“Too much happened today,” she reflected, sitting back and taking a second sip of the wine in case it had improved since the first sip. It hadn’t. She ran her eyes down the last pages of her journal.
“Francisco called at seven-fifteen firing me for being an informant on Kourtis. You dropped by while I was having breakfast with Raoul and interrogated him rudely. You drove me to Cindy’s office and gave me the worst news of my life. Then I walked to Chinatown. I met you for terrible tea and you tried to straighten out my head.”
“With moderate success.” He drained his beer.
Grazia smiled. “You dropped me at the medical examiner. On the way back I was pushed under a taxi and saved by a traffic cop. Then my hypnosis session, then the Brazilian Bar. Now we’re here. I hope I have strength to handle whatever comes next.”
Cargill waved at the waiter to bring him another beer. “You’re amazing. I mean that. You’ve gone through one horrible experience after another yet you get up every morning and keep looking for this guy. You even allowed a hypnotist to dig into your worst fears.” He looked at her carefully. “Is this determination coming from anti-anxiety pills? If so, you shouldn’t be drinking that wine.”
“I’m not taking any pills except the prophylactic AIDS. And this isn’t wine.” Still, she pushed it away and reached for her water. “I’ve got to keep busy—planning, doing, moving on to the next lead. Cindy says that some women react this way. Other women hide in their apartments and don’t go out for months. I know I’ll need counseling for a long time, but for now, I keep going by following Cindy’s advice about handling panic attacks. I only have two days, Cargill. I need to keep searching. I was mugged today. That means we’re getting too close for comfort. The young man who recovered my sack of clothes might recognize the mugger. The four Italians and Nick will recognize the Italian who bought the champagne. The monk and Jacky can identify the man who walked me home.”
“And Manuel knows who brought you to the hotel and who took you up to your room. His wife still claims he flew to Italy, using a one-way ticket that he bought at the airport in cash, if you believe that. He’s not listed on airlines with direct flights to Naples, and there are too many connecting flights for me to check. The Naples police told me they will visit his family home, but the officer I spoke to didn’t sound enthusiastic. That’s why I’m hoping you will call the Miranda agency. They’ll get out there in a flash.”
The waiter brought a platter of Ethiopian flatbread dotted with ground meats and pureed vegetables. Cargill tore off a piece of flatbread and scooped up some ground lamb. “The trouble is, we still need a suspect to show our witnesses. What’s new in that journal of yours?” he asked, mouth full.
“Oh! I found out that Edmondo was in the lobby Saturday night when I was there. Since the hypnosis session, bits of memory have been dropping into my head. I remembered that I came into the lobby and Edmondo was talking to Manuel. It was blurry but I’m sure.”
Cargill nearly choked. “He told me he was taking care of a guest elsewhere in the hotel.”
She tore off a strip of Ethiopian bread and scooped up some pureed pumpkin. “To verify it, just before you arrived tonight, I went into the security office and told Edmondo what I remembered. Edmondo changed his story a bit. He said he returned to the lobby and saw me getting into the elevator with Manuel. He said he covered the desk until Manuel got back from taking me to my room.”
“Why didn’t you tell me at the hotel?” Cargill’s voice rose.
“You said to tell you later what I was writing.”
“I’m having him picked up right now. Wait until I tell Stanley that his security officer is hiding information!”
Cargill had his phone to his ear. He gave a quick order, then looked at her sternly. “Next time you remember something, dream it, think it, get told something—tell me! Somebody went after you today. Who knows what he will do next!”
Grazia stripped off another piece of flatbread and filled it with vegetable puree. “I was reading through my journal today. The gaps are filling in.” She took out her journal and flipped to the last page and scribbled a note about Cargill having Edmondo picked up.
Cargill watched her writing. “How many people know you’re keeping a minute-by-minute log?”
“Everybody I talk to, I suppose. I write in it all the time.”
“He wanted your journal.”
“What?”
“The man who grabbed your sack wasn’t pushing you under the taxi. He was going for your journal. He grabbed the bag of clothes to keep you from taking them to Italy and getting a DNA identity done there. Grazia, this man is close to you. He knows everything you are doing.”
