Date Rape New York

by Janet McGiffin

  * * *

  Grazia had to admit that she left the counseling session feeling newer. She was better at identifying triggers for her emotional reactions and she had figured out some ways to respond other than panic. She ran her eye over the people crossing the lobby. If she saw the men who had assaulted her across a room, would she have an emotional reaction? Would it be a suspicion, an inkling? Her mood swung downward. Would she ever find a man she could trust? What was trust, anyway? Like Detective Cargill had said, there were many ways to trust.

  As she stepped out into the winter sunshine, she took a deep breath of cold air and revved up her determination for the next task of the day. She opened the Metropolitan Transit Authority subway Trip Planner on her smartphone and tapped in the address of the DNA lab in New Jersey. The subway trip would take well over an hour. She had to walk eight minutes to the 14th Street N/R station and take the N train to the 23rd Street Metro subway station, then walk eight minutes to the Port Authority subway station. Then take the PATH train under the Hudson River to New Jersey, catch a city bus in Jersey City, then walk another few blocks. She switched to the NY Taxi Fare Estimator. From her location, the fare would be about thirty dollars in light traffic and take about half an hour. Grazia mentally doubled the money and time, and decided it was worth it. Her safety was at stake and she was running out of time. A taxi pulled up to let out passengers. The driver was a woman.

  Traffic through the Lincoln Tunnel was light, according to the chatty Hispanic woman driver whose muscular arms bulged under her pink flowered spandex blouse. “I only pick up women,” she announced with pride. “Women drivers, women passengers. Our service is new in New York and we are already booked up with regular customers. You’re lucky I am free. All afternoon I am picking up teenage girls at school and dropping them at their apartment building doors. I make sure they walk in the door,” she added with a smile.

  Out of the Lincoln Tunnel, phone access resumed. Grazia called Cargill. He answered on the first ring.

  “Where are you?” he snapped. “Cindy said you left half an hour ago.” His voice softened slightly. “She also thinks that all of you is out from behind the mirror.”

  “I’m in a taxi driven by a woman. I obtained a DNA sample of one of the men I think did it. I’m taking it to a New Jersey lab to get the DNA identity. Then I’m hoping you can convince your captain to get the medical examiner to run a match with the DNA from my room and the rape kit.”

  “Who’s the suspect, Grazia?” Cargill’s voice acquired an edge.

  “If the DNA matches, I’ll tell you.”

  “Is it Raoul? I told you he’s not a suspect. The other three Italians say he was with them until they all left together much later.”

  “I’m not giving you the name. You’ll decide there’s no need to run the match.”

  “Grazia! Does this man know you have his DNA? Because if he did assault you and he knows you have his DNA, you’re risking trouble big time.”

  Grazia reached into her coat pocket and carefully pulled out the pen she had stolen from Edmondo by dropping it into her coat pocket. Now she wrapped it loosely in a paper napkin that was in her pocket. Around that she wrapped a handkerchief that had been wadded up at the bottom of the pocket.

  “Listen, Miranda called. She talked to Manuel’s mother.” Grazia passed on the information that Manuel was still in New York.

  “Not much chance we have of finding him by Friday if he doesn’t want to be found,” Cargill said. “A virtual dead end.”

  “Here’s another dead end,” she said, trying not to sound discouraged. “That phone number that Luigi gave you belongs to Raoul.” She explained how.

  “Let’s talk about all this,” he said after a moment. “How about dinner tonight?”

  Grazia smiled. “I would love to, except I’m having dinner with Raoul. He’s picking me up at my hotel at seven o’clock.”

  “Grazia, don’t go anywhere with him until you hear from me.” He hung up.

  The driver glanced at Grazia in the rearview mirror. “You in trouble, sweetie?”

  “Saturday night I went to a bar. I drank champagne. It was drugged with a memory drug. I got raped by two men and I have no memory of them. That was the detective on the case.”

  The driver was quiet for a minute. “You looking for justice? Is that why you’re working with the police?”

  “Right now I’m just looking for the men.”

  “Don’t go looking for justice, honey. There ain’t no justice for that crime. I’ve seen it before.”

