Lucy - 05 - Stalked

by Allison Brennan

  Pain shot up to his pelvis and he feared he’d broken his leg. He rolled over to catch his breath when a crashing sound startled him.

  He couldn’t get away from the scaffolding before it came falling down and pinned him to the ground. The weight of the wood and pipe and equipment was stifling. Blood dripped into his eye from a deep cut on his forehead.

  He sensed more than saw movement to his left. He tried to turn his head but couldn’t. A sharp pain exploded his temple, then he felt nothing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Six Years Ago

  Soon after I became an emancipated minor on my sixteenth birthday, I got my GED and was accepted into SU. It was far enough from my crazy mom and dad that I didn’t think about them much. The first year I kept to myself. I was younger than everyone, the classes weren’t as easy as I’d thought, and I focused on studying. I just wanted to blend in while I figured out what to do with my life.

  The doctor had been wrong—I wasn’t going to be six feet like my dad. By the time I was seventeen, I was six foot one with more to grow. I think I always thought of myself as short because my height felt funny on me. I didn’t really know what to do with it. I tried to disappear in crowds like I used to, but I couldn’t. Too tall, too skinny, and I think people were kind of scared of me because I was so quiet.

  Even though I was free, I felt oddly trapped. Like I was waiting. Waiting for someone to tell me my life had purpose. Waiting for someone to tell me what I should be doing. Waiting for answers to all the questions I’d had as a kid—answers that would never come.

  Then I met Cami.

  Cami was a year older than me. Beautiful. Sweet and shy, maybe a little skittish. We met in the library the beginning of my second year at SU and I think, for me at least, it was love at first sight. Even though we didn’t have any classes together and she lived with her aunt in town, we studied together nearly every afternoon. I looked forward to seeing her, and on the days I couldn’t or she didn’t make it I was sad.

  Cami left for the summer, and when she returned in the fall I wanted to marry her. She was everything bright in my life. My past was finally buried; my mother had remarried and moved to Texas, my father was still in Seattle, but I hadn’t spoken to either of them in over two years, not since the day I became an emancipated minor. The time, and college, and Cami all healed me.

  For the first time since Rachel died, I was at peace.

  The peace didn’t last.

  The sensation that someone was watching me again started at the beginning of my third year. I started to feel the pricks in the back of my neck, just like in high school. The mysterious and cryptic notes began again, only instead of being put in my locker they were left in my dorm room. Or in my car. Or as a bookmark in whatever I was reading.

  I became jittery and nervous and all I wanted to do was disappear again. I kept it all from Cami because I wanted to protect her. I filed police report after police report, but after the third time, they just stopped caring. I’d become an annoyance, and one of the cops clearly thought I was lying for the attention.

  He certainly didn’t know me. I would gladly be invisible if I could.

  But I should have realized that whoever hated me, whoever had followed me from Newark to New York, would try to hurt someone I loved.

  My junior year, I moved off campus and gave Cami a key to my apartment. I wanted her to move in with me, because she was having problems with her family. But she was a bit old-fashioned, and I liked that about her. She’d often stay until late but always left in the middle of the night. I wished she would take me to visit her aunt, but she said it was “complicated.”

  I knew all about complicated families.

  It was the morning before Halloween when I had coffee with Cami and asked if she wanted to see a movie that night. She said she’d meet me at my apartment. And she sounded happy for the first time in weeks, and that made me happy. I’d been afraid she wanted to break it off because of my questions about her aunt, and my moodiness.

  I got hung up after my last class because the professor wanted to talk to me about a story I’d written. He wanted me to submit it to the campus magazine. I said sure, whatever, but he wanted to talk. Talking wasn’t my strength. So I listened to him, about how talented I was, about how I should be majoring in communication or journalism or the creative arts instead of early childhood education. I listened until he wanted me to give him answers; then I told him I was late for a date.

  I had a beat-up old car, but I rarely drove since my apartment was only a half mile from campus. But it was days like this, when I was late, that I wished I had it. I called Cami to tell her I was late, but my call went to her voice mail.