Grazia lifted her hands. “You’ve said all along that typically a man who drugs a woman for sex targets a woman he knows.”
“But this guy is taking strong measures to keep you from finding him—not typical. Usually they lie low, disappear. We can narrow our search to men who know about your journal. Grazia, stop telling people what you are writing.”
“But how will I find this man if I don’t ask people questions and write down their answers? I still don’t trust my memory.” She flipped through her journal and read a passage carefully. “Cargill,” she looked up with a frown, “Evie emailed me the audio of today’s session. One thing I said was, ‘Why are you here?’”
“I heard you. I asked you if you knew who you were talking to.”
“Well, I didn’t translate it properly. The emphasis was not on ‘why.’ The emphasis was on ‘you.’”
“Ah. So the man we are looking for shouldn’t have been in your room. Or possibly in New York. You were surprised to see him.”
Grazia nodded.
“Who would this be?”
“No idea.”
“What about these memories of yours that are coming back. Is he in them?”
“Sometimes I feel that a vital memory is hovering just out of reach. I keep having a recurring nightmare about Mrs. Springer shouting ‘Jacky! Bite!’ and there’s always a glint of gold at the end. Today I saw it again as I was waking up from the hypnosis. Monday, when I went to breakfast, the sun reflected on a man’s gold watch, and I practically ran out of the restaurant. I saw the flash again when I was talking to Francisco on Skype. His diamond and gold ring caught the light from the lamp. But I don’t know what this means.” She forced a smile. “Maybe the next nightmare will clear it up.”
“Nightmares hit when you least expect them,” commented Cargill, watching the waiter pop the cap on a bottle of beer and pour it into a glass. “My advice, for what it’s worth, is get your feet under you. Then you can handle the nightmares.”
Grazia waited for an explanation, but Cargill was scooping up pureed pumpkin.
She took a sip of water. “Tomorrow I will Google the Italian men who were staying in Laura’s hotel or other nearby hotels Saturday night. They’ve probably all checked out by now, but if I recognize a face, Miranda Security detectives can track him down in Italy, get a DNA swab and an identity done in a lab there, and send it to the medical examiner here to match to what’s in my file. And then . . . ” Her voice trailed off.
“Then what, Grazia?” Cargill looked at her seriously. “You will tell the Naples police to arrest him? Didn’t you say sexual assault isn’t high on the Naples police priority list? That would be especially true if the assault took place outside Italy.”
“I’ll have him kidnapped and scare him into reforming. Kidnapping is an old Naples tradition.” She laughed feebly.
Cargill didn’t smile. “Watch out, Grazia. He could go after you. Let’s think this through for a minute. If we don’t find him here in New York, your chances of justice are essentially zero. Why don’t you give up this chase once you get home? Live your life.”
“This is my life, Cargill. I have to repair my reputation if that’s possible. But mostly,” she said, “it’s about trust. I placed my trust in the wrong guy, and he drugged and raped me. If I figu
re out how I trusted the wrong person, maybe I can learn how to trust again. I used to trust people; now I don’t trust anybody.”
“Nobody trusts everybody, Grazia, at least in the same way. We trust the baker to sell us a decent loaf of bread; we don’t trust him to give us financial advice. We don’t even trust ourselves the same way all the time. I trust myself to choose a good bottle of beer, but I don’t trust myself around a bottle of wine.”
“But I used to trust certain people . . . ” her voice trailed off.
“Let me guess. You trusted your ex-husband with your happiness, and he failed you.”
“So did my boyfriend. He lies. He says he wants to marry me. He says he leased an apartment for the two of us. But I hired a hacker to break into his email. He was emailing his wife that he wouldn’t leave her. He swore he wasn’t having an affair with me. And there was no email correspondence with apartment-leasing agencies.”
Cargill raised his eyebrows. “You’re having an affair with a married man?”
She couldn’t meet his eyes. “My boss.”
“Risky business, sleeping with the man who controls your career.” Cargill downed his beer.
