We Are Here

by Michael Marshall

  Catherine slowed as she came up toward the Westside Market. She hesitated, then headed in.

  I swore wearily. I was tiring of the game and wishing I were back at the apartment already, but I gave it a moment and then followed her inside.

  I’d been there before and knew what to expect. Beautiful food at belligerent prices, a store that was large for the neighborhood but kept intimate by the height of the stacks and a layout dotted with islands of especial fabulousness. Increased proximity to places like this was one of Kristina’s expressed reasons for wanting to move, and here I had no disagreement.

  I realized I was reaching the limits of my competence. As I’d wanted to be sure that Catherine understood, I’ve never been an undercover cop or a detective. My years in the army were spent at the grunt end, where you generally want to ensure that people do know you’re around, in the hope this will stop bad things breaking out in the first place. Skulking is therefore not one of my core skills. I caught a break as I entered the market, however. Catherine was heading toward the produce section. This meant I could head right, the problem being this would obscure her from view. Doing the opposite would make it more likely she’d spot me. Belatedly I realized what would have made much more sense was staying outside and waiting around the corner to pick her up again as she left. Duh.

  I was about to act on this when I caught another glimpse of Catherine, in front of a cooler of prepared foods. The famous shrimp salad, of course. Her husband was going to get his treat after all.

  Then I noticed someone.

  I couldn’t see his face or head, as it was obscured by hanging goods, but he stood a little over average height, slim build, wearing a long, dark coat and standing near the end of the aisle behind Catherine.

  She moved away from the cabinet, and I stepped back into my aisle to keep out of view. I gave it a beat and leaned forward, catching a momentary glimpse of the other figure as he walked off down the distant aisle.

  I hadn’t seen him clearly and there were maybe fifteen, twenty other people in the store. But none of them had made me feel the need to see them a second time.

  Catherine was heading for the checkout counter.

  I skirted around the back. There was no sign of the other person. I returned to my original position and waited, glancing across to check on Catherine’s progress. She was nearly done at the register, tucking a frequent-buyer card back in her purse.

  I decided on an abrupt change of tactics and headed down the far aisle and out the side door instead.

  Back outside, I walked a few yards down the street. The deli was on the corner, at the intersection. If I hung here and waited for Catherine to emerge, I’d be in a perfect position to see anyone following her.

  Three minutes later Catherine emerged with an environmentally friendly hemp bag over her shoulder. The lights were in her favor and she strode straight across 15th. I held my position, watching for the figure in the coat. No sign. Maybe he was still inside. Maybe he’d already left. Very likely he’d never been more than some random guy come to score coffee and cat food.

  I crossed the street and followed Catherine up the avenue, keeping close to the buildings. There were lots of people around, and Catherine looked relaxed. At the next intersection she did something I hadn’t anticipated, however, unexpectedly cutting across the road.

  I got caught behind a gaggle of French tourists who were laughing and shouting and clearly very lost but having a whale of a time. One of them picked at my sleeve, but I shrugged him off. Catherine was nearly at the other side of the avenue by then, heading toward 16th.

  A figure in a dark coat was standing in a doorway on the other side.

  It was too far for me to be sure it was the same guy, but he sure as hell looked similar. I still couldn’t see his face, as he was turned away from the street and the collar of his coat was turned up.

  He remained motionless as Catherine reached the west side of the avenue—and then moved to follow, entering the side street only about twenty yards behind her.

  The lights had changed and it seemed like every car in the city had business that took it past my face, fast. I tried to weave my way through them, realized some asshole was going to run me down if I kept it up, and was forced to step back onto the sidewalk.

  Catherine meanwhile had disappeared from sight, along with the figure that was either following her or just happened to be walking in the same direction.

  I finally saw a gap in traffic and darted across the road. I got to the other side accompanied by loud honks and abuse in at least three languages, but kept going into the side street, where I slowed to a fast walk. It was quiet, residential, dotted with trees, and very still.

  Catherine was fifty yards ahead. She was striding quickly now—faster than before. It could be that the cold had gotten to her or she’d realized she was going to be late for the sitter, but I didn’t think so.

  She glanced behind. She didn’t see anyone.

  How do I know? Because there was no one there.

  I stopped dead in my tracks, confused, stared up and down the street. I’d seen the figure turning onto this street. He hadn’t come back out before I got here—I would have seen him—but … he wasn’t here now.

  I saw houses. I saw a brick church with ornamental staircases leading up to a wooden door on either side. I saw cars and trees. I didn’t see any people at all.

  Catherine was moving even faster. Once she reached the corner she’d be two short blocks from her own street. It seemed like she wanted to cover the distance quickly. It looked as if she felt someone was after her.

  But she was wrong.

  There was no one there.

  I followed her the rest of the way home. I even waited for half an hour at the end of the street, standing in shadow. Eventually I walked back to my own home, picking up food on the way.

