Make Them Sorry

by Sam Hawken

  She wasn’t secretly dirty either. He knew this. Once he’d left her at her work and traveled back to her apartment. He knew the passcode to the electric gate, and he used a set of lockpicks to get inside her front door. For two long hours he examined everything in her place, from the messy drawer where she kept her flatware to her collection of underwear. There were no hidden pieces of lingerie, no handcuffs in the nightstand drawer, no sex toys, no flavored lubricants. It excited him to think he might find them, but it excited him more when he didn’t. She was pure. Eventually he rescued a pair of her underpants from the clothes hamper and took them with him. He kept them in his pocket, and on those nights when she came home and passed without seeing him, he put them to his nose and mouth and inhaled her scent deeply. Soon he’d need a fresher pair.

  Tonight he arrived at her apartment a scant few minutes before she did. He barely had time to set up on the street opposite her building before she cruised by in her little Mazda. He breathed through the underpants while he watched her take her delightful precaution.

  He put the underpants away and took up his journal. It had a plain black cover. He marked his place with one of her business cards. A pencil was held fast against the spine by a rubber band. He freed the pencil and flipped open the book to find the log of her day. Everything was listed—where she’d gone and when, all of it arranged day by day—and the records went back for weeks and months. Sometimes he was surprised by how long it had been.

  When he was done taking notes, he set aside the journal and watched her apartment. She was cleverer than she had been at the beginning. She never opened the blinds anymore. She knew he was there, and it made things harder, but it also made them more thrilling.

  He got out of the car and crossed the street. He plugged in the gate code and slipped through. The day was failing, but it was still hot. He wore a loud Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts and sandals. Anything else in this neighborhood might have drawn attention as something other. When he was downtown, he wore shirtsleeves and ties, and sometimes even a jacket. When he followed her to the grocery store, he wore a polo shirt and a pair of neatly pressed khakis. He was invisible to everyone, though not always to her. He felt maybe she sensed the connection between them.

  Short bushes ran underneath the windows of Faith’s front room. He pushed between them now, aligned his eye with the gap between the blinds and the edge of the window. His range of visibility was limited, but he was still able to see the dining area and a sliver of the kitchen.

  Faith was at the table eating a salad. She bought salads in bags and expensive vinaigrettes no better than ones she could have gotten for less with a different label. She had a copy of People, because she was addicted to People, and while she ate she read.

  “Excuse me. What are you doing there?”

  He started and stepped back from the window. He quashed any look of surprise on his face. He belonged.

  It was Andrea, Faith’s neighbor. She was thirty-four years old and had more than one boyfriend. She possessed cheap beauty and knew it. He detested her. He smiled. “Hi, Andrea,” he said. “It’s me.”

  Andrea brightened. “Oh, hi! I didn’t recognize you there. Is everything okay?”

  “Tigger got out again. I was poking around in the bushes hoping to flush him out.”

  “You need to keep that cat behind a fence or something.”

  He nodded amenably. “You’re absolutely right. As soon as the door opens, he bolts. Some cats don’t want to be inside.”

  “Well, I haven’t seen him. Maybe on the other side of the building?”

  “I’ll look there next. Nice to see you, Andrea.”

  “Nice to see you, too. Hope you find him!”

  She waved and walked away, sorting her mail. He watched her go. His expression soured. Faith might have heard them talking. He walked back to the gate. He’d watch from the car for the rest of the night, and he would simply imagine what went on behind Faith’s blinds.

  Chapter Eight

  CAMARO DIDN’T SEE Faith Glazer for a while. She was on the speed bag. The beginner class broke up, and Camaro heard Miguel’s son Rey shouting out the date and time for the next session. The showers would be jammed for some time, but at least the floor of the gym would be given over to the experienced crowd.

  She felt someone behind her. “One minute,” she said. Camaro punched with her left hand, a rolling measure sending the bag rebounding in a steady rhythm, and switched to her right without breaking the pattern. She went left again and right again, concluded with a sharp right cross, and jangled the bag’s mount. Camaro saw Faith.

  “Hi,” Faith said.

  “You’re back.”

  “I’m back.”

  Camaro flexed her fingers. Wrapped in elastic material, the bones of her hands were tight, her wrists straight. The wraps forced a fighter to learn proper positioning, and they prevented training injuries. She noticed Faith watching the movement. “Is there something about me I don’t know?” Camaro asked. “Am I putting out a vibe?”

  “A vibe?” Faith looked confused.

  “You know…a vibe.”

  Faith’s eyes widened. “Oh. Oh! You mean a vibe. No, it’s nothing like that. I mean, if I were into that sort of thing I’d definitely be interested, but no. I’m only being friendly.”

  Camaro brushed past her. “Be friendly with someone else.”

  “Hey, wait! Maybe that’s not everything. I told you I was asking around. And I watch you. I see what you can do. You’re way stronger than me, and you know all the moves. I take the class, but I don’t know how to do any of it.”

  Camaro regarded Faith. “How long have you been coming here?”

  “A few weeks, I guess.”

  “You’re not going to learn how to do anything in a few weeks. They’ll give you the basics, but you’re not going to be able to fight. There aren’t any shortcuts. You learn, you roll.”

