Over Her Dead Body (14 page)

“Of course,” she replied with a wan smile. I could barely hear her words over the drone of a window air conditioner. “Thank you for helping me.”

“I just wish I could have done more.”

“I did not realize when you called that you were the person who assisted my sister,” André said behind me. “Then I am very, very grateful to you. Please, take a seat. May I provide you with a drink?”

“No, that’s not necessary,” I said, perching on the edge of one of the armchairs. “I just have a few questions.”

“So you are investigating this crime for the owner of the magazine?” André said. He’d taken a seat in the other armchair so that we both faced the couch.

“Well, sort of. I’m going to be writing this up for the magazine. We have to cover it, you know.” I turned my body so that I was facing Katya directly, not wanting André to monopolize the conversation.

“How are you feeling, Katya?” I asked. “Did you need stitches?”

“No stitches,” she said, her hand instinctively touching the injured spot of her head. “But I have pain still. And I am very dizzy all the time.”

“I know we talked a little bit on Tuesday night. But could you go through what happened again, starting from the beginning?”

She sighed, the sound an odd combination of melancholy and vexation. She had obviously told the story one too many times by now.

“I want to remember, but it is very hard.”

“You had gone to clean Ms. Hodges’s office, right? Your cart was outside.”

“I start in the outer office, where the two women sit. Then I hear a noise in the big office.”

“The light was on, right?”

“Sorry?”

“Ms. Hodges’s light was on.”

“Yes, but I did not think she was in there. She never turned the light off—never.” She sounded annoyed. Clearly she wasn’t going to let Mona off the hook, even after death, for such an infraction.

“So what happened then? After you heard the noise?”

“I look in her office and I see her lying—on floor. I go inside and then I feel pain in back of my head. Someone was behind the door. I lean over, grabbing my head, and this person runs out the door.”

“Did you see the person—even a glimpse?”

“No, I did not see him. And when I stand up, he was gone.”

“You said ‘him.’ Do you think it was a man?”

“No, I cannot be sure.”

She paused, her mouth slackening as if she were about to say something. I cocked my head expectantly.

“Are you remembering something?” I asked.

“There was one thing,” she said softly. “A little thing.” She pronounced little as “leetle.”

“Yes?”

“I think I feel the sleeve of what the person was wearing. It was long sleeve.”

“A long-sleeved shirt?”

“Yes.”

“How tall are you?”

“I am five feet four. Why do you need to know?”

“Because of the angle at which you were hit. The person must have been taller than you.”

“I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head in despair. “I don’t know how tall this person is.”

“My sister is still not feeling well,” André interrupted. “We really should not trouble her longer.”

“Just one more question. After you stood up, what happened then?”

“I want to get help for me—and Mrs. Hodges. I go out the door. But then I get so dizzy.”

“Did you see anyone at that time?”

“No, no one,” she said, shaking her head. She stopped and then stared at me. “Except you, of course.”

“Well, like I said,” I told her, oddly defensive, “I’m glad I was able to help you.”

Her brother rose, a sign that the interview was over. I crossed the short distance to the couch and offered Katya my hand. She seemed momentarily startled but then accepted it limply.

Her brother walked me to the door, lighting a Marlboro on the way. I suspected he’d been fighting the urge during my visit and had pegged me for one of those snooty New Yorkers who’d threaten to sue him if he smoked.

“Thank you for your time,” I said. “Will Katya be going back to work soon?”

“Why?” he asked after shooting a stream of smoke from the side of his mouth. “You need to talk to her more?”

“I don’t think so. I was just curious.”

“Yes, she needs to have the work. Jobs aren’t so easy to find here. But she is worried.”

“About having to be on the floor where the attack occurred?”

“Yes. And maybe the person who did this being there. Thinking that she may know more than she does. She . . . Well, that is our problem, not yours.”

“Tell me. Maybe it’s something I can help you with.”

He smiled in exaggerated politeness. “No, it is nothing,” he said.

Though the interview had lasted only ten minutes tops, the sun had already set when I stepped outside. The streetlights cast only a dim light, and it seemed so much darker than it had when I’d entered the building.

