Date Rape New York (9 page)

She dragged her suitcase out of the closet and threw in the pills. Then she locked the suitcase in the closet and dropped the key in the desk drawer. If panic attacks made sleep impossible, she couldn’t just reach for a pill. She would get up and make herbal tea, call the crisis number and talk to a counselor. She switched off the lamp and went straight to sleep.

Chapter 11

Monday morning at eight, Grazia was propped against the bed pillows, trawling her smartphone contacts for entries she might have added Saturday night. She had just phoned Detective Cargill, but he wasn’t in. She was feeling more alert but still not her old self. She had awakened in the early hours with the same nightmare about the old woman shrieking ‘Jacky! Bite!’ followed by that flash of gold. The old woman was Mrs. Springer, Grazia now knew, but she still woke up with a gasp. She got back to sleep only after a cup of chamomile tea and some pacing. 

Back asleep, she had dreamed of Francisco. She breathed the scent of his cologne, felt his muscular body in her arms. Call him, her heart urged. Tell him what happened. You need him to hold you and comfort you.

Awake again, her logical mind stopped that nonsense, but thinking of Francisco recalled the uneasiness she’d felt on seeing his diamond wedding ring winking in the lamplight. Viewing the video recording of that conversation again might provide an answer. The archives department at the law office could email her the video, but her name would appear on a list they submitted to Francisco and he would want to know why she wanted to see it. She made a note in her journal about the dreams and the uneasy feeling. As her room brightened with morning light, she brewed yet another cup of unsatisfying herbal tea and continued searching both her personal and business smartphones for new contacts.

The process was slow. She didn’t know how to search by date entered, so she stared at each name and tried to place the face. When she couldn’t, anxiety hit. Time and again she had to draw a deep breath and unclench her shoulders and jaw. So far she had written five unknown names in her journal. How to identify them? At the thought of calling them, she broke into a heart-pounding sweat. With a wrench of despair, she realized that she was afraid to find him.

The door opened and hit the chain. Grazia shrieked, on her feet instantly, handbag raised as a weapon.

“It’s Sophia,” came the quiet voice. Grazia unhooked the chain and dropped into the armchair. She told Sophia about the second anonymous call.

Sophia held out a slip of paper. “Maybe this will help find him. These are Italian men who were staying in hotels near the Brazilian Bar Saturday and Sunday. My friends got their names off the hotel registers.”

“Good work!” Grazia gripped the paper like a lifeline. “I’ll Google, Facebook, anything I can think of, and find photos to match these names. Looking at a face might jog my memory. But what I really need is the hotel where Laura stayed. Detective Cargill thinks Laura knows more about who attacked me than she is saying. He thinks that she and the man who raped me could have been staying at the same hotel and that it’s near the Brazilian Bar because Laura pulled her suitcase there in a snowstorm. Can you ask your friends to see if she was registered?” She wrote Laura’s name and the date she had checked out.

“Do you have a photo?” Sophia asked. “My friends might recognize her from that.”

Grazia held up her smartphone with the photo of Laura taken at Lord & Taylor. “I’ll print this in the business office and leave it for you with Luigi at reception.”

Sophia pulled a small jar out of her pocket. “Italian herbal salve for your bruises.”

“Angel!” Grazia bared her back and groaned happily as Sophia’s strong fingers loosened the knots in her shoulders. “Sophia,” she whispered as the mosquito thoughts once again started drilling into her brain. “Do you think I’ll be able to have sex again ever? Right now, I don’t want a man to even touch me.”

Sophia’s hands started down her spine. “It will take time, but you will be with a man again. This happened to someone I know, and now she has a boyfriend who is very kind.” Her hands hesitated. “What did your boyfriend say when you told him?”

Grazia’s mouth twisted. “Mr. Macho? I haven’t told him. He would go crazy if he heard that I was raped. He’d say I was dirty and defiled.” She laughed bitterly. “What a hypocrite. Two marriages for him and everyone knows about all his affairs.”

“Does his wife know about you?”

“I don’t know. But if she does find out, she’ll take him for all he’s got. I don’t care about her, anyway. I told Francisco our relationship was over two weeks before I came to New York. He didn’t believe me. I told him again at the airport.”

“Do you still love him?”

Grazia moved restlessly. “The truth? I’m not sure I ever did. I was lonely after my divorce, and Francisco was such fun—dinners and presents and telling me I was beautiful. It was wonderful to be properly romanced.” She sighed. “Francisco is a sexy man even at sixty, but he’s twenty-five years older than me and that’s too old. His daughter is twenty-one. And he lies. He told me he’s going to divorce Belinda. He said he has leased an apartment for the two of us. But I paid a hacker to break into his email. He was emailing Belinda that he wasn’t having an affair. There isn’t a single email to an estate agent. Besides, he has a vicious temper. Last night he yelled at me because I didn’t write what he wanted in that document I’ve been working on all week. He wanted a standard contract, and I drafted something very different. So he fired me.”

