Eye Candy Read online

  24

  A light rain was falling as we stepped out of the bar, just enough rain to dampen the sidewalk and make all the taxis disappear. Where do they all go when the raindrops start to fall?

  I kissed Shelly goodbye. He held on to me for a moment, tenderly, and pressed his face against mine. “See you soon,” he whispered. And then, as he started to jog away, “You have anything on this weekend?”

  “I don’t know,” I called. And that was certainly the truth.

  I walked for a while, heading west on Eighty-sixth Street. The rain felt kind of refreshing, a warm spring shower, and I needed time to think, to try to sort things out. But I couldn’t get past that business card of Shelly’s.

  I asked him point-blank if he had a job to support himself, and he said no, he had a rich mother.

  Why would he lie to me about a thing like that? Was he trying to impress me? I’m a full-time writer, at home all day creating, not a sales manager for an electronics store. He practically snapped at me when I asked if I could see his writing. Does he write anything at all?

  I had met four guys in the past month. Shelly was the one I thought I could trust. I knew he couldn’t have been the one who stole my clothes and left that threatening letter. I thought he was the one I could be safe with.

  But that one little card changed everything.

  In the bar, I tried to carry on our conversation as if nothing had happened. I jabbered on about work and about Rita Belson and the latest drama involving Saralynn. Shelly told some stories about his mother, wacky stunts she had pulled in stores. Like the time when he was a little boy and she stuffed an entire salami down his pants in a grocery store because she had never tried shoplifting before.

  I didn’t think the story was too funny. But Shelly told it with great glee, and then he joked about how having a salami in his pants gave him an inferiority complex that lasted for years.

  I laughed but I didn’t feel like it. And I just kept thinking about that card. That little business card.

  I wanted to ask him about it. I was bursting to ask him about it. But I knew if I accused him of being a liar, I’d never see him again. And I realized I was drawn to him, maybe not in the same physical way I was drawn to Colin, but I didn’t want to send him out of my life so soon.

  And maybe it was an old card, a card from a previous life that just happened to be tucked in his wallet.

  Dream on, Lindy.

  The rain had stopped, and I grabbed a taxi and rode home. Central Park was gray in the evening light, but the apple and cherry blossoms were out on the trees, and the air smelled sweet and springy.

  I checked my watch as I rode the elevator to floor eleven—a little after seven-thirty. I hoped Ann-Marie was home. Maybe we could grab some dinner. I wanted to tell her about Shelly and his business card, get her take on it.

  “Anyone home?” I called as I opened the front door.

  No answer.

  The lights were all on. Ann-Marie usually clicks them off whenever she goes out. And who moved the couch? I wondered. It was positioned at an angle, one end bumping the low glass coffee table.

  Was Ann-Marie moving furniture?

  I tossed my bag on the floor. “Hey—Annie? Luisa?”

  Silence. I could hear the hum of the refrigerator and car horns down on the street through the open window.

  With a sigh, I started to my room.

  And stopped when I saw the shoe on the floor by the couch. A black running shoe.

  Something strange here. And yes, a foot in the shoe. I mean, I didn’t see the foot. I saw white socks, a leg.

  A leg on the floor.

  Behind the couch, the couch at a weird angle.

  “No.”

  The word slipped from my mouth. I realized I had stopped breathing. I let the air out in a long whoosh and, heart pounding, ran to the other side of the couch.

  And dropped down beside Ann-Marie.

  “Can you hear me? Annie? Hey, can you hear me?”

  Ann-Marie in maroon sweats, facedown on the carpet, legs spread, one arm beneath her, the other hand gripping the couch fabric as if trying to pull herself up.

  And on her arm, the arm I could see, slashes of dark blood, cuts up and down her arm.

  “Annie—?”

  Eyes shut.

  I shook her by the shoulders. “Annie?”

  Not breathing.

  Not breathing.

  Ann-Marie dead on the livingroom floor.

  25

  Did you really think I was dead?”

  Ann-Marie squinted at me, leaning back on the couch as the white-uniformed paramedic bandaged her arm.

