Girl Watching You

by J. A. Schneider

  I pace nervously before the bed, and call Beth Jarrett in Maine.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi Beth, it’s Ava Beck. How are you doing?”

  “Improving, thanks.” She sounds somber and sober. “We went to Chloe’s funeral in Idaho. It was unbelievably sad.”

  “You’re a good friend. I’m sure her family appreciated it. Beth, on Chloe’s…last night, she was buying flowers and I noticed bruises on her right wrist. Did you see them?”

  “Yes, I was there when it happened.”

  “There?” Uneasily, I glance at Kim in our photo.

  Beth hesitates for a moment.

  “The weekend before,” she says slowly, “a party in the Hamptons. Chloe was…fighting with Peter and ran out to the balcony threatening to throw herself off. She almost did. Climbed over the rail and was half hanging on, screaming at him.” Beth’s voice catches. “It was horrible. He ran out and caught her at the last second…hauled her back up.”

  “By the wrist?”

  “Yes, he grabbed her by her wrist and arm…then he had his whole arm around her waist. She had black and blue places on her hip too because she struggled with him. Honestly, her drinking was starting to be a problem; she’d become someone completely different.”

  “So he saved her.” My pacing slows; I’m frowning in confusion. “I’m a little surprised – when I met you that awful night, you sounded very down on him. Angry, blaming.”

  “Oh, I was upset. Lashing out, I guess. The police said she was…killed hours later. After that I didn’t know what to think. But that time he saved her from jumping…that was something. When I rethought it I called that detective back, and told him.”

  “About Peter saving Chloe…”

  “Yes. Detective Kemp, that’s his name. I told him and he thanked me.” A pause. “Do you want to know where it happened? It was in East Hampton on Drover’s Lane, one of those huge old houses with, like, not balconies but verandas that wrap around-”

  “Thanks, Beth. I have to go now. I just wanted to know how those bruises got there.”

  “I’ll never get over this. I hope we can stay in touch when I come back to the city.”

  “Of course. Give me a call when you do.”

  I wish her more comfort, and disconnect. Pace slowly before the closed drapes, peek out to the deepening dusk beyond.

  So that’s it. Those bruises, which have never stopped bothering me, happened days before Chloe’s murder when Greer saved her. Their relationship was ending badly. He could have let her kill herself, but he didn’t.

  Didn’t kill anyone, either. The feeling grows stronger.

  So who did kill Chloe?

  I sink onto the bed, clutching my phone, and breathe in. My new suspicion has to be crazy, but it builds and I’m dying to ask him about it. Please come tonight. Again I hear Peter’s voice. Since talking to Beth, my desire to go is feeling stronger….

  My phone rings in my hand.

  “I saw him! I saw him!” Mel Cooper, sounding breathless.

  “Saw who?”

  “Peter Greer just minutes ago! I was feet away, even got a pic of him!”

  “Walking down the street, was he?”

  “No, silly. I had just turned into Seventy-ninth for that tutoring gig and saw this long black limo pull up in front of his building. There were all these reporters so word must have leaked that he was coming – and they mobbed the car, spilled into the street, even; stopped traffic. Cops came up and moved them back; then he got out with, like, two lawyer types and went into the building - walked right past the doormen. I squeezed in and got his picture.”

  I frown, surprised at how embarrassed and deflated I feel. Guess my decision has been made for me. Just as well, I try hard to persuade myself. I’m too tired to think and it really would have been dangerous. What was I thinking?

  “So he’s gone back to Fifth,” I say.

  “Understandable. Better security and all that; even their doormen look armed.” Mel’s still excited. “Y’know, I have to give him credit – continuing to live his life normally. If he were guilty wouldn’t he be hiding away? Ducking cameras and all that?”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t choose criminal defense law.”

  “Maybe you’re right. Eeek, it’s almost seven-thirty, I’m going to be late! Check it out, it’s online!”

  I disconnect, sigh, and scroll away on my phone. Sure enough, there are several scoop photos of Peter Greer entering his Fifth Avenue apartment building. I choose one, enlarge it, and study it.