  I walked briskly, then jogged, and by the time I got to my apartment I was running. I felt it in my stomach that something was wrong, just like I did the night of the storm when I woke up and went to Rachel’s room and she wasn’t there.

  I ran up the two flights of stairs to my apartment and heard Cami crying from my bedroom.

  “Cami? Cami? It’s Peter.”

  The cries stopped, and I ran down the short hall to where she stood in the doorway. I looked over her head and saw everything.

  Arcs of blood on the walls. The smell of death. The butchered pig in my bed.

  Cami turned to face me, her face white and wet with tears. “I can’t be here,” she said. “I’m sorry. Oh, God!” She ran out and I let her go. I stared at the gross violence and knew that next time it would be me.

  I called the police, and this time a new cop came to my apartment.

  His name was Charlie Mead. He looked at my room, then looked at me and said, “Tell me about it.”

  I told him everything. I told him about being followed in high school, about the roadkill left in my locker, about my bike being sabotaged. I told him why I ran away, how I was sent to live with my father, and why I filed for emancipation. It all came out in a rush; I don’t think I’d ever said as much at one time in my life.

  Charlie said, “Let’s make sure your girlfriend is okay.”

  I nodded, and he drove me to her aunt’s house. I’d never been inside, but I’d dropped her off several times over the year I’d known her.

  Charlie walked with me to the door. I stood behind him, mostly because I didn’t want Cami to be scared. Charlie could convince her that she’d be safe, and he had some smart questions I hadn’t even thought about. Like had she seen anyone, had she touched anything, had she ever seen someone following us.

  Charlie was the first cop I’d met since I filed my first report who I thought might find the person who was doing this to me.

  An elderly woman answered the door.

  “Ma’am, I’m Officer Charles Mead. Is Cami here?”

  “There’s no one by that name here.”

  “Cami Jones,” I said. “She goes to SU. This is where her aunt lives; I’m her boyfriend, Peter Gray.”

  The woman scowled. “I don’t know any Cami Jones. My name is Edith Jones, Jones is a very common name.”

  “You’re her aunt!”

  Charlie put his hand on my arm, but I shook him off. “She calls you Aunt Edie.”

  Mrs. Jones glared at me. “I don’t have any brothers or sisters; I have no nieces or nephews. I’m a widow, and my only son is married and lives in Montreal with his wife. I’ve lived in this house for fifty-two years!”

  I didn’t believe anything she said, but Charlie walked me back to his squad car and made some calls. I sat in the back and stared at the house. This was it. Jones was on the mailbox. I’d driven Cami here a dozen times.

  I looked at the houses nearby, and I wasn’t mistaken. Was her home life so bad that she didn’t want me to know where she lived?

  Charlie said, “Let’s get some coffee, Peter.”

  I didn’t say yes or no, because I was still trying to figure out what I had missed with Cami. I understood pain and knew she was a kindred spirit. She’d suffered but never talked about it.


  Charlie drove to a nearby Starbucks and we went inside. He paid for me and we went to a table in the back.

  “Thank you,” I said, and sipped the black coffee. I didn’t like coffee much, but I needed something to do with my hands.

  “You need to listen to me, Peter. This is important.”

  I nodded.

  “Edith Jones was telling the truth. She has no nieces. There is no Cami Jones registered at SU.”

  “Cami must be short for something. It’s a big school.”

  “I had them run every C. Jones registered. There are four. Three are men. One is a senior from Albany, lives with her boyfriend in town. Christina Jones.”

  I heard what Charlie said but didn’t understand.

  “Maybe—”

  Charlie interrupted. “The crime scene unit dusted your apartment for fingerprints. There were none.”

  I frowned. That made no sense.

  “Someone cleaned your entire apartment,” Charlie said. “Your fingerprints were on the door and the doorframe of your bedroom. That’s all we found.”

