Date Rape New York

by Janet McGiffin

  As she remembered Francisco’s anguish in the limo, she felt another rush, but this time it was sympathy for Francisco. His company, his life’s work, was in danger; charges of unprofessional conduct could cost him a possible lawsuit if Kourtis decided to go that route to pay for the heavy fines levied by the Building Safety Department.

  Grazia watched Manuel’s wife mop her tears. She felt real sorrow for this suffering woman, but for herself she could relax slightly. Now she knew the sources for two of the DNA samples that the New Jersey lab had isolated: Edmondo on the pen and Francisco on the handkerchief. She only needed to remember where that paper napkin in her pocket had come from. She had eaten in so many places in New York. With the cold weather, her nose was always dripping. She could have picked up a napkin anywhere to dab her nose and shoved it into her pocket.

  Cargill was stomping back into the kitchen, phone to his ear. “Edmondo is gone? Luigi too? How did they know we were coming? No, we can’t hold Manuel’s wife. She doesn’t know anything, and she’s got three kids coming home from school. Manuel sure as hell isn’t coming home now.”

  He dropped the phone into his pocket and held a hairbrush and a man’s safety razor in front of the woman’s eyes. “Manuel’s?” At her nod he added, “I have a warrant to take objects belonging to your husband for the purpose of identifying the DNA. He is a suspect. I’m taking the razor. All I want from the hairbrush is hair.” He pulled two paper envelopes from his jacket pocket. “I’m writing my name, today’s date, the location, and that according to you this is Manuel’s hair. Same for the razor.”

  He handed the two envelopes to an officer. “Get these to the medical examiner right away, will you? I’ve got places to go.”

  Cargill sat down again in the chair facing Manuel’s wife. “The technicians at the medical examiner are going to identify Manuel’s DNA using his hair and his toothbrush. Then they will compare his DNA to the DNA the hospital found on Grazia and the DNA that the criminologist team found in Grazia’s hotel room. If it matches, that means that your husband raped this woman sitting here. And it means we’re going to keep looking for him until we find him.” He looked over at Grazia. “Translate. I’ll be outside.”

  When Grazia got into the car, Cargill was closing his phone. “Edmondo, Luigi, and Sophia have all vanished into thin air, just like Manuel. Detectives are at the houses of the first two, getting objects that carry their DNA—which I’m betting we’ll find doesn’t match the DNA in the Hotel Fiorella employee files. I wouldn’t be surprised if their passports aren’t real either. Sophia’s DNA we already have from your room.”

  Cargill turned the ignition, then paused with his hand on the gearshift. He looked at Grazia as if he were going to say something. Then he shook his head and put the car in gear. “Next stop, the money-transfer company that sent the thousand dollars to Manuel’s mother.”

  The narrow storefront that housed the money-transfer agency was located in central Flushing near the crowded shopping district at the end of the number seven subway line. Nearly all store signs were in Chinese. The sign over the door of the money-transfer agency was in Chinese, Spanish, Russian, and English. Inside, two CCTV cameras sat over the front door and over the counter. Cargill eyed them.

  “I’ll add these to my request for court orders,” he said to Grazia, “but don’t expect anything. Got your photos?”

  The owner was an older man with thin, gray hair and a Russian accent. He dutifully perused the photos one by one.

  “Look,” he said, handing them back. “I get hundreds of people in here every day. Most are Chinese, some are Russian, the rest are Hispanic. I don’t look at faces; I count the cash, and I write down where the money is supposed to go. This guy you want, he came in with a thousand dollars in new fifties—I ran them through the checker. The truth is, Hispanic men pretty much look the same to me. I do remember thinking his New York ID photo didn’t look like him at all. But neither does mine—at least I hope not.”

  The Starbucks was packed with young Chinese. The manager was Chinese. He laughed when Cargill asked if he remembered a Hispanic man sending an email on Wednesday.

  “Hundreds of people send emails from here every day. I wouldn’t remember a non-Chinese face anyway. Anglos all look the same to me.”

