Date Rape New York

by Janet McGiffin

  “I saw the little dog, Jacky,” Grazia said. “I saw a man with a dark cap. He was kicking Jacky.”

  “Did you see his face?” asked Evie.

  “No. But I saw Manuel. He was angry.”

  “Did Manuel take you to your room?”

  She shook her head. “Someone else. I didn’t see him, but he didn’t feel like Manuel. Did I speak in Italian?”

  “Yes. You were very distressed. I am concerned that the results of this experience are not worth the trauma,” replied Evie with a worried frown. She pushed “play.”

  Grazia listened carefully, then translated. “I said, ‘Laura, help me. I’m going to throw up. That’s my taxi! Let me go! Jacky, no! Why are you kicking him? Stop pulling me. Manuel, not the elevator. I’m going to throw up. Where is my bed? No, stop! Why are you here? What are you doing? No. Stop it! Stop!’”

  “At this point, you dropped into sleep, which I take to mean that your brain didn’t want to remember more,” said Evie.

  Cargill cut in, “You said, ‘Why are you here?’ Did you know who you were talking to?”

  Grazia tried hard to see the face again, but no image rose in her mind. She shook her head. “No idea who that could be.”

  “You recalled a lot for someone drugged with Rohypnol,” said Evie. “Now we know why—Laura took you to the women’s room at the Brazilian Bar because you felt sick. You probably vomited there. You may have vomited again outside and possibly again at the hotel, maybe in the elevator. You got rid of much of the drug before it could completely block all memory of what happened.”

  “Then why didn’t I see their faces?” she burst out, frustrated.

  Evie was folding the clothes strewn around the room. She put them in a dresser drawer. “It was dark. Or you never actually saw their faces. Or they wore winter scarves over their mouths. Or, you aren’t ready psychologically. Work with your therapist. More memories may surface as you release your fear. And you are tired. You were just mugged and your brain can’t handle any more thinking about assault. Rest!” she ordered, at the door. “Do not leave this room. You’ve had a long and traumatic day. I know you have only two full days in New York before you leave for Italy, and you want to be your own detective force twenty-four hours a day. But give yourself the night off.”

  Cargill followed her out. He looked thoughtful. “Call me if you remember anything more,” he said. “Anything at all.”

  After they left, Grazia lay watching car lights move across the curtains and listening to the quiet whisper of tires on snow. A siren wailed in the distance. She waited for more memories to surface. Manuel had been angry—she had felt it. Perhaps his anger had shocked her and broken through the drug. He was yelling at someone in Italian—ah, the memory arrived. Edmondo. She listened for what they had been saying, but their angry voices blurred. Now someone was walking with her into the elevator and down her hallway. Abruptly her visions stopped. “Why do I stop remembering?” she demanded aloud, frustrated. “Was I even remembering that night? Could I be remembering other nights when I rode up in the elevator and walked down that hallway?”

  Resolute, she closed her eyes and tried to float back into that night. Now the door to her room was opening. “Wait!” she exclaimed aloud. “The bedside light is on! How? The lights don’t go on until I insert my key-card into the light slot.” She felt the room of that night rise around her. “Someone was in my room,” she realized slowly, opening her eyes.

  Why had her brain formed this memory when it had not formed others? Grazia stared at the ceiling. Janine had said that even women who were deeply drugged had flashes of memory. No one knew why.

  “Memory exists to preserve us,” she reminded herself of what she had learned when she was studying about memory. “Memory warns us so we can avoid danger. Did I remember the light in my room because I knew the person inside was dangerous?” She tried to get back into the scene, but this time her brain dropped her into sleep.

  Her phone woke her. She fumbled for it while she switched on the table lamp. The screen read Tuesday, seven p.m., the caller was Raoul.

  “It’s after seven o’clock,” he chided. “First you forget you met me; now you forget to call me. It’s hard on the fragile male ego.”

  She sat up, contrite. “So sorry. I’ve had an exhausting day, and I was napping. This afternoon I was mugged in that snowstorm. Some man went for my handbag and the bag of clothes I had picked up at the medical examiner. It was terrifying!”