  “Well . . . yes,” I said. “I mean, you were all cut up and—”

  “Just my arm.” Ann-Marie let out a groan. “No, that’s too tight.” She turned back to me. “I think maybe I fainted. You know. From fright.”

  “Well, you gave me a fright,” I said. “My heart is still doing flip-flops.”

  The livingroom was crowded now. Two young paramedics arrived less than five minutes after I called 911. One watched as the other treated Ann-Marie’s arm.

  Two crime scene cops were in my bedroom, checking around the open window where the intruder had apparently entered. Tommy Foster stood in his shirt-sleeves, arms crossed in front of him, looking like a sad hound dog, eyes red and circled with black rings. He had brought a young uniformed officer with him, a woman with a headful of bright orange curls, who stood against the wall, chewing gum rapidly and noisily, staring at her well-shined shoes, waiting for something to happen.

  Ann-Marie blinked several times and rubbed the back of her head. “I think I hit my head when I fell. I have such a headache.”

  “We’ll give you something for that,” the paramedic said softly. “You won’t need this bandage long. The cuts aren’t very deep.”

  “Can I get you anything?” I asked Ann-Marie.

  “Water?”

  I hurried to the kitchen. Behind me, I heard Tommy ask, “Feel like talking? I need to hear what happened.”

  Ann-Marie sighed. “Yeah. I guess. It all happened so fast. I don’t know how helpful . . .”

  “Can you start at the beginning? When did you get home?”

  I handed a water bottle to Ann-Marie and sat down on the couch next to her. Tommy lowered himself into the armchair across from us. He motioned to the female officer, who pulled out a notepad and prepared to write.

  “I guess I got home from work around six-thirty or so,” Ann-Marie started. She tilted the bottle to her mouth and took a long drink. “Maybe a little later.”

  Tommy leaned forward as if trying to hear better, his hands on his knees. “And was the intruder waiting for you?”

  Ann-Marie shut her eyes. “I think so. I was in the kitchen. I had a long day. One of our actors freaked out on the set, and I had to deal with it. I . . . I wanted a beer. I pulled open the refrigerator and . . . and then he grabbed me. He—He—” Her voice cracked. She took another long drink.

  “He burst into the kitchen, like from out of nowhere. He grabbed my arm—really hard—and pulled me into the livingroom. I kept screaming, ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ But he didn’t say a word. Just dragged me in here. I . . . tried to fight. I tried to get away. But he shoved me into the couch, so hard it slid over the carpet. Then he slapped me.”

  Tommy rubbed his chin, studying Ann-Marie, not blinking. “What did he look like? Can you give us a physical description? Did you recognize him?”

  She shook her head, then winced. “Ow. My head really hurts.”

  The paramedics had packed up. One of them handed her a container of pills. “Painkillers. Just take one when it hurts. No more than two a day.” He handed her a pen, and she signed the form he held out. Then the two of them hurried out of the apartment.

  Ann-Marie turned back to Tommy. “I couldn’t see him. I mean, he had a thing over his face. You know. A mesh stocking. Very thick. I couldn’t see his features.”

  Tommy
frowned. “Was he tall? Short?”

  “Tall. And average weight, not fat or anything and not skinny. He was strong.”

  “What was he wearing?” Tommy asked.

  “All black. He had like a black sweater and a black T-SHIRT under it and black denims. And the stocking on his face. I tried to rip it off him, but he was too strong. He didn’t look it, but he was really strong.”

  She took a long drink of water. Water spilled down her chin. She wiped it away with her other hand. “Lindy, could you hand me one of these pills?”

  “No problem.” My hands shook as I struggled to open the pill bottle. Ann-Marie’s story was terrifying. Someone waiting in our apartment for her to get home.

  Or was he waiting for her?

  Was he waiting for me?

  “So what did he do?” Tommy asked. “Did he ever say anything?”

  Ann-Marie nodded. “Oh, yes. After he slapped me, he held me down, against the back of the couch. He pulled out this tool . . . a knife thing. You know. A box cutter or whatever. And he sliced me with it. Sliced my arm.”

  Tommy narrowed his eyes at her. “He didn’t say anything? Just cut you with a box cutter?”

