Obsessed

by Devon Scott

  Ciao Bella.

  She hangs up the phone, those words remaining on her tongue.

  Hey, you.

  Ciao Bella.

  Her mind is racing, attempting to connect the dots.

  Her Coach briefcase is leaning against the foot of the nightstand. Kennedy reaches inside for a legal pad, tearing off the top layer of writings until she reaches a clean page. She finds a pen and begins to write.

  Sixteen partners.

  New York, Jamaica, Baltimore, Atlanta, Philadelphia, Miami, Paris, London, Aruba, the Dominican Republic, Belize.

  She works from memory since she didn’t make a copy of the list she provided to Joe.

  Some names come easily. Others are lost to her. But she jots down what she remembers.

  Physical characteristics, accents, anything that she can recall.

  She throws the covers off, readying to head downstairs to the computer in the den. The images are on the hard drive. She’s in mid-stride, close to the door when she remembers: The police have the external drive in their possession.

  Back in bed, legal pad on her lap, she jots down what she can from memory.

  Peering at the list of locales, adding names.

  She starts with the photos sent in an e-mail to her job.

  Think, Kennedy!

  Make the assumption that all of this has something to do with one of the women photographed with you and/or Michael. Who were they? How many?

  Kennedy glances down her list.

  Four, five, six, maybe. She can’t recall. Not without the hard drive.

  Which names can she cross off?

  Makayla from New York.

  She’s recent.

  It’s unlikely that she’s behind all this.

  Who else?

  Then back to the voice mails. Hey, you. Ciao Bella. Who speaks like that?

  Italians.

  But she’s never been to Italy. Never been with an Italian, as far as she can recall.

  Who then?

  Who can I rule out?

  Did any of these other women say things like Ciao Bella?

  Not Isabella. Not Ana. She’s almost certain of it.

  Chloe with the British accent? Kennedy replays their time in London through her mind. No, it wasn’t her.

  The women they met in Jamaica—Natalie, Lacy, Irie?

  Two were American. No, that isn’t right. Natalie was from the States, but Lacy was European, she thinks. Could she have been from Italy? Did she say Ciao Bella? She can’t recall.

  Irie? She was definitely Jamaican, spoke with a thick patois. It probably wasn’t her, but who knows?

  There were the two women from Philadelphia, Jayla and Brooke. Both African-Americans, and from what she can recall, neither would have used the phrase Ciao Bella.

  There were several women whom they met in Miami—the model, Mercedes, who spoke with a thick Puerto Rican/New York accent.

  Kennedy doesn’t think it was her.

  The other woman’s name escapes Kennedy. Certain details return—a butterscotch complexion, hair down her back, lovely, sensual.

  Hey, you.

  Her heart rate begins to increase.

  Hey, you.

  Ciao Bella.

  Something’s there.

  Just below the surface.

  She needs the hard drive to be sure.

  Chapter 48

  Thanksgiving Day.

  Kennedy is in her sweats, hair tied back, hot coffee in front of her as she sits at the kitchen table, laptop open. But it’s not getting her attention this morning. Instead she is staring out the window to the deck and alleyway beyond.

  Her BlackBerry vibrates.

  “HI, MOM-MEEEEEEEE!” Zack yells so loud she’s forced to squint in pain. But suddenly she’s in ecstasy.

  “Hey, Zack, how’s my favorite little man?”

  “Good, Mommy. Happy Thanksgiving!”

  “Happy Thanksgiving to you, Zack. How are you?”

  “Fine. Guess what? Pop Pop’s taking me hunting for squail today!”

  Kennedy frowns.

  “Hunting? And I think you mean quail, honey. Not squail.”

  Zack doesn’t hear a word.

  “Pop Pop says that squails are sneaky little creatures, but after we shoot one, he’s gonna show me how to pluck all the feathers off and give it to Nana so she can throw it in the oven. Do I eat squail, Mommy?”

  “It’s quail, baby. And I don’t think I want you hunting with Pop Pop. You’re still too young for that. I’m not comfortable with you being around guns.”