  I told Kristina what I’d done—I had to, I was so late—and got a big, tight hug for it. I didn’t mention that I thought I’d seen a nondescript individual in Catherine’s orbit in the Westside Market, or that he’d followed her afterward. I said I hadn’t seen anyone, because as far as I could tell, that was true.

  As I lay in bed later, however, listening to Kristina’s breathing and waiting for sleep, I knew that when she glanced back, I’d seen genuine fear in Catherine’s face.

  I realized also that, for the first time, I was not convinced she was wrong to feel that way.

  Chapter 7

  The next morning I was up early. Kristina remained in bed, refining her impersonation of someone who’d passed away in the night. An idea struck me as I stood in the kitchen, provoked by the sight of her phone on the counter. I picked it up and went to her incoming log. Catherine’s number was there. I made a note of it and went into the shower to think about the idea.

  When I walked out onto the street half an hour later, I made the call.

  We met at the café on Greenwich Avenue. Catherine looked warily up at me when I entered. All I’d said on the phone was that it would be a good idea if we talked alone.

  “Here’s the thing,” I said, sitting opposite her. “I followed you last night.”

  “You did what?”

  “I walked the blocks around the bookstore during the reading group and shadowed when you left for home.”

  “Kristina didn’t say—”

  “She had no idea it was happening.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  “You left a message on her phone the night before. A message that freaked her out. Kristina is not easy to freak out.”

  “I called and explained all that.”

  “The following morning.”

  She looked impatient. “I didn’t know what time you went to bed. I didn’t want to wake anyone.”

  “Do recall Kristina’s occupation?”

  “Of course I do. And I don’t like your attitude.”

  “It’s never been popular. So—what does Kris do?”

  Catherine looked flustered. “She
… She works in a restaurant. Like you.”

  “She runs a late-night bar.”

  “That’s right. So … Okay, so probably you would have been awake. I get it. I’m sorry. But once I’d worked out no one had been in the house I wanted to forget about it. I didn’t realize it would be a big deal.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again, eventually.

  “I didn’t see anyone last night until you went into the Westside Market,” I said. “I’m not sure I saw anything there either. One person caught my eye, though.”

  Catherine’s eyes were watchful. “And?”

  “I saw him a few minutes later, hanging around the entrance to 16th. When you went up it, he followed.”

  “I knew it,” she said dully. “Did you … Did you get a good look at him?”

  “No, but it means I’m inclined to take your fears more seriously, which in turn means I have to ask you the obvious question. Again.”

  “What question?”

  “Who is it?”

  “I don’t know. Like I told you last time.”

  “I remember. I still find it hard to believe. If you think this is the same guy from a decade ago, then it’s not random and you must be able to come up with a name or two if you think hard enough.”

  “I really don’t—”

  “Bullshit,” I said calmly. “In a past life I spent a lot of time in small rooms with people who were not telling the truth. I believe I’m sitting opposite one again now. You’ve got two minutes to alter that impression or I’m out of there and that’s the end of it.”

  For a moment she looked furious, or as if she was going to cry. Then she started to talk.

  I told Kristina about the meeting as soon as I got back to the apartment. I could tell from her body language that this was several hours too late.

  “So who is he?”

  “Ex-boyfriend. They went out for six months way back. She decided it wasn’t working and let him down gently. She’s now saying he could be the guy, maybe. Their relationship ended right before the first night she thought she was being followed. She ‘feels’ it could be the same person now.”

  Kristina looked out of the window onto the rooftops. “Drop the quote marks, John. People feel stuff. And it’s women who do, more often, and sometimes they’re right.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “So why didn’t she mention him before?”

  “Didn’t believe him capable, she says. Or didn’t want to, anyway.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “What makes you think I’m going to do anything?”

  “The fact that you’re you.”

  I had to smile, and after a moment, she smiled back. It looked underpowered. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I should have told you about arranging to meet her.”

  “Yeah, you should have. You should have told me last night you thought you saw someone following her, too.”

  “What’s my punishment?”

  “Don’t know yet. But it’s going to be severe. In the meantime, what’s the plan?”

  “This Clark guy lives in the back end of Williamsburg. Works there, at least.”

  “Am I allowed to come?”

  “Of course,” I said. “I’m hoping you will.”

  I’d been back and forth on this, in fact. I did want Kristina to come. Partly because she had skills when it came to assessing people—far better than I, and drawing on deeper wells—and also because it would make a nicer trip of it. Assuming the guy didn’t become violent when confronted. In that case I’d prefer it to be just me and him.

  “Well, I can’t,” she said. “The heater guys are coming, finally.” She looked cranky, but she often does, and I knew I’d said the right thing.

  “So?”

  “So be careful. And I want to know what happens. And not just the nonexecutive summary this time.”

  I don’t enjoy the subway. I know I should, that it’s part of the fabric and texture of the city, and come, let us behold urban kind in its glorious variety, but I prefer to get that kind of experience aboveground, where you can walk away from it when you want. On the L line urban kind is like a too-tight, unwashed coat, and by the time I emerged in Brooklyn I was low on temper and pretty convinced that this was my second dumb idea of the day.

