The Follower

by Jason Starr

  “That’s great,” Louis said.

  “I’m also gonna look at some surveill—”

  “Listen,” Louis cut him off. “I’ve got some bad news for you, man.”

  John knew what was coming. “What news?”

  “You’re off the case, John. Sorry, there’s nothing I can do. This came down from up top, from the commissioner, and he has the mayor on his ass.”

  “But I’m telling you,” John said, “I’m about to—”

  “Come on, John, you know how it is. And it’s not like I didn’t give you any fucking warning. Where’re you now?”

  John shook his head, then said, “By the bar.”

  “Great,” Louis said. “I’ll tell Barasco from Manhattan North to meet you down there ASAP and you can fill him in on what’s going on.”

  It had to be Nick Fucking Barasco. If there was one guy John didn’t want to hand this golden case over to, it was him. Barasco had gotten all of the sexy murder cases lately, was a regular on the local news, and had gotten a rep as one of the top detectives in the NYPD. Normally John didn’t have a problem with other people’s success. Like most detectives on the force, Barasco was good at what he did or he wouldn’t’ve been doing it. But Barasco was the type who let the success go right to his head. He always overdressed, in Armani and Hugo Boss, and walked with a goddamn strut like he thought he was a movie star. And he always treated John like shit. Although they’d met maybe a dozen times, whenever they saw each other, Barasco always played dumb, saying, “Have we met?” The last time John had seen Barasco was just three weeks ago, at that funeral for that cop who was shot on Staten Island. At the chapel, John went up to him, just to bullshit and say hello, when Andrew Goldman, a city councilman, came over. What did Barasco do? He blew John off in mid-conversation, actually turning his back on him, to talk to Goldman. John had decided that that was it, that he would never go out of his way to be civil to that prick again.

  Now, here he was, about to hand him a case that had practically been solved.

  Swallowing the last speck of his pride, John said, “Yeah, no problem, I’ll wait here for Nick.” Louis asked him for the address of the bar. John gave it to him, then Louis said, “Again, I’m real sorry about this, man. I know how much you wanted it.”

  “It’s fine,” John said, but even if he had the acting skills of Al Pacino, he wouldn’t have been able to make that sound believable. “Really, it’s no problem at all. I totally understand—I get it.”

  Then John clicked off and said, “Goddamn fuckin’ bullshit.”

  He stood on the sidewalk, cursing for a while, probably sounding mentally disturbed. The most frustrating thing wasn’t losing the case to Barasco; it was that Barasco would benefit from his work. It was like when you struggle to open a jar of peanut butter. You try and try and finally loosen it, and then somebody else comes over and says, “Let me try,” and the cap comes right off.

  John got a cup of coffee at a deli. He drank it on the sidewalk in front of the bar. When the coffee was gone, there was still no sign of Barasco. He started to wonder if the guy would even bother to show. Maybe he figured if John Himoto had a lead, it couldn’t possibly be worth his while.

  The artist arrived. John had him sit down with Mikala and start working on a sketch of the dark-haired guy, but there was still no sign of Barasco. John reported this to Louis, who told him that Barasco was on his way and to keep waiting.

  Almost another hour went by, and then Barasco and another cocky, Italian-looking guy—probably his partner—came into the bar. The other guy was a real Prick Barasco in training, with his hair slicked back the same way, and wearing a similar, uncreased black designer suit. If they just had the sunglasses, they would’ve been the Men in Fucking Black.

  As they entered the bar, they walked right past John and he had to say, “Hey, Nick,” to get them to stop. Barasco squinted at John in a confused way.

  Thinking, Is this guy for real, or what? John said, “Don’t tell me you don’t know who I am. It’s John. John Himoto.”

  Nick smiled—he’d whitened the shit out of his teeth—and said, “Oh, yeah, right. How are ya? This is my partner, Tony Martinelli.”

  “Hey, man,” Tony said, shaking John’s hand.

  “You remember me, don’t you?” John asked Nick.

  “Yeah, yeah, of course.”

  “We just saw each other at Santos’s funeral.”

  Barasco’s eyes were doing that annoying wandering thing they always did, looking around the room, acting like he was already losing interest in the conversation and was trying to find someone more interesting to talk to.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know, I know,” Nick said.

  “Oh,” John said. “Because you looked at me like you didn’t know who I was, so I thought you might’ve forgotten.”

  “I didn’t forget,” Barasco said. “Santos’s funeral. Yeah, right.”

  He was still acting like he was seeing John’s face through a fog, the way you might barely remember the kid who sat in the seat in front of you in sixth grade when you meet him on the street thirty years later. John decided that Nick either had a severe head injury with massive memory loss and shouldn’t be doing police work, or this whole forgetting thing was just a big act, a power trip that he pulled on everybody he considered beneath him.

  “Sorry to bust in on your action like this,” Barasco said, though it was obvious that he lived for moments like this. “But, hey, you know how it is.”

  “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.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  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 s
he 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.