  “Pop Pop says if I help him feed the cows, he’s gonna give me five dollars! FIVE DOLLARS, can you believe that? All for helping him feed a bunch of cows. I don’t mind feeding cows, Mommy. It’s not like they are nasty or anything. Pop Pop is so great! I asked Nana if she had some chores for me, like setting the table for Thanksgiving, and she said sure, and I said, ‘Cool beans, that’ll be a dollar and fifty,’ and she just laughed at me. Mommy, do you think Nana will pay me for setting the table?”

  Kennedy is shaking her head as the tears well up in her eyes. She misses Zack so much she’s about to lose it. She wills herself to calm down.

  “You shouldn’t charge Nana to set the table, Zack. You should do it willingly. After all, she’s your grandmother.”

  She can feel Zack sulking.

  “Okay, Mommy.”

  “I miss you, Zack. Miss you a whole lot!” she exclaims.

  “Me, too.”

  “Zack, I need to speak to your father about this hunting situation. Can you put him on the phone?”

  Several seconds go by.

  “Daddy doesn’t want to come to the phone.” Zack drops his voice several decibels. “I think he’s mad at you.”

  Kennedy grits her teeth. She hates the fact that Zack is caught in the middle of this thing between Michael and her.

  She sighs and smiles through the momentary angst.

  “Okay, Zack. That’s all right. Mommy loves you, baby.”

  “Love you, too, Mommy. ’Bye.”

  The line goes dead. Kennedy presses END and stares at her phone for a moment before lowering it to the table.

  Blinks back the tears as she considers her day alone.

  “Joe, it’s Kennedy.”

  He takes several seconds to respond.

  “Kennedy. Happy Thanksgiving to you.”

  “I need my external drive back.”

  Joe considers the tone of her words.

  “O-kay. Can I ask why?”

  “I need to check something. I’d appreciate it if you can drop it off today.”

  “It’s Thanksgiving.”

  “And? You’re obviously in town.”

  Several seconds of silence.

  “Can it wait?”

  “No,” Kennedy responds. “If it’s a problem, I can call your commander,” she adds rather nastily.

  “No need to threaten,” Joe replies. “I’ll swing by . . . within the hour.”

  “That would be great.”

  Kennedy has one of those large easel pads on the kitchen table. Zack uses them when he’s in the mood to finger paint. One sheet is affixed to the far wall facing the windows. It lists the sixteen names and locations of their encounters. Using a black marker, she scribbles on the pad, distilling the list down to only those women whose photos were taken by her and Michael.

  So far she has five names.

  Makayla, Ana, Lacy, Jayla, and the woman they met in Miami whose name she cannot remember.

  She needs the drive to confirm any others.

  The doorbell rings. She puts down the marker and goes to the door. Checks through the opening that it’s Joe. He smiles sheepishly when he sees her.

  “Joe.”

  Joe is holding a plastic bag out to her. Kennedy takes the bag, opens it, and glances inside. The external hard drive, USB cable, and power cord are there.

  “Thanks.” She remains by the door.

  “May I come in?” he asks.r />
  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Come on, Kennedy. I just want to talk to you. About the case.”

  She glares at him before stepping back, allowing him to pass. He follows her into the kitchen, staring at the lists on the wall and table.

  “Want some coffee?” she asks, deciding to play nice.

  “Sure. What’s all this?”

  Kennedy eyes him. “Trying to narrow the list down.”

  She pours him a cup of coffee and moves the easel pad out of the way so he can get to the cream and sugar.

  Joe nods, stirring in three spoonfuls of sugar.

  “Have some coffee with your sugar,” she says.

  “Funny.” He returns his attention to the lists. “How are you narrowing things down?”

  “I’m operating under the assumption that whoever sent those e-mails had something to do with the woman in the photos. Or if not directly related to her, then to a woman who has been photographed with us in the past.”

  “And that’s what these four names are here?” he asks, tapping on the pad.

  “Yes.”

  “Four out of sixteen.”

  “So far. I need the hard drive to make sure. This is what I remembered.”

  Joe nods.

