The Follower (33 page)

“Yeah, I know how it is,” John said.

“So Louis tells me you got something going on here, a lead or something?”

John would’ve loved to steer the asshole in the wrong direction—give him some bad info, set him on a wild goose chase. But he did the right thing, telling him everything he knew in great detail and giving him the names and numbers of all his contacts. Barasco kept saying things like “Yeah,” “Uh-huh,” and “I got it,” but seemed to barely be listening. Martinelli was acting the same way, even though he had a pad out and was taking notes.

When John was through, Barasco said, “Thanks for holding down the fort for us, man,” and walked away toward the bar. No handshake, no goodbye, no nothing.

John was glaring at Barasco’s back, imagining running up behind him and sticking a knife into it, when he realized that Martinelli was standing there, choppers gleaming, with his hand extended, waiting to shake.

“Great meeting you, Jim,” Martinelli said.

John gave the kid a long look, then turned and left the bar.

The walk from Second to Third Avenue, where John’s car was parked, was uphill. John didn’t know if he was in shittier
shape than he’d thought or this fucking case had taken a toll on him physically, but three-quarters of the way up the block he had to stop and take a break. It took a while to catch his breath and for his heart to stop pounding. He remembered during his last physical how the doctor had gotten a blood pressure reading of one sixty over ninety, even though John had been taking pressure pills for three years. The doctor had instructed John to lose weight and change his diet. John had done neither, and he hadn’t been taking his medication regularly either. Having a heart attack now would be a fitting end to a very fucked-up day.

He recovered slowly, then took it easy the rest of the way. In his car, he felt better; well, he was confident he wasn’t going to die—not yet anyway.

Driving downtown, there was a lot of traffic, especially approaching the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge, where it took five minutes to move one or two blocks. Occasionally he’d think about Barasco and Martinelli and shout a curse or bang the dash with his fist. He didn’t know how he’d deal with it when he turned on the TV and saw those two cocksuckers shaking hands with the mayor, getting credit for
his
bust. To distract himself, he put on the radio to an oldies station. He loved sixties rock, but even “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” didn’t stop him from feeling like shit.

He pulled over and called his son.

“Hey, what’s up?” Blake asked unenthusiastically.

“That’s the hello I get?” John said.

“What’s going on?”

“I was wondering if you wanted to get together. Maybe grab a cup of coffee.”

“Now?” Blake asked.

“Yeah. Why not? I just thought it would be, you know…nice.”

“But you never want to get together.”

“That’s not true. I’ve just had a lot on my plate lately.”

“I saw you on the news the other night. How’s that case going?”

John didn’t want to get into it. “Fine. Look, can I come by or what?”

“I can’t now,” Blake said. “Mark and I are headed out.”

“Okay,” John said, wondering why he’d bothered. He wasn’t gonna get any closer to his son. He might as well just deal with it.

“I’m sorry,” Blake said. “If you’d called earlier—”

“That’s fine,” John said. “I’ll call you tomorrow and we’ll set something up. Take it easy, okay?”

John was relieved to get off the phone. The traffic was stop and go until he reached the bridge, but then he went at a steady clip the rest of the way to Queens.

He lived in Astoria, on Thirty-seventh near Steinway, in a two-bedroom apartment in a modest two-family brick house. He’d bought it after he married Geraldine and he’d lived in it for twenty-three years, six years alone. Very little had been updated, and it was in desperate need of a woman’s touch.

He wasn’t as tired as he should’ve been, and still didn’t feel like being alone. He stripped to his boxers and T-shirt and then, after standing at the open fridge and putting away a couple of slices of two-day-old pizza with some Rolling Rock, he called the Asian Fantasy Escort Agency and arranged for Mary to come over in forty-five minutes.

John called escorts once in a while and had gotten Mary a few times. She was a young girl, probably twenty-two or twenty-three, from Taiwan. Obviously Mary wasn’t her real name. She spoke English with a strong accent and had a naïve, just-off-the-boat kind of look. Although John had never dated an Asian girl—even in high school most of the girls he’d gone out with were Jewish or Italian—whenever he called an escort, he asked for an Asian girl. He bet a shrink would have a field day with that one.

