Someone Is Watching

by Joy Fielding

“Nothing.”

  “Liar.” She gently squeezes my arm.

  “As you can see,” Johnny Kroft explains, “we ironed out the dents and filled in the scratches, gave it a coat of fresh paint and a good washing, and voilà, as good as new. Great car. You ever want to sell it, you call me first.”

  “I’ll never sell this car,” I tell him.

  “No? Well, can’t say I blame you. Anyway, here’s your invoice.” He hands me the itemized list of charges. “You can pay the receptionist. I’ll have your car brought around front.”

  Claire and I thank him and return to the main part of the building.

  “I’m sorry,” the receptionist says, “but we don’t accept personal checks. We take Visa, MasterCard, American Express …”

  “I don’t have … they were stolen,” I say, as Claire pulls out her wallet and hands the young woman her credit card. “What are you doing?”

  “It’s all right. I just came into some money.”

  “No! That money was for you.”

  She shrugs. “Easy come, easy go.”

  “I’ll make it up to you,” I insist, knowing I have no other choice.

  “We’ll talk about it later,” she says. “First, let’s get you home.”

  — EIGHTEEN —

  We don’t go home.

  Instead we find ourselves driving down Brickell Bay Drive, the ocean roaring along beside us, in the direction of South Beach. I suggested going for a ride as we pulled out of Carlito’s lot, and Claire quickly agreed. It would be good to get away from my apartment for a while, I reasoned, good to experience a change of scenery, good to put a smile back on my sister’s face.

  “Is there a more beautiful strip of land anywhere in the world?” Claire asks, shifting gears with obvious enjoyment as I lean back in the passenger seat and inhale the sheer majesty: the cloudless skies, the towering palms, the sandy strip of beach, the thrilling expanse of deep blue sea.

  It is the first time I have allowed anyone else to drive my car. Not even Heath has been permitted to get behind the wheel. I love my brother dearly, but even he admits he’s easily distracted and more than occasionally reckless. Where is he? I wonder again. It’s not like him to disappear for this long without so much as a phone call. Why haven’t I heard from him? Why hasn’t he returned any of the half-dozen messages I’ve left on his voice mail?

  “I’ve always wanted to go to Paris,” Claire is saying.

  “We should go,” I tell her. “Maybe this summer when Jade is out of school. The three of us could …”

  She shakes her head. “Nice idea, but there’s no way I can afford—”

  “There’s a way,” I insist. “You’ll see. I’ll call Dad’s travel agent and have her start looking into things.”

  Claire shakes her head.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You make it sound so easy.”

  “It is easy.”

  “Not in my experience.”

  Our lives have been so different, I think, not for the first time. I grew up in a loving home with two parents who adored me. I was pampered and indulged, my every need anticipated, my every wish granted. Trips abroad, expensive gifts, a high-rise condo. All I had to do was ask. Usually even that was unnecessary. Claire had none of these things. She’s had to struggle all her life, to work hard for every dollar she earns, every vacation she takes. She has every reason to resent me. And yet here she is. “I can’t thank you enough,” I tell her.

  “For what?”

  “For everything you’ve done … everything you’re doing.”

  “Please,” she says dismissively. “You’d do it for me.”

  “I wouldn’t have,” I say honestly. If the reverse were true, if it had been Claire who’d been raped and not me, I might have felt bad, maybe even called to ask if there was anything I could do, the way people do when they don’t really expect to be taken up on their offer, but that would likely have been the extent of my efforts. We may share my father’s DNA, but we’ve shared very little else over the years. Until a few weeks ago, we were virtual strangers. Now, I think with a surge of pride, we’re sisters.

  “You hungry?” Claire asks as we cross over into Miami Beach, proceeding at a snail’s pace down perennially congested Collins Avenue.

  I realize I’ve forgotten to have breakfast. “I am, yes.”

  We both laugh at the unexpected vehemence of my response. “Then I vote we stop somewhere soon for lunch.”

