by Jason Starr
“Charlotte O’Dougal,” Romero said.
“Yeah, Charlotte O’Dougal,” I said.
“We had no idea at first,” Glazer explained. “There were no witnesses to the murder and no fingerprints or other physical evidence. All we had to go on was a price sticker on the murder weapon.”
“A price sticker?” I said.
“The steel sharpener had been purchased at Bed Bath and Beyond,” Glazer explained. “On the chance the purchase had been made recently, we contacted the Bed Bath and Beyond stores in the New York area and created a list of the people who had purchased this particular steel sharpener and who’d paid by credit card. Rebecca Daniels was on this list. She’d purchased the steel sharpener at the Sixth Avenue store on Thursday afternoon with a Discover card.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I said. “Just because she bought a steel sharpener, what makes you think she killed somebody?”
“I guess you don’t know about Rebecca Daniels’s history,” Romero said.
“History?” I asked.
Romero and Glazer exchanged looks again.
“Three years ago Rebecca Daniels was living in L.A.,” Romero said.
“Yeah, so?” I said.
“Did you know she was married to a man named David Hardle?”
So Rebecca hadn’t been lying about her former husband, the other David.
“Yeah, she did tell me a little about that, just recently, as a matter of fact,” I said. “She said they got divorced.”
Romero and Glazer looked at each other, smirking.
“What’s so funny?” I said.
“It wasn’t a divorce,” Romero said. “What your girlfriend might’ve forgotten to tell you is that one night she stabbed her husband to death in the chest with a steel sharpener. She claimed somebody broke into the house and did it, but the case was pretty much open-and-shut. Her prints were on the murder weapon, and she had motive. The victim’s friends said Hardle had been having an affair and wanted out of the marriage, and Daniels was giving him a hard time about it.”
Feeling dazed, wondering if this was really happening, I said, “So if Rebecca killed her husband, why didn’t she go to jail?”
“Thank the American legal system,” Romero said. “Evidence was mishandled, witnesses lied, and, apparently, Daniels was good on the stand. She claimed her prints got on the weapon when she tried to pull it out of her husband’s chest. The jury bought it and she got off and moved to New York.”
One of the cops searching through Rebecca’s things said, “Hey, Frank, check this out.”
Glazer and Romero went over and the cop showed them a pair of Rebecca’s shoes. Glazer examined the shoes closely, then said, “Looks good.” The cop put the shoes in a plastic bag, and then another cop showed the detectives one of Rebecca’s jackets.
As the detectives and the cops continued to talk, I tried to absorb the fact that for over a year I’d been living with a cold-blooded killer. Rebecca had told me that I didn’t really know her, and now I knew what she meant. Then I started to imagine what could’ve happened on Thursday night. I’d thought Rebecca had been asleep when I left to meet Charlotte at the bar, but she could’ve been awake. She could’ve followed me downtown, maybe in another cab, and seen me with Charlotte. She could’ve assumed that Charlotte was Angie, then followed her home and killed her.
Romero and Glazer returned to their seats on the couch. “So you really had no idea about what happened in L.A.?” Romero said to me.
“If I knew, why would I stay with her?”
“Unfortunately we might have some more bad news for you,” Romero said, and then he turned to Glazer.
“Charlotte O’Dougal,” Glazer said to me, “the woman who was killed, was a junkie and a prostitute. She lived with a guy named Ricardo Alvarado.”
Glazer showed me a picture of Ricky. This photo looked much more recent than the one of Charlotte. Ricky’s scruffy face and dark, wolflike eyes looked painfully familiar. Somehow I managed to stay calm.
“Alvarado and O’Dougal had a history of domestic abuse,” Glazer said. “On Thursday morning he was found dead from severe head injuries in front of the building where he and O’Dougal lived. It was just a few feet away from where we discovered O’Dougal’s body.”
“Jesus,” I said, still looking at the photo. I realized that my hands were tensing, and I had to consciously try to keep them still.