  “All I want is to see their faces. If I knew them from the past, I will try to understand how I trusted these men. I was warned to keep my hand over my glass, and I didn’t. If I can figure out where my trust went wrong, maybe one day I will trust a man again.”

  The taxi driver drove for a while. “Are you mixing up trust with expectations?” she asked. “Trust is when a man tells you he will do something, and you depend on him to do it. When he doesn’t, you stop trusting him. But your situation sounds different. It sounds to me like you were in a bar with some guy. Maybe you knew him or maybe you didn’t. Either way, you were expecting this man to give you respect. But he never said he would do that. I bet when you find these guys, you’re going to discover that you didn’t know them like you thought you did.”

  “I expected too much of them, you’re saying.”

  “You expected more than they said they would do. I’m not saying women should have low expectations of men. I’m just saying that before you trust some man, or expect something from him, it’s good to make sure he wants to do it.”

  At the Jersey City lab, Grazia asked the taxi driver to wait while she went inside. She handed the busy desk clerk the bundle containing Edmondo’s pen. “I need a DNA identity taken off this,” she instructed. The clerk said the results would be emailed to the medical examiner’s office in twenty-four hours.

  Back in the taxi, Grazia called Cargill again. He said he would alert his captain and try for answers on a match before Friday.

  She updated her journal on the way back to Manhattan, and then started two lists. One list was everyone she had told that she was taking her computer to a technician to locate the two IP addresses. The other was a list of people who knew she was taking a DNA sample to the New Jersey lab. She reviewed the two lists. They were identical. She had told everyone. Then she stared out the window, waiting for inspiration. But there was nothing.

  Chapter 34

  It was nearly two o’clock, way past lunchtime. Grazia knew she should eat regular healthy meals to help her body and brain recover, but she hadn’t finished her to-do list. She called the veterinary hospital using the number that the reception clerk at Menno House had given her. Jacky was still an in-patient and Mrs. Springer was in the waiting room, they reported. She gave the taxi driver the address and again asked her to wait.

  Mrs. Springer was slumped in a metal chair, her gnarled fingers clasping a gold cross. Her lips were moving. The old lady took a moment to recognize Grazia.

  “Jacky’s an old dog,” she quavered. “The poison paralyzed his whole body at first. Now it’s only his back legs. The vet doesn’t expect improvement. He says I should have Jacky put down to stop his suffering.” Tears spilled over. “I want to take him home. He was born in my apartment; he should die there. But I can’t pay the bill until my Social Security check, and they won’t release him without payment. I’ve come here for years, and they won’t give Jacky to me without money.”

  Grazia pulled out her credit card. “Tell them to get him ready.”

  The little dog weighed almost nothing. Grazia stood on the steps of the brownstone a few doors down from Menno House, holding the dog carrier as Mrs. Springer unlocked the door. The apartment was a third-floor walk-up. It smelled stuffy and redolent of garbage. Together they lifted Jacky into his basket. He whimpered, then put his head down and closed his eyes.

  The old lady pulled out a prescription paper. Her fingers
were shaking so much that she couldn’t read it. She thrust it at Grazia. “Special foods. The vet said it might help.”

  “I’ll get them.”

  Half an hour later, Grazia returned with supplies for Jacky and deli meats and salads for her and Mrs. Springer. The apartment was tidy now and the smell of garbage was gone. A pot of tea sat on the kitchen table. The old lady’s voice was stronger, nearly back to its usual authoritative tone.

  “Have you found the son of a bitch who attacked you?” she demanded, pouring tea with a steady hand. She had persuaded Jacky to open his mouth for a doggy treat and washed it down with a syringe of pH-balanced dog drink.

  Grazia took a satisfied bite of her veggie wrap. It felt nice being in a home, not a hotel room. She described the events of the last two days. Mrs. Springer listened closely, her eyes occasionally drifting to the basket where Jacky lay. The little dog’s eyes were open now and fixed on his mistress.

  “Jacky bit that man who was walking with you,” Mrs. Springer concluded. “He knew Jacky can identify him. So he poisoned him.”