  My stomach clenched. I looked at Charlie but didn’t see him. I saw Cami put her hands to her mouth.

  She’d been wearing gloves.

  I ran to the bathroom and threw up. There had to be an explanation. There was an explanation.

  Why? I didn’t know her. I’d never met her until last fall. Who would do that to me? How could I not see it?

  A knock on the door startled me.

  “Peter, come on out.”

  I washed my face with cold water and came back to the table.

  “Do you have a picture of Cami?”

  I slid over my cell phone. “The only pictures I have are on my phone.”

  Charlie started scrolling through my phone. He frowned and said, “Your SIM card is missing.”

  I took the phone and looked. The card was gone.

  Cami had used my phone earlier, before I went to class.

  “She planned it.”

  “We’ll find a picture of her. On Facebook maybe?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t have any social media. I hate the Internet. I don’t even have a television. I had an e-mail account once, and a reporter found me and wanted to interview me. So I deleted the account. I have an e-mail account through the university because I had to get something for my classes.”

  “You shouldn’t go back to your apartment. Do you have someplace to stay?”

  I shook my head. “I need to disappear.”

  “You don’t want to do that.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  I’d never thought about killing myself. Maybe in passing, but then I’d think of Grams and knew she’d be heartbroken. She was dead, but sometimes I felt her. I lived for those moments.

  “Don’t run, Peter. Someone had been stalking you since high school. They’re escalating. Only you know who it is.”

  “But I don’t! It was all a lie. Cami was a lie. But I swear, she was not at my high school.”

  “Let me do a little research on her. Maybe something will come up. You can work with a sketch artist; we’ll get a good picture of her.”

  Charlie Mead really wanted to help me.

  “I’ll try.”

  “Stay with me tonight,” Charlie said. “I’ll find a safe place for you tomorrow.”

  One night turned into two years. I lost a sister when I was nine, but I found a brother when I was nineteen.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  New York City

  Jimmy Bartz was picked up late Saturday night by uniformed officers in Queens. Suzanne and Joe decided to let him stew the rest of the night, and Suzanne arrived at DeLucca’s precinct at eight Sunday morning.

  “We could have come in together,” Joe said.

  “No, we couldn’t,” Suzanne said. Joe had wanted to go home with her last night, but she had put her foot down and after one beer had left alone. The worst thing was that she had wanted to give in, but reason vetoed her heart. Heart? Who was she fooling? It was her body that craved Joe. She didn’t want to fall back into bed with him because then her heart would be at risk and it would only end badly. Just like last time. Because she would not give him any ultimatum that affected his relationship with his son, nor did she want to play the role of mistress with a man who was hiding her from his ex-wife.

  “Has he talked?” Suzanne switched the subject back to the case at hand.

  “No.” Joe checked in with the desk sergeant. “Can you bring Bartz to interview?”

  “Room one,” the sergeant said. He got on the phone.

  Joe led Suzanne through the bullpen to his desk. It was a quiet Sunday morning. Joe sat down at his tidy desk. Suzanne glanced around at the stacks of paper on everyone else’s desk. “You have the cleanest crib in town.”

  “Just in this neighborhood,” Joe said. He quickly checked his e-mail, then brought up Bartz’s rap sheet. Joe turned his monitor so both he and Suzanne could read it.

  “Worst thing is assault—no weapons charges.”

  “The guys who know him said he never carries a weapon, and it’s served him well. Three arrests, all bumped down to misdemeanors, one time-served, and a three-month, then six-month stint in county. No hard-jail time.”

  “And he then kills a woman for a ring?”

  “Could have been hired.”

  They both shook their heads at the same time.

  “Let’s play with him a bit. He’s a two-bit thief. Money drives him.”

  The on-call detective said, “Hey, DeLucca, you need to pressure Bartz? Drop his buddy’s name—Franks. His stats are in the rap sheet. They’re friendly rivals.”

  “Thanks, Parker.”

  He turned to Suzanne. “Let’s see what this guy has to say.”

