by Jason Starr
“Come on, I know we’re not dressed for anything fancy,” I said. “We could just go to a diner or something and talk some more. What do you say?”
“I have to be home for something at noon,” she said. “What time is it now?”
“Just after eleven,” I said. “Come on, there must be something nearby.”
“All right,” she said.
She stood up and I was pleasantly surprised—she had a much better body than I expected. She was thin and toned all over.
We exited the promenade, talking about Chelsea Piers. She said she used to be a member of the health club there, but had quit because it was too expensive. Then we started talking about restaurants in the area, recent movies we had seen, and how nice the weather had been so far this spring. The conversation was dull but pleasant.
We walked over a few blocks to Eighth Avenue and decided to go into a bagel store. I bought us bagels with low-fat lox spread and coffees and we sat at a table by the window and continued to get to know each other. She told me about how she’d grown up in Manhattan, in Stuyvesant Town, and gone to Hunter College. When it was my turn to give a personal history, I intentionally omitted that my girlfriend had committed suicide yesterday.
I noticed it was a few minutes past noon and I said, “Didn’t you have to get back?”
“It’s okay,” she said. “I just had to do some laundry and shopping—I can do it later.”
We continued chatting until long after our food was gone. During our conversation, she mentioned that she sometimes went to the weekend antiques flea market on Sixth Avenue and Twenty-sixth Street. I suggested going there, and she said that was a great idea. At the flea market we strolled around, browsing the junk and furniture. She said she needed a lamp for her night table and I helped her pick out a green-and-red stained-glass one.
“You’ll have to see how it looks with the rest of my stuff sometime,” she said.
We left the flea market, holding hands. I told her that my ankles were sore from blading and that I was going to take the subway home. She walked me to the subway station at Twenty-third and Seventh. We chatted for a while longer by the entrance to the station, and then I said, “So we’ll have to go out sometime.”
“Definitely,” she said.
At a nearby news kiosk, the worker lent us a pen and gave us a small piece of paper. She jotted down her number on the paper and gave it to me.
“I’ll call you early next week,” I said.
“Great,” she said.
I could’ve kissed her good-bye, but I didn’t. I went down the stairs to the subway. On the platform, I ripped up the paper into little pieces and dropped the shreds onto the tracks.
BACK HOME, I showered. It was surprisingly easy, standing where Rebecca had died. I barely even thought about it.
Fully dressed in slacks and a button-down shirt, I went into the living room. The answering machine was flashing, indicating a new message. I hadn’t noticed the message when I came home before, so the person must’ve called while I was in the shower. I pressed play and listened to Angie’s voice, asking me to call her back. She sounded normal, so I didn’t think the police had talked to her. I deleted the message, figuring I’d call her back later or tomorrow, or just see her on Monday.
Deciding that I was in the mood for Japanese, I went to Haru on Amsterdam. As I settled into a chair at the end of the sushi bar, I noticed, three spots down from me, a woman reading an Anne Rice novel. She had reddish-brown hair and appeared to be about twenty pounds overweight. Her face was average-looking, but she had light blue eyes and there was something sexy about her. We started talking. She was an aspiring stand-up comic, and going by her dry, biting sense of humor that had me cracking up several times, I told her I thought she was going to make it big someday. As I finished my sashimi, I continued chatting with her, enjoying her company. I knew I could’ve gotten her number and gone out with her sometime, if I wanted to. After paying for the sushi by breaking one of the hundreds Aunt Helen had lent me, I told the woman, “I hope we run into each other again sometime,” and I left.
At a deli on Amsterdam, I bought a six-pack of Heineken and went to the video store on Columbus and rented Pretty Woman on DVD. Back in my apartment, I was drinking beer and watching the movie when I sensed Barbara’s presence on the couch next to me.
I paused the movie and tried to concentrate on Barbara, attempting to somehow communicate with her. After a few minutes, I realized I was being ridiculous. Naturally, I’d felt a connection to Barbara while watching Pretty Woman, because we’d watched the movie so many times together. The fact that I’d downed a couple of beers might’ve been a factor too.