Mary arrived wearing the same outfit she always wore—a black leather jacket over a skimpy red dress and matching pumps.

“Hey, how are you?” John said, and kissed her on the cheek. He was genuinely happy to see her.

“I’m doing great,” she said. “How are you?”

She was very sweet and very pretty, with her long dark hair and beautiful smile—way too sweet and pretty to be a hooker.
She’d once told John that she was a student at Queens College, but he knew that was bullshit.

“Eh, I’m all right,” John said. “Had a rough couple days.”

“So sorry to hear that,” she said, meaning it. “Don’t worry, everything going to be better now.”

John took her coat. She had a thin, delicate body and had great posture, like she could’ve been a ballet dancer. He asked her if she wanted anything to drink and she said she’d have a glass of water. He brought the water from the kitchen and sat next to her on the couch.

They exchanged small talk for a few minutes. She asked him if he had any plans for the holidays. He lied and said he was going to spend a lot of time with his family. She said her family was planning to visit from out of town, but he knew she was lying, too.

As they talked, she started rubbing his leg. This was how it usually went. After a couple of minutes, she’d reach under his boxers and touch him there for a while, and then she’d do a strip tease. When she was naked, she’d give him a condom to put on and then she’d climb onto his lap. They’d talk dirty to each other, which would be fun for a while, but then, especially afterward, he’d feel like shit.

She was starting to move her left hand toward his lap when he said, “You know, I think I’ll take a rain check for tonight.”

She seemed confused.

“Not tonight,” he said. “You can leave. Here.” He opened his wallet and gave her the hundred and sixty for the visit plus his usual forty-dollar tip.

She didn’t take the money. She seemed insulted, hurt, as if she were on a date and her boyfriend had turned her down.

“You sure you don’t want me suck your very big beautiful cock?”

“No,” John said, “I’m tired and not feeling too well.”

She made a sad face, then said, “I suck your cock very gentle.”

“Really, you should just go now.” Then, as she was putting on her jacket, he said, “You know, you should think about quitting this shit.”

She didn’t seem to understand.

“I mean, get some other job,” he added. “New job. New life.”

“What wrong?” she said. “You don’t like me no more?”

“Of course I like you, that’s why I’m telling you this. You’re beautiful, you’re smart, you can probably do anything. I can help you get a job if you want. Do you want me to help you?”

John didn’t know why he was saying all this, what he hoped to accomplish with this save-one-hooker, save-the-world crap.

“It’s okay,” she said. Then she kissed him on the cheek and said, “Call me again sometime, okay?”

She left and John was suddenly zonked, his lack of sleep the past few days catching up with him big-time. He didn’t even have the energy to go into the bedroom. He lay on the couch, put on the TV for some background noise, and quickly fell asleep. It seemed like he’d been out for a long time, maybe several hours, when his cell phone rang, jarring him awake. He let the voice mail pick up, then whoever it was called again.

“Shit,” he said, and went across the room to the console where he’d placed his phone. It was flashing KATIE PORTER. He’d given Barasco her number and he thought,
Let him do some fucking work
, and went back to the couch without picking up.

Katie sat at her desk, unable
to focus. She wouldn’t have even bothered coming in to work today, but Mitchell had an important meeting with clients from out of town and she had to help him prepare.

She was consumed by—who else?—Peter Wells. Last night, she’d barely slept, imagining that he’d killed Andy and his parents and that he would try to kill her next. At around midnight, she’d left a panicked message for Himoto, telling him that she might have some important information about a friend of hers and to call her back as soon as he could. So far she hadn’t heard from him, and that was fine with her. He was a cop after all. If he didn’t think it was worth following up on, it probably meant that he had better leads, or that he’d even solved the case. Hopefully, it would turn out she’d been exaggerating, scaring the hell out of herself for no reason. Peter was probably just an eccentric guy, not a killer, and meanwhile she was driving herself crazy. Bottom line, it was out of her hands now and she just wanted to forget the whole thing.

Shortly before noon, Mitchell came by her desk while he was on the way out to his meeting.

