Date Rape New York (17 page)

“Until it’s time for her to come out.”

Cargill put the last of his hamburger in his mouth and wiped the grease off his fingers with a stack of paper napkins. “This woman I’m talking to right now—the one who fainted when I mentioned that Miranda Security investigators know she was drugged and raped—how does she fit into this bathroom mirror scenario?”

“Her job is to find out who drugged and raped the woman in the mirror.”

“Then what?”

“She doesn’t know.”

Cargill reached over and gripped both her hands again. “Grazia, you are too smart and too practical to separate yourself into two people so that you can pretend that what happened to you actually happened to the lady inside the soaped-over mirror. Or maybe some strange logic in your Italian brain thinks that if you break yourself in two, the pain will fall out like a yolk when you crack open an egg. OK, I understand. Sometimes I feel like two people myself. One part does something the second part doesn’t understand or like, and the second prefers not to look at that first part until things get straightened out. Grazia, I’m not a psychiatrist; I don’t even believe in them. But if you continue thinking the way you’re thinking, you’re going to end up needing a lot more help than Cindy or I can offer. Do you hear me?”

Grazia nodded.

“So do me a favor. Bring that lady out from behind the soap before she gets stuck back there. We have work to do between now and Friday, and I can’t be going over to Cindy’s office washroom to ask the lady inside the mirror if she knows something that the lady outside the mirror does not.”

Grazia gave a small smile. The numb feeling lessened a bit. “It’s just that I can’t stop thinking about what they did to me,” she whispered. “Every minute, this evil presses on my brain and my heart. I want not to feel it, and I thought that if I put her behind the mirror, I wouldn’t feel it anymore.”

“I know, Grazia. I’ve seen this too many times. Which is why I’m here, sitting with you and why I’m going to persuade my captain to put me back on your case. Now, do you want to know what I told the Miranda Security Systems director three hours ago?”

She nodded. “I do.  Cargill?”

“Yes?”

“I’ll take the lady out from behind the soap.”

He smiled and let go of her hands so that the waitress could put down another steaming mug of water and a tea bag.

“I informed the director of Miranda Securities that I couldn’t divulge police information and I recommended they contact you directly. Listen, Grazia, Miranda Security could be our best hope to find these guys. They can locate Manuel if he’s in Italy. They can uncover who Laura associates with and figure out why she won’t name names. They can research those names that Sophia gave you and find any connection to you. My captain will be happier to give me permission to continue with your case if he knows I’m working actively with a private security agency in Italy. We need their help, Grazia. Call them.”

“I will.” Grazia felt like she had been standing at the edge of a cliff and had stepped back just before her footing gave way. She was dizzy with relief. Something inside her wanted to laugh.

Cargill motioned at her pen. “Write this down in your journal: Ask Miranda Security to find out where Sophia came from before she started working at the Hotel Fiorella. Find out how she got the job.”

Grazia felt her brain clearing. She took a deep breath. “Sophia told me that she takes English lessons five days a week, and she’s working part-time at the hotel. Why do you ask?”

“Stanley says Sophia found you at around seven-thirty in the morning. Her normal shift starts at nine. Her normal floor is two floors above yours. Maids normally work a floor, not particular rooms, according to Stanley. So we’ve got a maid who not only was cleaning your room exclusively on a floor that isn’t her floor, but she also knew you were in trouble before you did.” He scowled. “That hotel is crawling with Italian workers. I swear Stanley is the only employee who didn’t grow up speaking Italian. There’s a funny connection to Italy, and I want to know what it is.”

“The Hotel Fiorella is owned by a Italian consortium,” Grazia said. “My mother is checking out their names.” She stared into her tea. A flood of unexpressed thoughts forced themselves to light. “I’ve been blind,” she said in a low voice. “Francisco has been lying to me about my work and about his personal life. Laura is lying about what happened at the Brazilian Bar. Now Sophia isn’t who she says. What else in my life is not what I believed?”

“We’re all paddling that canoe, Grazia. Everyone at some point in their life discovers that the life they’re living isn’t the one they thought. Consider yourself lucky that you can rearrange your life. Hopefully, I can offer you three days of hard work to get you headed the direction you want.” He gave her a quick smile.