  His chin is down, his face is partly lost in shadows and harsh light from flashes. He must have been moving fast. A “lawyer type” next to him partially obstructs his profile. His expression is stolid.

  What, I wonder, could persuade him to spend even two minutes under the same roof as Nick Jakes?

  Well, as Mel said, security and privacy from swarming photogs…plus a brother-in-law who’ll go to any length to tone down a scandal. Those lawyers and family members must be having some pow-wow.

  More sighs.

  I’m a heap on the bed. Long moments pass. I feel unaccountably disappointed; can’t think at all.

  I pull off my tracksuit jacket, fling it unhappily onto the chair before the desk. I feel too down to get undressed, so I stretch out on the bed, lay my phone down next to me, and blink at the shadowy ceiling. I feel my eyes droop, let sadness creep in, and the next thing I know…

  …it’s pitch black outside.

  I groan and pull my phone back; see that it’s eight-forty. Great, I fell asleep…now what? I stare longer at the little screen, hearing again - my eyes open wider - If you change your mind, I’ll be at home.

  It comes back. Wasn’t he specific about being at his Charles Street place? You’ve seen the alley…I’d like to show you nicer scenery.

  I don’t understand.

  My phone dings. I look at the screen, and blink.

  R U there? reads the text from Peter.

  It takes me seconds to breathe back in.

  Then the fingers, suddenly tremulous, type all by themselves, Yes. Online says ur back on 5th.

  The little dots wink below my text; he’s writing: No, an actor body double. Lawyer got creative so here would be safe. Come? I’m lousy company, tired but want to see you.

  My fingers shake worse, sweat and flutter over the keys. He’s there! The guy online is an actor! My gloom lifts, my heart starts thudding faster, and my idea from earlier comes roaring back.

  Yes, coming, I text. Have some wild, crazy questions. Be there soon.

  Sooner! he texts back.

  I’m off the bed fast, pulling my jacket back on. At the mirror I brush my hair into a ponytail, and pin it up under my Yankees cap. The mirror tells me I look like a guy, at least from a distance. If there are any reporters lurking, I don’t want to draw attention.

  I hesitate, feeling back to scared. Then I remember Peter’s the cops have us linked on their radar - what woman would be safer with me?

  It isn’t enough.

  Back to the desk. On a large sheet of paper I scrawl, big and bold, 9:00, GONE TO PETER GREER’S, in case I’m being stupid after all, and wind up dead. They’ll need to know where to start looking.

  I tape the sheet to the fridge, grab my purse, lock up, and hit the stairs. It’s almost balmy out; air temp in the low 70s and the rain never materialized.

  On the sidewalk, I hold myself back from breaking into a jog. Don’t want to get all sweaty again.

  I also marvel at the ESP of Peter’s text arriving. Curious, how my inner alarm clock woke me just minutes before….

  33

  Charles Street again. Very dark. Cars pass as I walk under street lamps from one faint pool of light to the next. A cab passes, and I stop, pull my cap bill lower.

  There it is ahead, Peter’s brownstone. Four stories, the lower floor a bit more lit this time.

  My pulse is racing. Can’t believe I’m doing this….

  With the street la
mp behind me, I watch my shadow move jerkily through his service alley, past the Dumpster, past the neighbor’s wall he pushed me against with his gun pressed to my head. That stops me for seconds. “Re-think this?” I whisper to myself, having second thoughts.

  Compulsion pulls, and I move on shakily. At least I’m not accusing him of murder this time. It should go better, right?

  Small lights in the rear send a faint glow to the garden silhouettes of shrubs and an arbor. I pass a closed garage door, enter a dimly illuminated brick path, mount the wrought-iron steps to the terrace…

  …and look around.

  No one. Just topiary in pots, wicker furniture, a patio table, and chaise lounges. On my left, next to French doors, two tall, first-floor windows emit a faint wash of light. That must be the kitchen, I think, heart pounding.

  I hear a sound, and snap my head around.

  Something rustling.

  I look toward it, and see him. On the furthest chaise lounge, he’s stretched out on his side, stirring slightly, but asleep.