“He fired me. He’s making me the scapegoat on this leak to the Building Safety Department.”
Cargill cleaned off the platter with a piece of flat bread. “Tell me more about what you do. All I know is what you told me in the emergency room, a smart contract negotiator.”
“I am—I was—lead negotiator in a Naples law firm with offices in Milan. I negotiate bids for infrastructure contracts between contractors and subcontractors, like cement pouring, electrical, plumbing. Sometimes I team up with other lawyers from my firm; sometimes I’m the sole negotiator. I know how to look calm but tough: never cross my arms over my body, always keep muscles relaxed, smile, never get angry or emotional.”
“The construction industry—so much money that’s so easy to hide.”
“The corruption shocked me at first. Then I stopped caring who was bribing whom. It was entertaining to watch money move under the table. But I’m sick of it. I used to work in a women’s shelter, doing legal aid for abused women. I felt useful, like my legal skills were doing some good.”
“Why don’t you go back there?”
She smiled ruefully. “I may have to, at least until I find a decent paying job. I’m getting fired because I discovered that our biggest client, Kourtis, was pouring substandard cement. I told Kourtis I would report him to Building Safety if he didn’t repour the bad cement during the next phase of the contract we were negotiating.”
“Blackmailing a client? You do take risks, don’t you?”
“One major earthquake and the building could collapse, Cargill. People would die, and it would be my fault. In any case, somebody else found out besides me, and informed Building Safety. Kourtis is in jail and my boss is accusing me of being the informer. He’ll make sure I get disbarred.”
“Did it occur to you that whoever spiked your champagne and assaulted you could have been sent by this Kourtis?”
“He had no reason to do that. My boss knew about it and was going to stop me from telling Building Safety. The contractor hiring Kourtis knew about it. The contractor’s lawyers knew about it. Everyone was hiding it to keep costs down and profits up. I’m taking the blame.”
“You were set up,” concluded Cargill. “I wonder in how many ways.”
***
Luigi was behind the reception desk when Grazia and Detective Cargill walked in. He paled.
“Edmondo is at your, uh, office,” he murmured, with a nervous glance at the hotel guests pulling on their coats in the small lobby.
“Waiting for me,” replied Cargill cheerfully. He leaned on the reception counter and pointed at the phone in front of Luigi. “Sunday night you took a message for Miss Conti. ‘Give up. You won’t find me.’ You remember that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You told Miss Conti that you didn’t write down the caller’s phone number, even though the number was right there facing you on the auto-redial panel. That seems odd to me. You wrote down the message and alerted Edmondo because you thought the message was important. But you didn’t write down the caller’s phone number. Why was that?”
“Sir, I’m busy right now. I can’t talk.”
“I’m not busy. I have lots of time. And Edmondo isn’t here to tell you what to do. In fact, he isn’t coming back for a while. Would you like to chat now, or shall we go to the police station, and you can wait there while I talk to Edmondo?”
“What is it that you want to know, sir?”
Cargill’s voice remained patient. “The phone number of the caller who left the message ‘Give up. You won’t find me.’ My heart tells me that you wrote it down.”
“I wrote it on the message slip that I gave Edmondo. That’s what we always do when there’s a message, write down the number of the caller.”
Grazia pulled the message slip out of her journal pocket. “The number isn’t on this.”
Luigi peered at the slip. “That’s not what I gave Edmondo. He must have copied it.”
“You wrote the number down for yourself, didn’t you?” said Cargill. “You come from a country where information is insurance. Give me the number, Luigi. Even if you don’t, I’ll tell Edmondo that you did.”
Luigi’s face grew even paler. With a shaking hand, he reached into his wallet and handed over a paper. “Don’t tell Edmondo,” he whispered.
“Later you can tell me why you’re so worried about what Edmondo knows,” commented Cargill. He turned to Grazia. “Go up to your room. Lock the door. And don’t open it for anyone, not even your friend the maid. I’ll call you in the morning.”