  I’d traced Clark via Facebook. I’m not on it, but the restaurant is, courtesy of some nephew who thought it might shift more pizza. You can go like the Adriatico online if you want. I cannot imagine how that would help anything. It sure as hell will not get you a free pizza.

  There were plenty of people listed under some variation of “Thomas Clark” but only one who lived in the area Catherine had suggested and who showed other likely characteristics. When they’d dated, Clark had been a decorative fine artist with a high opinion of himself. It was evident from his page that he now co-ran a small gallery instead. The gallery had a website with its street address all over it. As a job of hiding, it sucked.

  Assuming he had reason to hide, of course.

  The gallery was at the far end of the hipster pocket and I arrived just after two o’clock. The entire width of the store front was glass, a single large, square painting on an easel in windows on either side of a central door. I have no idea what they were paintings of. Apparently that’s not the point. In the back of the white-walled space beyond stood a minimalist white desk. A man sat behind it, slender in build. There was no long black coat with a high collar hanging on the wall. Life doesn’t hand things up that neatly tied.

  When I pushed the door open, a discreet bell chimed three times. The man looked up and smiled generically. He had longish but tidy dark hair and a pair of neat round spectacles. “Good afternoon.”

  I looked around the walls. Further large, square paintings—or canvases with paint on them, at any rate.

  “Can I help you, or are we just browsing?”

  I kept silent long enough for him to register something wasn’t right with this encounter. Then I turned to look at him. “Are you Thomas Clark?”

  “Yes.”

  “Catherine says hi.”

  He looked confused. “I’m embarrassed to admit this, but I don’t think the name sounds familiar …”

  “Back then you were going to make it as an artist yourself. Fancy handmade pots, she said.”

  He blinked as the penny dropped. “You mean … Catherine

  Warren?”

  “I do.”

  “But … I haven’t seen her in years.”

  “Really?”

  “Ask her.”

  “I talked with Catherine three hours ago. She gave me your name.”

  “Why? Who are you?”

  “My name is John Henderson. Someone’s been following Catherine. At night. She thinks it could be you.”

  “What? Why would I do that?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “And your question doesn’t answer mine.”

  His eyes flicked to the side. A smart-looking middle-aged couple were drifting to a halt outside. I could not see the painting that had caught their attention, only their eyes and a desire to acquire.

  I walked over and flipped the open sign to closed. The guy outside stared at me. I stared back. They went away.

  Clark meanwhile remained at his desk. “I haven’t seen Catherine since I moved out of Manhattan,” he said. “We split up and I called her a couple times afterward, I’ll admit, but—”

  “Why did you call her? Were you uncertain why she was ending the relationship?”

  He laughed. “Uncertain? Oh no. At first it was all ‘It’s not you, it’s me,’ but it became clear she was leaving me for this guy she’d met. The marvelous Mark.”

  That struck an off note, but I kept drilling. “You remember his name?”

  “Of course I do. I was in love with her. Then one night over the phone it’s bam—she’s with this other guy instead. My services are no longer required; could I please let myself out of her life.”


  “Why did you try to contact her afterward?”

  “She’d always said we’d be friends forever. It had been this big thing of hers. She didn’t mean it, though. Once you stop being useful to Catherine you’re cut out of the script for good. I called a few times. I sent her a letter … and two cards. I sent …”

  He trailed off, memory dulling his face. “I sent her a bunch of irises. They were her favorite. That was something I’d known about her back when we’d been friends, before we started dating. It was supposed to signal, you know, that we could go back to that, if she wanted. There was no response. I gave up.”

  “When did you move out of Manhattan?”

  “Eight years ago.”

  “Do you go back?”

  “Of course. I used to have an agent there, but he let me go about the same time I realized people were using the pots I’d slaved long hours over … to keep flowers in. I visit an exhibition once in a while, see friends, and, well, yes—obviously I’m there sometimes. But my real life is here now.”

  “Where were you last night?”

  He gestured around. “Hanging these. If you need witnesses you’ll have to find someone who happened to walk by. It’s a busy street at night and I’m sure there were some, but I don’t know their names.”

  “I don’t need witnesses. I’m not a cop.”

  He cocked his head. “Then what right do you have to be asking all this?”

  “None. I apologize if I’ve been intrusive.”

  “So what happened? Did Catherine dump Mark? Is she with you now?”

  “No. They’re married. They have two kids.”

  “Huh. Guess at least I can tell myself that I lost to the winning team.”

  “If that helps. You got any message for her?”

  “Seriously?”

  “If you do, I’ll pass it on.”

  He thought about it. “Sure,” he said, looking down at the papers on this desk. “You can tell her to go fuck herself.”

  Chapter 8

  It was twenty-four hours before Golzen had a chance to speak to Reinhart. The man’s movements were wholly unpredictable, and his presence could not be guaranteed even at the club he owned on Orchard, in the ratty, crumbling backstreets of the Lower East Side, south of the Village and east of anywhere good, above which Golzen and others laid their heads at night in exchange for services rendered.