Date Rape New York (10 page)

Chapter 13

Grazia’s gaped, speechless, at the young man in front of her.

The young man’s smiled wavered. “Brazilian Bar?” he prompted, tentatively. “Saturday night? I was with three other Italians. We work in New York. No recollection at all?”

She shook her head, stunned.

“Oh, well. Never mind.” He turned away.

“Wait!” Her brain started functioning. “Somebody put a drug in my champagne that night. An amnesiac. I don’t remember anything. Really, you were at the Brazilian Bar? Who are you?”

“Raoul Cataneo. From Milan. Working in New York.” He frowned with concern. “A drug in your drink? That’s why you became ill? We were toasting your job interview and you got sick and your friend took you away. That was the last I saw of you.”

Grazia’s mind started flashing warning signals. Watch out! This man attacked you! He’s finding out if you remember him! Remember what Detective Cargill said about charming men. A calmer voice prevailed. He can’t harm you in a café. And if he didn’t rape you, he is exactly the person you need—a witness.

She gestured shakily at a chair. “Please sit down.”

Raoul perched tentatively on the edge of the chair. “Someone actually put a drug in your champagne?” he asked with disbelief.

“Then he . . . took me to my hotel and he . . . he . . .” Eyes glassy with tears, she stared fixedly at the table and fumbled in her purse for her handkerchief.

Raoul’s brown eyes widened. “Have you seen a doctor?” 

“I went to Beth Israel Emergency Room Sunday morning. That’s why I wasn’t here. They did tests for horrible diseases and to find the drug he put in my champagne. Then I spent hours with the police.” She drank off her water and forced herself to lift her eyes to his face. This time it was he who lowered his gaze. 

“Do you know who he is?” he asked.

She shook her head. “About ten-thirty an elderly woman saw me walking toward my hotel with a man. I met her Sunday afternoon when I was leaving the hospital. She said he was wearing a dark down jacket and a knit cap pulled down low so she couldn’t see his face. But she thinks her dog can identify him. The dog bit him.” She managed a small smile. “The police detective is going to talk to her.”

“Do you remember anything at all from Saturday night?” he ventured.

“I remember meeting my friend Laura and speaking Italian to four Italian men. I remember getting an email from a job recruiter in Naples and holding a glass of champagne. After that, nothing. But the detective thinks bits of memory might come back—enough to trace him.” She scrutinized his face. “I don’t remember you.”

Raoul touched her sleeve. “Wouldn’t it be better to forget this horrible experience? Get your new job. Put New York behind you.”

“The police detective is pushing me to find the man. Typically, men who drug women for sex are serial offenders, the detective says. They return to the same places. The detective is determined to stop it in his precinct.” She explained about Cargill’s desire to get Nick and Cargill's plan to talk to Raoul and the other three Italians who had given her their business cards. She felt more positive, talking with this sympathetic fellow Italian.

“You’re telling me what the police detective wants,” commented Raoul, gently. “What do you want?”

“I want to know who he is.” Grazia’s certainty grew every time she repeated it. “He took something from me—my memory of that night—and I want it back. People should know what has happened to them. And I need to know what he looks like so I can beware of him if he approaches me again. I can call the detective and have him arrested.” She gave a small shrug. “So I’m here, watching people, hoping someone will feel familiar.”

“Courageous but futile. In a city of eight million people, why would he come to this particular café?”

“Because he’s following me. He left two anonymous messages.” She related the messages. 

Raoul’s hand covered hers. His concerned face brought back her self-control. “Did I say anything fascinating Saturday night?” she inquired, hopefully.

“The music was so loud, I couldn’t hear a word you said. A football game was on, too. People were shouting like crazy.”

Grazia looked at her bowl of blueberries. Now she didn’t want them. She pushed them over to Raoul and watched him spoon them up.

“Any suspects, aside from the four of us Italians?” Raoul wiped his mouth on a paper napkin and put it by his plate.

She shook her head. “The desk clerk at the hotel must have seen who brought me into the lobby, but he left for Italy Sunday morning. The bartender, Nick, told the detective that he remembers me, but he didn’t see the man I left with. I’m going to talk to him this afternoon. Maybe if he sees my face, he’ll remember more.” She leaned forward eagerly. “Did you see who went outside with me?”

“Sure, I saw,” replied Raoul promptly. “Your girlfriend. Here’s what happened: you and I were talking. You got sick. Your friend took you to the ladies’ room. Then she took you outside.”