“Initially we thought Alvarado’s murder had been drug-related, or maybe a botched robbery attempt,” Glazer said, “but now that his girlfriend’s dead it looks like there could be more to it. Do you have any idea what Rebecca’s connection to these people was?”
“Nope,” I said, shaking my head.
“Are you sure?” Glazer asked.
“Positive.”
“Look at the pictures again,” Romero said.
I glanced at them, then said, “Sorry, I’ve never seen these people before. I’m absolutely positive.”
They seemed to believe me.
“Do you have any idea at all how Rebecca Daniels could’ve come into contact with them?” Glazer asked.
“Nope,” I said, shaking my head. “I mean, Rebecca used to go out a lot—I mean, dancing at clubs downtown. She also went to raves sometimes in the East Village and Alphabet City. Maybe she met them at a club or something.”
“You know which clubs she went to?” Glazer asked.
I gave him the names of several clubs I knew Rebecca had gone to—Vivid, Carbon, Chaos, Twirl. The way Glazer was writing in his pad I could tell he thought he had a serious lead.
“You told Detective Romero that Rebecca took various drugs,” Glazer said. “What about heroin?”
“What about it?”
“Alvarado and O’Dougal were hard-core addicts,” Glazer said. “Did your girlfriend shoot up?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Where were you Thursday night?” Romero asked.
“Thursday, lemme think,” I said, as if I had to remember. “I think I was home.”
“You think?”
“I’m positive. What difference does it make where I was?”
“We got Rebecca Daniels’s autopsy results in yesterday. She had Ketamine in her system as well as extremely high levels of GHB, otherwise known as liquid Ecstasy. She could’ve OD’d, or somebody could’ve slipped the drugs into a drink.”
“Hold up,” I said. “If you think I had anything to do with Rebecca’s death—”
“You admitted having your hands around her throat, and we got two witnesses, Raymond Ramirez and Carmen Stappini, who say you and Daniels had been fighting a lot lately.”
“I want a lawyer,” I said.
“You’re not under arrest,” Romero said.
“I don’t care,” I said.
“Look, if you want to know the truth, I don’t think you killed your girlfriend,” Romero said. “But until we’re sure who killed Charlotte O’Dougal and Ricardo Alvarado, all options are open.”
“I’m telling you,” I said, “I don’t know anything about any of this, and that’s the God’s honest truth.”
“Did Rebecca mention anything unusual happening in her life lately?” Glazer asked.
“Unusual?” I said.
“Maybe someone had threatened her or tried to blackmail her?”
I had to catch my breath, but I coughed into my hand to cover it up.
“No,” I said.
“Did Rebecca ever mention a guy by the name of Kenny Farrini?”
“Who?” I asked.
Glazer repeated the name.
“Nope, never heard of him,” I said believably. “Why? Is he dead too?” I prayed the answer would be yes.
“Farrini’s alive and well,” Glazer said. “He was I guess what you’d call an associate of Ricky’s. They were small-time con artists, and they both have long rap sheets. We’ve been questioning Farrini, but so far he hasn’t given us much.”
“I have absolutely
no idea who he is,” I said.
The cops seemed to be finishing up searching the apartment. I breathed deeply, hoping this would signal to the detectives that it was time to wrap things up, but Glazer and Romero didn’t budge.
“There’s another theory we’re toying with,” Romero said. “As I’m sure you recall, Rebecca’s friend Raymond Ramirez claimed that Rebecca had told him she thought you were having an affair with that girl—Angie Lerner.”
“So what does that have to do with anything?” I said.
“I already spoke with Ms. Lerner, and she confirmed she wasn’t having an affair with you,” Romero said, “but maybe Rebecca somehow mistook this Charlotte for Angie and killed her in a jealous rage.”
“I guess it’s a possibility,” I said.
“But the questions remain,” Romero said. “Why did she go down to the East Village to kill this woman? How did she get the idea she was Angie? And how does Ricardo Alvarado figure into all of this?”
“Maybe you’re better off with your drug theory,” I said.
“Maybe,” Romero said. “But Charlotte O’Dougal wasn’t a dealer—she was a heroin addict, and there wasn’t any evidence of heroin in Rebecca Daniels’s system. It’s hard to see how drugs could connect them.”
