shook her head. “Can’t be.” She followed Stanley into his office and explained about her mother finding Manuel a job in Italy. “Can you forward me his email? He gave me his email address but he’s not answering my emails. Maybe I have it wrong.” Stanley sat at his laptop and tapped in her email as she dictated it. A ding from her smartphone indicated that she’d received the message. She checked it to make sure.

  “Until we find Manuel, our only information is on that CCTV tape,” she continued. “Can’t you look at it and not tell the hotel manager?”

  Stanley lifted his hands. “He has requested permission from upper management in Italy. Until he gets it, he has locked the tape in his office safe.”

  Grazia stared at him, astonishment mixing with anger. “Does he always ask upper management in Italy for permission to look at CCTV tapes?” she snapped.

  “Every incident is different,” Stanley replied, vaguely. “Our guests value their privacy. Management is cautious about who views those tapes.”

  Grazia held up the message slip where Luigi had written the Sunday evening message. “Can you contact the telephone company and have this call traced? The number isn’t written here but the exact time is. The phone company can probably find the number and trace the call. Or does upper management in Italy have to decide about that, too?”

  “I’ll ask the hotel manager, Miss Conti.”

  Grazia left, puzzled and angry. Stanley had urged her to go to the emergency room. He had practically insisted she notify the police. He had collected the hotel towels into paper bags for evidence. He had assisted the medical examiner’s team in their examination of her room. Now he was refusing to make a move without asking the hotel manager.

  She pulled out her journal and recorded the conversation. Upper management indeed! Then she made a list of what to tell Detective Cargill: the Kourtis informant, the hotel manager’s locking the tape in his safe and getting permission from upper management, the name of Laura’s hotel. She called Cargill and got his voice mail. She left a snappy message. He was supposed to be investigating her case. Where was he?

  In the business lounge, she printed five photos of Laura from the law firm website. Raoul had already seen them and recognized Laura. She would show these to the other three Italian men along with the photo of Laura from Lord & Taylor. She then fired off an email to her mother, reminding her to send her the names in the consortium that owned the Hotel Fiorella. “Also, find who is Hotel Fiorella upper management in Italy,” she added.

  Snowplows were piling brown slush on the ridge of snow between the shoveled sidewalk and the street. Salt and grit crunched under her boots. She forced herself not to look behind her. Whenever she felt a twinge of anxiety, she searched for the trigger. Was it the young man wearing the dark cap? Or his huge, barking dog? Analyzing the trigger detached her slightly from her fear. She felt a rush of gratitude to Cindy.

  Raoul was sitting at the corner table by the window, back to the wall, cell phone to his ear. At Grazia’s wave, he hung up and moved himself and his coffee mug to the next chair. Grazia gave him a grateful smile. What a sensitive guy to know that she felt more
secure with the wall behind her. She surveyed the café. A few single men were breakfasting solo, but none elicited any anxiety. Either her unconscious mind wasn’t picking up any clues, or her normal confidence was returning.

  Raoul peered at her with a worried frown. “No offense, but you’re supposed to look better every day, and you don’t. Obsessing about tracking down this scumbag isn’t helping you recover from this awful experience. I agree that he deserves to be torn apart by wolves, but why don’t you recover your health before you race off in hot pursuit?”

  “What I feared the most happened,” she blurted. “Laura told me that I did talk about a client Saturday night when I was drugged. My boss called this morning. The client was Gerasimos Kourtis. He was pouring substandard cement at night using refugees as laborers. I told him to stop. But someone informed the Naples Building Safety Department and the press. Now Kourtis is in jail and my boss is accusing me of being the informer. He fired me. I could be disbarred.” She pressed a table napkin to her eyes.

  “Who else could have reported this to the Building Safety Department?” Raoul ventured cautiously. “What about Laura? Maybe she’s lying about your talking shop at the Brazilian Bar. I never heard you blabbing about Naples cement contractors. Maybe she’s the real informant.”

  “Not Laura. Her law firm already knew. So did my boss. They were letting Kourtis get away with it to finish the contract on schedule.” Grazia flung down her napkin in frustration. “Francisco lies to me about his personal life, and now I find out that he’s been lying to me about my work. Not only that, he’s using me to save his neck. He fires me, springs Kourtis from jail on a technicality or bribe, and everyone goes back to normal. Except that my life is ruined.”

  “If Laura’s firm knew, and some employee at Kourtis’ company knew, one of them could have been the informer,” Raoul offered.

  “Of course!” she exploded, impatiently. “Or some reporter or someone from Building Safety drove by the construction site and heard the cement mixers grinding away in the middle of the night.” The waiter came and took her order. She had no appetite, but she asked for an omelet and toast. Her body needed to build strength. She stirred more sugar into her decaf.

  “The first anonymous phone call you got, ‘Fascinating conversation,’ could that have been from the informant?” inquired Raoul.

  “What a sadist!” Grazia said bitterly. “Destroys my career and calls to jeer about it. Well, I’m going to find him. And I’ll find the man who assaulted me. Maybe they are the same; maybe they aren’t. I’ll know soon.” She held up her Monet journal. “Before I leave on Friday, this will be a complete history of my life from Saturday morning until the present. Already my research has lit up a lot of the black hole between about nine o’clock and midnight.” Their breakfasts arrived, and she took a bite of cheese omelet. Now she was hungry. Anger was good for the appetite.

  Raoul was digging into his French toast. “How are you lighting up the black hole if you have no memory of the critical period?” he mumbled, mouth full.

  “The security officer is gaining access to the CCTV tapes.” Grazia skirted the truth to make the situation look more hopeful. “He’s also having the phone company trace the anonymous call that came in Sunday evening. The maid who cleans my room has found Laura’s hotel and has given me more names of Italians staying there or in other nearby hotels. I’ll check them out online this afternoon. And Nick, the bartender at the Brazilian Bar, has watched their CCTV videotape for that evening and will tell me about it later this morning.”