  Well, isn’t this something. I’m lousy company, tired but…

  Does a bad guy expecting a visitor just roll over and conk out? He’s lying there with one arm under his head, the other near his face with his hand slightly bunched. He’s in a denim shirt and jeans. Even in semi-darkness with his eyes closed, he’s handsome.

  I approach, lower myself to the chaise next to his. What to do? He’s breathing lightly, not heavily. I remember his call from work: I’m blitzed from no sleep catching up here. If you come I’ll probably pass out on you.

  That’s it, I should leave; he’s barely slept in two days. I look up and notice, tossed over the balustrade, what looks like a lightweight sleeping bag zipped open like a blanket. I stand and reach for it, start to drape it over him…and he stirs.

  “Mmph?”

  “Sleep,” I say, arranging it over his shoulder.

  His arm drops down and touches my shin. “Ava?”

  “Yes. Sleep.”

  And he’s up, on his elbow and groggy, pushing away the sleeping bag, dark hair a tousled mess. “What time izzit?”

  “Bedtime,” I whisper. “Yours.”

  But he’s swinging his legs over the side, getting into a sitting position, rubbing his eyes. “Just…lost consciousness,” he murmurs. Shadows accentuate his craggy features. “Lay down for a minute…”

  “We’ll do this another time.”

  “No, no…” He’s still groggy. “I’m glad you came.”

  “You’re exhausted. I should go.”

  “No… Please stay.” In the dimness he scrubs at his stubble; frowns slightly and peers at me. “You have wild, crazy questions?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shoot.”

  The word makes me glance nervously around, then back at him. “Isn’t it dangerous falling asleep like that? Where’s your gun?”

  “Locked up. I don’t use it that much.” He comes more awake. “Wait – before questions…”

  He reaches out and pulls me close to him. I’m startled but don’t resist…his breath is warm on my cheek…and he tugs off my hat. “What’s this?”

  “A Yankee cap.”

  “I mean, why’s it hiding your hair?” Now he’s pulling out my ponytail band, letting my hair fall to my shoulders. He leans back, sleepily pleased, and pushes a long strand from my brow. His fingers are warm.

  “Better.” He smiles a little, and his hands drop back down. “Can your questions wait a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  He gets to his feet, and reaches to the near table. “Brandy?” he asks. “Cointreau? Amaretto? Kahlua…? He points to an array of liqueurs in glinting bottles next to an ice bucket.

  I request Cointreau. He pours two into small, pretty glasses, hands me one, sits back down, and clinks his glass to mine. “Drink up,” he says. “Here’s to sleep and triple sec.”

  We sip. The sweet, orange taste of the Cointreau is gorgeous. One taste and you’re tripping.

  “So… wild, crazy questions?” he says again, leaning close, elbows on his knees. His free hand pushes back his flopping hair.

  I inhale. It’s hard, making the switch, but I plunge. “About Nick Jakes,” I begin.

  “Splendid fellow, huh?” Peter’s features come alert.

  “You said he’s jealous, wants revenge.”

  “Yep. Insists I gave him bad advice. Owes millions in restitution to his investors; is dealing with a ton of lawsuits.”

  Peter downs the rest of his glass’s contents, reaches for the bottle, and refills it. “Top you off?” he asks, holding out the Cointreau.

  I decline. He puts the bottle down on the bricks next to his gray Nikes; stares at his untied laces. “Nick is insanely pissed.”

  I sip more. Booze doesn’t agree with me, not at all, but I’m tense and the Cointreau’s sweet and calming and delicious. “Next question,” I say. “Did you really send me to Fifth to see Nick Jakes?”

  Peter’s deep-set eyes lift to me, and the right side of his mouth tips up. “That too. Oh, you are smart.”

  “You knew he’d be there, hovering.”

  “That’s what he does, he hovers.”

  “Why did you want me to see him?”

  A shrug. “Like I said, you’re smart, and shockingly brave. You have eyes that see what others don’t, and you’re not police. Speaking of which…”

  Out comes his phone. He leans even closer to me, taps and clicks, and I hear gunfire; see myself in Street Beat in a flak jacket running heroically through Grand Central trying to clear the area. “Gun!” I call. “Everybody down!” Then I duck behind concrete stairs with other cops and say, “Where’s Cullin?” They look around, confused. “Where’s Cullin?” I cry again. “He’s not here because he’s the shooter! It’s been staring us in the face!” Another cop slumps, realizes, and says, “How could we have missed it… Now what? We’re pinned.”

