Girl Watching You

by J. A. Schneider

  The drink was thoughtless. In our crazed early days, mojitos were our favorite. At our wedding – by the beach in the Hamptons – there were pitchers of it, more popular than the champagne cascade. “Rum, more rum!” Alex hollered, barefoot in a tux, one arm around happy me in my gown, the other waving an empty pitcher over his head. The photographer caught us like that; it was our favorite wedding photo till things went south.

  Oblivious, he’s spreading his files and pointing. “Deposition’s next week and Moore’s attorney is a killer.” He says the word so easily. “Re-read all this; study it because…”

  At least he hesitates there.

  Because I was a mess when we filed the civil suit, barely absorbing legal terms like our Complaint and Moore’s haughty Answer.

  I pick up the papers, and read. I do believe that Alex cared about Kim, but this is also a huge case. It will make his name.

  It flays my heart to skim words like “personally witnessed abuse,” and “decedent’s emailed description of being thrown”… versus Moore’s attorney’s sanctimonious accusation of “plaintiff’s unjust search for personal gain and attempt to sully my client’s stellar reputation.”

  Personally witnessed…personally witnessed - the phrase repeats throughout the document.

  Blood oozes from Kim’s head. I see the gash soaking the back of her scalp as she wept and I cringed, dabbing it with a moist cloth, trying to console, trying to beg and reason. It happened a month after they moved back to Moore’s place in New York.

  “He didn’t mean it, he just gets upset,” she insisted, gasping in pain. By then the police had arrived; heavy steps were pounding up the stairs, moving into Brett’s last-days-of-Pompeii bathroom with its gold faucets and Oscar replicas on pedestals.

  He said, she said.

  Moore was downstairs in his grand duplex, insisting that Kim fell from that bar stool to the slate floor. He pretended concern for his “very emotional” girlfriend; showed no sign of his fury that I was the one who called the police.

  Early in their relationship, he’d plead for forgiveness. He had anger issues, so hard to control! Surely, with her love he could overcome, blah, blah.

  He’d also told her that, if she ever reported abuse to the cops, it would be the end of them.

  So even on that terrible night of Falling Off the Bar Stool, Kim lost her nerve, didn’t press charges. I alone saw it happen; Alex had been in another room. It’s my testimony that Moore’s attorney will be tearing apart, starting in that patronizingly fake warm way of his, then stepping up his attack from subtle to offensive, designed to unravel me.

  Alex sips his mojito and talks as I read, fist pressed to my mouth, fighting tears. He reassures that he’ll be there to object to anything out of line. “You remember every detail?”

  “Yes.” We’ve met twice before about this. He wants to be sure his coaching has sunk in.

  “Keep your voice and features neutral.”

  “Right.” My chest tightens.

  “No aggressive leaning forward, no glaring over at Moore.”

  “Right.” Heart whams.

  “Extra care when you get to describing him slamming her off the bar stool. If you exaggerate or get emotional-”

  “I won’t!”

  “See that? You do. A defense lawyer’s dream: you get overwrought and crazy.”

  I glare at him.

  Alex is used to it, sighs, and slugs more mojito. Six weeks from now we’ll be officially divorced, but he’s business-hyper as usual; points enthusiastically to the fourth paragraph in the Complaint. “Actually, this is the best we’ve got.”

  It’s Kim’s emailed confession to me. After months of my pleas she’d finally admitted, when they were still in L.A., that Brett was “a hitter.” He’d slapped her, then said sorry…hit her harder and thrown her down then said sorry…it got worse…and then came the zinger.

  Kim’s own words.

  “But each time he begs forgiveness! He also says if I ever report him, it would be the end of us, destroy HIM and the brave progress he’s made.

  Two of Moore’s previous girlfriends reported the same exact line: report me and it will be the end of us.

  It was how he maintained his new girl supply. All of them young, needful starlets. When one fled, he’d lure a new one. Charm, hurt, threaten, repeat.

  And kill, in Kim’s case.

  If her words had been written on paper, they would have been soaked with tears. Now they’re a legal document.

  With my heart exploding, I lay down the papers.