  By then it was three o’clock. They went next door to a Mexican restaurant where Grazia ordered chicken tacos, and Cargill had a double order of the same. Grazia’s phone rang. It was the New Jersey lab. The results were ready. They had already emailed them to the medical examiner. She gave them her credit card information while Cargill called the ME’s office and alerted them to expedite the match.

  “The cop delivered Manuel’s razor and the envelope with the hair from his brush, and the detectives have delivered their DNA samples from Edmondo and Luigi,” he reported to Grazia, hanging up. “They’re rushing the match because of Edmondo’s non-match.” He opened his battered notebook and found a phone number. He tapped it into his phone. “We’ll head back to Manhattan. I want to show your photos to the guy who wrestled your bag of clothes away from your mugger. Your hero lives in the East Village. Then we’ll go over to the Brazilian Bar. Nick can look at your Valentino photo. Let’s cover all the bases before the day is over.”

  Cargill looked at Grazia with an indefinable expression and started up the car.

  Chapter 40

  The young man who had valiantly wrestled Grazia and the paper bag away from her mugger resided in a fourth-floor walk-up in the East Village on Sixth Street between Second Avenue and Avenue E. They climbed steep, narrow, linoleum-covered steps to a small apartment with a wooden floor painted black. The young man laid Grazia’s photos out in rows on the kitchen counter, which doubled as the lid to a bathtub. He stood back and assumed a martial arts pose, knees flexed, arms up.

  “I’m trying to feel them,” he murmured, his eyes moving intently from one photo to the next while his body moved slowly through various attack poses. “That one,” he said, pointing to Valentino. “He was slight in build. A high-tech type. As I was grappling with him, I got the sense of handball or maybe squash. Quick reflexes. The guys in the others look like heavy bodyguard types.”

  “My candidate from the beginning,” concluded Cargill as they descended the linoleum steps and climbed back into his ancient Plymouth. He drove up Second Avenue to Eighteenth Street and slid into a parking spot near the Brazilian Bar.

  Grazia followed him up the sidewalk. She felt no panic at all. Was that because Detective Cargill was with her? Or because she was identifying the causes that triggered her panic attacks and was dealing with them?

  Nick brought Grazia a cola and drew Cargill a beer on tap. “I hope you’re not here to arrest me,” he joked feebly.

  “Look at this photo,” ordered Cargill.

  Nick nodded as soon as he looked at the photo of Valentino. “Yep. He bought the champagne. Both bottles. He was wearing a lot of gold—gold neck chain, wrist chain, heavy stuff. Paid with new fifties. I ran them through the checker.”

  “Did you see if he walked Grazia out the door?”

  “Detective, I told you I couldn’t see past the crowd at the bar. It was game night, and people were packed in like olives in a bottle. All eyes were on the TV. The shouting was so loud I was reading lips.”

  Grazia handed over the rest of her photos, which included the photo of Manuel, Luigi, and Edmondo. Nick looked through them and shook his head. “The one you gave me before of the old guy and the two young ones felt familiar, but I still can’t place it. Nobody else remembered them either. Like I said, it was dark and crowded and people had their eyes on the TV.” He retrieved the photo of Francisco and the two bodyguards from under the counter and handed it back.

  “Nick,” said Grazia sweetly, leaning her elbows on the counter, “could you accidentally have left the CCTV video of Saturday night in the women’s room?”

  Nick tossed a sideways glance at Cargill, who was draining his beer. “I might have. Espe
cially if there was a chance of getting a clean slate out of it. It’s hard on a guy to be sweating it every time the door opens and a certain cop walks in.”

  “It’s not out of the range of possibilities,” said Cargill to no one in particular. When Nick disappeared into the back, he looked hard at Grazia. “You’re a sneaky one.”

  “I’m a lawyer. And Mrs. Springer has a videotape player.”

  * * *

  “Any chance Jacky might want an excursion in his basket?” Cargill asked the old lady, who had been light-headed with happiness since that afternoon, when Jacky had stood up on wobbly legs and peed in his basket. Now they were drinking wine spritzers in celebration and filling her in with the events of that day and Cargill’s plan for Jacky. Mrs. Springer agreed without hesitation. Grazia phoned Valentino.

  “Can we meet in your hotel lobby?” she asked, forcing politeness. “We need to talk.”

  “You’re not mad at me anymore?”