“I must be losing it,” I said out loud.
I watched a few more minutes of the movie, and then the phone rang. I pressed pause again and let the machine answer. When I heard Angie’s voice I went to the phone and picked up.
“Hi,” I said.
“Oh . . . David,” she said, as though she’d been mentally prepared to leave a message.
“Sorry, I just walked in,” I said.
“Oh, okay,” she said. “Hey, I just got this really weird phone call from this police detective. He said your girlfriend died yesterday.”
Romero must’ve gotten Angie’s number from Information.
“Actually, she committed suicide,” I said. “Did the detective say died?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, it was definitely a suicide. They think she OD’d.”
“God, that’s so awful, David. Why didn’t you tell me about it last night?”
“I don’t know.”
“You poor thing. Did you . . . I mean did you like . . . discover the . . .”
“Yeah.”
“Oh my God.”
I didn’t say anything.
“I’m so sorry,” Angie said. “I mean that’s so awful. Jesus . . . This detective guy said something weird, though.”
“Weird?”
“Yeah,” Angie said. “He said something about how your girlfriend thought you and I were dating.”
“I know,” I said. “I have no idea where she got that. She knew we were friendly at work—I mean, I mentioned your name to her a few times, so she must’ve just made up stories to herself. Rebecca was very paranoid. She had a lot of problems . . . obviously. I guess I should’ve listened to you.”
“Stop it,” Angie said. “You had no way of knowing. . . . You can’t blame yourself when something like this happens.”
“I know,” I said.
“That’s good,” Angie said. “Anyway, I was just calling because this detective guy called me, you know, saying your girlfriend was dead, and then he said she thought you and I were . . . So I just wanted to call you and see if—”
“I’m really sorry about all of this.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” she said. “So how’re you doing? I mean handling everything.”
“I’m fine,” I said, glancing at the paused scene from Pretty Woman and then at the spot on the couch where I’d imagined Barbara was sitting. “I mean, I’m a little shaken up, of course, but all in all—”
“If you need a place to stay,” Angie said. “I mean, to get out of your apartment for a while. I mean, you know you’re welcome to come to my place.”
“I appreciate that,” I said, “and thanks for calling, but I’m fine—really. I’ll see you at work on Monday, okay?”
“Okay,” she said.
I hung up with Angie and watched the rest of the movie. Toward the end, I had an unsettling feeling. I thought it might have to do with Rebecca, and then I remembered about Charlotte and Kenny. At least they hadn’t called me, or tried to get in touch, but I wasn’t sure if this was necessarily good news.
SUNDAY MORNING I decided I couldn’t procrastinate any longer—I had to call the hospital morgue and start making arrangements for Rebecca’s funeral.
“Hello,” I said to the woman I’d been transferred to. “My name’s David Miller. I
believe you’re holding the body of my girlfriend, Rebecca Daniels.”
“Hold on,” the bored-sounding woman said. When she returned she said, “Rebecca Daniels’s boyfriend already made arrangements for those remains.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Are you Raymond Ramirez?”
“Ray called you?”
“A Raymond Ramirez called yesterday and made arrangements for those remains. Is there a problem?”
“No, there’s no problem,” I said. “Thanks.”
I was relieved that I didn’t have to plan—or pay for— Rebecca’s funeral. I doubted Ray would invite me, but I wouldn’t have gone anyway. Thanks to Ray, all of Rebecca’s friends probably blamed me for her death, and not having to go would help me to avoid an uncomfortable situation. But it was funny that Ray had claimed to be Rebecca Daniels’s boyfriend. For all I knew, he wasn’t lying. My suspicions could have been right all along—Ray wasn’t gay, and he and Rebecca had been screwing since I’d known her.
It was a beautiful day—warmer and less breezy than yesterday. I went out and bought bagels, tofu cream cheese, and the Sunday Times, then returned to my living room and made a fresh pot of decaf and turned on the stereo to a light jazz station. As I was relaxing, I realized that if Rebecca hadn’t killed herself, we’d probably be having one of our violent fights this morning.
