The Stranger Behind You

by Carol Goodman

  “I didn’t know why he wanted me to do that, but when the steno came back he said: ‘Witness account of Rose O’Grady,’ and I didn’t correct him. I gave my statement just as it happened, which wasn’t all that long because I hadn’t seen much, but I did it as Rose O’Grady not Lillian Day. And you know what? It was funny, but I didn’t feel so afraid once I was pretending to be Rose. She’d always been bolder than me. She didn’t care what people thought of her. So I stopped caring what the steno girl thought about me and I told her what I saw. I even told her about slapping that fellow’s face and Eddie Silver saying they should all lay off me because I was an Irish Rose. I saw Miss Steno smirk at that, but Frank shot her a look and said, ‘That will be all, Miss Sawyer. You can go type up Miss O’Grady’s statement and bring it back for her to sign.’

  “That took me back a bit, the thought of signing Rose’s name to something official, but Frank said I didn’t have to worry. ‘No one’s going to look very hard at it because it didn’t tell anything and nothing’s ever touched Eddie Silver and his boys anyway. ‘I’ve been trying to pin something on Eddie and his crew for two years now and I can’t get anywhere. I couldn’t even get him on giving your brother that gun.’

  “I told him I was sorry I hadn’t seen more and I wished I could help . . . And he said, ‘Maybe you can.’”

  Lillian looks up at me, the corner of her mouth quirking.

  “Oh!” I say, seeing it. “He wanted you to . . . what? Be an informer?”

  “Well, he didn’t call it that. He said that Eddie Silver clearly liked me. He kept asking if that girlie Rose was all right and that he didn’t want a nice girl like that mixed up in such unfortunate circumstances. So if I could maybe go on filling in for Rose now and again I could be his eyes and ears at the club and maybe I could help get that thug off the streets so he wouldn’t lead boys like my brother into trouble. And then he added that if he could arrest Eddie, and Tommy testified that Eddie gave him that gun, he could have Tommy’s time in prison reduced . . .”

  Lillian’s voice trails off and I see that her eyes have taken on that wet green sheen they get when they fill with tears, as if there is a sea of grief that rises up behind them when she remembers certain moments in her past.

  “That sounds,” I say gently, “as if he were offering to help your brother in exchange for you being an informer.”

  Lillian doesn’t say anything right away. She looks out the window, toward the river. When she speaks it’s as if she’s speaking to the river. “It would be easy to blame Frank for what happened later, but I knew what I was doing. Since my mother died I had tried hard to stay on the right side of the line while I watched my father and then my brothers, one by one, slip over. I could feel it pulling me. I liked the idea of being a spy—like Mata Hari in the movies. I thought that here at last I could step over that line and still hold on to myself because I would be playing a part. I would be Rose. And so at the end I could go back to being Lillian.” She turns to me. “I suppose you think I was very foolish.”

  I shake my head. “I think you were very young—”

  Lillian holds up her hand to silence me. I think at first that she’s rejecting the excuse of youth, but then I see that she’s listening to something. “Someone’s at your back door,” she says.

  I cock my head and listen and then I hear what she hears. A knob turning? I bolt up and run into the hall. The knob is turning. “Who’s there?” I shout. The knob stops and then I hear footsteps thundering down the back stairs. I hurry to the intercom and press the doorman’s button. No one answers. I swipe to the lobby and see that it’s empty, and then to outside, where I see Hector helping a young woman fold a stroller into a taxi. As I watch, a hooded figure darts out of the front door, ducking behind Hector and into the park.

  “Dammit,” I say. “He went right past Hector. I have to go tell him.” I look back at Lillian, who’s perched on the edge of the chair, eyes bright. “You stay here,” I tell her. “I’ll be right back.”

  I go out the front door and press the elevator button, wondering if it wouldn’t be faster to go down the stairs, but the elevator is right there, as if waiting for me. I take it down to the lobby. Hector is back behind his desk, reading a newspaper.

  “Didn’t you see him?” I demand. “A man—a tall, hooded man—ran out of the building right past you. He was trying to get into my apartment.”

