The Girl Next Door

by Lisa Aurello

  Now she was scrambling to get the suit from the cleaners in time, cranky from eating all that refined donut sugar and anxious to get home. The only bright part of today was getting to wear her new Prada pumps, and she had a hard time keeping her eyes off the shoes—they might be her favorite pair of all. Cate knew the value of good shoes, the way they empowered her. She supposed it was like that for all women—which was why women loved new shoes so much. That and a new good haircut can make the world a shinier place. Note to self: make a hair appointment with Andre next week. Her eyes dropped down to watch her feet as she moved through the lot.

  Her pretty pumps were the last thing she ever saw.

  ******

  The Caldwell homicide investigation was assigned to Detectives Fitzgibbons and Kelvin of the 50th Precinct. The swing shift was always the busiest for crime and anything else, for that matter. Although Riverdale generally enjoyed a comparatively low crime rate and Fieldston, the neighborhood where Cate Caldwell lived, had almost none, it was still part of the Bronx, for one thing, and whatever criminal element did operate near the fringes of the precinct boundaries were hard at work during late afternoon into the evening.

  It was a few minutes after seven when they arrived. Two squad cars had arrived first and secured the scene. Onlookers and witnesses were gathered around the yellow tape that the officers had erected in a trapezoid figure around the immediate crime scene. The officers on scene would need to keep it secured until the ME and photographer arrived to record the scene and the ballistics expert would then determine the likely trajectory of the bullet. Fitzgibbons and his partner would get the CCTV footage for the parking lot to sift through the cars and plate numbers in the vicinity and maybe get lucky. But he doubted it would be that easy. Ducking under the tape as the officer lifted it for him, he walked over to the shooting victim to take a closer look. With his gloved hand he gingerly lifted the edge of the coat that someone had used to drape over the body, took stock of the surroundings, and read the notes scribbled by the first responding officer, and it was immediately apparent to him that the homicide was likely a paid hit. It was efficient and detached—there was no passion involved here.

  He looked up as his partner approached. “Looks impersonal,” he told her.

  She nodded and her eyes darted around, taking in the surrounding area. “I’m thinking the killer was probably standing over by those trees.” She pointed to her left. “With dusk falling early, he wouldn’t be all that noticeable.”

  Fitzgibbons shook his head and rose, tried to suck in air through his congested nose. “Nah, he stayed in his car, I’m betting. Why take the chance of being on foot? In a crowded parking lot at rush hour who’s gonna notice a man—or woman—sitting in a car with the window open?” Looking around, he spotted the patrolman standing guard over the scene and crooked his fingers. The young cop broke into action, rushing over to the two detectives.

  “Give me a quick rundown, Officer…” he tilted his head to look at the man’s name tag. “…Mendoza.”

  “Sir, the first call came in at 6:40 p.m. through 911. I have the names and contact info of four witnesses.”

  “Did they witness the actual shooting?”

  “They all said they saw the woman fall and ran over to assist her. It wasn’t until they got close that they saw she was gone. Six subsequent calls came in to 911 in less than a minute. One man,” he paused to gesture over to his squad car before continuing, “heard a shot but didn’t see where it came from.”

  “So we’re assuming only one shot was fired?”

  The officer’s face flushed. “At this preliminary juncture we don’t have enough information or corroborating evidence. We’re waiting on forensics.”

  Fitzgibbons nodded. “Thank you. How soon after the shooting was the scene secured? Did anyone touch her?”

  “They claim no. Well, except for a Mr. Johnson…” He checked his notes. “…no, I’m sorry, Jansen, Richard Jansen, said he crouched down next to the victim to assist her but immediately saw she was gone. He touched her wrist only to check for a pulse and realized she was beyond help. He’s waiting over there,” he said and pointed to a lanky and tired looking man, late 30s, waiting by the crime scene tape. Fitzgibbons eyed him briefly. “The other people never got as close to the victim,” the officer finished.

  “And what time did officers arrive on scene?” he prodded.

  “My partner and I arrived on scene at 6:51, sir. We immediately set about securing it.”

  “Do we have an ID?”

