Stalked (23 page)

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.”