  Kennedy starts to speak then shuts it down.

  “What?” he asks.

  “The two voice mails are bothering me,” she says.

  “What about them?”

  “In both, the woman begins by saying Hey you and ends with Ciao Bella.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t know. Something’s there. I can feel it,” she replies.

  “Do you recall any of the women using those words?”

  “I don’t know. It’s been a minute with a bunch of these people. Like years.”

  Joe glances down at the names.

  Makayla, Ana, Lacy, Jayla, and the woman they met in Miami.

  “Ana is the woman in the photos that were sent to your job, correct?”

  Kennedy nods.

  “And if memory serves me, you’ve had no contact with her, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And both Michael and I have spoken with Makayla. It’s doubtful she has anything to do with this, especially since your encounter with her was fairly recent. As I recall, the first offending e-mail came in two days after you met her.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Okay.” Joe picks up the marker and draws a line through the names of Makayla and Ana. “I had a conversation with Jayla a few weeks ago. I don’t think she had anything to do with this. She said she deleted the photos that were sent almost immediately. Never kept them around to look at.”

  “Unless she’s lying to you,” Kennedy says.

  Joe shrugs. “Could be, but I doubt it. It didn’t sound like she was hiding anything.” He draws a line across her name.

  “That leaves Lacy and the woman from Miami,” Kennedy says.

  “Tell me about them,” Joe commands, then slurps his coffee.

  Lacy was a brown-skinned woman they’d met in Jamaica a number of years ago. They had met at the resort and had a wonderful time over the next three days. Lacy was European, as Kennedy recalls, but she can’t place her country of birth now.

  Then there is the woman they met in Miami.

  Kennedy concentrates on her. Vague details surface. She had been tall, light-skinned. Butterscotch complexion. Yes, it’s slowly coming back to her. Long hair, she recalls now. What was her name? A killer body; she remembers that. Hadn’t she been attending some convention in Miami when they met?

  It had been, what? Four years ago? Perhaps more.

  Kennedy closes her eyes. Conjures up images of the woman. Her hair she can see, but the details of her face are beyond her recall. She remembers, though, fleeting images of the three of them intertwined on the bed, their bodies pressed together in the heat of passion.

  What was her name?

  She wishes Joe would leave so she can fire up the external drive.

  And see the woman in all of her splendor and glory.

  Her heart begins to beat faster.

  Kennedy is pushing her brain to remember details.

  Something is there.

  Something familiar.

  Kennedy tells Joe what she knows.

  He considers her words for a minute before responding.

  “You need to go back, look through old calendars, e-mails, letters, what have you. See if any of that jump-starts your brain to remember. Look at the photos on the hard drive. It will come to you. Concentrate, and you’ll remember.”

  “I will.”

  Joe gulps his coffee.

  “You ever videotape these vacations? I don’t mean the actual encounters. I mean the vacations themselves. If so, you might have these women on tape. If you do, that would be immensely helpful.”

  Kennedy has a faraway look in her eyes.

  “Ken?”

  She stares at him for a moment.

  “Oh my God, you’re right. Why didn’t I remember?”

  She is up from the table, eyes wide.

  “What is it?” he asks.

  “We videotaped almost all of our vacations back then. This was before we bought a digital camera. We hardly use it now. Damn, I wonder where it is?”

  Joe stands, excitement in his eyes.

  “That’s great! Let’s go find it.”

  “No, Joe. I need to do this alone.” Her mind is racing. So is her heart.

  Something there . . . just below the surface.

  “Let me find the camera, view the tapes. If there’s anything there, I’ll let you know.”

  Joe nods, realizing he’s in no position to push further.

  “Are you . . . alone for the holiday?” he asks as gingerly as he can.

  “Yes. But don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. I’ve got stuff to do. Lots to do.”

  He follows her to the door.

  “Call if you need me,” he adds as an afterthought. “Or if you discover anything.”

  “I will, Joe,” Kennedy replies. “You’ll be the first to know.”

  Chapter 49

  It takes her thirty minutes to find it.