  Alex sweeps them into a blue plastic folder, and hands it to me. “I’ve attached notes where they’ll try to trip you up,” he says hastily. “Be ready for them, the devil’s in the details. Hey, you didn’t touch your mojito.”

  It’s darker when we leave. Pedestrians pass and traffic moves; a horn blasts and my head splits.

  “Whoa,” Alex says, peering down to the lit, now-quieter police activity: just uniforms and the yellow tape.

  It comes back, the thought I had hours earlier.

  “Alex?”

  “Huh?”

  “When I suggested meeting at Régine’s, you said, ‘Perfect.’ Why was that?”

  He has stepped away to see better, stares at Chloe’s brownstone.

  “I was curious,” he says. “I know that guy. Know of him, I mean.”

  “What guy? I heard the murdered girl was dating someone named Green…or Gray…or-”

  “Greer,” Alex says, stepping back to me. People pass; he lowers his voice. “This is on the QT, okay? Very hush-hush.”

  “Sure.” From four years of marriage, Alex knows I can keep secrets. He also enjoys gossip.

  “His name’s Peter Greer, equities hotshot, our firm handles a lot of his business. Hell, he has three firms handling his stuff, so lawyers talk.” Alex peers back down the block. “He was dating her, Cleo something …”

  “Chloe.”

  “Oh, right.” He turns to scan the street for cabs. One approaches and he starts to wave, but its light is off and it’s taken. He makes a face, turns back. “Anyway, he had an alibi. His wife and housekeeper said he came home drunk, passed out and stayed home. The cops questioned him there.”

  “He’s married?” I fake surprise.

  “When it suits him, their divorce is pending – oops.”

  The headlights sweep in from West Fourth, the dome light is on, and Alex’s hand signals. The cab pulls over. He starts to get in, then turns back as if unable to resist dishing more.

  “His alibi’s good, but this is still serious for Greer. Another girl he was involved with was killed.”

  I look at him.

  “Shot behind a bar on Greenwich, no witnesses, no suspects. This makes two dead girls connected to him; his lawyer at Dewey Phipps is gearing up.”

  A six-partner, get-out-of-jail powerhouse. “Two girls?” I repeat, stunned. The asphalt jumps beneath my feet. “Which lucky creep is his lawyer?”

  “Blair Dewey, none other. You’re getting me nervous. Repeat none of this, okay?”

  I shrug as if he’s asked for nothing.

  The cabbie’s getting impatient, and Alex leans to kiss my cheek. “Be careful, seriously,” he says. “Somebody killed that girl and it’s on this street.”

  14

  Charm, hurt, threaten, kill…

  And powerful lawyers: rich predators get away with it. Perfect alibis, no witnesses, no suspects….

  I stand, staring after the cab until its taillights disappear.

  My blood boils. That last bit Alex dropped has bombed any thoughts of going home, trying to sleep.

  Now what?

  I pace the sidewalk, furiously kick a paper cup. If I had tried harder – screamed, thrown things - I could have prevented my sister’s death. If I had banged on that window, another young woman wouldn’t have died. I can’t live with this. What to do now?

  Lights flicker from the sidewalk dives; music wafts out. Under a street lamp,
I get out my phone, go online. Still nothing on how Chloe was killed. Alex said the first girl was shot…

  Something nags.

  I tap the phone screen: there. Beth Jarrett, I’d forgotten…. She left a shaky voice mail minutes ago. I move to a near bench, sit, and call her back.

  Her voice stumbles and tumbles. She’s so sorry, she won’t be coming to Régine’s, she’s just going to fall into bed.

  “I’m in a hotel,” she says. “Scared to ever go back to that building.”

  “Understandable,” I say. She sounds like she’s been hitting her room’s minibar.

  “…exhausted but afraid I won’t get to sleep…so mad they let him go! What are the police for? They do nothing!” A pause…for another pull from a little bottle? I picture vodka and peanuts.

  “So I called him,” Beth blurts. “Just got Peter’s voice mail - but I told him I know; Mia and I both know he killed Chloe because we heard that fight.”