  South Beach is famous for its restaurants. I’m about to suggest one of my favorites, an “in” spot called Afterglow, located on Washington Avenue, a place frequented by the young and the beautiful that boasts an ultra-healthy and mostly raw menu, but then I remember it also boasts some of the highest prices in town. There are a bunch of similarly overpriced restaurants in the area, but since I don’t have any credit cards, I decide it would probably be best to stick to something I can cover with cash. I make a mental note to start calling the appropriate people and get the ball rolling on replacing my stolen cards. I can’t keep relying on Claire to bail me out.

  “Remind me to call the banks later and get you some new credit cards,” Claire says, as if reading my mind.

  I reach over and fold my hand across hers. “You’re amazing.”

  “Oh, please. Don’t you dare start getting all gooey, sentimental on me,” she warns. “I don’t do sentimental very well.”

  I wipe at my budding tears with the back of my polish-streaked hand.

  “You think I’m kidding? Ask Jade. Or better yet, ask my ex-husband, if you can find the bastard. They’ll tell you I don’t have a sentimental bone in my body. Or a romantic one either, for that matter. Too damn practical, I guess.”

  “Can’t you be romantic and practical?”

  “Not in my experience,” she says again.

  We fall comfortably silent, not speaking again until we reach South Beach, where we park in a lot off Lincoln Road and set out on foot. The streets are crowded, as they always are: spoiled club kids in designer duds and rollerblades whipping past gray-haired pensioners pushing walkers; black-suited, serious-faced Hasidim doing their best to ignore the elaborately costumed drag queens standing in front of the magical, pastel-colored art deco buildings; straw-hatted tourists trying to tame unruly street maps while firmly holding their ground against would-be encroachers.

  We walk along the ocean boulevard. The wind has picked up and plays havoc with our hair. It feels great. For the first time in longer than I care to remember, I feel like a real human being. I am no longer a victim. I am a girl walking with her sister along a crowded beach, the wind blowing hope through her hair.

  Until I see him standing on the corner.

  “What is it?” Claire asks. “What’s wrong?”

  The man is in his late twenties or early thirties, of medium height and weight, with dark hair and a gaze so intense it burns into my skin like a branding iron.

  “Bailey, what is it?”

  I lower my head, point with my chin, while keeping my eyes on the ground. My heart is pounding wildly, reaching up into my throat, strangling my words before they have a chance to form. When my voice finally manages to push its way out, it is unrecognizable. “That man over there.”

  “Which one?”

  I raise my head, see at least a dozen people gathered on the corner, waiting for the light to change. A third of them are women, and of the men, easily half are in their late twenties or early thirties, of average height and weight, with dark hair. None seems even vaguely aware of my existence. No one is looking at me.

  The man with the piercing gaze is gone.

  Was he ever really there?

  “False alarm,” I tell Claire, forcing a stiff smile onto my face.

  “You’re sure you’re okay?”

  “Fine.” I take a furtive glance around, see no one who warrants further suspicion.

  Except, of course, every man I see.

  I have to stop doing this. I’ll make myself crazy.<
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  Too late! a little voice shouts from somewhere inside my head, and I bite my tongue in an effort to quiet it, grabbing Claire’s hand as we cross the street, allowing her to guide me.

  Eventually we move away from the ocean, looking for a restaurant that doesn’t sport a line stretching halfway down the block. We finally find a small café on Michigan Avenue with only a minimal wait time to be seated. A hostess with long, brown hair, a sly wiggle, and heels that boast more inches than the tiny black skirt that barely covers her backside finally leads us through the cool, dimly-lit interior to a small table in the far corner of the rear outdoor patio. The patio is enclosed by bushes of brilliant purple bougainvillea and dotted with coral-and-white striped umbrellas to protect diners against the sun. We settle into the rounded chairs of our wrought iron, glass-topped table for two. Seconds later, a waiter approaches with our menus. He is maybe twenty-five, of average height and weight, with brown hair and eyes. His hands are large. I stare through the glass top of the table at the cobblestone tile floor below and try not to picture those hands around my throat. “Tell me you love me,” the waiter says as he leans over my shoulder to hand me my menu.

  My eyes shoot toward his. “What?”

  “Can I get you ladies something to drink?” he repeats with an easy smile.