  Grazia nodded, feeling miserable. “Watch out for yourself. The man may think you can identify him. Call me or Detective Cargill if you see any strange men watching your apartment.” She wrote down her cell phone and Cargill’s. She put Mrs. Springer’s home and cell phones into her own smartphone.

  By now it was four o’clock. Grazia phoned the computer tech to see if her laptop was ready. He asked her to come right away. A blizzard was predicted for that evening, and he wanted to get home. The shop was only six blocks away. She debated whether to call Cargill, then decided to walk.

  “You just missed your friend,” said the computer technician, handing over her laptop. “He came to pick this up, but I told him you were on your way.”

  Grazia froze. Her heart pounded. “What did he look like?”

  “Dark parka with the collar zipped up over the mouth, dark cap pulled down over his forehead. I don’t really look at humans. Ask me about computers.”

  “Did you trace the email?” Grazia peered anxiously up the snowy steps. Was the man up there, waiting for her?

  “Yes, but I can only give the details to Miranda Security Systems.”

  As she climbed up to the sidewalk, the wind-tossed snow stung her eyes—a hint of the coming storm. Grazia looked for a taxi, but saw none. A young woman passed her walking a large Alsatian. For ten dollars, she was happy to walk Grazia to the Hotel Fiorella.

  By the time she got to her room, it was four-thirty, which was ten-thirty at night in Naples. Grazia opened her journal and turned to the last name on the list of men who had stayed in hotels near the Brazilian Bar, Valentino Agresta, the lawyer who worked for Francisco Pamplona Law Offices in their Milan branch. He had checked in a day before Laura. She checked her email. No reply to her email from that morning, asking him to meet her. She phoned his hotel. The desk clerk transferred the call to his room, then came back on the line to say he was out. Grazia left the same message as in her email.

  Next call was to the Miranda Laterza office in Naples. The switchboard transferred her to Miranda who sounded like she was at home. Children were yelling in the background. Grazia felt a pang of homesickness. “Any information on Sophia?” she inquired.

  “Sophia got her job through Belinda, Francisco’s wife. Sophia had been a housekeeper in Belinda’s home. She is in New York on a one-year student visa to learn English. To keep this visa, US Immigration requires her to take eighteen hours of classes a week, which she is doing at a language center in midtown Manhattan. She’s not supposed to be working since she doesn’t have a work permit. According to Detective Cargill, the Hotel Fiorella employs her as a temporary, self-employed, Italian business consultant. Somebody pulled strings obviously. The question is why? She’s just a hotel chambermaid.”

  * * *

  At six-thirty that evening, the Brazilian Bar was busy. Grazia parked herself on a bar stool and sipped a cola while Nick looked over her photos. They included the men who were registered in hotels near the Brazilian Bar on Saturday night and Francisco with his two bodyguards behind him.

  “Nope,” Nick concluded. He looked again at the photo of the bodyguards and Francisco. “These guys looks familiar, but I can’t swear to it. Mind if I hang onto this and look again later? In fact, leave all the photos. I’ll give them to those four Italians when they come in. I got to admire you, lady,” he added. “You’re a real bulldog.”

  A text message came through from Raoul. He couldn’t pick her up at her hotel because he was still uptown, coming by subway. Could she meet him at the Alhambra Restaurant on Orchard Street on the Lower East Side? Half a block south of Houston. Grazia texted that she could and pulled on her coat.

  The snow was hard pellets and there wasn’t a taxi in sight. She stepped back into the shelter of the Brazilian Bar and was searching the MTA Trip Planner site on her smartphone for the subway directions to Orchard Street when a hand gripped her arm. She shrieked and jerked away.

  “Take it easy,” said Cargill, keeping his grip on her arm. “Where do you think you’re going? The guy who attacked you could be tailing you and there’s a blizzard warning. Do you want to find yourself face down in another snowy street?”

  “There aren’t any taxis, and I have a date with Raoul at the Alhambra Restaurant.”

  “On the Lower East Side? Are you crazy? It’s dark as pitch in there. No one would notice if he drugged your drink.”