  “I’m working on it. Half an hour?”

  Mrs. Springer put Jacky into his plaid coat and winter boots, and Cargill carried him in his basket to his car. He let Mrs. Springer and Jacky out a block away from Valentino’s hotel. Cargill and Grazia sat in the front seat of the Plymouth silently watching Mrs. Springer carefully carry Jacky in his basket up the hotel steps.

  “Do you think Jacky will recognize Valentino?” Grazia worried, breaking the silence. “He only bit him that one time.”

  “I try not to second-guess dogs.” Cargill put his hand on Grazia’s arm as she threw her shoulder against the passenger door to open it. “Remember our plan. That includes controlling your temper. No screaming at the guy, no going for his throat. We don’t want him to know how much we know.”

  “Which is exactly what?” Grazia muttered.

  Inside the warm lobby, she spotted Mrs. Springer. The old lady was settled in a comfortable lounge chair, knitting on her lap, Jacky in his basket at her feet. Grazia walked past them and sat down on a sofa. Valentino would have to pass them to reach her.

  The elevator door opened, and Valentino gave her his usual cheerful wave. She watched him pass Mrs. Springer and Jacky with an incurious glance. The little dog didn’t move. He lay quietly with his nose on his paws.

  “No kiss!” Grazia snapped as Valentino leaned toward her cheek. “I’m still mad at you. Let’s sit over there.” She pointed at two chairs by a small table in front of the long windows overlooking the street. Reaching there required them to pass Jacky again. “What a cute little dog!” she exclaimed as they passed. “Do you like dogs, Valentino?”

  “Love them! Especially these little yappers.” Valentino let Jacky sniff his fingers. He scratched him gently behind the ears. Jacky licked his hand.

  Seated, Valentino ordered coffee for the two of them and reached across the table for her hand. “Please forgive me for my awful behavior impersonating Raoul,” he begged.

  “I’m making a big effort,” she said, removing her hand.

  Valentino looked hurt. “You have to admit that the police would naturally conclude that I had assaulted you. That would mean my spending an extraordinary amount of time and money proving I didn’t. There was no alternative except to stay incognito until the police found the real criminal. The only reason I pretended I was Raoul was so I could follow your recovery and make sure that you were all right. I loved our breakfasts. Maybe we can meet again tomorrow morning?”

  “No.”

  He sighed. “What is it that you wanted to tell me?”

  Grazia forced a thin smile. “I realized you would be worried about being incriminated, so I came to tell you that Detective Cargill has two suspects. They are staff from the Hotel Fiorella. Unfortunately, they have disappeared. The police have obtained samples of their DNA from their personal objects. The medical examiner is matching that DNA against the DNA found in my room and from the hospital examination. It’s only a matter of time before they find sufficient evidence to arrest them. Then all they have to do is locate them.” She drained her coffee.

  Valentino frowned, puzzled. “That’s all you’ve got? Disappeared staff and some pending lab work? Nothing definite?”

  “You have any bright ideas?” she snapped.

  “Sure. Give up your search. Go home. Get that job that you are interviewing for. I’ll have your job in Naples and both of us will be happy.”

  She looked out the window where she could see Cargill’s car. The windows were steamed up. She stood up and walked out. Sitting in Cargill’s car, she stared glumly at the fogged up windshield.

  “Jacky didn’t recognize Valentino. I had been so sure.”

  Cargill’s phone rang. He put it on speakerphone, and Mrs. Springer’s excited whisper filled the cold car. “He’s on the phone, and he looks worried. Now he’s going into the elevator. I’ll wait to see if he comes down.” She hung up.

  Grazia began writing the latest event in her journal. Writing put it at a distance and calmed her nerves. She finished and looked up. Cargill had been watching her. She flipped to her to-do list and ran her finger down it until she reached the question. “Did the medical examiner run any other matches on the DNA off the pen and the paper napkin and the handkerchief? All you said was that the DNA off Edmondo’s pen didn’t match his employee DNA profile.”

  “Yes,” nodded Cargill. “They did run more matches. They called me when you were talking to Manuel’s wife. This may be difficult for you. The DNA on the paper napkin matched the DNA of the sperm that Janine found in you. But we can’t put a name to it.”