  His hands gloved, Officer Mendoza handed Detective Kelvin some latex gloves followed by the victim’s wallet. She took it by the very edge and flipped through it quickly, stopping on the driver’s license. She checked the photo and then, bending down low, she looked at the victim’s face. “Catherine Caldwell of Kipling Road, Riverdale.”

  “Has the medical examiner’s office been contacted?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Someone’s on the way.”

  “Good.” She looked at Fitzgibbons. “I guess we need to notify next of kin.” She wagged the wallet held so gingerly. “Let’s start with this address.”

  “You go. I’ll wait for the ME.”

  Chapter 13

  A car honked, long and loud, as if someone was leaning on the damn thing.

  Jane heard it at the same time her doorbell rang so she grabbed her ballet flats and headed downstairs, bare feet slapping against the ebony-stained hardwood as the bell chimed again. The night before, Mel had gone back to her apartment to run errands but promised to return around late morning since she had the day off. Jane couldn’t move too fast, though she felt her energy increasing now that she was healing and dragging around less body weight.

  “Hold on, you, I’m coming.” She pulled open the heavy front door, sure that behind it was an impatient Mel, tapping her toe and checking the time on her phone. It wasn’t Mel, though.

  Standing outside her door were a tall broad-shouldered man, early thirties, and a shorter wiry female with dark skin and of similar age. Jane thought they were strangers, but she couldn’t be certain since her memory was like Swiss cheese. It was a stupidly strange feeling that she didn’t even know who she knew.

  “Hello. May I help you?” she asked, just as the thought of whether they were on the up-and-up flashed through her mind.

  “Are you Jane Jensen?”

  “Yes, I am. Why?”

  “Ms. Jensen, I’m Detective Rob Fitzgibbons, and this is my partner, Detective Myla Kelvin. We’d like to ask you a few quick questions if we may.”

  She stood there holding onto the oak door, leaning all her weight on it to keep it from swinging. “Um… OK.”

  Gently he prodded, “May we come in for a moment? Here… I’ll show you my badge.”

  From the inside pocket of his suit jacket he produced a black wallet and flipped it open. Her eyes darted between the badge and his face, and then she jerked her chin at the woman with them. “What about her?”

  Myla Kelvin, a macho Latina woman—or maybe biracial—with a snarly look on her face, rolled her eyes but nonetheless fished out her badge and held it aloft for Jane to read. Nodding, she stepped aside, allowing them entrance into her home. “So… what’s this all about?”

  “If you can just be patient with us, we’ll explain in a bit,” Det. Fitzgibbons said as his eyes scanned the surroundings, flickering all around the hallway and living room.

  Jane led them into the living room. “Um… sorry, I just moved in recently and have no furniture yet. But there are folding chairs so, uh… please have a seat.”

  “Thank you,” they chimed in unison.

  “May I offer you anything?” Jane directed her question to Fitzgibbons—the woman’s demeanor put her back up.

  “Thank you. Coffee or a glass of water would be great,” said Fitzgibbons.

  Myla Kelvin piped in. “Same for me, thanks.”

  Jane nodded. “I’ll be right back.”

  Mel came in as Jane wa
s pouring spring water into the coffee machine’s carafe. “What’s going on?” she whispered as she sailed into the kitchen. “Why is that hot cop here? They are cops, right?”

  Jane rolled her eyes. “One-track Mel, always on the prowl. Yes, they’re detectives and I have no idea why they’re here. They showed up five minutes ago and want to ask me questions. I’m making them coffee. You’re not on a tight time schedule today, are you?”

  Melanie shook her head. “Uh-uh. Not really. I might have to go to Jersey later tonight to have dinner with my dad but that’s not until, like, seven. Should I wait in here… or where?”

  “No idea.” She chewed her lip—certainly didn’t want to piss off the friendly neighborhood cops going into her third month in the house. “You know what, just come in with me. They didn’t say it was private or anything...”

  “Goodie, so I can ogle him at my leisure.”