Grazia smiled back. “Will you sit in on my hypnosis session this afternoon?” she asked on impulse. “Evie is coming to my hotel room at three o’clock. Sophia has made the room look like it did on Sunday morning. She dropped my new clothes all over the floor like someone had kicked them around. I thought if I looked at them before I went into a hypnotic trance, I might remember who put them there. I might even see his face. Their faces.”

Cargill winced. “Grazia, I admire your attempts to dredge up your memory, no matter how bizarre your method, but I’m not a believer in the validity of this line of investigation. A skeptic like me who is sitting in the hypnosis room might block the vibes, or however you’re getting your information.”

“You don’t have to believe. Evie records the session on digital recorder and takes notes. When I come out of the trance, she plays back the recording and we discuss it. If you’re there, you might hear me say something during the trance and connect it to something important. Evie couldn’t make that connection.”

Cargill sighed in resignation. He glanced at his watch. “All right, I’ll be at the Hotel Fiorella at three o’clock—if I get the go-ahead from my captain. Now I’ll drive you to the medical examiner so you can pick up your gear. Take a taxi back to your hotel. Another winter storm is slated to hit soon.”

She was pulling on her coat when her phone rang. She glanced at the screen. “Raoul,” she reported, putting the phone to her ear.

“How about dinner tonight?” came his usual cheery voice. “A hefty American steak will bring back your strength.”

Grazia responded in English, with a glance at Cargill. “Can I tell you at five o’clock? I’ve got a busy afternoon, and the nurse said to rest. I was planning to order out and eat in my room.”

“You’re talking about your hypnosis session? How tiring can that be? You spend it in a trance!”

“Before then, I’m going to the medical examiner to collect the clothes I was wearing when I was assaulted. The medical examiner got the man’s DNA off them.”

“Why ever could you want them? What terrible memories! Bury them in the nearest trash bin!”

“I’m taking them to a Naples lab to get the DNA identities done again. Then I won’t have to contact the New York medical examiner if I find a suspect in Italy and I want to run a DNA match.”

“Makes sense, I guess. Where are you now? We could have lunch.”

“I’m with Detective Cargill. Call you at five.” She hung up.

“Why did he call?” demanded Cargill.

“To invite me to dinner.”

“You’re supposed to rest. And I don’t like that guy.” Cargill pulled out some bills from his decrepit wallet. “I’m paying for your tea. Next round’s on you.”

Chapter 26

The building of the medical examiner was near Bellevue Hospital. It was tall and modern with a lot of glass, hidden behind the trees in a small park next to Hunter College. Grazia crossed First Avenue at Twenty-sixth Street careful not to slip on the icy patches. Despite the intense cold, a group of students wearing spandex were running in the bicycle lane, their bursts of breath coming out in white clouds.

The desk officer retrieved a big brown bag and dumped the jeans and red silk shirt on the counter for her to sign for. Grazia averted her eyes as she scribbled her name. Just looking at her clothes made her short of breath. She wanted to dump them in the nearest trash barrel, like Raoul had suggested. She wouldn’t, of course. If she actually located suspects in Naples and obtained samples of their DNA, a private lab there could run a match using the DNA they got off these clothes. She stuffed the bag under her arm and hurried out the door.

A bitter wind had picked up, and flakes of snow blew into her eyes. Three taxis passed, ignoring her frantic waves. “Walk back,” she told herself sternly. “It’s ten minutes. The exercise will do you good.” The noodle soup had formed a lump in her stomach, and her clothes reeked of fried fat from Cargill’s eatery. She and her clothing needed airing.

She set out briskly, taking deep breaths of the frigid air. Her brain began to wake up. Her vision cleared. A few hours ago she had stood at the brink of despair, ready to let her mind slip into a haze and handle the pain of this harsh reality by retreating into some emotionless place. But Cargill had dragged her out. With luck and his help, she could stay clear of mind and move steadily to her goal.

