by Susan Israel
“Clear the tables on that. Everyone we talked to has a rock solid alibi. Either they were working or have someone who can vouch for where they were on Sunday night. No one at that restaurant, no matter how upset they may have been over working an extra shift the night before, did Vittorio Scaccia.”
He shoves his hands in his pockets and backs away from the doorway, toward the stairs, the jilted suitor retreating without the expected kiss. I don’t want it to end like this. I want things to be straight between us. You helped me, now I’ll show you I’m willing to help you. So you’ll help me again. “I called a couple of Morgan’s friends yesterday. I tried to get them to tell me where he was, but they couldn’t.”
“Or wouldn’t.”
“I’m an outsider too,” I remind him. “Anyway, you’ve got the picture.”
“Yes, Miss Price,” he says solemnly, “I’ve got the picture.” Just before he turns to go down the stairs, he gives me a look that lets me know it’s not the eighteen by twenty-four inch sheet of drawing paper folded and tucked in his pocket that he’s talking about.
24
The ringtone of the cell phone is like a ladder leading me out of a four-alarm nightmare to safety. I enjoy the ensuing feeling of relief for about ten seconds. I don’t recognize the number, but lately I never do. I realize with a chill that the netherworld of my dream state was better cover.
“Why did you let that asshole back into your life?” Curtis barks. “I thought you were through with him.”
“I am,” I say.
“He was waiting for you tonight. Expecting you.”
“Well, I wasn’t expecting him. Or you. What were you doing there, Curtis?” I roll over on my side, curled up in a semi-fetal position to ward off imaginary blows.
“You’re just lucky I was there,” he insists. “There’s no telling what he would have done to you if Ihadn’t come along.”
“Why’d you hurt him?”
“Do you care that I hurt him. The guy beat the shit out of you!”
“He hasn’t beaten me.”
“How’d you get that bruise I saw then?” How’d he see my damn bruise? “I knew I’d have to come to your rescue one of these nights if you stayed with him.”
“I don’t need you to rescue me. I can rescue myself, thank you.”
“So why’d you call the cops on him last week?”
“It’s you I called the cops on tonight, Curtis, not him.”
“Do you still care about that prick, Delilah?”
“No. It’s over between us, but that doesn’t mean you can take the law in your own hands, hurt people without provocation…”
“That bastard still thinks he owns you.” He emits a low chuckle. “I got provoked. I wasn’t about to let him get anywhere near you. I wouldn’t let anyone get near you.”
“I don’t want you near me, Curtis,” I whimper, too tired to raise my voice. “For the last time, I’m telling you, stay away from me.”
“Don’t say that,” he warns.
“It’s going to get worse for you down the line if you won’t leave me alone. I drew a picture of you. The police are on the lookout for you.”
I hear a sharp burst of static. “You’re even more talented than I thought,” he says. “I’m impressed.” The acid in his voice could burn through wires if I weren’t wireless. “I wish you’d stop acting this way. You’re spoiling everything. And I really want you to come to my sculpture exhibit.”
“You didn’t tell me you were a sculptor,” I say. My mouth is so dry it’s hard to get the words out. “What kind of work do you do?”
He pauses. “I guess you could say it’s figurative.”
“What medium do you use?”
An even longer pause. “Heavy metal.”
“When does your exhibit open?”
He lowers his voice. “That depends on you. I want your input. A talented person like yourself.”
“Well, you’ve got to have an opening date if you’ve got gallery space reserved, just like I have.”
“First of December.”
Same as mine. “And you’ve got to be advertising, right? You’ve got to have your name up there so people know whose work they’re seeing. So I can do without the invite. Curtis, I can come see your work when your show opens and bring along anyone else I think might be interested.” Like a whole detachment from the NYPD. “Curtis what, by the way. There may be more than one Curtis who’s a sculptor.”
“There won’t be no ads with my name posted anywhere. My work is just available for private showing,” he lowers his voice, “to those who inspire it.”