* * *
Grazia hurried down the hall to her room. Only a few short minutes ago, she had felt secure. Now panic was back in full force. Cindy was right. Everything was in the mind—security, insecurity, peace, and panic. She double-locked her door, slid on the chain, and scanned her sanctuary. Except that it didn’t feel like a sanctuary anymore. Evie’s sand rattles may have broken up the negative vibrations but they hadn’t touched the dark memories in her mind. She paced the room. To calm herself, she sat down on her bed to check her email.
The sender’s name was “Your unknown lover.” The subject was “Memory back yet?” The message read, “Hi Grazia. Memory back yet? Let’s get together again.”
She couldn’t breathe. Her heart pounded in her ears. She felt like she was floating, like her shaking hands weren’t her own. She could barely get Cargill’s name on her phone contacts.
“He just sent an email.” Her hands were so sweaty, the phone kept slipping. “It’s just an email. He’s not here in the room. But it feels like he is!”
Cargill’s voice became very calm. “Can you handle reading it out loud?”
Grazia had put the laptop on the table. She didn’t want to touch this contaminated object. Cargill was silent for a long minute after she read it to him. “Are you going to reply?”
“No! That would be like speaking to him!”
“OK, then don’t answer.”
“Is that good?” she quavered. “Not to answer?”
“Waiting might make him nervous. He might do something stupid like phone you. Then we’ll have a number we can trace.”
“Can’t you trace this email?”
“A computer geek might be able to trace the IP address. Google has a database of IP address locations. But my guess is this guy is sending it from an Internet café or a public-access computer like at a library. The thing is, tracing his IP address is not enough in court to prove he sent the email. However, it might be enough to catch him. If we know where he’s sending the emails, we can wait outside and hope we eventually spot a familiar face.”
“Can you trace a phone call from my cell phone?” Her voice quivered.
“We can track phones. But if he turns off his cell phone, we can’t find him. Also, he probably bought a burner—that’s a
cell phone that uses a SIM card. They’re hard to track, but it can be done if we can locate the tower it’s communicating with and then narrow down where he’s calling from. The trouble is, that all requires staff and technology experts, and my captain isn’t going to authorize that expense for a foreign woman who’s leaving on Friday. The best we can hope for is that you exchange emails with him and hope he slips up and says something that will identify him.”
Grazia was feeling calmer. “Cargill, he’s smart. He won’t admit anything in an email. Maybe he’s in Italy, like you say. Oh, what am I saying? He pushed me under a car not six hours ago!”
“He could have hired someone to mug you. Listen, do me a favor. Answer the email. Conquer your fear. Start a conversation. And send me a BCC.” He gave her his email address.
“If I email him, what do I say?”
“Ask, ‘What happened Saturday night? I don’t remember anything. Did we have sex?’”
She hung up and stared at her laptop. Then she took a deep breath and tapped ‘Reply.’ She wrote, “Can’t you have sex with a woman unless she’s unconscious? What’s your problem? Are you worried that she will see how tiny you are?”
She added Cargill’s email as a BCC and hit “send.” Then she looked around at the quiet, peaceful room, the soft bedside light, the turned-back coverlet. A hot bath was what she needed. She still couldn’t feel clean. But panic reared its sharp head. What if the rapist had a passkey? What if he threw his weight against the chain and snapped it? She would be naked in a tub of hot water.
“Stop this crazy thinking!” she exclaimed aloud, appalled at how close calm was to panic. When would she be her old courageous self! She dragged out her suitcase and was reaching for her anxiety pills when Cindy’s voice came into her ears. “Find the trigger. Connect it to the emotion. Then do what you had decided to do to get back in control.”
“You are a lawyer,” Grazia said out loud. “The more control you have over yourself, the more control you have over the situation.”
She locked the suitcase in the closet. Then she wrote on the hotel message pad, “You are in control, Grazia,” and propped it against the lamp on the bedside table. She sat down at the round table and opened her journal. She began adding details to what she had written about the day. She still couldn’t write about the results from the medical examiner—that there were two men. So she started with the mugging, then the hypnosis, then Cargill and the Brazilian Bar, then dinner at the Ethiopian restaurant, then Luigi in the hotel lobby, the anonymous email, and her resolve to get control.
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