Someone Is Watching (20 page)

“Yes.”

“Well, if you didn’t have your lights on, he couldn’t see a damn thing,” she assures me, the same thing I’ve been telling myself repeatedly since last night. It was pitch black in my bedroom. Even with the lightning, there was no way he could have seen me.

“I was so scared.”

“Well, no wonder. It’s creepy as hell. It would have freaked me out.” She looks toward the closed blinds of my window. “No shortage of crazy people in this world, that’s for sure.”

“Careful. I’m one of them.”

“You’re not crazy, Bailey. You’ve been through a highly traumatic ordeal. You’re not sleeping. You’re having nightmares, experiencing flashbacks. It’s only natural that you’d …”

“… be seeing things that aren’t there?”

She shrugs and for an instant, I see traces of Jade. “I don’t believe that for a second. I think we should call the police.”

“What? Why?”

“Tell them what happened.”

“Tell them what exactly? That I’m some sort of weird Peeping Tom who may or may not have seen her neighbor masturbating in the privacy of his very own bedroom.…”

“It’s not exactly private when you do it in front of your window with all the lights on,” Claire argues.

“I’m the one spying on him through binoculars! Why do you want me to call the police? What aren’t you saying?”

Claire hesitates.

“What?”

“It’s probably nothing.”

“What?” I say again.

“I don’t want to alarm you.…”

“For God’s sake, just spit it out.”

She takes a deep breath and pushes the reluctant words from her mouth. “It can’t have escaped your notice that the man you’ve been watching fits the general description of the man who raped you.” She takes another deep breath and holds it, waiting for my reaction.

Of course this hasn’t escaped my notice. But I wrote it off as too coincidental, another by-product of my growing paranoia. “You really think it could be him?”

“All I’m saying is that he fits the general description. And he’s an exhibitionist and a pervert who lives right across the way. He might have noticed you, liked what he saw, and started following you.” She pauses, watching my face for signs her words are sinking in. “I don’t know about you, but the more I think about it, the less crazy it sounds and the more worried I get. I’m calling the police.”

—

Detective Castillo arrives at my door, along with another uniformed officer he introduces as Officer Dube—“spelled Dube, pronounced Dubie,” he explains—some forty minutes later. Detective Marx got married on Friday and is off on her honeymoon. I feel a slight sense of betrayal, not so much that she has deserted me but
that she didn’t tell me her good news. I wonder if she felt I couldn’t handle her happiness.

I note that Officer Dube is tall and slender with reddish blond hair and a tiny scar that wiggles across the bridge of his nose. He looks barely out of his teens. I usher the two men into my living room. Claire and I sit together on one sofa, our hands entwined; the police officers perch on either end of the other, facing us. Claire explains the situation as Detective Castillo, casual as always in a short-sleeved, green-and-white-checkered Brooks Brothers shirt and brown pants, takes notes. “Okay, so just so I have this right: You think this neighbor you saw masturbating last night might be the guy who attacked you.”

“That’s correct,” Claire tells him.

“You were looking through your binoculars,” Castillo says to me, then stops abruptly. “Do you mind my asking why?”

“It’s just something I do,” I explain weakly.

“Often?”

“Force of habit. It was part of my job.” Part of who I am.

“But you’re not working now.”

“No.”

“You’re missing the point here, Detective,” Claire says.

“The point being …?”

“That not only has this man been deliberately parading around naked in front of his window and entertaining an assortment of young women, also naked and on full display,” Claire says, “but he was also spying on Bailey. She saw him staring at her last night.”

“Through
his
binoculars,” Detective Castillo states. “A bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

“I don’t think so at all. Who knows how long he’s been spying on her? He knows Bailey is an investigator—he attacked her while she was on surveillance—and he thinks it’s fun watching her now, catching up on his handiwork. The only
coincidence,
if you insist on calling it that, is that Bailey inadvertently started watching him as well.”

The two officers exchange glances. “You have to admit it’s a bit far-fetched.”

“I told you we shouldn’t have called.”

“Are you going to arrest him or not?” Claire asks.

“On what grounds? For looking at his neighbors through binoculars? I’d have to arrest you, too,” he tells me.

