While Other People Sleep

by Marcia Muller

  Now, why didn't that surprise me?

  CELLULAR PHONE CLONING PREVALENT IN BAY AREA

  Enough, already! I tossed the front section on the floor and went to take my shower.

  “Hey, Shar, how y'doing?” Craig Morland sounded excessively cheerful—and no wonder. He and Homicide Inspector Adah Joslyn were off this afternoon on a two-week vacation to Mexico before he came to work for me.

  “I'm okay,” I said. “You all packed?”

  “Packed and ready.”

  “Is Adah there?”

  “Yeah, but she's busy right now—feeding Charley.” Charley was Adah's enormous, gluttonous white cat; I fully expected him to explode someday.

  “Cat's a basket case, right?”

  “Ever since he saw the suitcases. Of course, that doesn't prevent him from tearing into his steak.”

  “Steak?”

  “You got it. Here's Adah.”

  “You're feeding the cat steak,” I said accusingly.

  “Don't start, McCone. It's left over from last night's dinner.”

  “And if there hadn't been any leftovers you'd be giving him hamburger.”

  “Albacore tuna. So why'd you call? Not just to wish us a safe journey, I suppose.”

  “No, I need a favor.”

  “It'd better be a fast favor; I've got to get down there, work on my tan.” It was a joke; Adah was half Jewish, half black, with flawless honey-brown skin.

  “You know anybody at the department who's an expert on stalkers?”

  “Sure. Stacey Nizibian. Girl's got an M.A. in psychology from the University of Michigan, and all that book learning hasn't ruined her yet.”

  “I need to talk with her.”

  “No problem, I can set something up.” She paused. “McCone, is somebody hassling you?”

  “No, it's for a case I'm working on.”

  “Client report the incidents to us?”

  “They're on file.”

  “Well, I'll call Stace, get back to you. You free this afternoon?”

  “Of course. I'm not the one who's taking off for a tropical paradise.”

  “No, and you sure are sucking sour grapes. Get off my phone and I'll call you back in a few minutes.”

  Stacey Nizibian was waiting for me at a table next to the rain-streaked front window of Lavender Blue Deli Deli on Twenty-fourth Street. The overly cute name—one of many along Noe Valley's main shopping strip—had always put me off, but I loved their Brie and Black Forest ham sandwiches. It turned out Stacey did too; she ordered one with a beer while I studied the wine list. A slender woman wearing jeans that fit like a second skin, she apparently had as efficient a metabolic system as I.

  “So,” she said, running long fingers through her mop of dark brown curls, “Adah tells me you want to know about stalkers.”

  “Specifically, women who stalk women.”

  “Lesbian client?”

  “Not a client—me.” As Nizibian's face registered concern, I explained what had been going on. “I have no idea who this woman is, so any insight you can give me into that type of behavior will help.”

  She considered while the waitress delivered our drinks, took a sip before she replied. “Well, there're profiles, of course, but every case deviates from them in some way. Before we talk about the stalker, though, let's talk about you. How're you doing?”

  “Not too well. I feel frustrated. Helpless. Angry. Afraid of what she's going to do next. Afraid of what damage she's already done me. I'm distracted a lot of the time and not sleeping well. I have bizarre dreams. And there's another situation that's keeping me isolated from the one person I can talk openly with about this.”

  “You're not doing too badly talking with me.”

  I laughed. “No, and it feels damned good.”

  “Well, feel free to call me any time. And I'll check with Greg Marcus about the report he filed. Now, about stalkers: basically you've got four different categories—those where the victims are celebrities, domestic partners, casual acquaintances, or random targets.”

  I was all too familiar with celebrity stalking; it had happened to Ricky. And I'd seen enough terrified wives, husbands, and lovers pass through my office door to understand the domestic variety. “I'm pretty sure the woman is a casual acquaintance or someone who chose me at random.”

  Nizibian shook her head. “Being stalked is always a nightmarish experience, but not knowing who's doing it or why is the absolute worst. A random stalker sees you someplace— maybe on the street—and follows you, finds out where you live and work. Then he or she begins a pattern of repeated harassment. You don't know what you've done to attract the person's attention, but suddenly you're a target.”

  “And a casual acquaintance?”

  “The key word is ‘casual.’ The stalker could be a co-worker, somebody you met briefly at a party, or a clerk in a store where you shop. In short, anybody. Your contact with him or her is glancing; you may have forgotten all about it. But the stalker hasn't, and pretty soon you're getting plenty of reminders.”

  “Does this type of stalker typically reveal herself to her victim?”

  “Some do, some don't.”

  “And is the situation likely to end in harm to the victim— beyond the obvious psychological harm, I mean?”

  “It can. This kind of stalking is simple obsessional behavior that's usually triggered by a specific event. The stalker perceives the relationship with the victim as having deteriorated—even though there really was no relationship—or feels mistreated in some way. He or she then begins to vacillate between hatred and deep attachment to or love for the victim, and as his advances are rebuffed the stalking escalates to a dangerous level.”

  Our sandwiches arrived. I looked at mine, realized I'd lost my appetite. My stomach was tightly knotted, and my throat felt closed up.

