The Girl Next Door

by Lisa Aurello

  Unless she’d been pretending all along? A little chill curled up the nape of her neck.

  No. That’s ridiculous, Mel decided, dismissing the track of her thoughts. Rob’s suspicions about Jane were really infecting Mel now. After searching the bedroom and not finding the journal, she headed back downstairs. It wasn’t in the living room, still devoid of furniture. Mel stood in the middle of the big, empty room, hands on hips, and questioned the room, “Where would I put the journal if I were Jane?”

  “OK, if I had to write down my thoughts and emotions for contemplation, I’d want either a cup of coffee or a glass of red wine to help smooth the way.” She headed into the kitchen.

  Bingo. She spotted it as soon as she crossed the threshold. The brown leather-bound book was lying casually on the granite counter, next to the cutting board. Mel flipped through it and then closed it with a snap. It was private and no matter how much she wanted to read it, she shouldn’t.

  Should she? As she hugged the book to her chest, she considered the situation and her thoughts began to drift.

  Her reverie was breached by the clear peals of the doorbell. She bolted off the stool where she’d perched, her heartbeat accelerating like a Maserati. Who was it and should she answer it? Why did she feel as if she was doing something wrong? She sidled up to the front door, wary in case it was someone out to do Jane harm.

  “Who is it?” she called through the heavy wooden door. Nothing. She yelled louder. “Who is it?”

  “Delivery, ma’am.”

  Mel peered out of the sidelight. Sure enough, there was a furniture truck outside. She opened the door to an older man wearing a navy-blue uniform with the name of the furniture company emblazoned in yellow thread across his breast. “What are you delivering today?”

  He consulted his clipboard. “Everything except the console, which is still on backorder.”

  “Everything meaning…?”

  “All the furniture you purchased, ma’am.”

  The man looked discomfited and Mel remembered the graffiti. “This is my friend’s home. I just came by to pick something up for her. Can you tell me exactly what you’re delivering?”

  “Sure. Here’s the invoice. Have a look.” He handed her a sheet off his clipboard.

  Mel looked at it. There was a list of ten pieces. A sofa, $2479; a chair, $899; a coffee table, $499; two table lamps and one apothecary floor lamp, $469; a dining room table and two chairs (already delivered), $2500; dining bench (already delivered), $280. The total bill was $7126, tax included, paid in full, in cash.

  In cash.

  Ten grand minus three equals seven.

  Seven thousand dollars in cash.

  Heart pounding like a jackhammer, Mel could barely find her voice. “Do customers often pay in cash?”

  The man grinned. “The owner of the store likes cash. He gives customers a fifteen-percent discount if they pay in cash. In this case, the discount was taken in the form of an extra piece—the console table that’s on backorder. Mr. Jamison—the owner—is also throwing in an 5x7 hand-knotted wool rug… because of the size of the sale. Your friend furnished most of her house at his shop. He appreciates her business.”

  Mel nodded, giving up all pretense of smiling and trying to act normally. She opened the door and stepped aside, allowing the deliveryman and his workers access to the house.

  Just about stumbling to the kitchen, she perched on a stool, dropped her phone on the counter, and attempted to make a phone call with her shaking hands. She had proof, concrete evidence that could potentially spring Jane right out of jail. Melanie just needed to know how to play it right. She wished she could speak with Rob but…

  Chapter 31

  It was way past dark by the time Rhett Harmon locked her office downtown near the courts, her sensible courtroom heels clicking hollowly in the empty tiled corridor as she exited the building. The epitome of an ambitious young prosecutor, she was salivating at the gift she’d been given: she’d been assigned the stalking murder case that had so transfixed the city. It was a classic tale of obsession, jealousy, and murder, and had all the makings of a crowd pleaser: a handsome young man, his beautiful wife whose family is rooted in New York society, and the loser girl next door who has stalked the man since middle school and plotted to kill poor wifey. Richening the soup is that fat-loser-girl has a car accident, drops a ton of weight, gets a new nose, and emerges from her blubbery cocoon as a beauty just in time for her murder trial. How could it get any better?

  It was pure tabloid fodder.

  In first chair, Rhett was going to be the prosecuting attorney who sent Jane Jensen to jail for life with no possibility of parole. Everyone would know the ADA’s name by trial’s end.

  And nothing was going to get in Rhett Harmon’s way.

  The DA told her to fast-track the trial. He didn’t want any of the Caldwell or Cobb family connections breathing down his neck during an election year. Rhett would work as many hours as was necessary to win this case. Hard work never scared her. Losing scared her. Mediocrity scared her. Always feeling insecure about her social standing—her parents were working class—and lackluster education that her less-than-stellar background afforded her, from an early age Rhett promised herself that she’d work hard and excel so greatly that she’d ascend in social standing before she was thirty.

  She was twenty-eight now.

  Going to work for the district attorney in New York City wasn’t the most glamorous or lucrative job she could have gotten out of law school but it was a means to an end: a prestigious first step toward a political career. She was in her fourth year now and winning this case would be enough to propel her to the next phase of her career.