  Hector stares at me. “No one’s come in the building except the boilerman.”

  “Then it was the boilerman. Was he working in the basement? He could have come up the back stairs. He was turning my doorknob, but when I shouted he ran back down the stairs. I saw him run out of the building—” I point out the door and see the hooded man standing in the park looking right at me. “There he is!” I yell. “Come on, we can catch him and you’ll see.” I grab Hector’s arm and pull him to the door. He comes reluctantly, muttering something in Spanish. As soon as the hooded man sees us, he turns and walks down the hill. I let go of Hector’s arm and run, hoping Hector is following me.

  “Hey!” I shout. “Hold up!” The man doesn’t stop or speed up. He just ambles down the hill, hands in his pockets, head down, hood up. He’s nearing the church and I suddenly remember the evening I went out and made it just this far but then someone touched the back of my neck and when I turned I saw a dark hooded figure retreating into the park.

  Maybe he’s lured me out here to kill me. I think of Lillian’s description of the knifing at the Stork Club. This fellow leaned in like he was gonna tell a joke and then he was gone and Benny the Book was on the floor bleeding his life out. That could happen to me here on this city street. What am I doing, chasing a man who may well be the one who already tried to kill me?

  But I can’t stop. Like Lillian said, I might be crossing a line but I’m drawn to it. The hooded man reaches the church and ducks into a side door. I glance behind me to see if Hector’s with me, but he’s half a block behind. By the time he catches up with me the hooded man could slip out another door. I wave at Hector and point toward the door—then I go inside.

  It’s so dark inside the church that I can’t see anything at first. I am blinded and helpless. Now would be a good time for my attacker to do away with me. And there he is, I see, as my eyes adjust to the dark, coming toward me, wielding a heavy object above his head to strike me.

  I scream and throw up my hands to ward off the blow. I feel hands on me as I crouch and cover my head. My screams echo in the dark stone vault of the church but there’s no one coming to my rescue because I’m past saving. Though you wash yourself with lye and use much soap, the stain of your guilt is still before me.

  The words Sister Dolores said to Lillian echo in my head, although I don’t know what my stain of guilt is supposed to be; I haven’t done anything wrong. So why do I feel so ashamed? I look up and see my “attacker” is a nun in a black-and-white habit. Her weathered and wrinkled face looks down at me kindly. “Are you all right, child?”

  Hector looms beside her and says something to the nun in Spanish, to which the nun responds in Spanish. They continue, clearly talking about me. She is one of our crazy residents, I imagine Hector is explaining. Poor witless thing, the nun must be replying as she clucks her tongue.

  Hector helps me up and escorts me to the door. I look around the church, but there’s no sign of the hooded man.

  Did he even exist? Or was he a hallucination like the fireworks and blotches I saw earlier?

  I let Hector lead me out of the church and up the hill. I feel as if I am one of the inmates of the Magdalen Refuge being taken back after a failed escape.

  Hector brings me up in the elevator and to my door. I realize I don’t have a key, but we find that the door is open. I must have left it open when I ran out, leaving poor Lillian at the mercy of any intruders.

  “Lillian,” I say. “She saw the knob turning. She’ll tell you.” But when we open the door Lillian isn’t there. There are only our two teacups, which show
I hadn’t imagined her as well.

  I thank Hector and apologize for wasting his time. I head toward my bedroom, but then I notice that the files on my desk have been scattered across the surface. Had Lillian been looking at them? It seems unlikely, but then I recall again how my grandmother would root through the kitchen cabinets when she got confused. And Lillian certainly had been upset by the story she’d told me. I pick up a loose sheet of paper and see it’s the list of servers from Bread & Roses—

  It was easier just to wear Rose’s name tag, Lillian had said. We looked enough alike—two dark-haired Irish girls—that the manager wouldn’t even notice Rose was gone.

  I stare at the list, remembering what one of the servers had said to me. I was working back-to-back shifts . . . frankly, that whole period is a blur . . .