  “You say psychologists have developed profiles of stalkers.”

  “They've compiled a list of what we call high-risk traits— certain behavior patterns that lead you to believe stalking potential exists. Superficial charm, lack of empathy for others, lack of social conscience. Stalkers are usually sly and manipulative. Can talk you into anything. If you confront them, they'll claim there's nothing wrong with their behavior and they shouldn't be punished for it.”

  “Sociopaths, then.”

  “Well, some. Those who suffer from a love-obsessional delusion may also suffer from other delusional disorders— schizophrenia, for example. Others are simply fanatics.”

  And there was no way of knowing which the woman was. “Any other significant traits?”

  “They're very cool in situations that would have you or me climbing the walls. Untruthful—that goes without saying. They lack remorse. Can't sustain relationships. Want instant gratification. Can tip over into irrational or destructive behavior. And they want it all but make no effort to establish and work toward long-term goals.”

  “Exactly what do they hope to gain by stalking?”

  “The victims’ attention or love. In many cases, they want their approval.”

  I thought of what the woman had called to me on the roof the other night: How am I doing, McCone? I'm good, aren't I? Hadn't that indicated that in a skewed way she wanted me to approve of her?

  After a moment I realized Nizibian was watching me analytically. “I'm okay, really,” I said. “In many ways I'm better equipped to deal with this kind of situation than your average person.”

  “Are you? I'm not sure I would be. There are counseling groups, you know. I could put you in touch—”

  “Thanks, but no thanks. I have trouble with groups like that—and counselors.”

  “Oh?”

  “Uh-huh.” I grinned wryly. “I went to a psychologist once, about some problems I was having in college. And I … lied to her, made things sound better than they were. The poor woman couldn't figure out why I was there in the first place.”

  Nizibian smiled too. “It happens. Some people are better off coping in
their own way.”

  I steered the conversation away from myself. “What can you tell me about the anti-stalking laws?”

  “I can give you an overview of California's legislation. We were the first state to recognize stalking as a crime, you know.”

  “It's a felony?”

  “A first offense can be a misdemeanor, but that's left to the discretion of the D.A. Basically the law defines stalking as willful, malicious, and repeated following or harassing. The pattern of conduct doesn't have to carry an actual threat to the victim; an implied threat causing the victim substantial emotional distress is enough. And the law covers the victim's immediate family as well, since many stalkers threaten relatives.”

  “I've heard that restraining orders seldom stop these people. Does incarceration do any good?”

  Nizibian smiled grimly. “Well, let's see what you think. One provision of the law is that the Department of Corrections is required to notify the victim, the family members, and any witnesses to the stalking no less than fifteen days before the release of the prisoner. And any information relating to those parties and their current whereabouts is to be kept confidential—from the parolee and anyone connected with him.”

  “So basically the law recognizes that punishment isn't a deterrent to stalkers. The end result of becoming one of their victims is usually either physical harm or a lifetime of fear.”

  I hadn't been able to keep the emotion out of my voice, and Nizibian heard it. She looked pointedly at my half-eaten sandwich. “You sure you want to pass on those counseling referrals?”

  I picked up the sandwich, took a deliberate bite. “If I change my mind, I'll call you.”

  “Call me anyway. You know, maybe you should back off, put the investigation in the hands of somebody else.”

  That was what I'd resolved to do last night, both with the Ted situation and with my own, but now I knew I couldn't. I wasn't made to give up—any more than I was made to see a counselor.

  Stacey looked at her watch, and I signaled for the check. While the waitress was preparing it, I asked, “What would make a woman stalk another woman, assuming it's not a sexual obsession?”

  “We've already mentioned one possibility: the stalker may want your approval. Say she admires you. She's fixated on you, and when the perceived slight or injury occurred, she began to alternate between envy and anger, and the need for attention.”

  “Does that account for her assuming my identity?”

  “Possibly. She could have forged an identification with you that's gradually eroded the lines of separation. The thing you've got to remember about stalkers is that there's no predicting what they'll do.” She hesitated, brow furrowed. “You know, if I were you, I'd try to isolate the event that triggered the stalking. When you've got that, you'll have most of your answers.”

  That was all very well and good, but if I couldn't isolate the woman, how could I possibly isolate the trigger?

  Sunday night

  I’ve left the phone off the hook.

  Hy won't call. I know that because I talked earlier with Gage Renshaw. No change in the situation in South America, he tells me, so I should just wait it out. Right, Gage, wait it out, as I have half a dozen times before, hut then I was in solid shape, had a reserve of strength to draw on. And somehow I thought I could communicate that strength to Hy. But now—

  No, I can't dwell on what might or might not be happening with him. If I do, I'll never make it through the night.

  Those phone calls, over a dozen since nine o'clock Always a hangup seconds after I answer. Ted, trying to make sure Neal's still staying with me, hoping he'll be the one to pick up? No, Ted left a message last night, he'd talk with me tonight. They've got to be from that woman.

  That woman. I've heard the phrase used so many times by clients whose husbands were seeing somebody else. Hell, once—long ago, when I was very young and foolish—I even heard it used in reference to me. But now it's taken on such a different, evil significance.