Across the street, by the restaurant’s valet parking sign, I could see the outline of someone—perhaps one of the same guys who’d been there earlier—and the red pinpoint of a cigarette near his hip. As I stood there, he flicked the butt into the street and slunk inside the restaurant.

I started for the corner. I didn’t like how deserted it was, and I tried to walk confidently, like a woman who knew what she was doing. Just ahead of me, two people emerged from a car and crossed the street to the restaurant. As I reached the corner I heard a sound behind me, the scrape of a shoe on pavement. I spun around. The street looked empty. But I could sense there was someone behind me, somewhere.

CHAPTER 8

I
picked up my speed, checking behind me again as I turned the corner. There was no one there. Maybe my imagination was running wild.

I was now on the same street I’d come down originally, and far up ahead I could see Brighton Beach Avenue. Cars streamed by in both directions, but it couldn’t have been more desolate down where I was. Far off, on another street, I thought I heard a voice call out, but it was the only sound around. I cursed myself for not arranging a car service at least for the way back. I bet Cat Jones, the patron saint of town cars, never found herself, heart in mouth, hauling ass down a deserted New York street.

I was halfway up the block when I heard a sound behind me again. I whirled around just in time to see a dark slim figure, in what looked like a baseball cap, slip stealthily into the vestibule of an apartment building. Shit. He was following me.

Without giving myself time to think, I broke into a run. My heart was pounding in my ears, but above it I could hear footsteps behind me—running, too. I didn’t dare turn around because I was afraid I’d lose momentum or maybe stumble. I also didn’t dare try to dash into one of the apartment buildings. The doors would be locked, and even if I could convince anyone to buzz me in, the guy would catch up with me.

I tried to cry for help, but I was breathing so hard from running that it emerged from my mouth like the yelp of a Chihuahua. I had to think of something to do. When I reached a spot where two parked cars weren’t touching each other’s bumper, I shot out through them and began to run down the middle of the street. The footsteps were closer now, in the road, too. In seconds he would catch up with me. I felt crazy with panic.

Then I did something that shocked me, without it even forming first in my mind. I dropped to the ground and rolled under one of the parked cars in the street.

It was something I’d heard once from a personal-safety expert I’d interviewed for an article. It must have been leaning against some door frame in my brain for years, biding its time until I had a moment to use it. As soon as I was beneath the car, I wiggled closer to the curb. It was pitch black and I couldn’t see anything, though I could sense the chassis of the car one inch from my nose. My panic began to swell even more. Was this the dumbest thing in the world to have done? The expert had told me that this strategy was built on the fact that dragging a woman out from under a car would take too much time and attract way too much attention. But what if the guy had a gun? He could shoot at me.

Clumsily, I shoved my hand into my purse and groped around in desperation for my cell phone. I touched my notebook, my BlackBerry, my blush, my keys, but not the damn phone. I froze for a second and just listened. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I heard quiet footsteps making their way toward the car.

My hand began another frantic search, and this time it found the phone, hiding in a fold of the lining. Once it was in my palm, I slid my hand carefully up the length of my body. I flipped open the phone and tried to read the numbers. But I couldn’t get it far enough away from my face. I shifted my body so that I was partially on my side and I could hold the phone at enough of a distance to see. As I was about to hit 911, the toes of two athletic sneakers appeared at the edge of the car, their whiteness illuminating them in the darkness. I felt so scared, I thought I might puke.

“Get away!” I shouted. My voice echoed oddly against the steel of the car. “I have a cell phone. I called the police.”

The shoes shifted slightly, as if they were thinking. Then they disappeared completely. I felt an iota of relief trickle through me, and I exhaled for the first time in what seemed to be ages. I was deliberating what to do next when the shoes appeared again, this time even closer. The white leather toes were under the car, almost in my face.

I punched 911 into the phone. I only had to wait two rings before an operator picked up.

“Someone is chasing me,” I said. “I’m under a car, between Brighton Beach Road and Brightwater Court,” I said.

On what street? she wanted to know. Christ, I couldn’t remember. Despite the fact that it was pitch black under the car, I closed my eyes and tried to make the name appear. Nothing. When I opened my eyes, I saw a hand reaching toward me in the darkness.