“Hey, just wanted to thank you for getting everything together for me today,” he said. “I really appreciate it.”

Wondering what was going on—why was Mitchell acting so nice?—Katie said, “It was no big deal.”

“So how’re you doing?” he said in a hushed, oddly concerned tone. “You okay?”

“Fine,” she said cautiously. “I mean, I didn’t sleep much, but…”

“Any news about the murder?”

At first Katie was lost, then it registered, and she said, “Oh, no. Not as of yesterday anyway.”

“I can’t imagine what this has been like for you,” he said. “I mean, to have something like this happen. I’ve been fortunate”— he knocked on the desk—“I’ve had very little tragedy in my life. What I mean is, I’ve never lost someone I was very close to, who I cared about, especially not violently.”

He seemed to have genuine concern for her, but she still didn’t trust him.

“I wasn’t going out with him for very long,” she said. “I mean, not that it’s been easy, because it definitely hasn’t. But it’s not like I lost my husband, or fiancé, or even a long-term boyfriend, you know? But thank you for saying that.”

“Don’t mention it.” He looked at his watch, then said, “Shoot, I wish I didn’t have to run; I would’ve loved to talk longer. I should be back at, what, around four thirty? If you want to pop into my office to talk or whatever, you can. I mean, I guess it would help you to talk about it, right?”

“That’s really nice of you,” Katie said.

“Or, wait, I have a better idea. What’re you doing after work today?”

Katie hoped he wasn’t getting at what she thought he was getting at.

“What do you mean?” she asked suspiciously.

“I was just thinking,” he said, “maybe we could go out for a drink or, hell, even dinner. Nothing too fancy. Just someplace we could talk. I mean, I know you’d probably like to talk, just to get those feelings out there, and I’m a good listener. That’s what people always say about me anyway.”

He smiled widely, leaning over the desk to get closer to her. God, he was such a creep.

“Sorry, can’t make it,” she said, trying to restrain herself from saying,
You’re such a fucking asshole. “
I have other plans.”

“Well, that sucks,” he said. “How about another night? I know I’m open Thursday and Friday nights this week.”

“You know, I think I’m pretty booked up this week, but I’ll let you know.”

“Yeah, you do that. Would be great to have a little one-on-one time, just so you could, you know, get some things off your chest. I’m really looking forward to it.”

One more wide, blinding smile, and then he was gone.

“Yuck,” Katie whispered, feeling like she needed a shower.

Rather than going out to lunch like she usually did, Katie ordered in a Greek salad and spent her lunch hour online, job hunting. She just couldn’t stomach working for Mitchell, that creep, any longer. She didn’t care how quitting looked to prospective employers; her mental health was more important. Some of the job descriptions she came across seemed promising. Over the next several days, she planned to fine-tune her résumé and then she’d start meeting with employment agencies. Her goal was to have a new job within a month.

Having—at least in her mind—settled her immediate employment future, everything suddenly seemed more manageable, including the Peter situation. If Himoto called back, she’d tell him what she knew and let him handle it. If he didn’t call back, she’d do nothing.

It was always great not having Mitchell around. She spent her time fiddling with her résumé and exchanging e-mails with a few friends. Then, around two o’clock, Peter called, probably from an unlisted number, because the caller ID had flashed BLOCKED CALL.

At first, Katie panicked when she heard his voice, but when he started saying crazy things like he was in love with her, and wanted to be with her, she realized she was being ridiculous. He was just some lonely, pathetic loser who thought he could charm women and sweep them off their feet. She told him firmly that she wanted him to stop calling her and she was confident that he got the message.

After she hung up, she felt a little guilty for being so harsh with him, but she knew she’d done the right thing. She barely thought about him, until five o’clock, when she was leaving the building. She hesitated after exiting through the revolving doors, and took a close look around. Then, feeling ridiculous
again for being so paranoid, she walked with the flow of people toward the subway.

On the way home, she decided to stop at Ichiro on Second and Eighty-eighth for dinner. Normally, she was self-conscious about eating out alone, convinced everyone was staring at her, but this time she didn’t feel at all awkward, saying to the waitress, “Table for one, please.”