  My heart starts to race. “Wait. You called Peter Greer?”

  “Yes! I shouldn’t have; now I’m scared he’ll come after me!” Beth’s thin voice goes higher. “That’s why I’m going to be on the 9:30 Amtrak tomorrow, take time from work. My family’s in Bangor and frantic-”

  “Bangor, that’s good, you’ll be safe.” My shoulders hunch tight. My hand presses to my ear blocking noise. “How do you happen to have Greer’s number?”

  Mistake! Should have just asked for the number - but no, now I have to hear about Chloe’s pregnancy scare, throwing up, sick as a dog and scared Peter would be mad…asking Beth to call and tell him. The next day they found it was just a summer virus-

  “Beth,” I cut in, breathing faster. “Please give me his number?”

  “Why? I don’t think-”

  “I can help at this end,” I improvise. “The police have their hands tied.”

  “I’ll say. Okay, wait a sec, I’m scrolling…it’s here somewhere, wait…got it!”

  She recites, slowly, the ten digit number. I key it fast into my phone, and thank her.

  Can’t hang up.

  Now she’s crying that she’ll have to leave the prettiest little studio ever; for security will probably have to move into one of those hideous ice cube tray buildings.

  “But I have to get out of the neighborhood,” she says. “Peter’s new party pad’s just blocks away on Charles Street; he lives there now.”

  “I’ve heard that.”

  “The police said he went home drunk to Fifth, where he used to live. When they were fighting I didn’t think he sounded that drunk; he’ll back on Charles fast. I’m never going near there. You should be careful too.”

  “I will. Beth…this is painful…. Do you or Mia know how Chloe was killed?”

  The question shocks for a moment. Then: “No.”

  I say nothing; stare down at shadows on the asphalt. Feet moving past. Dogs getting walked.

  “Mia never saw her face,” Beth says tremulously. “She entered the room and it was ice cold because the window was…left open, the curtain was flapping. Chloe was facing away, on her side…naked - in that freezing room! Mia knew something was horribly wrong, but went up to her…touched her arm and…nothing!” A tearful pause. “She called her name – Chloe, Chloe – then poked her arm harder. Nothing… Chloe’s arm was ice cold, and she didn’t move, and Mia remembered that fight and ran out screaming thinking she was maybe strangled – oh-h!”

  Torrents of tears at the other end. Long moments of trying to comfort; commiseration that Mia might not really be headed for a collapse. She has a loving, supportive family? Good. Her mother said they’re having her talk to a therapist? Good. Yes, it was a horrible, horrible experience, one she’ll never forget, but she’ll pull through….

  “You’ve both learned a lot about the world. You came to New York thinking it was one big oyster…”

  “Not really,” Beth manages, sniffling. “We heard about someone getting murdered up at Columbia. It was over drugs. It’s just that…to have it happen to your friend – and in the same building….”

  I commiserate more, wish Beth comfort in Bangor.

  She signs off, her voice sorrowful and blurry, of which only the words “still can’t believe” were intelligible.

  I disconnect. Shakily copy her number into my saved contacts.

  Then stare at my phone’s other new entry.

  Peter Greer’s cell phone number, imagine that.

  Perfect alibi…the police have their hands tied….

  I stand, and what happens next feels like a giant magnet pulling me.

  I head the five blocks to Charles Street.

  15

  On Seventh there’s a place that stays open till midnight, and carries everything from John Coltrane and Elvis vinyl records to classic DVDs to power cords, cell phones, and new computers. Squint: It’s a one hundred-year kaleidoscope of pop culture and technology. A 1910 gramophone sits under an overhead TV playing the Yankees game. Two kids near me hold up a VCR and ask the clerk, “So what do you do with it?”

  I’m buying a new burner phone, my other one’s timed out. The young man waiting on me asks if I need spy equipment too. “Tiny as a speck,” he says. “Camera and audio, latest upgrade.”

  I say no thanks, and start to pay with cash. The TV above switches from an ad to news, and the words “Chloe Weld” catches my attention.