“Are you at least going to bring him in for questioning?” Claire persists.

“You can’t just bring people in for questioning without proper cause. You work for a law firm,” he says to me. “You know that.” Castillo runs his hand through his hair, clearly exasperated. “All right. Let’s have a look.”

Claire is immediately on her feet, marching toward my bedroom. The detective and officer follow after her, and I trail after them. “He’s home,” Claire says, triumphantly. “His lights are on.” She grabs the binoculars off my bed and passes them to the police detective. “Three floors from the top, four windows from the left.”

“Were the lights in your bedroom on when you were watching him last night?” Officer Dube asks.

“No,” Claire and I say together.

“It was dark,” I add unnecessarily.

“Then there’s no way he could have seen you,” Castillo remarks. “I doubt he could even differentiate one apartment from the other, especially with the rain.” He sighs and hands the binoculars back to Claire. “Okay. We’ll go talk to him.”

“Can you do that without letting him know we’ve been watching him?”

I hear the fear in Claire’s voice, and I can’t help feel responsible.

“Suppose you leave the police work to us.” It’s more an order than a request.

The phone rings, and I jump at the sound.

“Aren’t you going to get that?” Officer Dube asks after the second ring.

I walk to the phone, lift the receiver to my ear. “Hello, Miss Carpenter?” the voice says, and I feel a familiar dread. “It’s Finn, at the concierge desk.”

What bad news is he about to deliver? “Yes?”

“Can I speak to that police detective?”

For an instant I wonder how Finn knows the police are here. Then I remember he was the one who called to announce their arrival. I hold the phone out to Detective Castillo.

“Castillo,” he says instead of “Hello.” Several seconds elapse, then: “When was that? Okay, yes, thank you. What’s the suite number again? Okay, yes. Thanks.” He hands me back the phone. “It seems that our boy, David Trotter, has resurfaced. I’m afraid the man across the way is going to have to wait.”

This is what happens after the police leave my apartment: Nothing.

Claire and I wait for over an hour, but they don’t come back. They don’t call. “What do you suppose it means?” I ask Claire.

“It means we should get dinner started,” she tells me.

We go to the kitchen where I watch her season the salmon fillets she bought earlier, then peel and slice a bunch of potatoes before smothering them in olive oil and basil and putting them in the oven. I admire her skill, remembering when I, too, used to possess such easy competence. I impulsively decide to make my favorite salad, consisting of watermelon, cucumbers, and feta cheese, a recipe I got from my mother. “That looks delicious,” Claire tells me, and I feel a surge of pride.

I set the table in the dining room, deciding to use my good china and favorite linen napkins. What am I saving them for, after all? “How about some wine?” I ask. I haven’t touched alcohol of any kind since my attack, although I don’t know why. Nobody said I couldn’t. Probably Elizabeth Gordon would say that such
abstinence has something to do with control and my fear of losing it, of my need to be ever vigilant. Something to talk about in our next session.

“I think a glass of wine is a
great
idea,” Claire says. “There just happens to be a very nice California chardonnay in the fridge that I picked up on my way over.…”

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

“You don’t like chardonnay?”

“Of course, I like it. That’s not the point.”

“Then I’m confused,” she says. “What
is
the point?”

“The point is that you shouldn’t be spending your money on me.” I remember Jade telling me that Claire worries a lot about money. “You keep bringing over food and groceries. You buy me magazines and now wine.…”

“The wine’s not just for you.”

“I know that, but …”

“But what?”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because it’s not right.”

“Why isn’t it right?”

“Claire,” I say, sighing in frustration. We’re going around in circles.

“Bailey,” she says in return, tired eyes sparkling.

“You work too hard for your money,” I tell her. “I don’t want you spending it on me.”

“You’re my sister,” she reminds me. “And you’re going through a difficult time right now. Relax, Bailey. It’s not going to last forever. Pretty soon you’ll start feeling stronger. You’ll go back to work. You’ll get your life in order. You won’t need me to come around so often.”

“What if I want you to come around?”