  Jimmy Bartz was a scrappy forty-year-old who didn’t look strong enough to snap a toothpick. Suzanne could see why he was an effective thief—he looked harmless, skittish, and had quiet gray eyes. But his eyes became fearful when he saw Joe’s stern expression.

  “You’re not Detective Kramer.”

  “I’m Detective Joe DeLucca. This is Special Agent Suzanne Madeaux with the FBI.”

  Bartz looked at Suzanne. “FBI? Why’s the FBI here? Detective Kramer handles property crimes in this jurisdiction.”

  Joe smiled slyly. “You know our system well. Kramer is off today. I’m in Homicide.”

  “Homicide? Why is Homicide handling property crimes? Why is the FBI here?”

  This guy was either a great actor or truly clueless.

  Joe said, “You tell us the truth and you’ll be able to walk out the door today. You lie to us and you’ll be in Rikers before lunch.”

  “I told the officers exactly what happened. I found that ring, just wanted to know how much it was worth.”

  “You pawned it for two thousand dollars.”

  “It was worth a lot more than I thought. I thought it was fake, thought I’d get two bills, maybe three.”

  “Where did you find the ring?”

  “At Citi Field.”

  “In the stadium?”

  “No, in the parking lot.”

  “Inside someone’s car?”

  “No, just lying on the ground.”

  Suzanne said, “Was it on the finger of a dead woman?”

  Bartz’s eyes darted back and forth between the two of them. “Dead woman? There was no dead woman. It was just lying on one of the white lines. I saw it sparkle, picked it up. I swear to God, I didn’t take it off any dead chick. I didn’t even steal it, I swear I found it.”

  Joe leaned back. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Kramer would believe me. Call him; he’ll tell you if I’m lying. He always knows.”

  “I’m telling you, you’re lying.” Joe stared at Bartz. The thief fidgeted.

  Joe glanced at Suzanne and gave her a subtle signal. She stood up. “Well, you can have him, DeLucca. He doesn’t know anything, I’ll talk to the other guy about the reward—what was his name?”

>   “Carmine Franks.”

  “Franks. That’s right. Is he next door?”

  “Yes, just tell the desk sergeant you’re ready.”

  “Reward?” Bartz said. “What kind of reward?”

  “For information leading to the murderer of Rosemary Weber,” Suzanne said. “You found her ring, we thought you might have seen something. I didn’t want to deal with this Franks guy—he’s a jerk—but I need to get information any way I can.”

  “I don’t know anything about a murder, but neither does Franks!”

  “How do you know what Franks knows?” Joe asked.

  “He’s been in Jersey with his daughter all week. Just came back yesterday. His oldest had a baby boy. First grandson and all that. Ask him, because he saw nothing.”

  “And you did?”

  Bartz hesitated, trying to think up something to tell them to get him closer to the fictitious reward. Joe nodded at Suzanne, and she left the room, watching through the one-way mirror.

  “Look,” Joe said conversationally to the suspect, “you have a ring that was last seen on a dead woman. You hocked it. Now you’re telling me you found it at Citi Field.”

  “Right. Because I did.”

  “I believe you.”

  Bartz looked relieved.

  “What day?”

  Bartz thought about it.

  “It’s not a hard question, Jimmy.”

  “Tuesday?”

  “Morning or night.”

  “Night?”

  “Why are you asking me? Either you found it Tuesday night or you didn’t.”

  “I did.”

  Then Joe hit him with the facts. “The woman was killed at Citi Field. In the parking lot. On Tuesday night. And I’m going to book you for murder.”

  “You can’t!”

  “I’m a homicide detective. It’s what I do.”

  “But—but—”

  Suzanne came in and handed Joe a file. It was blank, but Joe smiled. He didn’t say anything.

  “Special circumstances,” Suzanne said. “We’ll take the prosecution, since we can try him for the death penalty.”

  “You got it,” Joe said. “I love this new task force, Agent Madeaux. Especially since New York no longer has a death sentence.”