“Get away!” I screamed as I pressed my butt against the curb. “The police are coming.”

The hand paused, then pulled away. And two seconds later the shoes were gone, too. I heard the
tsk tsk
sound of rubber soles breaking into a run.

“Miss, miss, are you still there?” asked the operator.

I told her I was, but I wasn’t sure of the name of the street. I then said that it was just a block up from the train stop. She told me to stay on the line while she dispatched a patrol car. While I waited, listening to the hum of noise behind her, I heard footsteps again. Oh God, please, no. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness and I stared terrified out toward the edge of the car. But this time two sets of feet appeared—one in black leather, one in high heels.

“Are you all right?” someone called out. It was a man’s voice, no accent.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“We were walking down the street,” a woman’s voice said. “We saw what happened.”

I scooched my body over the pavement so that I was closer to the outer edge of the car. Then I strained my neck so that I was looking out and up. Two heads peered down at me. From the glow of the streetlight I could tell it was an ordinary-looking, young couple, probably headed off for dinner someplace. I shimmied the rest of the way out from under the car and stood up, helped by the man’s extended hand. My body felt cramped, as if I’d been under the car for days.

“Thank you,” I said, looking quickly up and down the street. There was no one in either direction, so I turned back to the couple. She wore a black dressy dress, and he, implausibly for July, was in a black leather jacket. “You said you saw what happened?”

“We came out of my mother’s apartment building,” the guy said, “and we heard you calling out from under the car, and he was reaching under there. Were you having a fight?”

“God, no,” I exclaimed. “That was some stranger following me.”

They exchanged worried glances.

“We thought it was a lovers’ quarrel,” the woman said. “That you were hiding from him under the car.”

“No, I slid under there so he wouldn’t catch me,” I explained. “Did you see what he looked like?”

“Not really,” the guy said, shaking his head slowly. “He had a baseball cap on and some sort of dark shirt or jacket. He was about my height, I’d say. Five ten or so.”

“And he took off when you came out of the building?” I asked.

“He didn’t see us at first,” the guy said. “He was stooping, reaching his hand under the car. As soon as he spotted us, he took off like a bullet.”

“Shouldn’t we call the police?” the woman asked.

As soon as she said it, I glanced down at my hand. I was still squeezing my cell phone, though I could tell when I looked at it that I’d lost the connection. I hit 911 again and explained to the operator who I was and that someone had come to my aid. I said that I would walk over to the train stop and wait for the police there.

The couple told me that their car was parked on the street and offered me a ride. I thanked them but asked instead that they walk me to the corner. As far as I knew, my stalker might still be lurking around. I wondered suddenly if it was the guy I’d seen by the valet parking sign, the one who had slipped inside after I’d stepped out of Katya’s apartment building. Had he come right back out again, having donned a baseball cap?

Brighton Beach Avenue was even busier than it had been earlier, and it seemed so absurd that I could have been in danger just a short distance away. When we reached the stairs to the subway, I thanked the couple again profusely and said I would be fine from here. They hurried off back to the side street, the girl almost on tiptoes trying to keep up with her boyfriend’s long strides.

It was only a few minutes before a New York City police car pulled up, and I walked over to fill in the two cops who emerged from the car. They were both female and they seemed genuinely concerned, though at this point there was little they could do.

“Where’d you hear that tip about rolling under the car?” asked one, a few strands of blond hair peeking out from beneath her cap.

“A safety expert. Do you think it was a bad idea?”

“Well, seems a little chancy. But it worked. I mean, it bought you some time. So I guess that’s all that matters.”

“Mind telling us what you were doing in the neighborhood?” the other one asked.

“I’m a writer. I was interviewing someone for an article.”

“Not on the Russian Mob, I hope,” said the blonde. “That’s the sort of thing that would get you chased.”

“Nothing like that,” I told her. “It’s about a murder in midtown. The woman I was interviewing was injured during the assault.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Whoa,” she said. “Sounds like it could be connected.”

“I don’t see how,” I said. “I didn’t tell anyone where I was going.”

“Well, just watch your back,” she said. “You never know.”