“How many other private showings have you had?” How many other women have you harassed this way?
He clears his throat. “Two. The first one could have been better. I was much more pleased with the second. Artists get better as they go along. That’s par for the course, isn’t it, Delilah? You learn from your mistakes, you find what works and what doesn’t. This one is going to be my best yet.”
I’m shaking like a Jello mold and not from the November chill blowing through the window frame. “In that case,” I try to keep the trembling out of my voice, “I should think you’d want more people to see it. If you’re a serious artist. How else do you expect to get recognition?”
“Just because I’m inspired by an exhibitionist doesn’t mean I have to become one,” he snaps. “Putting yourself on display cheapens you. You should know. You’re paid, what, a measly fifteen, twenty dollars an hour to bare your body, the temple of your soul.”
That’s it, more or less. How the hell does he know how much I’m paid?
“You don’t own your body any more, Delilah. You’ve given it to every one who’s ever drawn or painted or sculpted you before me. That’s a desecration. I’m not going to do that to my body of work. I’m not giving it up to anybody but you, the person who inspired it. You’re all mine, baring yourself to me and me alone, and I’m showing it to you and only you. Once you see it, you’ll never pose for another person,” he says. “Or go to bed with anyone else.”
I look at the mound of pillow and down comforter bunched up beside me. “You mind telling that to the person lying here next to me right now?”
“Lying bitch. There’s no one there.”
“How do you know?”
“I know. I’m keeping tabs. It won’t do you any good to lie to me. I’m way ahead of you. I know everything about you, Delilah. Where you go. What you do. Who you see. How can I not? You’re my subject. I’ve got to know as much about my subject as I possibly can if I want to do a good job. If I want to impress her with the final product.” He clears his throat. “You won’t be disappointed.”
“You still haven’t told me where or when it’s going to be,” I gasp. “This exhibit of yours that you’re not exhibiting. There may be a conflict. If you tell me, I can at least arrange…”
“There won’t be no conflict or arranging to be done,” he vows. “I’ll make sure you get there.”
“You’ll draw me a map, right?”
“Better than that,” he says. I hear voices in the background and a muffled response to them by Curtis. “I have to go now,” he announces, then lowers his voice again, “but I’ll be in touch, Delilah.”
Minutes pass and I still feel his voice all over me like sticky fingers.
If you think you’re in immediate danger, Quick said, call 911. I lean on my elbows and peek through the gap between shade and window frame. No one’s out there looking up. At least not that I can see. Just what would I tell the emergency operator anyway? You’ve got to help me, I’ve just been invited to an art exhibit! Uh-uh, can’t do that. Otherwise I’m supposed to call Rubenstein, then call Quick. The big red LED display on my alarm clock says it’s three twenty-eight. I can’t call Rubenstein. He’s not even on duty until eight, Quick told me. I don’t particularly want to call Rubenstein, at least not until he’s had a chance to talk with Quick.
The only person I want to talk to n
ow is Quick.
But it’s three twenty-eight, no, three thirty-one now, and he’s probably fast asleep. I look at the mound of pillow and down comforter bunched up beside me. It was Quick I was thinking of when I told Curtis that lie about someone lying next to me. I wonder if someone is lying next to him. I don’t want to disturb him. Thinking about him this way is disturbing in itself. He’s going to think I’m holding something back and I am. The last thing I need, what with a crazy and an even crazier stalker, is another man in my life, even in fantasy, but for the minute or two I fantasized that it was him lying there next to me and not a lumpy lifeless mass of feathers, I felt incredibly protected. I wanted to put my hand on his bare shoulder and wake him, hand him the phone, and have him get rid of Curtis, then take care of my other needs. It’s been hard enough making direct eye contact up to now. How am I going to look at him after this, after imagining him naked in bed beside me, having sex with me? He’s already seen me nude in paintings, several of them, front and back views. I’m just trying to vicariously even the score. Well, I can’t help it, I’m scared. Just thinking about him makes me feel safer. And he’s got a great physique and I’m an artist. And I’m horny.