As I was skimming an article on the baby’s brain in the magazine section, I sensed Barbara next to me.
“How’s it going, Barb?” I said to the empty space to my left. I waited, as if giving her time to answer, then said, “Yeah, I’m pretty good, thanks. Recovering, anyway. These past few days have been out of control.” I waited again, then said, “So are you really here or what?” I was hoping she’d give me a sign, but there was nothing. I said, “Okay, if you’re really here, prove it to me—do something. Move the Arts and Leisure section.” I stared at the Arts and Leisure on top of the pile of papers on the floor, waiting for it to rustle. I thought it moved a little, but I was probably just imagining it.
After breakfast, I went out to a moving-supply store and bought ten cardboard boxes. Back at home I put the boxes together, and then I started packing Rebecca’s clothes, CDs, shoes, and other belongings. One thing for sure—with Rebecca gone, I’d have a lot less damage on my credit cards. I was so excited about having the bedroom to myself again that the couple of hours or so that it took to pack all of Rebecca’s crap passed by quickly. I stacked the boxes in an out-of-the-way spot, in a small alcove in the living room. Although I was anxious to get the boxes out of the apartment, I figured I’d wait a couple of weeks and then call Ray and give him a chance to pick them up; if he didn’t want them, I’d just have to get a thrift shop to come.
I spent the rest of the afternoon relaxing, reading more of the Times, and watching TV.
“Nothing’s on,” I said. Then, turning to golf on ESPN, I said, “I know, you hate golf,” and switched to something else.
I realized that, semiconsciously, I’d been making occasional comments to Barbara all day. While I knew that to an outsider I might’ve seemed slightly insane, I enjoyed talking to Barbara, and didn’t see any reason to stop. I’d just have to be careful not to do it in public.
I decided I’d go out to dinner again.
“How about Italian?” I said.
Barbara always hated going for Italian food, claiming it was too fattening. She always wanted to go for Japanese or Vietnamese, and whenever I won and we went to an Italian place she’d order the spaghetti carbonara or the eggplant parm, then tell me how she was going to gain five pounds, thanks to me.
“Tough,” I said, “we’re having Italian.”
I was about to go into the bathroom to shower when the buzzer on the intercom rang. I headed toward the door, wondering if it was Ray. I was about to press the talk button on the intercom when I shuddered, thinking that it could be Kenny or Charlotte. Of course they hadn’t forgotten about me.
The buzzer rang again. I was going to ignore it; then there was another, longer buzz, and I decided to at least ask who was out there. If it was Kenny or Charlotte, or both of them, I couldn’t avoid a confrontation forever. I was better off trying to reason with them.
“Yes?” I said into the intercom.
“Police,” the male voice responded.
It sounded like Detective Romero.
“Who is it?” I asked, to make sure.
“Romero—NYPD.”
Relieved, I buzzed Romero in. Then, as I waited by the door, I started to get pissed off. For all he knew I was devastated by Rebecca’s death and in the midst of intense mourning. This was a major violation of my privacy. I didn’t want to talk to him, and I didn’t know why I had to.
I opened the door, ready to tell Romero I couldn’t talk right now, when I saw him standing there with three other men— one gray-haired guy in a suit and two uniformed cops.
“We have a warrant to search the apartment,” Romero said, flashing a piece of paper.
I glanced at the men’s serious, determined faces and I knew this wasn’t just a routine follow-up to a suicide investigation.
“A warrant for what?” I said. “My girlfriend committed suicide.”
“Not your girlfriend,” Romero said. “Another woman was killed early Friday morning.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Charlotte O’Dougal,” Romero said. “Now can you step aside, please, Mr. Miller?”