  “Nice of Nick.”

  “He’s saving his own skin. A couple of years ago Detective Cargill got the Brazilian Bar shut down after complaints of drug-facilitated assault. Cargill arrested two bartenders and now he’s after Nick.” She put down her fork. “Raoul, think hard. Who was listening Saturday night when I started raving about my work?”

  But Raoul’s answer was cut off. Detective Cargill himself pulled up a chair.

  “So you’re Grazia’s breakfast friend.” He held up his police badge. “What a lucky guy I am, finding you here. Your secretary said you were in Boston.”

  “She doesn’t know my travel schedule. Nice to meet you, Detective,” Raoul held out his hand.

  Cargill ignored it. “You have ID? Government issue?”

  Raoul shook his head. “Sorry. I leave my Italian ID in my apartment. In New York, I carry only business cards and cash. It’s too hard to replace Italian ID if I get pickpocketed. You can come to my apartment if you want them but call me in advance. I’m back and forth to Boston.”

  “Detective Cargill motioned to the waiter for coffee and stared at Grazia’s breakfast. “Are you eating all that toast?”

  Grazia handed him a piece on a napkin. “I called you this morning.”

  “I heard. What’s so important?”

  Raoul spoke for her, leaning forward earnestly. “Someone has passed seriously damaging information about Grazia’s client to the Naples Building Safety Department. Her boss has accused her of being the informer and has fired her. She just learned that she was actually talking about the Naples construction industry when she was in a drugged state Saturday night.”

  Cargill reached for Grazia’s knife and scooped up her butter. “In your own words, if you don’t mind, Miss Conti.”

  “My boss called this morning. He says that I blabbed vital information while I was at the Brazilian Bar. I think his bodyguards were following me and told him. In any case, someone told the Italian press and the Building Safety Department. My boss fired me. His security company is investigating the leak. If they come to New York to check on me, they’ll call you. Miranda Security Systems.” She bit her lip to keep it from quivering.

  Detective Cargill smeared some jam on his toast and took a bite. He looked at Raoul. “Grazia told me that you saw her leave the Brazilian Bar Saturday night,” he said with his mouth full.

  “That’s right, I did. Her friend, Laura, accompanied Grazia outside when she became ill. That’s the last I saw either one of them. Grazia was supposed to meet me here for Sunday brunch, but she never showed up. Now I know why. I am so sorry.” He gripped Grazia’s hand as it lay on the table.

  Detective Cargill reached for more toast over the top of their hands, causing Raoul to withdraw his. He addressed Grazia. “I thought Laura left you inside the bar while she took a taxi to the airport.”

  “I called Laura this morning and she explained that she took me outside because I was raving about Kourtis. She got a taxi and opened the door for me. Then she left in her airport van.”

  “Mr. Cataneo, did you hear Miss Conti talk about her client at the Brazilian Bar?”

  Raoul shook his head vigorously. “Like I told Grazia, the noise in that bar was deafening. There was a football game and music, and people were shouting. I couldn’t hear a thing anyone said.”

  Grazia cut in. “Detective Cargill, Sophia gave me the name of Laura’s hotel. She also gave me the names of some Italian men who were registered at her hotel or others nearby. I’m going online for their photos. I’ll show them to Nick. He might recognize them. And I’m starting to remember more, myself. It’s common for women drugged with Rohypnol to experience flashes of memory, Cindy said. When I was hypnotized this morning, I remembered that I vomited several times. I may have lost much of the Rohypnol. That could be another reason why I am able to retrieve memory. It wasn’t entirely blocked.”

  “Why hypnosis? Why not truth drugs?” Cargill signaled the waiter to bring him coffee. He reached for another piece of toast.

  Grazia couldn’t decide if the detective was being sarcastic. “My brain is already overloaded with drugs,” she replied. “Hypnosis is unblocking my memory without them. I’m also writing down everything I remember, like you told me to do. And I’m writing what people tell me and what I tell people. My journal will lead me to whoever informed the press about Kourtis. And who assaulted me.”

  “What else did you discover under hypnosis?
”

  Grazia pulled out her journal and read from it, feeling defensive under Cargill’s slight smile. “Manuel gave me his email and phone number.” She looked up and addressed Cargill. “I tried to contact Manuel by phone and email, but he hasn’t answered. Stanley got an email from him this morning saying he’s in Italy. I don’t believe it. Manuel would have emailed me, Detective Cargill. I had planned to meet him Sunday afternoon.” She explained about her mother finding him a job. She read from her journal again. “Laura handed me a champagne glass. I saw her gold bracelet. I said ‘sick,’ then ‘vomit.’ Then I switched to Italian and said, ‘The taxi is for me. Get away. Jacky. Help me.’”

  Raoul gazed at her with admiration. “Well done!”

  Grazia smiled, encouraged by his support. “This afternoon at three o’clock Evie is coming to my hotel room to hypnotize me there. I’m hoping that being in a trance at the location of the event will elicit more memories.”

  Raoul signaled for his bill and reached for his wallet. “I’m impressed at your determination, Grazia. But frankly, I’m not convinced that you and this fine detective can find this guy. All you’ve got are some disconnected memories, witnesses consisting of an old lady and a dog, the hotel where Laura and some Italians you don’t know stayed, the possibility of viewing CCTV videos, and the long process of tracing a phone number. Your only real witness is the hotel desk clerk and he has vanished.” He picked up his bill and pulled on his coat. “Breakfast tomorrow, same time? You too, Detective. You seem to like the toast.”

  Grazia watched Raoul pull on his plaid cap and step out into the snowy street.