  “…shot,” I hear; and, “police request anyone with information…”

  My hand freezes as the clerk hands me change. My fingers tighten on it, and I stare, blinking, at the counter top. First one shot behind a bar on Greenwich, no witnesses, no suspects. This makes two dead girls….

  “Sure you don’t want that spy equipment?” the clerk smiles. “You look a little haunted.”

  I say no again.

  Back on Seventh, I head west into Charles. It’s a moonless night, little traffic. The street seems to get narrower, older, the street lamps further apart. Pretty facades in the semidarkness: black shutters, white-painted surrounds to the windows, wisteria climbing up red brick.

  Finally, there it is ahead, Peter Greer’s new brownstone. Four stories, a bit Belle Époque. It has a back terrace overlooking what the realty listing called “a breathtaking garden of paths and arbors.”

  My own breathing speeds up.

  Approaching, I see one lamp lit near a downstairs window. Probably on a timer. The rest of the building is dark, and I’m not surprised. Greer probably isn’t even here.

  So why did I come? I storm at myself, standing across the street staring at the place.

  I don’t know…some fierce, controlling impulse pulled me. Maybe I just wanted to see it, case it. He may still be hung over, getting tended by his former housekeeper…or - more likely - holed up dreading the release of his name, reporters crowding this street’s no-privacy sidewalk. His Fifth Avenue apartment is high above security desks and surveillance cameras and men in uniforms guarding entrances.

  I picture the sonofabitch’s lawyers coming and going, free from prying eyes…such pampered protection!

  My anger flares higher.

  So what’s next?

  For starters, I want to make him afraid.

  I’m going to text him from my burner.

  Inside a service alley across the street, I watch my trembling fingers hit his number; and then I write…and peer at what I wrote…and hesitate.

  This moment feels like stepping off a gangplank.

  I take a deep, deep breath, jerkily hit Send, and off it goes: You killed her. I know you did. Signed, Girl Watching You.

  It is done.

  Still shaking, I stare stupidly down at my phone. The whoosh of my pulse fills my ears.

  Now what?

  Moments pass and I finally exhale, feeling a letdown, a curious frustration. I can’t picture him reading the text! Does he frown? Curse? Ignore, think he’s been pranked?

  I grit my teeth, look back to his darkened house, and realize: I want to hear the bastard�
��s voice. I want to shake him up; know fear even a little close to what his women felt.

  Deep breaths, deep breaths…

  A middle-aged couple passes, just feet in front of me. I pull further into shadows, wait till they’re on the next block, then wait for two cars to pass. This is terrifying and crazy and my adrenalin approves. Vengeance, I think…

  …so across the street I dart, then slow again; wait casually for another car and a cab to pass. The street lamp is behind me. I watch my shadow enter Greer’s service alley, move over cobblestones toward his garden in back…

  Wait, it’s too dark back there. Just silhouetted shrubs and dying flower beds.

  I retreat halfway back, lean in shadow against the neighbor’s wall. I can make out Greer’s first floor terrace. Easy access to that one – easier, even, than the Moore Street mansion: just a few short, wrought-iron steps to the garden. When he’s back I’ll…what?…throw bricks, leave accusing notes, wreck his sleep-

  A car and then a cab pass. I freeze, lean on a Dumpster.

  They’re gone. I gulp air.

  Now.

  My fingers, like wild and trembling birds, select his number. Calm, I plead with myself. It’ll just go to voice mail. He’s besieged. His lawyer told him not to answer but I’ll leave my message, real menace like Beth Jarrett did.

  “Yeh?” says a male voice.

  My breath stops.

  Stunned, I let the silence stretch.

  “Who the hell?” Quick, impatient.

  Words force their way out. “Did you find your text?” I breathe low, shaky.

  “Yes. Is this Girl Watching You?”

  I say nothing. Remind my banging heart that he can’t trace a burner.

  “The text wasn’t enough, you had to call, right? Get your jollies?”

  He sounds not at all hung over. I recall Beth questioning how drunk he’d been.

  “Why did you kill her?” I whisper.

  A soft snicker. “Now what kind of question is that?”

  Silence.

  Faintly, I hear a siren, blocks away.