She stopped to rewrap her long scarf over her mouth and nose. Gusts of wind were turning the previously soft flakes into stinging bullets. Streetlights were blinking on, dim halos in the flurries. Cargill’s predicted winter storm had arrived with a vengeance.

She pulled off her mitten to call Evie and say she would be late but the driving snow obscured the screen of her smartphone. She shoved it into her pocket. Her big handbag kept slipping off her shoulder, so she pulled the strap over her head and adjusted it across her chest. She gripped the bulky paper bag under her arm and determinedly pushed her boots through the deepening snow.

A block down First Avenue, an uneasy feeling crept between her shoulder blades. She was being followed. She turned quickly to look behind her, but the other pedestrians were anonymous with scarves wrapping their faces as they carefully navigated the slippery sidewalk. Was the man who had attacked her hidden among them? Get a grip, she told herself sternly, taking a deep breath. Both Cargill and Stanley had assured her that drug-facilitated offenders weren’t muggers.

The intersection of Twenty-Third Street and First Avenue was a traffic jam blocked in all directions. Pedestrians were ignoring the “don’t walk” signal and threading themselves through the tangle of vehicles. A police car pulled up and a traffic cop climbed out, immense in yellow oilskins. A black balaclava covered his head; over that, his policeman’s hat rested low on his forehead to block snow from his eyes. He blew his whistle and began sorting out the clogged traffic using arm signals, shouts, and furious blasts of his whistle. He pointed at the pedestrians standing with Grazia and held up his hand for them to wait.

Grazia hesitated, unsure whether to obey his command or follow the pedestrians ignoring him. The stinging snow and increasing lack of visibility decided her. She got behind an elderly couple dragging a cart piled with groceries and followed their cart tracks to the island separating the traffic lanes. Just before she reached it, a car passed so close that the wheels brushed her heels. She leapt for the island. By the time she had recovered her nerve, the elderly couple had disappeared. Alone on the island, she peered into the driving snow but could see neither crosswalk sign nor oncoming cars. She stepped into the street.

The yank on the strap of her handbag flung her onto her back. She screamed, instantly helpless, arms flailing, legs scrambling in the air. Headlights came at her; wheels swerved, missing her by inches. Grazia wiggled onto her stomach and got her knees under her, but another yank on the strap flung her forward onto her face. A hand pinned her down, pulling at the strap of her handbag. Snow filled her mouth.

“Let go of her, you son of a bitch!” a man shouted. She heaved her weight sideways. At that instant, her assailant let go. The force of her lunge took her straight into the path of an oncoming car. A sustained honk filled her ears. Frantically she tried to crawl away, but her knees got no traction on the slippery snow. She screamed again.

A hand grabbed the back of her scarf wrapped around her face and yanked her upwards with such force that her feet flew off the ground. Choking, she felt the hand drag her backwards and deposit her with a thump on the sidewalk. She was spun around and the cop’s black balaclava, holes for mouth and nose, was inches away. “You OK, lady?” he bellowed. 

Another figure emerged from the blowing snow, a young man holding Grazia’s paper bag. “I was right behind you,” he panted, pushing the sack into her arms. “That guy threw you under the taxi. I pulled him off you but he snatched your sack. I grabbed it as he was running away.”

Hysterical and shaking, Grazia shrieked in Italian, then stuttering English. “He wanted to kill me. He raped me, now he wants to kill me! Call Detective Cargill!”

The cop hauled out his radiophone and yelled Cargill’s name into it. He addressed the young man. “Can you describe him?”

“My height. Good reflexes. Agile. Dark coat, dark knit hat pulled low.”

“Call in your name to the Thirteenth Precinct. Stand right here, Miss. They’re getting Cargill.”

Grazia wrapped her arms around the cop’s big arm and hung on. “I stay with you, or I die!”

The cop shouted into his radiophone again, and in minutes a police car pulled up. Hands pried her fingers from the traffic cop’s arm, and Grazia was heaved unceremoniously into the back seat. The door slammed and the car moved forward.

“Detective Cargill is already at the Hotel Fiorella,” said a police officer over his shoulder. “We’ll take you there.”