  “But I don’t think he. . .”

  “You were supposed to wait to meet this guy until I got back to you. Lucky thing Nick is gun-shy and phoned me with a heads-up.” Cargill glared at her. “Three days, all my detective attention, wasn’t that the bargain? You made the rules, so follow them.” He pulled her to his green Plymouth which was idling by the curb, wrenched open the passenger door, slammed it hard behind her, and got in himself.

  “You’re giving me a ride?” Grazia asked cautiously, with a glance at his stony profile.

  “I’m joining you. Somewhere across a crowded room. Call your dinner date and say you’ll be there in fifteen minutes. I want to get there before he does.”

  Grazia phoned Raoul but an automatic reply said the connection couldn’t be made at this time. “He’s either in the subway or still in a meeting,” she said. She told Cargill about the unknown man who had tried to pick up her laptop.

  “You tell too many people what you’re doing, Grazia.”

  “I’m leaving a trail, don’t you understand? At first, I told everyone what I was doing because I needed help reconstructing what happened. Now I’m putting down bait. One of the two men who assaulted me will follow me. You keep telling me that most women know their attacker from before. At a certain moment, I will turn around and recognize him.”

  “Then tell me exactly where you’re going. I want to get there before something happens that I don’t want to think about.”

  Cargill headed down First Avenue, crossed Houston, then made another controlled skid onto Stanton and another onto Orchard. He slid to an icy stop in front of a discount women’s lingerie store. He pointed up the street.

  “The Alhambra is there. Go find yourself a table, if you can. I’ll be there in a few minutes. You won’t see me until after the meal when you get up to leave. Then I will be behind you. Do not leave the restaurant until you see me behind you. Is that clear?”

  Chapter 35

  The Alhambra was as dark as Cargill had predicted. It was not as noisy as the Brazilian Bar since the music was muted, but it was crowded. Patrons were packed around the tables. Grazia found a stool at the bar and ordered a soda with lime juice. She texted Raoul that she had arrived. After twenty minutes, neither Raoul nor Cargill had materialized. She checked her email and text messages over and over. Had Raoul missed her text? She called but got the same automatic reply. Maybe he was still in the meeting and had his cell phone turned off. She pulled out her journal and found his name and numbers from the business card that he, like
the other three Italians, had given her at the Brazilian Bar. She had copied them into her journal before she had given the business cards to Cargill. She called the first of four office numbers. He answered with a quick “Raoul.”

  “Did you get my text that I’m here?” she asked without identifying herself. Her name would be visible on his cell phone screen since he had called her before. “I’m already here.”

  “And I’m here in our Boston office where I will be until this project is back on track,” he replied irritably. “Who is this?”

  “Grazia Conti,” she managed.

  “You have the wrong number Grazia Conti. Unfortunately, I have no dinner plans with you or anyone. I’m working all night.”

  The voice was speaking Italian and sounded a bit like Raoul, but it wasn’t Raoul’s voice. Startled, Grazia compared the number on her phone’s screen with the number in her journal. The same. She ventured to explain. “You gave me your business card at the Brazilian Bar in New York Saturday night. You were there with three Italian friends. I got sick and had to leave.”

  “Grazia! Of course!” His voice sank, embarrassed. “My friends called and told me what happened. I am so sorry. You got sick so quickly after the second glass of champagne. I wish I had walked you home.”

  “Where were you on Sunday morning?” she interrupted, confused.

  “On my way to Boston. Where I still am. You phoned our Boston office.”

  Grazia stared around wildly, trying to pull her wits together. Who was this man? Who was the Raoul she’d been meeting for breakfast? Her eyes caught Raoul standing in the doorway, scanning the room. She lowered her face and shielded it behind her hand.

  “Listen. At the Brazilian Bar, I got sick, and my girlfriend took me outside. Then she came inside and spoke to a man. Did you see him?”

  “Yes. He followed her outside. I told your girlfriend that I would take you to your hotel, but she said she would handle it. I am so sorry I didn’t help you. I’ve felt awful ever since.”