  “Yes. I screamed. It hurt a lot. I begged him to let me go. And he . . . cut me again. And again. And then he . . . well . . . he pulled me to my feet and pressed his face against mine. I was so frightened. My legs were shaking. I didn’t think I could stand. My arm was bleeding. And he held the box cutter up to my face.”

  “Ohmigod.” I dropped the pill I was about to hand Ann-Marie. I felt sick. I dropped to my knees on the rug and searched for it.

  “He slammed his face against mine,” she continued. “The stocking rubbed my skin. I could feel him through the stocking. His face was really hot. I . . . I thought he was going to rape me. But he whispered . . . whispered in my ear. ‘Tell her not to say no. Tell her this is what happens if she says no.’ ”

  Oh, Jesus. So it was about me. Poor Ann-Marie. This happened to her because I said no to two of the guys.

  “Is that all he said?” Tommy asked.

  Ann-Marie nodded. “That was all. Just, ‘Tell her this is what happens.’ Then he cut my arm again and shoved me hard. And . . . I guess I fainted. Fell to the floor.” She took a long drink of water.

  “Son of a bitch,” the female officer muttered behind us.

  Tommy continued to stare at Ann-Marie. “Can you remember anything else? About the way he looked or something he did or something else he said? Think hard. Anything else at all?”

  Ann-Marie stared back at Tommy, her mouth open, thinking. “Well . . . no. Not really. I don’t think . . . Well . . . I do remember one thing. When he pushed his face against mine, I could feel his beard. He had a really thick, bristly beard. I could feel it right through the stocking.”

  PART FOUR

  26

  Yes, it’s based on King Lear, that’s obvious,” Colin said. “But Kurosawa has expanded it, at least visually. And his world view is so much darker than Shakespeare’s.”

  “The battle scenes were overwhelming,” I said. “And the color. Incredible. I saw Seven Samurai in college, and I couldn’t believe it. But to see him work in color . . . wow.”

  Colin and I had just seen the Kurosawa film Ran at the Film Forum on Houston Street. Yes, it was the following Saturday, and here I was, out with Colin. Saying yes to Colin and not feeling the way I did about him a week ago.

  In fact, I had to work hard to hide my fear. But I was following instructions now. Tommy Foster’s instructions. He had a whole new strategy for catching the creep who was threatening me.

  “Say yes to them,” Tommy had said. “There are only a few of them. This won’t take long. Say yes to them, Lindy. The guy will give himself away. You’ll know who it is.”

  “Are you crazy?” I screamed. “Have you totally lost it? You want to send me out there as bait?”

  He nodded. “Yes, I do.”

  “And then what happens when the guy takes out his box cutter and goes for me?” I asked. “Ann-Marie said he’s really strong. What happens when he starts slicing me?”

  Tommy motioned with both hands for me to calm down. “Lindy, I’ll have someone there,” he said softly. “You call me when you’re going out. I’m giving you my cell number. You call and tell me your plans. And I’ll have someone wherever you go. Don’t look for them. Don’t give it away. They’ll be there. They’ll be ready to take this guy. This is a no-brainer. Really. We’ll have him, I promise.”

  Was I thrilled with the new plan? I don’t think so.

  Colin emailed as soon as he got back in town— assuming he had left town to begin with—and I said yes to a movie and dinner Saturday night. Yes, yes, Mr. Scratchy Beard.

  And then I was on the phone to Tommy to make sure I wasn’t going out alone. And then I thought maybe I could get even more protection. I begged Ann-Marie and Lou to come along, to double with me.

  Lou agreed it was a smart idea. But Ann-Marie couldn’t do it. Too frightened, she said. She couldn’t sit down to dinner with the creep who cut her and terrified her. Besides, her headaches hadn’t gone away. The painkillers weren’t helping.

  “I want to help you,” she said, massaging the back of her neck. “I desperately want to help end this thing, Lindy. But please don’t ask me to do this. I just can’t.”

  I understood. I guess.

  So I went out solo Saturday night, and I wished things could be the same between Colin and me. He seemed so happy to see me and kept talking about how much he thought about me during his business trip . . . thought about the two of us making love in his apartment.