12
AS THE OFFICERS started searching the apartment, I tried to make out like I was confused and completely innocent, asking Romero all the logical questions—Who’s Charlotte O’Dougal? What does this have to do with me? Can you just tell me what the hell’s going on here?—all the time hoping, although I knew I was kidding myself, that maybe Charlotte O’Dougal wasn’t the Charlotte I knew. It didn’t matter what I said, though, because, for some reason, Romero barely seemed interested in me. He just kept telling me to sit down and relax and that he’d fill me in later.
So I sat in the armchair and watched as the officers spread out around the apartment, searching through drawers, cabinets, closets, and just about everywhere else. Romero asked me what was in the boxes, and I explained that I had packed up all of Rebecca’s belongings earlier in the day. Romero immediately ordered the cops to start searching the boxes, and they came into the living room and started opening them, spreading the contents out all over the living room floor, making a total mess. As the search continued, Romero had a hushed conversation with the tall, gray-haired man who I assumed was another detective.
The idea that Charlotte was dead hadn’t fully set in yet. I wondered if she’d died of natural causes, or OD’d, or if someone had killed her. The first idea that came to me was that Kenny had done it. Maybe they’d had some fight about money or drugs or whatever, and Kenny had snapped. That would explain why Charlotte hadn’t shown up at Starbucks the other day, and why Kenny hadn’t tried to blackmail me again. If Kenny had been arrested he could have made a deal with the cops—turning over the pictures of me dumping Ricky’s body in exchange for a lighter sentence. But none of this explained why Romero had gotten a warrant to search my apartment, but hadn’t bothered to arrest me or even question me.
I watched as the officers continued their search. Finally, Romero and the gray-haired man came over and sat down on the couch across from me.
“This is Frank Glazer from the Ninth Precinct downtown,” Romero said. “Frank, this is David Miller, Rebecca Daniels’s boyfriend.”
“Good to meet you,” Glazer said. “Can you tell us where Rebecca Daniels was Thursday night and early Friday morning?”
“I have no idea,” I said. I felt frazzled and it was hard to concentrate.
“Come on, it was only a few days ago,” Glazer said. “Think.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Let’s see—Thursday night. Um, she was home, I guess.”
“You guess?”
I remembered that Thursday night was t
he night I’d gone to meet Charlotte at the Holiday Cocktail Lounge.
I looked over at the cops, who were now meticulously examining each pair of Rebecca’s shoes.
“Why does it matter where Rebecca was?”
“We’re talking about after midnight, up till around three A.M. Friday morning.”
I’d been with Charlotte until about two A.M.
“Can you please explain what’s going on?” I said.
“Have you noticed a steel sharpener missing from your apartment?”
“What’s a steel sharpener?”
“It’s about ten inches long—kind of shaped like a screwdriver.”
“I don’t own a steel sharpener,” I said.
“Well, Rebecca Daniels did,” Romero said.
“Can you just tell me what the hell’s going on?” I said.
“We believe that Rebecca Daniels stabbed Charlotte O’Dougal to death with a steel sharpener between two and three A.M. on Friday morning,” Glazer said. “The incident took place in the vestibule of Ms. O’Dougal’s apartment on East Sixth Street.”
It was a good thing I was sitting down, because I was suddenly so dizzy I probably would’ve passed out. Even sitting, Romero and Glazer’s faces became fuzzy.
“You okay?” Romero asked.
“Yeah, fine,” I said, although I clearly wasn’t.
“You want something to drink? Some water or something?”
“No, that’s okay,” I said.
“This is a photo of Ms. O’Dougal,” Glazer said. “It’s an old one, but it’s the only one we could find.”
I glanced at the crinkled snapshot of Charlotte that looked almost nothing like her. It must’ve been taken in high school, in Bloomfield Hills, Michigan. She had waist-length brown hair and was smiling, leaning against a red sports car. She looked sexy in a slutty kind of way.
“Have you ever seen her before?” Glazer asked.
“Never,” I said. My voice was still unsteady.
“So do you know how Rebecca could’ve known Charlotte O’Dougal?” Romero asked.
“No idea,” I said. “So why do you think Rebecca killed this—what was her name?”