  Mel watched as the coffee dripped through the cone, turning into the rich, dark brew that suffused the air with its aroma. She helped Jane carry it in to the two detectives. Together they placed the steaming cups on a card table that served as Jane’s makeshift dining table along with the tray bearing milk, sugar, and spoons. Pathetic yet serviceable. Both detectives looked long at Mel, and Jane sputtered an introduction.

  “Oh, uh, sorry, th-this is a friend of mine, Melanie Bartholomew. We have plans today, so as soon as we finish here, we’ll be going out. She and I.”

  As Kelvin sipped her coffee, Fitzgibbons eyed Mel, his eyes lingering longer than was polite. After a minute of gawking, he dragged his eyes away from her to look fixedly at Jane.

  “We’ll be as brief as possible, Ms. Jensen,” he said, slicing into her thoughts. “First, I want to ask you if you happen to know your next-door neighbors, the Caldwells?”

  Before Jane could censor herself, her head whipped over to look at Melanie, her eyes going wide.

  Kelvin lurched up in her chair, her posture stiff. “Why are you looking at your friend? Is there something you need to tell us?”

  “Um…” Jane’s heart began to thump, as if she’d done something wrong, and she started to perspire. She remembered this whole domino effect from school: get embarrassed or nervous; the insecurity causes you to break out in a cold sweat. Cold sweat makes you wet and shiny, and then you start to wonder if you smell bad. Dread of smelling bad leads to an all-out panic attack, and you start to get itchy. Before you know it, you’re scratching all over, leaving angry red welt marks on your skin and looking as crazy as a loon. Crippling social anxiety.

  “I… um… Melanie asked me if I knew Mason Caldwell. I told her I went to school with someone by that name.”

  Melanie interjected, “Detectives, I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but Jane was in a serious auto accident a few weeks ago, and as a result of a TBI, she’s suffered significant memory loss.”

  “No, we didn’t know. I’m sorry to hear that,” Detective Kelvin replied. “So, in effect, you’re telling us that you may know the Caldwells and just not remember them?”

  “Exactly that, yes.”

  “Where did you go to school, Ms. Jensen?”

  “In Pleasantville, ironically… where I grew up.”

  Neither said anything, not even casting her a questioning glance. Jane concluded that either these two detectives were entirely devoid of a shred of personality, or they simply hated her for unknown reasons. Fifty-fifty call.

  “It was ironic,” she spurted out unasked, “because it wasn’t pleasant. For me anyway.”

  Detective Kelvin consulted her notepad, flipping back a few pages before snapping it shut and giving her partner an inscrutable look. “Yes. Caldwell grew up in Pleasantville so chances are more than good he’s the same one you attended school with. Did you know him then?”

  “No,” she shook her head. “Not really. I mean, I knew of him—he was really popular—but I didn’t know him personally. We didn’t run in the same circles…” her voice petered out. When the detective continued looking at her, as if waiting for more information, she elaborated. “I was the fat, ugly girl and he was the good-looking, popular jock. I had a crush on him—as did every other girl and probably a few boys—but he didn’t know I was alive.”

  If he was surprised, the detective didn’t show it. Fitzgibbons had been sipping his hot coffee, watching Jane over his cup the whole time, his face devoid of expression. She could feel his eyes on her, and it made her squirm in her uncomfortable chair. Now he put the coffee cup down and cleared his throat. “I’m sure that’s not true, Ms. Jensen,” he said in obligatory fashion. His tone said considerably more than his words. “So… is your memory being recovered at all as time goes on?”

  “Yes,” she said quickly. “When I first woke up, I couldn’t remember much beyond ninth grade. Now I have some memories from a couple of years ago, when I first started at my job. And of college. But it’s not linear, you know. It’s just a memory here and another one there—it doesn’t run in chronological order.”

  “I see.” This time he looked over at Kelvin and she nodded. “How long have you lived at this address?” he continued.

  “According to paperwork, I closed on the house in late June but I didn’t move in until mid-August. It’s why I have no furniture…” she offered him a rueful smile.

  “Where did you live before you moved here?”

  “I have no recollection of the last ten years or so but I’ve been told that I had an apartment in White Plains.”

  He looked up sharply. “You don’t remember living in White Plains?”

  “No. I have only spotty memories, here and there, of the last ten years.”