“He fired you!” Sophia was shocked.

“It doesn’t matter now. When he finds out I’ve been raped, he’ll fire me for that.”

Sophia placed the salve on the table. “After you take your bath, rub this between your legs. It will take away the soreness. I’m really sorry this happened, Miss Grazia.” Her dark eyes were sad.

Grazia squeezed Sophia’s hand. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t found me and taken me to the emergency room. You’re my only friend in this entire city.”

She got up and stretched. The dizziness was lessening. “Now I’ll shower and have breakfast. I’m not hungry but Janine said that eating will help flush out the drugs. I’ll go to the café where I went all last week. And I’ll work on a plan for finding the man who raped me.”

Chapter 12

“Edmondo told me you received another anonymous telephone message last evening, Miss Conti.”

Stanley had trailed Grazia into the business office where she was printing out the photo of Laura that she had taken at Lord & Taylor. She planned to give four copies to Sophia for the Italian maid’s friends who were working at nearby hotels. Someone might recognize Laura. Another would go to Detective Cargill so that he would have a better feel for the people involved in the case. And another would go to Nick so he could pass it around. Someone might remember seeing Laura, Grazia, and the man she left with. Grazia printed one more. This she would show to the four Italian men who had given her their cards Saturday night. She hoped to track them down, even though Detective Cargill had said he would do that. She felt nauseous with anxiety at the thought of confronting them, but both Detective Cargill and Stanley said that no perpetrator would be so stupid as to give his business card to his victim. She had nothing to lose and lots to gain by speaking to them personally.

Grazia’s eyes flicked past Stanley to the hotel guests milling in the lobby. It had taken raw courage for her to leave her room. As soon as her hand had touched the doorknob, she was certain that the rapist was lurking outside. Finally, she had flung open her door and sprinted to the elevator, punching the call button over and over. For one terrifying moment, as the elevator doors slowly opened, she was sure the rapist was inside. But there was only an elderly couple puzzled by her obvious relief at seeing their faces.

“No word from Manuel?” she asked Stanley.

He shook his head.

Grazia pointed at the inconspicuous CCTV camera above the reception desk. “Does it really take six weeks to get a court order to view the footage?”

“Don’t count on CCTV to ID your assailant,” said Stanley. “The guy was savvy enough to erase the photos you took of him; he will be savvy enough to hide his face from a CCTV camera.”

“But Detective Cargill will request the court order, won’t he? It’s the only real evidence we have. Have you talked to him? I phoned this morning, but he wasn’t in. What’s he doing?”

“He’s waiting for the medical examiner to come up with a DNA identity from your room and from the evidence samples sent over from the emergency room. Then they will run a match with the police database.”

* * *

The small café where Grazia had been breakfasting during her week in New York looked over Gramercy Park, a ten-minute walk from the Hotel Fiorella. The winter storm had left inches of snow and passed on. Morning sun sparkled on the waist-high ridge of shoveled snow that flanked the salt-sprinkled walk. Grazia’s fur-lined snow boots crunched as she walked, giving rhythm to her stride. She felt better physically, and her natural optimism rose. Of course Detective Cargill could find the man who had drugged and raped her. Still, the anonymous messages weighed on her, and she glanced nervously over her shoulder every few minutes to check for a follower. She also stared at the men walking toward her, trying to sense familiarity, yet at the same time afraid to feel it.

Saturday evening, she had followed this same route toward the Brazilian Bar, happy with her life and her decisions. She had masterminded a major contract at work, a recruiter from a prestigious headhunting firm was emailing her job opportunities, and she was free of Francisco and his marital mess. But now, even though she knew this positive future was still in place, she felt shattered, wounded. “Pull yourself together,” she muttered aloud. “Work with Detective Cargill to locate the bastard. Friday, get on the plane.”

The breakfast aromas when she entered the café eased her nerves. She chose a corner table near the window where she could sit with her back to the wall and observe both the other patrons and the people walking by. If the man who raped her was following her, she might recognize him.

“Coffee?” Her usual waiter held his pot over her cup.