  “Were they the clothes you were taking to Italy to have a DNA identity done there? Too bad you lost them!”

  She yawned. “A young man got them back for me. A police car brought me to the hotel.”

  “A good American steak—that’s what you need.”

  “Thank you, no. I’m under strict orders to stay in my room. See you at breakfast.”

  She checked her email. Evie had sent the audio recording. She listened and fell asleep again. Her phone woke her at nine o’clock. This time it was Nick. “You told me to call if the four Italians came in. Three are here.”

  “I’m on my way.” She stood up, then sat down, her legs weak. She called Detective Cargill’s cell phone. He answered on the first ring.

  “I’m coming with you,” he said instantly. “Twenty minutes. Wait in the lobby. Don’t even think about going out the door until I get there.”

  Grazia’s head cleared as she went down the elevator. She felt much better after her long naps. Her brain began moving into negotiator mode—relaxing her body, sharpening her observation skills, figuring out how to pry information out of reluctant opponents. She dropped into the security office. Edmondo waved her to a chair.

  “I’m going to the Brazilian Bar with Detective Cargill,” Grazia announced. “The bartender just called me. Three Italians who were there Saturday night are there. More details about that night are coming back to me. You were in the lobby that night, Edmondo, I now remember. But Sunday, you said you were with a guest in a different part of the hotel. You told Detective Cargill and Mr. Johnson the same. Why the change of story?”

  He remained calm, straightforward. “No change. I returned to the lobby just as you were going into the elevator. I didn’t get a clear look at you at all.”

  “Who took me to my room? I couldn’t walk without help.”

  “Manuel went up in the elevator with you. He called out to me that he would be right back. I covered the desk.”

  Grazia observed him with the detached curiosity she felt when facing clients she knew were lying. “How long was Manuel gone?”

  “Long enough to get you to your room and return.”

  “So many Italians work in this hotel. Why? Do you recruit in Italy?”

  “A few come from Italy, but there are plenty of Italians to hire from in New York. We get a lot of Italian guests, and Italians on staff understand the level of service they require.”

  “Italian guests require more service than other nationalities?”

  “Our clientele tends to have servants at home.”

  Grazia caught a vision of the staff at Francisco’s beach house—cook, housekeeper, pool man, groundskeepers, and a security guard at the gate. A butler served at table. Francisco had live-in servants at both his Milan and Naples homes. “Is Francisco Pamplona a member of the investment consortium that owns this hotel?”

  “The hotel website might have that information, Miss Conti.”

  Chapter 28

  Detective Cargill had left his ancient Plymouth running while he came inside the Hotel Fiorella to get Grazia. His car was trailing white exhaust. The wind had dropped, and lazy fat flakes blanketed the windshield between swipes of his wipers. Cargill wrenched opened the stiff passenger door. Grazia could see her breath as she got in inside the cold car.

  “You sure you can face these guys?” Cargill queried, climbing into the driver’s seat. He watched her reaction.

  “If it helps me get my memory back, I’ll face anyone,” she said more stoutly than s
he felt. She had her journal out and was scribbling down her encounter with Edmondo.

  Cargill put the car in gear. “I’ll buy you dinner after the Brazilian Bar. You can tell me what you’re writing.” He eased down the snowy street, then swore and slammed on the brakes. The car went into a slide, narrowly missing a dark-robed monk who had stepped into the path of their headlights.

  Grazia shoved open the door and jumped out while the car was still sliding. Memories were flooding her. Again she felt the hand grabbing her arm; again she heard the honking and shouting.

  “Father!” she called out, hurrying to catch up with the monk. “Saturday night you pulled me away from a car. At least I think you did. Did this really happen?”

  The monk waited to answer until he had examined Cargill’s ID. “I thought you were drunk,” he said. “The man with you was yelling at Mrs. Springer. You wandered off and stepped in front of a taxi. I pulled you away. Your companion laughed.” He looked disgusted.

  “Could you identify this man?” Detective Cargill asked.