  What if someone—a friend, a roommate—filled in for the party catered by Bread & Roses but they didn’t mention it to the boss? What if the fill-in was the one who saw Osgood attacking Amanda?

  I start at the top of the list and begin making all the calls again.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Melissa

  NOTHING MAKES YOU want something more than knowing someone else wants it.

  That’s what Cass always said, and he was right. I could be looking at something online—a Celine bag, a pair of Ferragamo loafers—for a week, trying to decide if I wanted it, and the minute the words “sold out” flashed on the screen I knew I had to have it. I’d call the site and make them search their stores to find me one.

  Knowing that someone else is trying to find out what Joan is up to makes me redouble my efforts. I order the spyware from the site, paying for the most expensive one with the silliest name: the MataHari. For the next few days, while I’m waiting for it to arrive, I camp out in front of the surveillance monitor to study the doormen’s and Joan’s habits to figure out the best plan for getting back into her apartment.

  Which is how I figure out that Joan’s become a shut-in.

  She never goes out. Packages arrive for her from FreshDirect and the liquor store and Amazon and the bodega down on Broadway. I know when they’re for her because I can watch the elevator go up to the fifth floor and the only other resident on five is an old woman who gets nothing but a single delivery from Shop-Rite once a week—a sad little bag of Ensure, Entenmann’s baked goods, and instant coffee. I know this from Hector, who’s become quite the chatterbox since I gave him a $50 tip for letting me back in my apartment the day Joan went gaga on him.

  “I saw on my camera that hysterical woman dragging you outside and I came down to see if I could help,” I told him after I brushed the spider webs out of my hair and walked down five flights of filth-encrusted stairs in my bare feet. “Silly me, I forgot my keys I was so worried. Was everything all right? She looked . . . enloquecido.” I chose the word that Marta would use for raving women, someone who cut her off in the supermarket parking lot, or the old woman who lived in the apartment below her who screamed all night.

  “Hablas Español?” he asked as he took me up in the elevator.

  “Un poco,” I told him. “Es un lenguaje tan hermoso.” And useful for making sure Marta used the right amount of starch in Cass’s shirts.

  Delighted, he told me the whole story of Joan’s hallucinated intruder and the scene she made in the church.

  “Pobre chica. Does she have any family to look after her?”

  He told me that the only person she ever saw was the old lady in 5B, and that the old lady never went out either. Hector’s been so friendly since that tip that I almost think he’d let me have the key to Joan’s apartment if I asked him nicely enough, which is a nice change from Enda, who’s been decidedly cool to me since that first night, but I don’t want to get that friendly with Hector, and it won’t do any good if Joan never leaves her apartment.

  In an attempt to lure her out I slip into her mailbox a free drinks coupon to trivia night at the Black Rose, which Mick, the bartender, tells me is a big hit with the millennials, and a gift certificate to yoga classes at the church, which are surprisingly good once you get over the smell of incense wafting down from upstairs. But she doesn’t budge from her apartment.

  When the spyware comes I practice by installing it on Cass’s computer and then “spy” on myself from my iPad. I should have thought of this years ago. I would have learned about the second mortgages and the mysterious monthly withdrawals of $9,999 (Where was he spending it? On his women to keep them quiet?), and the loans he took out against his life insurance. I would have noticed that he’d stopped donating to the Cancer Society—unless he was writing the checks from his LLC account, which I can’t access on the laptop—and paying his dues to the Hi-Line Club, which he’d been so excited to join so he could rub shoulders with all those movers and shakers.

  I would have noticed that while he wasn’t cheating anymore, something was eating him alive.

  His medical report from last year said he had an ulcer and high blood pressure.

  He had prescriptions for Xanax and Ativan that he never told me about.

  Whatever had happened at the Hi-Line had spooked him. It scared him enough that Simon could use it to threaten him. And if it scared Cass, who didn’t scare easy, what damage might it do to me? I have to get Joan out of her apartment to find out what she knows.