At least I can still prioritize.
But I still can’t bring myself to call him at three forty-five a.m.
What I do is turn on the radio hoping that the announcers’ voices will have a soothing effect on me, like hearing a bedtime story, but the lead story is this: “Police have identified the woman found in the trunk of an abandoned car on West Street late Monday night as twenty-nine year old Majesty Moore, who until her disappearance three weeks ago worked as a window display artist. Several display items were found in the car trunk with her. Police would not comment on the nature of the items found, but called it a particularly heinous crime and ask that anyone with any information contact detectives at the Sixth precinct or call (800) 577-TIPS.”
Without missing a beat, the announcer starts to tell of a double-shooting in the Bronx. I turn off the radio and toss and turn in silence, very unsoothed. This woman, Majesty Moore, was a window display artist. I’m an artist on display. Putting yourself on display cheapens you. As I pull the covers around me tighter, the fantasy outline of Quick disappears. My hand reaches for my cell phone. 4:12. No, I can’t do it. I punch in the number of the Sixth precinct instead. A woman answers.
“I’m calling about the woman they found on West Street,” I tell her. I hear a click as she transfers the call, upstairs no doubt, to whatever detective might be handy at this hour of the night. A voice strained by a virus or too many cigarettes croaks, “Sauer here,” and he sounds it. “Can I help you?”
He might just as well be asking, Can you help us?
“About the woman they found on West Street…” I stammer. “Majesty Moore…”
“You know her?”
“No. I…”
“You saw something,” he says.
“That’s not why I’m calling,” I say. “I heard about it on the news. I heard that she was a window display artist and that certain display items were found in the trunk with her…”
“And you’re one of the people who hired her and think it’s stuff that belongs to your store, right?” he growls. “Can’t you vultures think of anything else to keep you up nights? Like maybe filing for Chapter 11?”
“Well, is it that kind of stuff?”
“Look, sweetheart, when you call this line, it’s to give info, not get it. So either you know something about this case that you want to tell us or you know something about this case and you want to know what we know, in which case I ain’t telling you nothing. Or you don’t know nothing. Which is it?”
I roll on my back. “Look, I don’t know anything about this case, but I’ve got this gut feeling,” I tell him.
“You sure it’s not something you ate? Oh, I got it, you one of those psychics? You want to come in and fondle these display items and tell us who did her based on that, huh?”
“Do you want to hear about it or do I have to wait until eight, until Rubenstein comes in?”
“What’s Marty got to do with this? I caught Moore.”
“Well, Rubenstein caught me.”
“You mind telling me what the hell this is all about?”
Now we’re getting somewhere. I feel like an old tape that’s been rewound and replayed so much that the message is starting to warp. Sauer alternately uh-huhs and coughs as my story winds down to the phone call that still has me quivering. “When I heard about the display items in the trunk, it made me think of something Curtis said…that’s the guy who’s been calling me—” I gulp “—about artists displaying their work.” I leave out specifics about the piece of work I’ve displayed. “I wondered if maybe there’s a connection, if maybe he’s the same one who…”
“This Curtis…is that his first name or last name?” The name in native New Yawkese sounds like ‘Coitus.’
“I don’t know. First name, I imagine. Using his last name would be too much of a giveaway if he’s got a record…”
“Not necessarily. Curtis is a common enough last name. Must be rows of them in the white pages, and I’d bet more than one or two have some kind of record for something, even if it’s just scofflaws. Curtis isn’t such a popular first name, you know. I can only think of one, offhand,” he coughs, “and I don’t think it’s the guy who was with the Guardian Angels we’re talking about. So what tipped you off? This guy mention Moore to you?”