  “Possibly. I caught a glimpse of him after I got the young woman to safety. But Mrs. Springer will remember him. Jacky bit the man, or so Mrs. Springer informed me.”

  Encouraged, Grazia turned back toward Cargill’s car, but the lighted steps of Menno House caught her eye. “Jacky should come with us to the Brazilian Bar,” she exclaimed. “He can identify the man he bit. Mrs. Springer said to reach her through Menno House.” She hurried toward the lighted steps.

  The Menno House desk clerk peered at Cargill’s badge and shook his head regretfully. “Jacky’s in the pet hospital. The pooch nibbled on poisonous street detritus yesterday. It’s touch-and-go. Not the first time. Jacky likes to snack in gutters.” He scribbled the address of the pet hospital. “You can find Mrs. Springer there day or night. She’s been sleeping in the waiting room.”

  Back in the car, Grazia watched fat flakes bury the windshield. “This is my fault,” she said miserably. “I’ve been telling everybody that Jacky could identify the man who walked me to the hotel. Somehow the man who assaulted me heard, and he poisoned the little dog.”

  Cargill didn’t answer right away. His eyes were on the lights of Menno House. “Even if the guy learned that Jacky could ID him, how could he poison the pooch? He would have to wait around in subfreezing weather and toss the poisoned food right under the alert eyes of Mrs. Springer.”

  “It’s too coincidental not to be true, Cargill. And think—if they poisoned a dog, what will they do to Mrs. Springer? I got pushed under a taxi!”

  “Let’s list the people you told about Mrs. Springer,” Cargill said. “Me, Stanley, who else?”

  “Sophia, Edmondo, Luigi, Cindy, Evie.”

  “And your breakfast friend, Raoul?”

  She nodded. “And Nick. Mrs. Springer must have told people, too. She’s so proud of Jacky.”

  * * *

  The tables of the Brazilian Bar were crowded with people wearing heavy sweaters and chatting over glasses of wine. Grazia and Detective Cargill slid onto bar stools. Nick came over immediately and placed a bottle of cola in front of Grazia. At her nod, he popped the cap, his hand covering cap and bottle opener. He pushed the bottle toward her. She was lifting it to her lips when he said, “You think there’s only cola in that bottle, right? You could be wrong. I could have palmed a Rohypnol tablet in there when I popped the cap. See how hard it is to stop guys from drugging women’s drinks? It’s all over the Internet what drugs to use, how to buy them, how to make your own. I keep warning women to stick with their friends, watch out for each other. They tell me they can take care of themselves. Well, ladies, you can’t—not after you’re drugged.”

  Cargill pointed at a beer tap, and Nick drew off a glass. He jerked his head at the three young men at one of the tables. “Those guys didn’t drug her drink,” he said. “I know them. I told you. They were all here long after the lady left.”

  Cargill drank off half his beer. “I know. Your DNA doesn’t have a match, in case you were curious.”

  “Shit, Detective! What do you think has been on my mind since you woke me up Sunday morning and did that cheek swab?” Nick looked at Grazia. “Sorry about the language, Miss.”

  “If your DNA couldn’t have got near Miss Conti, why were you worried?” Cargill finished his beer and pointed at the tap again.

  “Don’t kid me, Detective.” Nick drew off another glass. “You know how to pin a rap on a guy using DNA—put the wrong name on the cheek swab, plant a Kleenex I used to blow my nose in her hotel room. I’m not the brainiest guy, but I can think of a dozen ways to get my DNA in the wrong place.”

  “We only use DNA to verify the evidence we have on a suspect,” Cargill said curtly. “You’re so smart, got any ideas who put the Rohypnol in her champagne?”

  “My money is on the Italian with the gold neck chain who bought the champagne.”

  “You’re sure he was Italian?”

  “Ask those three. He was chatting with them before he ordered the champagne.”

  “Would you recognize him again?” Cargill asked.

  Nick made a face. “I’m usually good at faces, but Italians tend to look alike—same expensive haircuts, same designer clothes, perfect tans, fitness-club bodies. When I ID them, even their IDs look alike.”