  Grazia’s mind whirled, trying to figure out what this meant. Cargill’s ringing phone broke her thoughts. Mrs. Springer again. “He’s back. He’s got his coat on. He’s going out the front door.”

  Cargill started his car. Valentino stood at the top of the steps and looked around. Then he came over to the car and tapped on Grazia’s window. She lowered it.

  “I’m going for a drink and tapas at the Brazilian Bar,” he said pleasantly. “Care to join me?”

  “No.” Grazia raised the window. Frustration burst into words. “Why can’t I remember him from the Brazilian Bar!” she fumed, exasperated with herself. “I remember him from the Christmas party in Milan but I have no recollection of him at the Brazilian Bar. He bought the champagne! A man wouldn’t buy two bottles of champagne for a woman he hadn’t spent any time with!”

  “You’re still blocking it, maybe.” Cargill went into the hotel and came out carrying Jacky in his basket. Mrs. Springer had a grip on his other arm. He drove home without speaking and stopped in front of Mrs. Springer’s building. He got out to open the doors.

  “We’ve got Nick’s video to watch,” he said, helping Mrs. Springer out and retrieving the basket with Jacky. “Maybe we’ll find an answer to why you can’t remember this Valentino.” His eye fell on the rectory. “But first, let me see if the monk is at home. Hand me those photos.”

  Grazia carried Jacky up the narrow stairs to Mrs. Springer’s apartment, and she and Mrs. Springer moved him carefully back into his usual basket. Mrs. Springer got her ancient videotape machine running, and the two of them watched the relevant part of the video three times running. Laura was easily identifiable helping Grazia out the door. Valentino was too. Even Mrs. Springer identified Valentino following Laura out, and she had only seen him in the hotel lobby.

  When Mrs. Springer went into the kitchen to prepare supper, Grazia backed up the tape and played it again, hitting pause at several points to focus on different figures on the fringes of the crowd. Was that the silhouette of one of Francisco’s bodyguards or was that her imagination? She was playing that another time when Cargill came in. He sat down next to her on the sofa and watched it with her, glancing at her from time to time.

  Cargill took the remote out of her hand and ran the tape back twice more. Then he pulled out the tape. “It’s Valentino, for sure. But he’s just following Laura out. He’s not doing anything we can get him for. You aren’t even near him.” He went int
o the kitchen and Grazia heard him chatting with Mrs. Springer and the clink of glasses.

  Grazia went over to the window. It was snowing again, light flakes that swirled in the street lamp. These were her thoughts, drifting, swirling, falling into place. She had the answer now, but what she had was impossible. Cargill came in and handed her a glass of red wine.

  She sipped it watching the falling snow. “Once you asked me if I was strong enough to handle the truth if I found it.”

  “You said you had to be,” he replied.

  “Now I’m not sure that I am.”

  Cargill started to say something, then Mrs. Springer called them to supper. On the table she had placed a large serving bowl mounded with spaghetti and another one swimming with red sauce heavy with meat and chopped peppers. Cargill refilled the wine glasses, then forked a pile of spaghetti onto his plate. He ladled on the red sauce. Then he looked at Grazia.

  Grazia kept her eyes down, dreading the question she knew Cargill was going to ask. She slowly piled spaghetti onto her plate. She had been hungry before, but now she wasn’t. She didn’t want to be sitting here. Eventually she would have to hear the question. She would have to answer. She reached for the red sauce and slowly ladled it over her spaghetti, pretending she didn’t know Cargill was watching her.

  “Did you ever figure out who the man was whose DNA was on that handkerchief in your pocket?” Cargill asked quietly.

  Grazia dug her fork into her pasta. She nodded.

  “Who was it?” His voice was quieter.

  “A friend who was having a sentimental moment.” She realized then how much she cared what Cargill thought of her. She raised her eyes. He really was a good-looking man. Dark hair, silver at the temples, strong jaw, kind eyes when they didn’t look bleak, and that sweet smile. And he was much older than she was but not as old as Francisco. She needed to think over why she was attracted to older men. Time to do what Cargill said and decide what kind of life she wanted to lead.