“No, but I get a feeling he’s done something like this before, that I’m not the first one he’s come on to this way. At first I thought maybe it was just a fluke, that once he knew I wasn’t interested, he’d go away, but it’s gotten worse. Now he’s telling me that he’s had private showings of his work before and that they keep getting better and better…” I stammer.
Sauer interrupts. “Look, Miss, it sounds like you got something to worry about with this guy, but for all you know he could be a legit wacko artist who you’ve inspired. Just because the guy wants to show off his work to you don’t mean he wants to off you. Probably just wants to impress you. I’ll admit he has a funny way of going about it, but, let me tell you, there’s all kinds. Maybe you better call later this morning and talk to Rubenstein about it, but as far as it having anything to do with Moore,” he coughs, “that’s not likely. I’ll tell you this much, we got a strong suspicion it’s someone she was seeing who did her. One of the guys she’d been seeing on and off liked to get rough, put her in the hospital a couple of times before. We’re on the lookout for him now. Nine times out of ten, it’s a boyfriend-girlfriend thing. Could be in your case too, did you consider that?” He doesn’t let me answer. “But as long as you weren’t dating Moore’s old man,” he clears his throat, “I don’t think you got anything to worry about on that score. Of course only you know what the guys you date are capable of…”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.”
All too well.
“Look, sweetheart, it’s very late at night, you’re upset, and your imagination’s zooming all over the place. What you don’t want to do is turn on the news. The last thing you want to listen to when you’re upset like this is the news, for crissakes. Make yourself a cup of tea, turn on some music. My father was a cop too. After dealing with street crap all day, he’d come home, listen to records. Ferrante and Teicher, Mantovani, that kind of stuff; it would calm him right down. Of course they don’t got records now, they got iPods. You probably never heard of Ferrante and Teicher, right? All I’m saying is calm down, try to get a few hours sleep, stop worrying about every bogey man who’s out there. It ain’t worth it, there are just too damn many of them and they’re not all out to get you.”
“Thanks,” I say. “That’s comforting.”
“I’m a regular Ann Landers, huh? You going to listen to me and turn off that radio now?”
“Already did.”
“Good girl. Don’t want you getting spooked any more tonight.” Don’t want you tying up
the line any more tonight. Now he’s talking to me like I’m a house pet, a loyal lap dog who overenthusiastically chewed on the newspaper before bringing it to him, rendering it useless. After rolling it and hitting me over the head with it, he’s acknowledged my good intentions, patted me on the head, and thrown me a Milk-Bone. Good girl. Click. He’s left me to shiver in the cold of the basement. I wonder if Sauer is even going to try to put the bits and pieces of what I’ve told him together. Probably not. My hand still grips the receiver. When I think of who I might have called instead, I cradle the cell phone in my arms like a child would clutch a stuffed animal and ignore the operator’s recorded plea to please hang up now.
25
“I’m sorry, but Detective Rubenstein isn’t in today. He’s got the flu real bad.” I immediately peg Sauer as the carrier, coughing in everyone’s face. I wonder if I could get sick just from having talked on the phone with him. “Is this something someone else can help you with?”
Yes, it is, but he works in a different precinct and not until four this afternoon. It’s only 9:10 a.m.
Quick said call Rubenstein, then call him. And I did call Rubenstein.
I take out the card with the phone numbers jotted on the back and punch in the one starting with 718. His message says that he is unable to come to the phone right now, but to please leave my name and number at the beep. I comply. I’ve got something important to tell you, I promise, and throw in the number at West Eighth Street for good measure. I’m going to have to spend some quality time there on my sculpture before I go off to model later today, and hope I have it in me to produce real quality work. My hands are shaking like the few dead leaves remaining on the trees in Washington Square, and I haven’t even had a cup of coffee yet. How am I even going to wield a fettling knifewithout cutting myself up in the process? I take my time getting dressed, giving Quick a chance to call me back so we can talk in private before I leave. He doesn’t. I don’t call the other number.