  Camaro waited.

  “I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t important.”

  She saw Faith’s expression swirl with panic, hope, and fear. Some people were easy to read. They had no secrets from anyone. “Is it boyfriend trouble?”

  “Huh?”

  “Your boyfriend. Is he smacking you around?”

  “No, I don’t…have a boyfriend.”

  “Then what is it? You’re afraid of somebody, or somebody hurt you one time and you don’t want to get hurt again? You live in a bad neighborhood?”

  Camaro watched Faith’s cheeks color. “I live in a pretty good neighborhood,” she said.

  “It doesn’t matter, because I can’t help you. It’s none of my business. I come here to roll and that’s it.”

  She left. Faith didn’t follow. Camaro went into the locker room and stripped for the shower, wrapping herself in a thick white towel until she was safely ensconced under the spray. Hot water played over a network of white scars on tanned skin. Some she felt under her hands when she lathered up, but others had smoothed away like old rock faces against the sea, faded reminders of pain she had felt once upon a time.

  Camaro was getting dressed when Faith reappeared. She still had color on her face.

  “No,” Camaro said.

  “If I told you it was a matter of life and death, would it make any difference?”

  Camaro reached for the tightly rolled fresh socks tucked away in her bag. She sat on a bench with her bare feet on the concrete and unrolled the socks. “I’d think maybe you were trying to get attention.”

  “No, I’m serious. I’m in danger. I need help.”

  “Call the police.”

  “I already did. They can’t help me.”

  “Hire a bodyguard.”

  “Do you have any idea what that kind of thing costs?”

  Camaro threw up her hands. “I don’t know. I’m a fishing boat skipper, okay? I take tourists to catch swordfish. I don’t hire out to people with problems. I don’t know where you got that idea about me. I’m nobody. I like being nobody. S
o I’m sorry if you’re having a hard time, but…no.”

  Faith’s eyes were wet. Camaro busied herself with her socks. She thrust one foot into a waiting boot before doing the same with the other. She laced them up and pulled the knots tight. She heard Faith walk away.

  Camaro exhaled. She held up a hand and found it out of tune with the rest of her. It was the faintest of tremors, and it came from the too-rapid beating of her heart.

  She finished getting dressed and threw her sweaty gym clothes into the bag. She went out the rear exit to the back lot. The other day Faith had lingered out front. Camaro was certain she’d do the same today.

  The evening sun was still brilliant, though colored with the peach and pink tones of encroaching evening. The small lot behind Miguel’s gym was offset with concrete stanchions linked together with chains stained dark with age. A few cars bunched in the space, and a few motorcycles. Camaro turned to her bike and saw Faith Glazer there.

  “I’ll pay you a hundred dollars to listen to what I have to say. It’ll take five minutes. If you still say no, I’ll give you another hundred bucks.”

  Camaro kept walking. When the bike was between them, she dumped her gym bag on the saddle. “Who says I need two hundred bucks badly enough to listen to your story?” she asked Faith.

  “If you want more, I can write you a check.”

  “And then you’ll leave me alone?”

  “I promise.”

  Camaro sighed. “Okay.”

  Chapter Nine

  “I DIDN’T KNOW he was there until maybe three months ago,” Faith told Camaro. “I don’t know how long he’d been watching me by then. I mean, sometimes I’d get that creepy feeling you get when there’s someone in the room with you, but they’re not saying anything? I’d look, but there wouldn’t be anyone. But one time I was in Publix and there he was. He was just standing there at the end of the aisle, looking at me.”

  They sat at a table in a small restaurant across Washington Avenue from the gym. It was a tiny place with a handful of colorful tables, all practically on top of one another. The walls were painted brilliant colors and the decorations were Colombian to go with the food. The patrons were mostly tourists, sun-blistered and loud, and their noise ensured no one heard anything spoken between Camaro and Faith. Faith ordered empanadas for the both of them, but neither took a bite once they were delivered.

  “How do you know?” Camaro asked Faith. “How do you know he’s the one?”

  “Trust me, after a while you figure it out. The way he watched me. I knew it wasn’t the first time. I started thinking about all the times I might have seen him before. I’m sure he’s been by my work, too. I might have seen him by the pool at my apartment once. Or maybe it wasn’t him.”

  Camaro leaned in. She had a bottle of Pony Malta by her elbow, but she hadn’t touched it either. “What does he look like? Tall, short? Latino? White guy?”

  “Definitely a white guy. He’s not pale or anything, but you know the beach bums get as dark as they can. He’s not like that.”

  “Hair color? Eye color?”

  “I can’t be sure about his eyes. His hair is dark. Maybe dark brown, but probably black.”

  “How old?”

  Faith bit her lip as she thought. “Maybe forty? Could be younger. And he’s not tall. I figure he’s five ten or so. Not fat, either. He’s got strong arms. He was wearing this polo shirt thing? I saw his muscles.”

  “How about a mustache or a beard?”

  “None of that.”

  Camaro exhaled. “You need to take this to the police. You shouldn’t be telling me.”