  “I’ll have a glass of the house white,” Claire says, eyeing me suspiciously. “Bailey?”

  “Just water.”

  “You’re sure?”

  I nod, regretting that we have come here, that I ever suggested going for a ride, that I left my apartment in the first place.

  “Bottled or tap?” the waiter asks.

  “Bailey …?” Claire prompts again.

  I have no idea how much time has elapsed since the question was asked. I’m no longer even sure what the question was. “Bottled.”

  “Plain or carbonated?”

  I break into a sweat. “Carbonated.”

  “Perrier or San Pellegrino?”

  “I’ll just have wine,” I say, waving the waiter away with an impatient hand.

  “Two house whites coming right up,” he says cheerfully.

  “Since when did it get more complicated to order water than wine?” I ask Claire.

  “You’re sure you’re okay?”

  “Just hungry.”

  “Well, that’s a good sign … your appetite coming back.”

  I manage another smile. I remember reading somewhere that if you pretend something long enough, you might actually start to feel it. I hope this is true, although I doubt I can sustain the pretense long enough for reality to take its place.

  “So,” Claire says, examining her menu, “the poached salmon looks pretty good.”

  “It does,” I agree, although I have no idea where on the menu she is looking. All I see is a jumble of letters.

  “Bailey,” Claire says, and I realize by the concerned look on her face that this isn’t the first time she’s said my name, “Bailey, what’s going on?”

  “Too many choices,” I say as the waiter returns with our wine.

  “Would you like to hear the specials?” He proceeds to list them, then offers us a few minutes to decide.

  “They all sound so fabulous,” Claire says.

  I have already forgotten the choices.

  “I’ll have the lobster-and-grapefruit salad special,” Claire tells the young man upon his return, and I nod my head in agreement. It’s easier that way. Besides, I’ve lost my appetite. The thought of food makes me want to retch. “To better days ahead,” Claire says, raising her wineglass in a toast and clinking it against mine.

  “Better days ahead,” I agree, taking a sip.

  “So,” Claire says, looking suddenly very serious, “I think I’ve been very patient. Are you ever going to tell me what happened?”

  “What happened?” I have no idea what she’s talking about.

  “This morning,” she explains. “The sudden urge for a manicure.”

  I take a deep breath, running through the events of this morning in my head, trying to arrange them in an order that will make sense to both Claire and me. Strangely enough, thinking about all this, recalling the details, helps calm me down. I am able to tell her, clearly and unemotionally, about the Internet search I did on Paul Giller, about following him and his wife, a woman whose name is actually Elena and who is, in fact, not his wife. I watch Claire’s face move from interest to concern to outright alarm.

  “Wait a minute,” she interrupts before I’m done. “You’re telling me you did an Internet search of Paul Giller? What did you find out?”

  “Not much. Just that he’s an actor, and that he recently had pneumonia so bad he had to be hospitalized.”

  “Shit,” Claire mutters. “And you actually went to his apartment?”

  “To his building,” I correct.

  “Do you have any idea how dangerous that was? I mean, what if he is the man who raped you? Think about it for a minute, Bailey. What if he saw you?”

  “He didn’t.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive.” Am I? When was the last time I was positive about anything?

  “And then you followed him?”

  “Until he got into a cab. Then I followed her.”

  Claire is trying both to absorb and discount this latest tidbit. She leans across the table. “Bailey, I need you to promise me something.”

  “What?”

  “I need you to promise me that you aren’t going to go anywhere near Paul Giller’s apartment again, that you’re going to leave the detective work to the real detectives.”

  “I am a real detective,” I remind her.

  “You’re also the victim.”

  I open my mouth to protest, but she is already continuing.

  “I know you want to do something. I know you want results. But it’s one thing to spy on a man from the safety of your apartment and another thing to actually seek him out, to follow him and question his girlfriend. That’s just …”

  “… crazy?”

  “… asking for trouble. Promise me you aren’t going to do anything like that ever again.”

  “Claire …”

  “Bailey …,” she says, my name serving as a resounding exclamation point, ending the discussion once and for all. “Promise me,” she says again, as the waiter approaches with our lobster-and-grapefruit salads.