Grazia slumped back in disbelief. “Laura took me outside?” She held up her smartphone and showed him the photo from Lord & Taylor. “This Laura?”

“The same beautiful Italian. Not as beautiful as you, of course. Why?”

Grazia pulled out her journal and flipped through the pages. “The detective told me to write down everything I can remember about that night. I’m also writing down what people tell me about that night. The detective thinks that eventually my journal will lead us to the man.” She pointed to the entry. “Laura told me she left for the airport when I was still at the Brazilian Bar. She said she didn’t see who I left with.”

Raoul nibbled on blueberries while he thought that over. “Maybe Laura meant that she took you outside but she didn’t see who took you to your hotel. But how can you find this man? The bartender can’t remember him, the old lady couldn’t see his face, Laura didn’t see who walked you home, the hotel desk clerk has disappeared, and you remember nothing.”

Tears flooded Grazia’s eyes. It seemed like everything made her cry. Blindly, she picked up a napkin and held it over her eyes, then shoved it in her pocket, embarrassed at the mascara and eye shadow smears. “Nick might remember something as he thinks about it. The old lady’s dog might be able to sniff out the man. My hotel maid is Italian. Her friends working in nearby hotels are giving her the names of Italian men registered in their hotels on Saturday night. I’ll search online for their photos—maybe I’ll recognize a face. The police detective says most women are raped by men they know.”

“Let’s say the police do find a suspect or two. What then? They arrest them?”

Grazia explained about matching the DNA of a suspect to the DNA on the evidentiary samples taken by Janine, and from the DNA lifted from her hotel room by the medical examiner’s team. “The detective thinks he’s someone I met Saturday night,” she added.

“Like me,” said Raoul cheerfully. “Or some Italian tourist who already left for Italy.” At her expression of discouragement, Raoul patted her hand. “Hey, don’t lose hope. These investigations take time, except on TV.” He pulled on his thin leather gloves. “Friday you’ll go home, and life will be the same again.”

“My life will never be the same!” she wailed, then put her hand over her mouth, as people turned to look. “I have a recurring nightmare about Mrs. Springer shouting, ‘Jacky! Bite!’ The nightmare always ends the same, with a flash of gold.” She took a deep breath. “I’ll tell the police detective what you told me. He’ll want to ask you more questions.”

“He can ask anything he wants. Here’s my cell number.” He pulled out his wallet and extracted a business card. Grazia reached for it, glancing at his name. She remembered seeing it when she copied it into her journal before she gave the four cards to Detective Cargill. Then Raoul lifted it from her fingers and slid it back in his wallet. “Better, let me put my number straight into your phone. I don’t want you to lose my card and forget me again. “R” for Raoul.” Deftly, despite his thin leather gloves, he tapped his number into her smartphone.

He glanced at his watch. “Got to run. Americans send me emails the second they wake up. They eat lunch at their desks! Barbarians!” He paused. “How about dinner or a drink? Tonight?”

Grazia shook her head. “The nurse told me to rest.”

“Breakfast tomorrow then, here, same time. Call me if you need anything at all.”

Grazia watched Raoul pull on a plaid cap and go out into the snowy street. Idly, she said to the waiter who was refilling her decaf, “My friend was here Sunday morning. He waited an hour for a table.”

“Sunday brunch is a madhouse. People wait ages.” He glanced out the window. “I would remember that cap. And I don’t.”

Chapter 14

“Don’t you read your messages!” Grazia phoned Detective Cargill immediately after Raoul left. “Sorry,” she apologized for her rude behavior, shocked at her lack of self-control. “Cindy told me to stay away from caffeine, and I’m desperate for an espresso. I have a headache, and I don’t feel awake.”

“Your brain is still drugged. You won’t feel awake for a day or two.” Cargill slurped something. “I did get your message. Stanley called too. The latest from this joker was, ‘Give up. You won’t find me’, right?”

“Detective Cargill, I was in the hotel lobby when he called. Luigi told him I was there. He offered to call me so I could take the call at the reception desk, but the man said he knew where I was! He’s stalking me!”

“Not necessarily. He could be calling from Italy.”

“If he’s in Italy, why is he calling and leaving messages?” Her voice rose.

“He won’t speak to you personally because he knows you’ll recognize his voice and attach it to a face and a name. And he wants to frighten you so you will call off the investigation.”