I shook my head, as if stumped. Romero and Glazer exchanged I guess we should go now looks, and then they both stood up.
“Sorry if we interrupted your grieving,” Romero said, maybe sarcastically. “We’ll definitely be in touch.”
After the cops left I bolted the door and remained in the foyer, listening to hear if they were going to talk to Carmen again. I didn’t hear a bell ringing or any voices, and I was satisfied that the detectives had left the building.
The apartment was a mess. Drawers and closet doors had been left open, and some of Rebecca’s stuff was still strewn on the floor. I figured I’d clean later. I’d sweated a lot during the past hour and needed a shower desperately.
I turned on the water as hot as I could stand it, and I used the shower’s massage mechanism, but I couldn’t relax. There had definitely been sarcasm in Romero’s voice—he knew I wasn’t grieving as much as I should be after my girlfriend’s suicide, and he suspected I was somehow involved. I imagined the detectives going to talk to Kenny again and accusing him of killing Ricky. If they put enough pressure on him, or even took him in and started beating the crap out of him, he’d turn over the pictures of me, and that would be it.
Then I started replaying the events of Thursday night. I remembered how Charlotte’s phone call had awakened me on the couch. Rebecca could’ve listened in on the conversation on the bedroom extension. Then Rebecca wouldn’t have needed to follow me downtown, because she’d have known I was going to the Holiday Cocktail Lounge. When I came home, I’d seen Rebecca in bed, but I recalled how after I left the bar I’d walked for a while in the rain. Rebecca would’ve had time to kill Charlotte, then return home before I did.
Other details that had confused me were suddenly clear. Rebecca’s motive for suicide was more understandable now, since she was probably reeling from killing Charlotte the night before. Rebecca’s mother’s nonreaction to her daughter’s death also made sense, given the humiliation that Rebecca’s trial had probably brought her.
As the water beat down against my head, I imagined Rebecca stalking Charlotte in the rain. Rebecca was gripping the steel sharpener, maybe concealed inside her coat. As Charlotte approached her building, Rebecca had probably rushed up behind her and forced her way inside. I pictured the steel sharpener going into Charlotte’s bony back and her body crumpling onto the floor. Then I imagined Rebecca standing over the body with a gleeful, crazed expression before walking away in the rain.
The shower water was still very hot, but I got chills anyway, thinking about how Rebecca could’ve easily killed me during one of our fights, or while I was asleep.
I turned the dial on the shower massage to its strongest level. The firm, single stream of hot water kneading into my back and neck muscles still couldn’t relax me.
“Everything’s gonna be okay,” Barbara said.
“Yeah, sure it is,” I said.
I was getting dressed in the bedroom when the buzzer on the intercom sounded again. Now what the hell did the police want?
Deciding that this time I’d definitely refuse to let them into the apartment, even if it meant getting arrested, I said into the intercom, “What is it?”
“New York Post,” a man’s voice said.
Shit, I should’ve realized that the media was going to be all over this story.
“No comment,” I said.
As I walked away, the buzzer sounded again. I ignored it and went back into the bedroom and put on jeans and a sweatshirt. That Post reporter was still ringing the buzzer, and I realized he wouldn’t give up until I gave him some kind of statement. I put on sneakers with no socks and left my apartment. Approaching the vestibule, I saw a young blond guy with his finger on the buzzer to my apartment. Beyond this guy, behind the other door leading to the outside, there seemed to be about ten other people.
I opened the inside door and the small crowd rushed into the vestibule through the other door. They all seemed to be speaking at once, pointing mikes in my direction, shouting questions.
“All right, all right,” I said. When they quieted down I said, “Just go back outside and I’ll make a statement.”
The reporters started to move back outside when I heard someone approaching behind me. I turned around and saw it was Carmen. She was hunched over with her chin tilted up, glaring at me.
“What’s going on now?” she said.
“Nothing,” I said.
“What do you mean, nothing?” she said. “The cops were here before, and now all these reporters are here, causing a racket.”