  “Enjoy,” he says.

  “Promise me,” Claire repeats as soon as he is gone.

  “I promise,” I agree reluctantly.

  “Okay.” She takes a long, deep breath. “We won’t mention this again. Eat up.”

  I spear a piece of lobster, along with a wedge of grapefruit, pop the whole thing in my mouth and swallow it.

  “I think you’re supposed to chew it,” Claire says.

  I spear another piece, deliberately exaggerating each chew.

  “Smart-ass,” Claire says. Then, after a slight pause, “So, what’s the verdict?”

  “Delicious,” I say, although I don’t taste a thing.

  Claire’s face radiates worry, a series of small lines bracketing her mouth, the indentations at the bridge of her nose burrowing in noticeably deeper than even a week ago, threatening to become permanent. I am sorry to be the source of that worry, to be adding to the concerns she already has. I resolve not to do anything to upset her further. I will keep my promise to stay away from Paul Giller. I will let the police handle things. I will get my life back in order.

  “This is on me,” I say when the waiter reappears at the conclusion of our meal to hand us the bill. I pretend to check the addition, although the jumble of numbers I see is meaningless. I reach into my purse, pull out a handful of twenty-dollar bills, hope they add up to the correct amount.

  “Cash? Haven’t seen that in a long time.” The waiter laughs, revealing two large canine teeth.

  I feel those teeth biting into my breast, and I gasp.

  “Is there a problem?” he asks.
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br />   “No problem at all,” I say.

  “Be back in a minute with your change.”

  “Unnecessary.” I just want him to go away.

  “Well, then, thank you very much, ladies. It’s been my pleasure serving you. Have a lovely afternoon.”

  —

  “Feel like doing some window-shopping?” I ask Claire. All I really want to do is go home and climb into bed, but I’m afraid to tell her that. I don’t want her to lose patience, lose interest, lose confidence in my recovery and her role in it.

  We spend the next hour looking in the windows of seemingly every shop in South Beach. “God, I wish I could still fit into something like that,” Claire remarks upon seeing a blue-and-white string bikini in one of the many bathing suit stores that line the ocean strip. Then: “Who am I kidding? I could never fit into something like that. Even in my so-called heyday. Inherited my mother’s hips,” she says with a laugh.

  While I inherited our father’s money, I add silently. “I think you’re beautiful,” I say out loud.

  Her eyes grow misty, and she turns away. We cross the road to walk along the beach, and I take off my shoes, feel the sand scratch against the insides of my toes. How long has it been since I’ve walked this stretch of beach? I used to come here every day when my mother was dying. I loved the sound of the ocean, its waves crashing against the shore. I found comfort in its continual ebb and flow, its constant renewal, its permanence.

  “You used to live around here, didn’t you?” Claire remarks.

  “Up the way a little bit. A few blocks west.” It strikes me as both strange and sad that Claire has never seen the house I grew up in, that my father was so able to compartmentalize the various aspects of his life, to keep them separate. “You want to have a look?”

  “If you’d like to show me.”

  “I would.” I take her hand and guide her back across the street. “I’d like that very much.”

  — NINETEEN —

  The mansion I grew up in is a sprawling, single-story, twelve-thousand-square-foot Spanish-style hacienda with a coral tile roof, ceilings that are twenty-five feet high, and Italian marble floors. An ornately carved, black wrought iron gate separates the street from the semi-circular, orange-and-gray brick driveway, a driveway that can comfortably hold up to half a dozen cars. To the left of the main entrance is a four-car garage that once housed a black Rolls, a copper-toned Bentley, and a fire engine red Maserati as well as the silver Porsche I inherited from my mother. My father eventually got rid of both the Rolls and the Bentley, and Heath was supposed to inherit the Maserati but has been temporarily prevented from claiming ownership by the lawsuit launched by our half-siblings. Likewise, this lawsuit has prevented us from selling the house until all such issues have been resolved. It sits empty, its furnishings in place and intact, the estate committed to maintaining its upkeep, both inside and out.