  Rhett wanted more than money: she craved power. What better way to get it than through political office? Accordingly, she needed to pay her civic dues, put in time at the bottom rung before chinning up to the next. She planned to have experience in multiple aspects of the law before dipping her toe into the waters of elective office. Soon she’d be ready to move into the next job.

  Winning a conviction in a case that would be under heavy media scrutiny would be the perfect swan song to end her days as an ADA. She’d go to work for the private sector next and then after that maybe move to DC and get to know the players and their recreational landscape. Either that or run for local office, maybe city councilperson, and use that as a springboard. Her ultimate goal was either the Senate or the DOJ.

  She planned to get to the top by the time she was forty. Jane Jensen was going to give her a big leg up. Maybe even a catapult.

  As far as she could see, the case was a slam dunk. There was motive; there was evidence—both circumstantial and eyewitness. There was a clear money trail. Unless some major exculpatory evidence arose at the eleventh hour, Rhett couldn’t see how she’d lose. She sincerely doubted that Jane would prove an effective advocate for herself. Though Rhett hadn’t personally met the woman, she’d been told by those who had that Jane was meek and mild-mannered. Not exactly a star witness for the defense.

  Jane Jensen was also without strong advocates—people who would support her, take her case to social media, make lots of noise. She had no family in the area, not many friends even, in the vicinity. No boyfriend or husband, few social activities, no one except work colleagues to testify on her behalf. If Rhett couldn’t win this case, it would be shame on her.

  As she walked toward her tiny Financial-District condo, Rhett finally allowed herself to relax and switch mental gears, trying to decide what to have for dinner tonight and what movie she’d take in on Netflix. She’d allow herself an hour and a half to enjoy it and then back to work on the filings she had to do this week.

  The key to success was meticulous preparation. An attorney should never get caught with her pants down. Good advice both literally and figuratively and the kind Rhett took to heart. She was always ready for any contingency.

  After sprinting up the two flights of marble steps—her daily exercise for today—
she let herself into the sleekly modern studio apartment. Buying this apartment had been a smart move because in the year and a half she’d owned the place, it had already increased over fifty percent in value. One by one, she pulled the hairpins out of her low chignon, letting her sleek black hair slide down, and began undressing as she shuffled over to her small dressing alcove in the corner of the apartment. A few minutes later, clad in yoga pants and T-shirt, she heated up some leftover Basmati rice and mixed vegetables while perusing her movie options. Nothing appealed, probably because she couldn’t get her mind off the case. The State of New York versus Jane Jensen.

  Forgoing the movie, she sat at her dining table, her dinner on her left, the manila folder on the right and began reading.

  ******

  Melanie waited until after dinnertime to call Rob about Jane’s request and to tell him about the furniture. She felt as if it were her eureka moment and couldn’t help feeling smug, but she squashed it quickly. Rob would sense it, and it would put him on the defensive. As for waiting for after dinnertime? Like most men, he was always more malleable on a full stomach.

  As soon as he answered the phone, she blurted it all out. Without waiting for him to respond, she went on. “So you have to reconsider the charges in light of this new information.”

  “Absolutely not, Melanie. It’s not gonna happen.”

  “Wha—are you kidding me? But if there’s new evidence? Isn’t it your ethical, moral, and professional obligation to investigate?”

  “No, because I remain convinced that Jane Jensen hired the killer to murder Cate Caldwell. There’s no new evidence. She’s full of shit and desperate to save her own skin.”

  Melanie now organically understood where the word breathtaking came from. It had never happened to her before but Rob’s words were so shocking, so insulting to her, that her lungs just emptied of air in one big whoosh, leaving her gasping. She swallowed hard and then forced herself to breathe, inhaling through her nose from the diaphragm, finding her footing again. Thank God for yoga. Clearing her throat, she was calm as she terminated the conversation. “I see. Sorry I bothered you, Detective. Have a good evening.”

  Mel jabbed her finger at the red button, obtaining a modicum of satisfaction from hanging up on the d-bag. She raked her teeth over her upper lip. Now what? She’d been so certain that when she told him of her discovery, he’d immediately re-evaluate the case and Jane’s guilt. Instead, he said it didn’t make a single whit of difference. What the very fuck?

  ******

  Rob stared at his phone as the call disappeared from the screen. Stared at it long after, in fact. After the abrupt conversation with Melanie, he experienced a crisis of indecision—foreign for him. Rob prided himself on being resolute by nature, never hesitating to make decisions and never second-guessing his judgment afterward. But now… first off, he regretted the way he’d handled the call—he’d let his temper get the best of him. When he saw Mel’s name on his phone, he’d thought that she was calling him to say she’d give up contact with Jane to be able to continue seeing him. It’s not as if he asked her to fucking testify against the damn woman. For God’s sake, he just wanted her to cut off contact with her for the duration of the case.

  OK, so they hadn’t known one another all that long, true. Despite that lack, he was seriously into Melanie and their sexual chemistry was galvanic. He’d instinctively known going in that it would be, right from the moment he met her, and it was why he’d initially tried to keep her at a remove. Once he gave in… well, that night had been pretty unforgettable. He’d done a fast reload for her after the first time, and he’d never enjoyed just being inside a woman and taking his time kissing her more than that night. He wanted it again, goddamn it. More than again.