  Peter turns it off.

  I feel his eyes, but I’ve dropped my face to my hand. “That’s television,” I say.

  “There’s a reason you’re so good in it.” He touches my arm. “Lucky me, my new friend Girl Watching You is the same person who played that detective.”

  “I was acting!”

  “Casting agents know who to cast, I hear that all the time from people who invest in the biz.” Peter fiddles with his phone. “I also love the scene where you talk the reporter out of retracting his scoop. You made me scared of conspiracies; I’ve got that here too.”

  I put my hand on his wrist, stop him. “Tell me about Jakes.”

  His hands still. “You suspect him of being worse than he is?”

  “Maybe.” I sip, finish my Cointreau. “How are his lawsuits going?”

  “Badly. His whole situation’s gone from bad to worse.”

  I raise my eyebrows questioningly. Peter holds out the amber bottle to refill my glass. I hesitate; really do want more but shake my head no.

  He keeps holding the bottle by its neck, and his features turn thoughtful.

  “What’s left of the seriously diminished Jakes fortune is mostly in Chrissy’s name. Their father didn’t trust Nick with money, while she steers clear of investing or anything. She just lets money sit and appreciate. Nick is the opposite. He’s practically broke.”

  With his free hand Peter downs the rest of his Cointreau; winces a little. Should he be going at it like this on no sleep?

  But the booze seems to rev him. The bottle gestures.

  “When Chrissy finishes divorcing me, her lawyers will go after much of what I’ve made…and Nick controls Chrissy. Getting his hands on my loot would thrill him, ease his debts too.”

  Quietly, I say, “He’d also love to have you out of the way. Some kind of real revenge.”

  Peter grimaces, nods.

  “But how to get you out of the way?” I lean forward, feel the booze ease my inhibition, and take a deep breath. “Did Nick know you were dating Darcy Lund?”

  The quest
ion surprises. Peter frowns, finishes refilling his glass, puts the bottle back down on the bricks with a careless clunk.

  “Yes,” he says, and drinks. “When Chrissy and I separated, I was suddenly on Page Six and everywhere: photos of Darcy and me at the Gansevoort, Bagatelle, some museum benefit thing.” His eyes peer into mine, and his expression darkens. “What are you thinking?”

  This moment’s like crossing the Rubicon. I blow out air and say, “Oh, gimme that”…and reach down for the Cointreau, refill my own glass, put the bottle back on the bricks – clunk! - and let ‘er rip.

  “Call this thought wild, too devastating – but could Nick have stalked you with both Darcy and Chloe? Maybe everyone you dated? Killed when the opportunity presented itself and made it look like you did it?”

  In the dimness, Peter’s face goes slack. He stares at me for long, long moments. Finally, his brow creases and he says, “My God,” shaking his head.

  “Is it possible?”

  “I can’t imagine…”

  “Call me crazy. I call me crazy. Is it possible?”

  “I guess. He’s out a lot at night, with or without Chiara, plus there’s a back stairway to that apartment for servants. He could come and go at any time without being seen.”

  “What about surveillance?”

  “In that stairway? I think it’s broken, has been for years. The servants are vetted and use their keys.”

  “Did the police check the surveillance?”

  “Why would they? Nothing happened there.”

  I sit back, breathing shallowly, feeling stunned by the booze and what I’ve said.

  Peter peers harder at me. “Nick set me up?” he says incredulously.

  “Jealousy and revenge, good motives.”

  He’s shaking his head again, slowly, as if he doesn’t believe it. “Nick’s a coward. I can’t imagine him having the…stuff to do that.”

  “Do we ever really know anyone?”

  “Good point, but prove it.” He exhales. “In the meantime I’m the cops’ prime suspect, nothing I can do about it.”

  He gives a beaten smirk, and reaches to pat his jeans pocket.

  “I’ve got something for you - no wait, check this out first.”