“Decaf today,” she requested with regret. In Naples, her morning didn’t start without an espresso in her neighborhood café. An intense longing for home brought a lump to her throat. Her heart ached for the sunny apartment she had purchased when she was hired at Francisco Pamplona Law Offices. It was in an expensive neighborhood and she paid a fortune in mortgage and tips for the doormen and security guards. But with her high-paying job, she could afford it. She had purchased soft sofas and armchairs in vibrant Italian colors, carved wood tables, hand-loomed rugs, and rattan terrace furniture. She had planned to give lots of parties and have overnight friends, but instead she reveled in the solitude. Her home was a sanctuary from the dangerous streets and her tension-filled job. After the initial housewarming bash, she had invited only a few close friends for infrequent, quiet meals. Her mother had come only once and Francisco not at all—a situation that sent him into paroxysms of jealousy over lovers he refused to believe were nonexistent. Grazia had insisted they meet in hotels even before he had married Belinda. And after his marriage, if Belinda was having Francisco followed, Grazia didn’t want the trail leading to her door.

Now she missed the cheerful security guard in her lobby and the efficient smile of her secretary at work. If she flew home today, she wouldn’t be alone in a city of eight million strangers, waiting for frightening medical test results, looking over her shoulder for an unidentified assailant who had drugged her, forced her to have sex with him, and now was sending her anonymous messages.

The ring of her phone startled her. Her mother had booked a flight for Grazia for that evening and made an appointment with Grazia’s doctor for the next day. Grazia’s nostalgia vanished.

“Cancel them!” she ordered, voice rising. “I’m in charge of my life! I will decide what I’ll do.” She softened at her mother’s sobs. “I can’t leave yet; I’m working with a police detective. Why haven’t you found out who is in the consortium that owns the Hotel Fiorella? Don’t you want to help me?”

“I want you to come home immediately,” her mother said, choking on her tears. She finally hung up, after telling Grazia to call her often.

The waiter came back with decaf. Now ravenous from the breakfast aromas, Grazia ordered fresh blueberries, scrambled eggs, bacon, and an English muffin. She stirred sugar into her decaf and observed the fast-walking New Yorkers passing the window, their coffee cups in one hand, smartphone in the other, ear buds in place. They reminded her of the corporate world where she felt at home. Their morning energy raised her spirits. She opened her journal to a fresh page.

“Monday to-do,” she wrote. “10:00 a.m.: Call Detective Cargill; urge him to apply for court order for CCTV; find out what else he knows. 11:00 a.m.: Appointment with Cindy; learn to handle panic. 12:00 p.m.: Have sandwich and soup for lunch somewhere; call Janine to get lab results about what I was drugged with. 12:30 p.m.: Return to hotel; search online for photos that match the names Sophia gave me; call Laura and insist that she make her office booking agent find the name of her hotel; locate Manuel in Naples.” She underlined the last. How to find Manuel? “Research private detectives in Naples who can find Manuel’s family,” she wrote. “4:30 p.m.: Go to Brazilian Bar; ask Nick if he remembers who I left with.” It was sparse, but it was a start, and it filled her day with activity. She needed to keep moving and keep her mind active. Otherwise, she would obsess over what had happened to her and never climb out of this pit of depression and panic that threatened to swallow her.

Her breakfast arrived in cheerful, flowered dishes. As she spooned in her blueberries, she surveyed the café. The patrons were mostly women, but three men were breakfasting alone. One was absorbed in his
New York Times
, one was texting, and the third was watching her. He was medium height, slim, with short, dark hair, and wearing an open-neck shirt under a yellow pullover. Her spoon stopped in midair. Why was he watching her? Had he raped her? Was he leaving the anonymous messages?

Impossible, she told herself sternly. He was here when you walked in. Or was he? Now she couldn’t remember. Two days ago, she would have smiled and probably said good morning to this nice-looking young man. Today, he might be a hostile assailant. Where had her courage gone? Nothing used to faze her—not angry clients or shouting lawyers, not even Francisco’s wild outbursts of rage.

The man who had been watching her stood up and pulled on a dark navy pea coat and brown gloves. He stuck a plaid wool cap under his arm. A glint from his gold watch flashed in the sun. Panic hit Grazia in the stomach. She fumbled her pen and journal into her handbag and grabbed her coat.

“Is something wrong, Miss?” The puzzled waiter was at her elbow with her eggs.

His concerned face calmed her. She eased back into her chair. On impulse, she held out her smartphone. “Would you take my photo with my big American breakfast and the café in the background? For my family in Italy.” The photo would capture the three men. Nick might recognize one. It was a crazy idea, photographing total strangers, but the waiter was already raising her phone.

But someone was blocking the shot. The young man in the pea coat was smiling down at her.

“Where were you at Sunday brunch, Grazia?” he asked in Italian. “I waited in the line here for an hour and ended up eating by myself.” He deftly lifted the camera from the waiter’s fingers. “Let me take the photo. Smile!”