  “Wouldn’t you have furniture from your place in White Plains?”

  “Ooh, I could answer that,” Mel exclaimed, raising her hand like a schoolgirl. “Pick me, pick me.”

  Now Fitzgibbons smiled—and it seemed genuine, leading Jane to surmise that he just didn’t like her. Mel, he did, watching her with interest and amusement. “OK, tell us.”

  “The furniture she had was all hand-me-down from her mother and Jane thought it was the color of puke. She donated it all to the Salvation Army and told me she was going to get new furniture.”

  “Uh-huh. Makes sense. How long ago was your accident, Ms. Jensen?” Kelvin interjected.

  “Just about a month ago. September 2nd. A day that will live in infamy.” Again, no reaction from the cops. Either they didn’t like her or they were both missing a personality. Probably was the former since the male cop seemed A-OK with Mel. At least Mel grinned at Jane’s remark, but Mel was always grinning like a loon. It was one of the reasons Jane loved her so much. She was a happy girl.

  Fitzgibbons put his coffee cup down on the card table and reached for a manila folder he’d placed on the floor adjacent to his feet. Removing an 8x10 glossy, he handed it to Jane. “Do either of these people seem at all familiar to you?”

  Jane stared intently at the photo, her expression blank. When she looked up, she shook her head and offered him a slight smile. “No, I’m sorry but I’m getting nothing. Is this couple the Caldwells?”

  “Yes. So you don’t recognize either one?”

  “Not really, no. I mean, he looks different from when I knew him—which was almost ten years ago so…”

  “All right then. Ms. Jensen, I’d appreciate it—we’d appreciate it—very much if you’d call us if you regain any memories that could possibly pertain to the Caldwells. Oh… before we go: have you seen either of them lately?”

  “I don’t even know what they look like,” Jane admitted. “I might have seen them when I first moved in, but I honestly don’t remember. As far as I can recall, I haven’t seen Mason since high school.”

  “Actually, they moved in right after you, I believe. At the end of August… so just a few weeks ago. And,” Kelvin again consulted her notepad, flipping pages and Jane wondered why they didn’t have an electronic device. “…you moved in almost two months ago. So about three weeks pr
ior to them.”

  “Hmmm. Maybe if I see them, I’ll remember something. What’s going on? Can you tell me now?”

  Detective Fitzgibbons lifted his pale green eyes to hers, looking at Jane directly. She felt as if she had his full and undivided attention, and it agitated her for some reason. “Mrs. Caldwell was shot to death last night.”

  Mel and Jane both audibly gasped, clapping their hands over their mouths. They looked at each other in shock, and Mel pulled her hand off her mouth to say, “When I came to get Jane’s clothes for her to wear home from the hospital, I saw the woman’s husband. Later when I looked out the window, I saw him again, this time with who I assumed were his wife and dog.

  Fitzgibbons consulted his notepad now. “Afghan hound. Yeah.”

  “Where’s the dog? Is it safe?” Jane quickly asked.

  The detective just looked at her with flat eyes without responding until Jane asked again. Looking reluctant to answer her, he finally conceded. “Yeah. Her mother came and got the dog not long after the incident.” His eyes shifted to Mel. “When was that, by the way? That you saw them with the dog?”

  “Last week. Wednesday, I guess.”

  Jane turned to her friend. “No, Mel, it was Tuesday. You came and got me on Tuesday.”

  “Right. Tuesday.”

  Jane interjected again. “Was it a random crime?”

  Fitzgibbons shook his head. “We’re in the preliminary stages of our investigation so nothing is ruled out. Of course, we look at everyone until we can rule each one out.”

  Jane cleared her throat. “Yes, but it’s true that generally in any murder investigation the spouse is among the top suspects. Right?”

  Neither detective replied to the comment.

  “Fuck. Poor mofo.” Mel stood up to take the empty coffee cups into the kitchen.

  “Mel,” Jane chided.

  Melanie rolled her eyes.

  The detectives also stood. “Why do you say that?” Kelvin asked Mel, sniffling as if she had to blow her nose. “Like you feel sorry for him? He may have hired someone to murder his wife.”