“Well, I am afraid! I’m having breakfast at a café. There were three single men here. I nearly left without eating.”

Detective Cargill’s voice softened. “I understand your worry, Miss Conti, and I wish I could offer police protection, but there aren’t enough cops on the planet to protect all the women being harassed by men. A private bodyguard might ease your mind, but they’re expensive. Consider going home before Friday.”

“If he’s Italian, like you think, that would be jumping from the frying pan into the fire, wouldn’t it?” Her voice filled with anger. “No, Detective Cargill. For my own safety, I need to know his face before I leave New York. Then if I encounter him in Italy, I can protect myself.”

“Let’s hope that he calls your cell phone. We might be able to trace the number.”

Grazia’s lips went numb. She couldn’t breathe.

Cargill continued. “If you get him on the phone, ask, ‘What happened Saturday night? Did we have sex? I can’t remember anything.’” He made more slurping noises. “Miss Conti? Are you there?”

“I couldn’t talk to him,” she whispered. “He drugged me and . . . and . . . ”

“Suit yourself. I’ll call you when I hear from the medical examiner. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

“Wait!” Grazia struggled to pull her wits together. “I’ve found a witness. An Italian man came up to me at breakfast. He said we were drinking champagne together at the Brazilian Bar Saturday night. He was one of those four Italians.”

“Just walked up and introduced himself, this friendly individual?”

“We had agreed to meet for Sunday brunch at that café, he said.”

“Do you remember him?”

“Not at all. But I don’t remember any of those four men.”

“Did you ask him who accompanied you out of the bar?”

Discouragement washed over her. “Laura did, he said. Apparently I got sick, and Laura took me to the ladies’ room, then outside. He didn’t see me after that.”

“Odd that Laura didn’t mention you were sick. Ask her about that when you talk to her again. What’s this man’s name?”

“Raoul Cataneo.” She searched for “Raoul” in her smartphone and read off his mobile number. “He said he would be glad to talk to you.”

“Did he ask to meet you again?”

“He did, yes, but . . . ” She saw where he was going.

“Watch out, Miss Conti. Be on guard for charming men who gain your trust and lure you into a bar situation that resembles where you were drugged.”

Her self-assurance wavered. “He said he would talk to you. A criminal wouldn’t do that, would he?” She hurried on, “I’m going to the Brazilian Bar at four-thirty to talk to Nick. Could you go with me?”

“You’ll get more out of Nick if I’m not there. We have an uncertain history.”

“I’m worried that the man who . . . that he will be following me. You say he won’t attack me on the street, but if he sees me going into the Brazilian Bar, he’ll know I’m getting information from Nick that might lead to him. So he will attack me when I come out. It’s dark at four-thirty.”

“Gramercy Park is a rich neighborhood and people are always out on the streets. You’re safe. Even if he does jump you, just run and scream. A police officer will be there immediately. New York is the safest city in the world.”

“But you’re the detective on the case! And I need protection!” Grazia felt desperate. Her panic attack outside the Brazilian Bar the night before had shattered the little confidence she had left. She wanted to keep Detective Cargill on the line. “Have you contacted the other three Italians who gave me their cards? Are you getting their DNA?”

Cargill’s voice grew cautious. “I reached three of them. Raoul’s secretary said that Raoul went to Boston Sunday morning. The other three confirmed each other’s story that all four stayed at the Brazilian Bar until long after you had left. Nick said so too. My captain and I discussed your case. DNA identities cost money, and the NYPD doesn’t have an unlimited budget. Both my captain and the medical examiner believe that a typical offender wouldn’t give his business card to a victim. So I won’t do DNA identities on those four. Try your friend Laura again. Maybe she has plugged the leak in her memory.”

“I did call her. She won’t talk to you.”

“Aha! Definitely knows more than she’s letting on. Keep pushing.”

“She would have told me if she knew anything. She’s an old friend!” Grazia felt weak with despair.

“Miss Conti, think about it: your old friend invites you to the Brazilian Bar during a blizzard warning when she should be in a taxi headed for the airport. You get drugged within the hour. She can’t remember the men she introduced you to, she doesn’t mention you were sick and that she took you outside, she ducks your questions about her hotel, and she won’t talk to me. Innocent people don’t refuse to talk to police.”

“They do in my country.”