  But what else can I call her? I don't have a name.

  Call her the stalker. The impostor. The harasser.

  No, none of those terms is right. For one thing, they're precise terms, put to people whose behavior, though bizarre, fits a recognizable pattern. This woman's all over the board.

  They're also terms put to people whose behavior is subject to legal remedies.

  What remedies are there when she eludes my identification?

  What remedies are there when her behavior doesn't fit any of the profiles?

  What remedies are there when she's gradually draining the life out of me and stealing my soul?

  Monday

  Ted didn't show up for work on Monday morning, but he called, speaking in a direct manner that failed to conceal an undertone of anxiety.

  “Did Neal tell you where he was going?” he asked.

  “Just out of town, to think things over.”

  “That's all he said in the message he left on our machine. Think, Shar—I need to reach him. Did he give you any hint at all?”

  “No. He left a note and was gone by the time I got up.”

  “Damn!”

  “Ted, are you ready to talk about your problem now?”

  “No—especially not now. I'll explain when it's over. And I'm sorry I can't get in to work today. I'll try to make it tomorrow …” His voice trailed off, and he hung up.

  I glared at the receiver, then slammed it into its cradle. Ted's refusal to take me into his confidence was wearing thin on me, and besides, I had work to do—

  “That Jeffrey Stoddard? Is he a jerk or what!”

  I looked up at Keim, who was standing in the doorway; even her curls seemed to bristle indignantly. “What'd you find out?”

  “The past couple of weeks, whenever his fiancèe's out of town, he's been shacked up in their apartment with another woman! Not only that, but he's been making gradual withdrawals from their bank accounts and liquidating other joint investments.”

  “He's a jerk, all right.”

  Keim began to pace around the office, waving her hands as she spoke. “My take on the situation is that he hired us to keep tabs on her in case she decided to come home unexpectedly. Why else would he want such frequent reports? Maybe he thought she'd concocted all this heavy business travel so she could catch him in the act.”

  “Seems an extreme and expensive measure.”

  “Well, sure, but I know if I were up to his kind of shenanigans, I'd be as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockers.”

  “I take it you have solid evidence of his activities?”

  “Lord, yes! A couple of the neighbors tipped me to the other woman. Stoddard tried to pass her off as his cousin, but neither of them bought it. As a rule, you don't get caught snuggling in the elevator with that close a relative. The situation interested them enough that they've been keeping a close eye on it. Since the live-in was off to L.A. again this morning, I decided to run a surveillance on the client; the other woman showed up fifteen minutes after the fiancèe left, and after an interval long enough for some romantic fooling around, they paid visits to Wells Fargo bank and Charles Schwab.”

  I looked at my watch: eleven-twenty. The pair had had a busy morning. “I take it you've already spoken to your contacts at Wells and Schwab.” When she'd worked for RKI— from whom, in Gage Renshaw's words, I'd stolen her—Keim had been a specialist in the financial area of corporate security.

  “I sure have. The jackass has been bleeding joint accounts dry. My contacts wouldn't tell me where the funds're being transferred to, but I'd bet it's someplace similar to the institutions Mick's hidden-assets guy is patronizing. And get this: the happy couple's planning to make a move soon.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yep. After they left Schwab, they went to a luggage store and bought a bunch of suitcases—big suitcases, like you'd use if you were clearing out everything of value in a household.”

  “And the live-in's out of town for how long o
n this trip?”

  “Till Thursday.”

  “That gives them plenty of time. Unless, of course, we do something to stop them.”

  “But what? We can't call Stoddard's live-in and explain what he's up to. There's a confidentiality clause in our contract with him; he could sue us. Besides, legally he's done nothing wrong; the accounts are joint, only one signature required. If you ask me, the live-in's got two brain cells, and one's out looking for the other.”

  “Our contract with him is a worthless piece of paper as far as I'm concerned. He probably plans to stiff us for charges over and above the retainer.”

  “Still, we could get in a hell of a lot of trouble—”

  “I know. Sit down. Let me think.”

  Keim flopped into a chair and stared out at the bay, her eyes still glittering with anger.

  “Okay,” I said after a moment, “how good an actor are you?”

  She smiled knowingly and fluttered her lashes at me. “Why, honey, I can ham it up better'n a dance-hall nightingale.”

  “And Mick's inherited his daddy's showmanship. He'll be here with his report on the hidden-assets investigation soon; the three of us will have lunch at the Boondocks, and I'll tell you what we're going to do about Mr. Stoddard …”

  I watched from the agency van while Mick conducted a ridiculously obvious surveillance across from Jeffrey Stoddard's Spanish-style apartment building on Greenwich Street in the bayside Marina district. He lurked behind a parked car, checked his watch, scribbled down notes, and exuded furtiveness. I would have known immediately that it was an act, but it seemed to put the people in apartment 10 on edge; in the hour since he'd been there the curtains had moved and two shadowy faces had looked out several times.

  Now the building's door opened and Stoddard came out carrying a couple of suitcases. His eyes on Mick, he took the bags to a Blazer that was parked nearby and placed them inside. Mick nodded and ostentatiously made a note. Stoddard hurried back to his building.