  “That’s the thing: I did take it to the police. I told them everything I’m telling you. The guy’s been watching me, peeking in my windows at night, sending me things in the mail. A couple of weeks ago he sent me a snow globe. I mean, I can recognize his handwriting on the stuff he sends me. But it’s not enough for the cops. They want fingerprints, so they can identify him, and they want to know he’s tried to break in or attack me.”

  “And he hasn’t.”

  Faith kept her hands on the table to steady them, but Camaro saw her fingers twitch. “There’s no way to prove it, but I think he’s been inside my apartment. Nothing’s missing, but sometimes I come home and I know he’s been in there. Everything stays exactly the same, but he’s been there.”

  Camaro felt her lip curl. “The cops don’t care about that?”

  “How can they when there’s no evidence? I can’t keep calling them every time I get scared. And what are they going to do? Dust my whole apartment for prints twice a week? So I take precautions. I don’t go anywhere I might end up alone, and when I am alone I have my pepper spray. If he comes for me, and I get it in his eyes, I can run for it.”

  “Pepper spray doesn’t work,” Camaro said. “Anybody can learn how to fight through it.”

  “I don’t know what else to do. That’s why I started going to Miguel’s—because I heard it was a good place to learn how to fight. But you know what it’s like in these classes: everybody’s the same and everything takes too long. I need to know how to take care of myself right now. I need someone to help me. One-on-one. A real teacher.”

  “Me,” Camaro said.

  “I don’t know. Can you be?”

  Camaro took up the Pony Malta and drank. She put an empanada on a small plate, but didn’t do anything else to it. Her appetite wasn’t there. She looked at Faith, at the way she sat and the way she looked back. She thought. “I have to know something first,” she said.

  “Anything.”

  “I have to know this is not some kind of boyfriend-girlfriend thing. I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but I know this happens sometimes when people break up. They start making accusations and then it gets ugly. I don’t want to be in the middle of something like that.”

  “There is no way this guy was ever my boyfriend. No way. I don’t know him, I’ve never met him, and I don’t know where he came from. All I know is he’s a creep and he’s not going away unless someone can make him go away. If it’s not the police, then it has to be me.”

  “Do you think you have what it takes?” Camaro asked.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “To hurt someone. Maybe kill them.”

  “If he was going to hurt me, then yes. I’d defend myself. I’m not going to be a victim.”

  “I don’t think you should be.”

  “Will you help? Show me how to do what you do. Everything. I saw you tangle with that girl, and when you work out with the guys. I saw everything I needed to see. You know how to stop people like this.”

  Camaro picked up the empanada. She tore it in half. It was filled with spicy meat. “I need to make a call first. Depending on what I hear, I’ll do what I can. But I’m not promising anything. If someone wants to hurt you, they’ll figure out a way to hurt you. Sometimes you can’t stop it.”

  Faith sat up straight. “I’m not letting him hurt me.”

  “That’s a start.”

  Chapter Ten

  IGNACIO SAT IN front of the computer monitor with a pair of tiny reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. He typed with two fingers and his thumbs and managed a decent speed. The narrative of a case involving two junkies who had stabbed each other—one of whom died at the scene and one of whom managed to drag herself five blocks before expiring on the sidewalk—took form little by little. When Ignacio was done with his final report, he’d comb through it for the inevitable spelling errors and any details he had happened to forget. Only then would it be appended to the case’s electronic file and dumped into a virtual outbox to join the others flowing out of Homicide Unit.

  It was closing in on end of shift, when the daytime cops traded places with the nighttime cops. Fresh faces for new crimes. Already most of the cubicles around Ignacio were empty. The talk of other detectives was distant hallway chatter as the crews overlapped. He checked his watch, realized there was no reason to worry about it. No o
ne was waiting for him at home.

  His desk phone trilled, jarringly loud. Ignacio snatched up the receiver and tucked it into the crook of his shoulder. He kept typing. “Detective Montellano, Homicide Unit.”

  “It’s Camaro Espinoza.”

  Ignacio stopped typing. “Camaro. You’re calling me? Is somebody dead?”

  “No.”

  “Is someone about to be dead?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  He relaxed into his chair. “Then to what do I owe the pleasure? I don’t think it’s because you miss my handsome face.”

  “I need something from the police and I don’t think I’ll get a straight answer talking to anyone else.”

  “How so?”

  “I met a woman. I don’t want to get into how it happened. She told me she’s being stalked, and she’s been to the police about it. More than once. They told her there was nothing they could do.”

  Ignacio grabbed a pen and a yellow legal pad. “What’s this woman’s name?”

  “Faith Glazer.”

  “And when did all this start? Did she give you dates?”

  “She said three months, but it could have been longer. It’s when she noticed.”

  “Got an address?”

  Camaro gave it to him. He recorded all the information and scribbled a tail underneath it. “I’ll look it up. Where can I reach you?”

  “This number.”

  “We’ll talk soon.”

  “Thanks.”

  “De nada.”

  Ignacio hung up and returned his attention to the computer. He swept the report away with a click and located another icon on the desktop in the shape of the police department logo. After two different log-ins, he drilled down to the search field he needed.