The train ride back seemed even more interminable than the journey out. I checked out the passengers who boarded with me, but no one was tall and thin or even suspicious looking. I kept thinking about the cop’s suspicion that the attack was linked to the murder. If the killer was someone from
Buzz,
it
was
possible, I supposed, that he could have figured out where I was going. Katya’s number had been lying on my desk. I’d asked Leo for directions to Brooklyn. I’d strode out of the office purposefully, a woman on a mission, while the place was still packed. I’d gotten only a glimpse of the person in the baseball cap, but his shape didn’t seem familiar.

I was famished by the time I let myself into my apartment. Landon had sent me home last night with a piece of leftover steak, and as soon as I’d changed out of my pants and T-shirt, which were streaked on the back with dirt, I sliced the steak and tossed it with a bunch of limp lettuce leaves and oil and vinegar.

It wasn’t until after I’d wolfed down my dinner that I checked my voice mail. There were five or six calls, some from friends just checking in, one from a reporter who’d managed to score my home number, one from my mother saying she’d heard the news and wondered if I was okay (“
Buzz
is the magazine you work for these days, right?” she asked), and the last, thankfully, from Mary Kay. She said she would meet me at breakfast tomorrow. Eight o’clock sharp at the Mark Hotel. She sounded as imperious as a duchess asking for her bath to be drawn, but I was grateful I was finally going to connect with her.

There were also two hang-ups. I hated hang-ups, both on general principle and because of my experience with them in the past. When I had investigated the death of Cat’s nanny over a year ago, the killer had called me, monitoring my whereabouts. I checked my caller ID. They were both from a cell phone, and offhand I didn’t recognize the number.

I took a shower, not only to scour away the grime, but also to try to take the edge off. I felt wired both from the attack and from the hang-ups. As I soaped the backs of my legs, I noticed scrape marks that had been made by the pavement through my pants.

Though they didn’t amount to much, I took my notes to bed with me, the ones I’d taken during my conversation with Katya. I had traveled all the way out there and been pursued by a stranger down a dark street—and had learned only that the assailant had worn long sleeves. I pictured Robby in his plaid button-down shirts, the ones he wore even in the dog days of summer.
Had
he done it? No, I just couldn’t buy it.

Actually, there was one
other
detail I’d come away with from my visit with Katya and her brother: that Katya seemed not just upset about the incident in Mona’s office, but worried, even fearful. As if she were expecting the other shoe to drop. This had been reinforced by André’s expressed concern that the killer might believe Katya had seen more than she had. André had started to reveal something and stopped. Had Katya made a guess about who the killer was?

Then a thought nearly knocked me over. What if the man who had followed me from the apartment
had
been the one outside the restaurant, and he’d been watching Katya’s building? Was it the killer, fearful that Katya might be able to identify him? Had he realized that I’d gone to see her and then followed me when I’d emerged? Was that the secret Katya and André were hiding—that they sensed they were being watched? There was no way I could be certain that the man who’d followed me was the one in front of the restaurant or connected to the murder, rather than your run-of-the-mill New York mugger-rapist, but it was essential I tread carefully from now on, just in case.

Finally, barely able to keep my eyes open, I turned off the lamp on my nightstand. I felt relieved and safe now that I was back in my apartment, yet as I stretched out along one side of my queen-size bed and gazed at the empty half next to me, I was suddenly overwhelmed by loneliness—from seeing that large vacant patch of pale yellow sheet. Of course, I could have just
moved over,
but that was one of the odd things about life after a man. For weeks, even months, after his departure, you couldn’t bring yourself to take title to the whole bed again and instead slept just on your side. I’m not sure why. Maybe it was just habit, this vague sense that if you sprawled out across the mattress, it would turn out he’d just gotten up to take a leak and when he came back he’d flop into bed on top of you, breaking your nose with his ass. Or maybe there was some psychological barrier—or sadness—to claiming what was once his, despite your perfect right to it.

I thought of Jack. I doubted he was suffering from Sad Bed Syndrome in his new Village apartment. He was hunky, successful, charming, and highly desirable. I bet it would be only a matter of months before I’d be strolling down Bleecker or Sullivan Street one Saturday afternoon and bump into him with some gorgeous, adoring thing by his side.