“Please just go back into your apartment,” I said.
“Why do I have to go back into my apartment? This is my hallway as much as it is yours. I’ve been living here thirty-seven years. I can stand wherever I want to stand.”
I realized it didn’t make a difference whether Carmen heard my comment in person or read about it in tomorrow’s papers.
I went outside and Carmen followed behind me. I was surprised to see a few news cameras aimed at me, in addition to all the microphones. Photographers were there too, and I squinted as the flashes went off.
“This has all come as a shock to me,” I said. “All I ask is that you please have some respect for my privacy during this very difficult time. Thank you.”
As I headed back into the building, stepping around Carmen, the reporters shouted questions at my back. I made out a few of the questions—“Did you know about Rebecca Daniels’s past?” “How does it feel to know your girlfriend was a psychotic murderer?”—then the voices merged into loud noise.
Following me to my apartment, Carmen said, “What’s this about your girlfriend murdering people? What happened now?”
I went into my apartment and bolted the door and put the chain on. Then I went into the hallway closet and took the Phillips screwdriver out from the toolbox in the closet. I unscrewed the cover to the buzzer and yanked out several of the wires. Hopefully the reporters wouldn’t harass me anymore, but just in case I wanted to make sure I didn’t have to listen to the buzzer all night.
Going out to dinner was out of the question now, with all the reporters out there.
“How about we eat in instead?” I asked Barbara.
I didn’t sense her presence the way I had earlier.
“Barb, are you here?”
I waited, but I still didn’t sense anything. I figured I wouldn’t push it; I’d just try again later.
I decided that ordering food in was a bad idea. For all I knew there were even more reporters outside now, and they’d rush the door when I let the delivery guy in.
There wasn’t much in the house to eat: a packet of Cup-a-Soup and a jar of marshmallow fluff in the cupboard, and a package of frozen peas that I
used as an ice pack in the freezer. After I had the Cup-a-Soup, I turned on the TV to the Cartoon Network and ate fluff on a spoon as Tom chased Jerry.
“God, you’re so immature,” Barbara said.
“Are you here?” I said.
“You know what your problem is? Your problem is you never grew up. You can’t let go.”
“Barb?” I said. “Barb?”
There was no answer.
During Popeye, I found myself nodding off. I left the dirty dishes on the coffee table and went into the bedroom and lay down.
I fell asleep and quickly began to dream. Barbara and I were in a split ranch-style house, decorated like Aunt Helen’s house, but it wasn’t, in someplace suburban that looked like Dix Hills, Long Island, except there were mountains. Then the scene switched to Manhattan and we were in Barbara’s old apartment on Eighty-fourth Street. The apartment looked exactly like her old apartment, except the ceilings were much higher and the furniture was different—Danish modern, like the furniture in Aunt Helen’s house. Then Barbara became Charlotte and the dream turned horrifying. Charlotte was sitting on my lap, playing with my hair and kissing me. I tried to get her off me, but she was too heavy; then I stood up, trying to walk, but she was still attached to my thighs. Then Charlotte turned into Kenny and I tried to get away from him, but we were stuck like Siamese twins, and he was laughing in his sick, demented way.
I woke up sweating, convinced that Kenny was attached to me. After a few seconds, I realized I’d been dreaming, but I couldn’t calm down.
The room was empty and very quiet. I still didn’t sense Barbara anywhere.
13
THE NEXT MORNING there were only a few reporters camped in front of the building. As I went down the block they followed me, shouting questions at my back as if I were Princess Di.
Finally I turned around and shouted, “Leave me the hell alone!”
They followed me for another half a block, but gave up as I turned onto Amsterdam. Walking along Seventy-ninth Street, I looked behind me, thankful that the reporters weren’t there.
Crossing Broadway, I stepped off the curb while the light was still yellow, and then I heard the loud, screeching brakes. Thanks to quick reflexes, I managed to jerk backward out of the way, just avoiding getting hit by an SUV. The driver—a young Asian guy—gave me a long, mean stare before he continued on, shaking his head.