  And I stared at the shadow over his face, the black, stubbly beard, and thought, Why did it have to be you?

  I tried but I couldn’t concentrate on the Kurosawa film. Colin had his arm around my shoulders and kept leaning his head against me. He kissed me a few times, and each kiss sent chills down my body—not the right kind of chills, the chills that tighten all your muscles and make you want to scream.

  How sad.

  I really liked him, liked him enough to sleep with him on our first date, which isn’t like me. And now I felt so mixed up, repelled and drawn to him and unable to have any real feelings at all, tense and numb, and watching . . . watching every move, alert to any sign, to anything that would give him away.

  After the movie, we stepped out onto Houston Street, and he hailed a cab. “Where are we going?” I asked, unable to hide my suspicion.

  He grinned at me. “It’s a surprise.”

  Surprise? No. I don’t want any surprises. I’m not happy about this.

  And then we were in a taxi taking us way downtown, through narrow dark streets, to the bottom of the island near Ground Zero.

  I couldn’t help myself. I gazed through the back window. Is anyone following us? Tommy promised someone would be here. But where are they?

  Holding my hand, Colin led me to a tiny Italian restaurant, Giginos, with red and green banners in the window and twinkling red lights. It looked ready for Christmas even though this was the last week in May.

  We stepped inside, warm and noisy and bustling, loud voices, lots of laughter, and the overpowering aroma of garlic and tomato sauce. Walking under red and green crepe banners strung from the ceiling, the white-aproned waiter led us to a table the size of a checkerboard near the back.

  Colin ordered a bottle of Chianti, saying, “You have to drink really cheap Chianti in a restaurant like this.” He made a toast: “To new beginnings,” of all things. I only pretended to sip the wine. I wanted to stay alert. I had to stay alert. I glanced around the nearby tables. No one sitting alone. No one who looked like a cop.

  My heart fluttered in my chest. Am I all alone here?

  We settled in to discuss the movie. When the waiter delivered our food, linguini with white clam sauce for me, veal marsala for Colin, we were still discussing it.

  “Would you like cheese?” The waiter held a bowl of parmesan over my food. I
shook my head, and he nodded approvingly and disappeared.

  “How did you find this restaurant?” I asked, picking up a clamshell, prying out the clam with a fork, and tasting it. “Mmmm. Nice and garlicky. It’s so far downtown.”

  “My old job, my office was two blocks from the North Trade Tower,” he said, slicing his veal. “This place was just a couple of blocks away, so we used to have lunch here. It’s good, isn’t it? I love Northern Italian food, and this is the best place in the city for it, I think.”

  “Did you know people who worked at the World Trade Center?”

  He nodded, swallowing. “Yeah. A few.”

  “Where were you . . . you know . . . that day?”

  All New Yorkers remember where they were when the Trade Towers collapsed, and still talk about it.

  He put down his fork. “I was in Chicago, actually. I was getting dressed to go to some meetings, and I put on the Today Show. I . . . I never made it to the meetings. I just stayed in the hotel room all day watching TV. It felt so strange being away from the city. I don’t know why, but I felt I should be there, I should be home.”

  “I can understand that,” I said.

  And have you been crazy ever since?

  Or did you just decide to go berserk after you met me?

  “I had good friends in the North Tower, two women,” Colin continued. “The first thing I thought about was them. Did they get out? Were they okay? I tried calling their office, but of course the phones were down. So then I kept calling their cells. They just rang and rang, but no answer.”

  Colin sighed. He jabbed the veal with his fork. “I think it was the most terrified I’ve ever been in my life. And, of course, there I was, helpless in a hotel room in Chicago.” He swallowed, staring down at his plate.

  “So? What happened?” I had to ask since he wasn’t finishing the story. “Were they okay?”

  “I finally reached one of them that afternoon. They both had climbed down the stairs. They got out. They ran through all the dust and debris. They both just ran. They said they didn’t want to stop running. They didn’t know how far they had to go to get away, to be safe. One of them said she knew she’d never feel safe again.”