“Then I will,” Claire says with a smile. “And I’ll bring the wine. Now get the bottle out of the fridge, find me some wineglasses, and let’s get this show on the road.” I bring her the
bottle, and she twists open the top while I locate a couple of wineglasses in the cupboard over the sink. “Amazing,” she marvels, pouring us each a glass. “You don’t even need a corkscrew anymore. The miracle of modern technology.” I raise the glass to my lips, about to take a sip when she stops me. “Wait. We have to make a toast.”

Instantly I picture Narcissus and his various conquests toasting each other with martinis. I wonder what the police are doing, if they’ve questioned him yet or whether they’ve decided not to bother. I know that if they do question him, it is strictly to mollify me, to satisfy what they undoubtedly perceive as my growing paranoia. I’m aware of the veiled glances and raised eyebrows that passed between Detective Castillo and Officer Dube. I know that they view me as a pathetic hysteric, a woman unhinged by what happened to her.
Am
I paranoid? Are they right?

“To brighter days ahead,” Claire says, clinking her glass against mine.

“To brighter days,” I mimic, taking a tentative sip of the smooth yellow-gold liquid and watching her do the same.

“Mmm. Good stuff,” she says.

Stuff, I repeat silently, inhaling the intoxicating combination of apple-cinnamon and tropical fruit, a mixture of butter and oak lingering on my tongue. At least Claire doesn’t think I’m paranoid. “To sisters,” I say.

“To sisters.” Her eyes fill with unexpected tears, and she turns away, swiping at her cheeks with the back of her free hand. “I almost forgot. I have something to show you.” She picks up her floppy brown leather purse from the floor next to the counter and rifles through it, her hand emerging seconds later with a white envelope. “For your amusement,” she says, handing it to me.

“What’s this?” I take another sip of my wine before lowering my glass to the counter. Then I open the unsealed envelope and pull out three photographs. At first I think I’m looking at pictures of Jade. Then I realize it’s not Jade, but her mother, taken some sixteen years ago. Her hair is longer than it is now and is secured
behind one ear by a spray of plastic lilacs. She is wearing a short white satin dress that is neither stylish nor flattering, but the resemblance to Jade is startling. Even more startling is the man standing beside her. The man is Elvis Presley. “Oh, my God. Is this …?”

“My wedding pictures, as promised. That’s the Elvis impersonator who married us, and this,” she says, indicating the sullen-faced youth wearing a leather jacket and jeans who is standing beside her in the remaining two photographs, “this is Eliot. Notice the beady little eyes and the nasty, self-satisfied expression.”

Claire isn’t being cruel. Nor is she exaggerating. It’s hard to miss either the groom’s eyes or his expression. The cat who not only swallowed the canary but chewed it up. “A weasel,” I hear my father shout from beyond the grave. “What’s the matter with that girl? She married a goddamn weasel. Can’t she see he only married her to get at her inheritance?” As usual, he was right. Eliot does look like a weasel, and he did marry her for her projected inheritance, an inheritance that my father, in keeping with his earlier threats, then revoked. It’s hard now to understand what Claire saw in the rodent-faced young man, so profoundly different is he from our handsome, charismatic father. Unless that’s exactly what she found so attractive.

But Eliot is long gone, and I have the power to return to Claire at least a portion of her birthright. I wonder if Heath would be agreeable, if he’d even entertain the possibility of sharing part of our estate. Would he consent to a meeting with our half-siblings in an effort to settle the lawsuit hanging over all our heads, a lawsuit that keeps us stuck in a past full of old grievances, that prevents us from moving forward, from getting on with our lives, as Sean has suggested? Of course, Sean has already moved on with
his
life. And my brother has vanished into thin air, as is his frequent wont. Where the hell is he? Why hasn’t he called?

“You notice how neither the bride nor the groom is smiling,” Claire remarks.

“At least Elvis looks happy,” I remark.

“I’ll drink to that,” she says.

And we do.

—

It is almost two hours later. We have finished our dinner and are halfway through our second bottle of wine when the phone rings. I jump at the sound and drop my knife. It hits the marble floor and disappears underneath the dining room table.

“My mother used to say that, according to ancient superstition, when you drop a knife it means a man is coming over,” Claire says, and I shudder, struggling to retrieve the knife and almost falling off my chair in the process. Maybe if I pick it up fast enough, the man, whoever he may be, will be persuaded to stay away.