“Miss Conti, I’ll bet a month of my low salary that your friend Laura is protecting the man who attacked you. Talk to her. Get the name of her hotel. Find out who she spent time with in New York. Maybe she’ll slip up and give us a lead. Now, unless you have something specific, I have work to do.”

“Can’t you go to the hotels near the Brazilian Bar and ask if Laura Oviedo stayed there? You’re the police.”

He sighed. “Asking fancy hotels to open their guest books to police requires paperwork, time, and attracts the attention of hotel lawyers. Expensive hotels are obsessive about their guests’ privacy. Miss Conti, I have faith that buried somewhere inside your sharp lawyer’s brain are memories, however faint, of your assailant before you were drugged. But you’re not digging for these memories. Why? Because you’re afraid of this man. Fear blocks memory, as any student taking an exam will tell you. This is normal, but it isn’t helping us find him.”

“I was drugged! That’s why I can’t remember!”

“Or,” Cargill continued, “you don’t want to press Laura for details about Saturday night because you don’t want to remember your attack. Facing fearful memories is painful, but running away from them isn’t productive.”

“I really am trying to remember!”

“Then make more of an effort, Miss Conti. Locate your courage. I did a lot of fast talking to persuade my captain to authorize taxpayer money to send the medical examiner’s criminalists to investigate the hotel room of an Italian national who is leaving the country on Friday and who was most likely assaulted by another Italian national who may have already left. Now I am waiting for the medical examiner’s report. Stanley and I are trying to run down Manuel. I’ll locate Mrs. Springer and her dog with the sharp teeth. When I know anything I’ll call you.”

Grazia lost her temper. “Why did your captain agree to send the medical examiner’s team to my hotel if he’s dragging his feet now?” she snapped.

There was a long silence. “He was giving me a chance. Now I’m giving you a chance. Find your memories. What do you expect, that I pull them out of your head like a rabbit out of a hat?” The line went dead.

Grazia stared at her phone in shock. Her fingers tingled. Her lips felt numb. Was this standard New York police procedure—speak rudely to a victim and then hang up? She took a sip of water and, in a daze, watched New Yorkers striding along the snowy sidewalk.

After a while, her voice of reason returned. The annoying detective was right. She was afraid of the man who had raped her and was sending her anonymous messages. She was afraid to remember that night. “You have had plenty of setbacks in your legal career and you found the courage to handle them,” she told herself, sternly. “Locate your courage. Help this annoying detective find the man who drugged and raped you. Dig for your memories.”

But where? Fear had barricaded them inside her brain. She thought about what she had learned during her memory training. The brain was resilient and flexible. Many people recovered from serious brain trauma and lived normal lives. Research showed that parts of the brain grew when people learn new things—including eighty-year-olds. And old people, studies had found, could have equally good memories as much younger people. Most importantly, short-term memories had to be reviewed in order to become permanent, long-term memories. If she didn’t locate her memories of that night soon, new memories would cover them up.

Grazia thought that over. If her brain had stored anything on Saturday night, she should be able to find it. If her ears had heard her assailant speak before she was drugged, her brain had stored his voice. Perhaps if she heard his voice again, she would recall his face. Or if he wore an aftershave and she smelled it again, she would recall him. But to do these things, she had to get near him, physically. The thought was paralyzing. “Manage your fear!” ordered her voice of reason. “How? Find someone to help you get behind your fear and release the blocked memories.”

A hypnotist. The idea dropped into her mind like a leaf settling on the grass. Once at a law school party, a hypnotist had helped a panicked law student recall every detail of a case he was sure would be on an exam. Grazia opened her smartphone. An online search located a hypnotist in SoHo who specialized in women’s issues. Soon a cheerful woman was listening attentively to Grazia’s explanation. They could meet at two o’clock. She gave Grazia subway instructions. 

Grazia noted the conversation in her journal. She then checked her smartphone New York City map for how to reach Cindy’s office on Sixteenth Street across from Stuyvesant Square. She saw that her route would take her by the Brazilian Bar. Looking into the windows might reassure her that it was just a bar—she could safely go there by herself late that afternoon. “Pull yourself together,” she said, sternly.

The sky had gone dark. Snowflakes were settling onto the shoulders of passersby. The  sidewalk was becoming white. Footprints appeared. As she watched, the falling snow thickened and the footprints disappeared. “My memories are like these footprints,” Grazia thought. “Unless I recover them soon, my memories will vanish forever, smothered by new memories just like my footprints are being smothered by the new falling snow.”