  “Did he talk to Miss Conti?”

  “Must have, if he ordered the bubbly to celebrate her job interview. But don’t press me on what happened to the glasses after I poured out the champagne. I couldn’t see.” Nick again jerked his head at the three young men. “Ask them. They were drinking champagne, too.”

  Grazia studied the three men with growing frustration. None looked familiar. Heart pounding, she walked over. Their faces lit up, and they quickly pulled up a chair.

  “I was shocked when the detective came by my office,” said one. “We knew something was wrong when you left. You looked awful. We wanted to call your hotel later, find out how you were, but we didn’t know the name.”

  “Nick said there was a fourth Italian with you, named Raoul Cataneo. And another Italian who bought the champagne.”

  He nodded. “Raoul Cataneo was with us that night. He commutes back and forth to his Boston office, and he works funny hours so we don’t see him a lot. He went to Boston Monday, and we haven’t seen him since.”

  “But I’ve seen him every morning for breakfast since then,” she said, puzzled.

  “Yeah, well, he liked you a lot and he was planning to call you. That guy, though, who bought the champagne, he was new. From Milan. Didn’t give his name, or I can’t remember it. Full of himself. Gold neck chain, gold wrist chain. Latest Swatch watch. Skis in Gstaad, he said. Who gives a shit?”

  “Did he take me outside?”

  They all shook their heads. “The woman you were with took you outside. First she took you to the women’s room, then she took you outside. Then she came back inside and said something to the guy who bought the champagne. She got her suitcase from the bartender and went back outside. The guy went out a couple of minutes later.”

  Grazia fumbled in her purse for Laura’s photos. “This woman? Laura?”

  They all nodded. “She can tell you his name. They were talking like they knew each other from before. Hey, what about the photos you were taking? We’ll point him out.”

  “Somebody erased them. Do you remember what I was talking about that night?” She explained about the leak and being accused of being the informer.

  They shook their heads. “The football game was on, and there was a lot of shouting and cheering. Added to the loud music, who could hear anything? It’s doubtful you gave away anything Saturday night.”

  Chapter 29

  Detective Cargill drove south on Second Avenue and turned east onto St. Mark’s Street. He parked his Plymouth in a no-parking zone and plopped a police permit on the dash. “We’re taking a short walk,” he said tersely to Grazia, reaching across her to open the stiff passenger door.

  G
razia lifted her tired legs out of the car and climbed over the ridge of ice-encrusted snow left by the snowplow. She stood shivering on the snowy sidewalk. Going out to dinner with Detective Cargill in the East Village had sounded appealing when he suggested it as they were leaving the Brazilian Bar, but now she wanted to be back in her warm room, wearing pajamas, with a hot meal delivered to her door from the restaurant of her choice. She looked around vaguely. Music was blasting out of bars packed with young people holding drinks.

  Cargill drew her mittened hand through his crooked arm. “Hang on to me,” he ordered. “I don’t want my star witness in the emergency room with a chipped elbow. See that bar? And that one? And the next? They are full of young women disregarding their personal safety for the faint hope of meeting the man of their dreams. I don’t have firm numbers, but I would hazard that every Sunday morning, more than a few young women wake up in their beds or somebody else’s with no recollection of how they got there. They don’t go to the ER because they feel too sick or humiliated, or they aren’t legally in the country. You’ve got guts to go after these guys, Grazia, and I admire you for it. That’s why I’m out here risking my financial health to take you to dinner. I’m hoping you’ve got something in your journal that will help us find these bastards by Friday when I put you on the plane.”

  Two blocks away, after walking past one music-blasting bar after another, a very subdued Grazia followed Detective Cargill down steep steps into a quiet Ethiopian restaurant with white linen tablecloths and soothing, stringed-instrument background music. She watched him cautiously sample his Ethiopian beer. For the first time since Saturday, she felt safe. She took a sip of her too-sweet Ethiopian wine. The Rohypnol was flushed out of her body by now, and she could risk a little wine to make this a real night out. She dug out her pen and recorded in her journal what she had learned at the Brazilian Bar.