  As for waffling over a decision made, well, he was doing that too. Melanie had provided him with information that shook their case against Jane Jensen and he had to go to the DA with it. The decision he grappled with right now was whether he should notify Rhett Harmon directly or let it go up the chain of command. He had no desire to let her rip off his balls when he yanked away her prey. Rhett Harmon was a hungry leopard and she smelled raw, bloody meat in Jane Jensen.

  However, the sooner she was apprised of the new information, the better she could retool her case. Rob believed they still had plenty enough on Jane Jensen to go ahead with the trial. New York’s blindfold law definitely worked in their favor. Although she provided the defense with some information on their evidence, Harmon didn’t release Pernod’s affidavit to the defense attorney and wasn’t required to. Pernod was their ace in the hole, and though as a killer he was not the most desirable of witnesses, he seemed as if he’d be pretty credible on the stand. He didn’t get rattled at all when they helped prep him.

  The jury wouldn’t hate him either. As far as lowlife murderous scum goes, Pernod was relatively charismatic. He was decent looking and was one of those bizarro criminals who believed in honor among thieves. At his deposition, he insisted on ensuring all the details were recorded correctly. He said he’d never want to be responsible for sending the wrong person upstate.

  This from a cold-blooded killer.

  When asked about it, he claimed it was a business like any other, and it’s something he happened to be good at. He knows he’s looking at most of the rest of his life inside but he’s yet unrepentant. When Rob asked him how he felt about cutting short the life of a beautiful and promising young woman, Pernod shrugged and said, “It was her time. There are many different cancers in the world.”

  What the hell did that mean? It made Rob want to bash his head in.

  Still, he would help them win the case and put the real killer behind bars for life. In Rob’s opinion, the contract killer was bad but the person who hired him was worse. That person has thought about it, premeditated the killing, and went about putting together the resources to make it happen. That takes time, careful thought, and the most impervious of hearts. The hit man merely pulls the trigger on a stranger and walks away without ever knowing the person cut down. Big difference.

  Chapter 32

  Jane’s Journal, December

  I can’t believe it. I can’t fucking believe it. Every time my life seems to be getting better, something happens to land me in deeper shit. It makes me want to just give up, go to sleep, and never wake up. It makes me regret surviving the car accident, working so hard on my recovery only to end up here.

  In jail.

  I’m in jail.

  On Rikers Island.

  In a holding cell that smells like vomit.

  Arrested for murder.

  Mel came to visit me. Insisted I get in touch with Sulu to see if she could fill in some gaps in my memory, specifically as it relates to Mason Caldwell. I resisted at first, but my life is pretty much swinging in the balance. So I called.

  She took her time answering the phone. I’ll write down the conversation as best as I can remember it.

  “I guess it’s you, Jane, since I don’t know anyone else in Rikers.”

  “Yes, it’s me. I’m sorry it took my needing a favor to call you.”

  “Yeah, what’s the favor? I mean, you’re charged with murder, Jane. It’s not like I can help you out there.”

  “Sulu, can you come visit me?” The dense silence that followed prompted me to check to see if the call dropped, then remembering a landline didn’t drop calls. “Su?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “I know it’s an imposition but I really need to see you.”

  “Why?”

  “Did you read about my car accident?”

  “The article I read about your arrest mentioned it. So what?”

  “Sulu, my memories are full of gaps. My doctor says he’s never seen a case quite like mine where huge chunks of my life are missing. I’m hoping that you can fill me in on some of what I’m missing—at least from our school days—and something in there might help my case.”

  “I seriously doubt it, Jane.”

>   “Doubt what? That you can visit or help?”

  “Help. What can your memories from high school do for you now?”

  “Sulu, I think I’m almost out of phone time. Please come visit me. Tomorrow, visiting hours are from one till nine. Please, Sulu, please do this for me.”

  “I’ll try, Jane. Goodnight.”

  The overnight I spent at Rikers, I was trying to sleep in this miserable cell. It was noisy and there was a constant buzzing noise coming from somewhere—where I couldn’t tell. I was trying to clear my mind in a futile attempt to sleep when I saw a bright flash, followed by tires screeching. I saw a man’s face looking at me—was it the poor guy in the pickup? Deshaun Cleveland?

  Yes, I know his name; now I’ll never forget his name. He didn’t deserve to die. In fact, now I think it would have been far better if he’d been the one to survive instead of me.

  But with this memory there are kids, teenagers, all around me. Why? I must be confusing two different memories. A choking sense of doom accompanies these flashbacks, and I don’t have a fucking clue why. I just feel desperately sad when I think about it, the crash, the ambulance ride, the doctor at the hospital. But it’s not Dr. Lavelle; it’s someone else. A balding man with droopy eyes.

  It’s all so confusing… and so sad.

  It was Valentine’s Day, I think. I was wearing a baggy pink sweater, pink for Valentine’s, baggy as usual. I… I was running away from something… someone. It had something to do with the Halloween party, the kissing in the car. Afterward, he drove us to his house. Oh my God, we went to his house. I remember that.