  First the basement, then the garage, then back down to the basement, where she locates the camcorder in a Nike shoebox along with a bunch of 8mm tapes. Her heart is pounding in her chest as she climbs the steps to the main floor.

  Back at the kitchen table, Kennedy opens the box and extracts the video camera.

  Hefts the thing in her hands before putting it down.

  She examines the tapes. Eleven in all.

  A few markings and dates written in ink.

  Kennedy takes the camcorder into the family room. Plugs it in, powers it on, and flips open the 2.5-inch LCD color screen.

  Still works.

  She pours herself a glass of Merlot and sits cross-legged on the floor, loading the first tape. She hits rewind and waits patiently for the tape to come to a stop. Then Kennedy hits play.

  Almost four hours later, Kennedy rises from the carpet, stretching her arms and legs as she exhales an explosive yawn. The time has flown by. It’s now close to six PM. She’s famished. Kennedy goes to the refrigerator, opens it, and peers inside.

  Not much stares back at her.

  A half-eaten pint of shrimp lo mein, some deli meat, cheese, three eggs, some low-fat yogurt.

  Kennedy reaches for the Chinese food, dumps the contents into a bowl and thrusts it into the microwave.

  Thanksgiving Day and Kennedy’s having leftover Chinese food.

  She waits for the food to zap, standing by the bay window, deep in thought. The day is overcast gray. Dreary. There is no color. No leaves, very few evergreens on her back alley, and even those appear washed out. She thinks of Michael and Zack and her heart spikes. She misses them both. Misses them so much she can hardly breathe.

  The microwave pings, signaling the food’s done.

  Kennedy removes the piping-ho
t bowl, takes it over to the kitchen table and sits down. She embeds her fork in the noodles, readying to eat when she stops herself.

  Says a prayer first.

  For all the things she’s thankful for.

  Her son. Her husband. Her health. Her career. For family and friendships.

  Kennedy ends with an amen and forks some shrimp into her mouth. Chews slowly, reaching for her BlackBerry. Types out a short text message.

  I AM THANKFUL FOR HAVING YOU IN MY LIFE.

  Considers saying more. But what else is there to say? She adds:

  IM SORRY. MORE THAN YOULL EVER KNOW.

  Kennedy hits SND, transmitting the message to her husband approximately three hundred fifty miles away.

  Back to the lo mein. She takes several more bites.

  Suddenly, Kennedy is no longer hungry.

  She gets up from the table, glancing in the direction of the family room and the camcorder on the floor.

  Kennedy’s found what she was looking for.

  It was there, amidst the eleven tapes of her son’s early childhood, a family vacation to DisneyWorld, trips to Ithaca and her parents’ home in Atlanta, and several getaways with Michael.

  It had taken her most of the afternoon to go through the tapes, fast-forwarding through the material but then slowing down to watch the videos, smiling at the memories, some long forgotten.

  Some she just couldn’t fast-forward through.

  Zack learning how to walk, Michael changing his diapers, their son’s first bath, their first Christmas with him. Kennedy cried softly when she watched that tape, Zack ripping apart the wrapping paper to get at the Cookie Monster trike that had him blissful for at least half of that Christmas day.

  She found what she was seeking late in the afternoon.

  They had taken the camcorder on their trip to Miami.

  Second week in November. Four years ago.

  Stayed at the Tides, Ocean Drive, South Beach.

  The video begins with them on their first day outside the hotel. A gorgeous day, sun high in the sky, art deco architecture in the foreground. Michael pans the camera, taking in Kennedy on the curb in a sexy miniskirt and mules. Her hair is freshly washed, and there’s a healthy glow to her face. She remembers now—they had just finished making love after checking in.

  Their hotel room faced the ocean. Eight stories down were palm trees, white sand, and incredible bodies on rollerblades, clad in little-left-to-the-imagination swimwear. They walked Ocean Drive, taking in the sights and sounds of South Beach: Versace’s mansion, the Park Central Hotel, the lively restaurants and colorful sidewalk cafés. Spent time lounging by the pool, being pampered by hotel staff as they drank martinis and took poolside naps.