  It comes to me on a Sunday in mid-October. I’m walking back from the green market in the church schoolyard, feeling invigorated by the crisp fall weather, the smell of apples in my canvas shopping bag (I’d texted a picture of the market to Whit and Emily), and the admiring glances I’d gotten from the rustic, flannel-shirted farmers selling their produce, and I think: You could just call Simon and ask. After all, he’d always had a bit of a thing for me. Everyone thinks that the grudge Simon had against Cass started with being passed over for that promotion at the Times—and yes, that sealed it, especially because Simon had wrongfully thought Cass had accused him of plagiarism—but the truth is their rivalry really started because Simon had a crush on me all the way back in college. He made a pass at me once at a party and told me that Cass wasn’t good enough for me. Now that Cass is gone I could call Simon and tell him he’d been right.

  It wouldn’t be hard to pretend. Simon was a good-looking man. If he and his little accomplice, Joan Lurie, hadn’t ruined my husband I might be interested. But he didn’t have to know that. I could tell him that I should have listened to him all those years ago, that I saw now what a cad Cass had been. If only I was sure that Cass really had been guilty of abusing all those women, then I could move on . . . I could get him to tell me what he was holding over Cass’s head. He wouldn’t be able to resist. I’d call him and ask to meet him somewhere downtown . . .

  Or wouldn’t it be interesting if Joan saw me coming back to the Refuge with Simon? So far I’ve been very careful to avoid the cameras by going in and out through the basement—thank you, Enda—but I could walk Simon through the lobby and, if she watches those cameras as much as I do, there’s a good chance she would see me with him. She’d know then that I live in the Refuge, but so what? What’s she going to do about it? It would be worth it to have her jealous of me.

  I sprint up the rest of the hill with newfound energy at the thought of luring Simon to the Refuge and go in through the basement door (I don’t want Joan to see me yet), walk past those creepy vats, stop by my storage area to pick up a couple of things, and take the stairs to rack up more steps on my Fitbit—and to avoid meeting Joan in the elevator in case she does ever leave her apartment. After I’ve poured myself a glass of sparkling water I sit at my desk and compose an email to Simon. It takes a few tries but when I’m done I think I’ve hit the perfect note.

  Dear Simon, I hope this finds you well. Thank you for the flowers and your condolence note. I apologize for not writing earlier, but, as I’m sure you can imagine, this has been a very trying time for me and the children and I haven’t been inclined to be charitable toward you and your magazine. As time passes, thoug
h, and I find out more about the man Cass was, I think I understand why you did what you did. I find myself, too, thinking back to our college days. If you’d like to get a drink someday and reminisce, let me know. I find that one thing Cass’s death has taught me is to value the time and friends I still have.

  Yours, Melissa

  I read it over twice to make sure there’s nothing in it that Simon could quote as an admission that I believe Cass is guilty. Each time I read it I find myself tearing up a little at the last line. It’s the one line in the whole thing that isn’t a lie.

  I hit Send and look out at the river. I had been lying when I said I’d been thinking back to my college days—I thought it was the kind of thing that would appeal to Simon, who was always donating to the college and speaking there—but now that I’ve said it, I find myself doing just that. Specifically, I find myself remembering one day freshman year. I was studying in the library and I noticed Cass and Simon working at a table not far from me. Or rather, I noticed Cass. How could anyone not? He was stretched out in front of a window, the light turning his tousled, still-damp-from-the-shower hair the color of beaten bronze. He was wearing a Choate sweatshirt, faded khakis, and scuffed leather loafers without socks. Everything was worn down to a smooth patina that only old money seemed able to accomplish. His wrists and bare ankles still held a tan from last summer. I’d glimpsed boys like him in Scarsdale but never one so effortlessly beautiful. Looking at him made you think of Adirondack lakes and clam bakes on private beaches. It made you want to touch that sun-kissed skin and run your fingers through all that silky hair. I could hardly drag my eyes off him—and I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t stop looking. On the other side of the table, legs stretched out in the same pose, but in shadow, was Simon Wallace. He, too, had his head down in Janson’s History of Art, but as I watched I saw that every few minutes he looked up at Cass.