Someone Is Watching (22 page)

Paul flips lazily through the pages of his magazine as his wife, if that’s who she is, returns to the bedroom, wearing a delicate pink lace negligee. She’s brushed her hair and made an effort to look pretty. But Paul doesn’t seem to notice until she moves to turn off the light. He raises his hand to stop her, indicating with a visible degree of annoyance the magazine he is reading.

I watch Paul’s wife pull back the covers and crawl into bed beside him. She leans back against the headboard, glancing anxiously toward her husband, as if willing him to stop what he is doing and take her in his arms. After several minutes, she decides to take the initiative, her hand moving tentatively to stroke his thigh. He lowers his magazine and shakes his head. “It’s late, I’m tired,” I can almost hear him say. She nods and removes her hand, sitting in silence for several minutes before scooting down in the bed and pulling the blanket up over her head to block out the light. Or maybe to hide her tears. Even through the covers, her shame is palpable.

Less than five minutes later, Paul, alias Narcissus, tosses his magazine to the floor and stretches to turn off the light. I am left in the dark, nursing the image of Paul’s wife with the blanket covering her head. I feel a pillowcase being dragged over my face, my own shame spreading throughout my bloodstream and racing toward my heart.

The phone rings at just before seven o’clock the next morning.

The sound jolts me awake, although I can’t even remember climbing into bed last night, let alone falling asleep. Obviously I did both at some point. I have vague memories of sharks swimming menacingly beneath my feet, of faceless men extending gloved hands toward me, of passive women watching me from distant balconies. My head is pounding and the leftover taste of wine lies flat across my tongue, an unpleasant reminder of all the alcohol I consumed last night. “Hello?” I whisper, pressing the phone to my ear, and then again, despite the busy signal that greets me: “Hello?” I say it a third time. “Is somebody there?”

I drop the phone and flop back onto my pillow, dozing off again for approximately another hour until a shrill ring once again shakes me into consciousness, like a hand on my shoulder. This time I think to check the caller ID.
Unknown caller.
“Heath?” I say, instead of hello, the dull throb of my hangover pushing against the insides of my eyes. “Heath, is that you?” There is no answer, and I’m about to disconnect, to dismiss this latest call the way I did
the first, as nothing more than an early morning extension of my nightmares, when I hear the sound of breathing.

The voice, when it comes, is low and filled with dust, like tires on a gravel-filled road. “Tell me you love me,” it growls in my ear.

I scream and drop the phone, watching as it bounces across the floor toward the bathroom, coming to a stop on the marble tile of the bathroom floor. “No,” I cry, falling to my knees beside my bed. “No, no, no, no.”

The phone rings again almost immediately. Once … twice … three times … four, each ring a dagger thrusting into my chest. If the phone doesn’t stop ringing, I will die.

It stops, and only then am I able to breathe, although just barely. Hands shaking, I crawl to where the phone is lying on its back on the bathroom floor, like an upturned insect. I glance at the caller ID, expecting to see the familiar words:
Unknown caller.
Instead I see
Carlito’s on Third,
followed by a number. Who or what is “Carlito”? What does this mean? I quickly press in the number for
Carlito’s on Third.
It’s picked up immediately. “Hello,” I say before anyone can speak.

Tell me you love me,
a gravelly voice whispers lewdly.

“No!” Immediately I drop the phone and burst into tears.

Seconds later, the phone rings again.
Carlito’s on Third,
caller ID boldly proclaims, and again I don’t answer, listening as it rings four times before being transferred to voice mail. “You have two new messages,” voice mail informs me seconds later. “To listen to your messages, press 1.” I do as instructed. “First new message.”

“Hi. This is Johnny K. from Carlito’s Auto Repair,” a voice informs me. “I’m just calling to tell you that the work has been completed on your Porsche, and you can come by to pick it up any time.” He leaves a number where he can be reached.

“Oh, God.” I’m overwhelmed by a fresh onslaught of tears. What does this mean?

Tell me you love me.

“Second new message,” voice mail continues as I try to separate fantasy from reality.

“Hi. This is Jasmine from Carlito’s Auto Repair,” a woman is saying. “Did you just call here? I think we got cut off.” She leaves the same contact number.

I call back. Again, the line is picked up before the first ring is complete. This time I give the person on the other end time to speak. “Carlito’s on Third. Jasmine speaking. How can I direct your call?”

“Can I speak to Johnny?” I ask.

“Johnny K. or Johnny R.?”

“What?”

“Johnny R. or Johnny K.?” she says, reversing the order.

“I’m not sure. Wait.” I replay the earlier message in my head:
This is Johnny K. from Carlito’s Auto Repair.
“Johnny K.,” I say, louder than I intended. I picture the poor woman pushing the phone away from her ear to escape the sound of my voice.

“Did you call here a few minutes ago?” she asks.

“I think we got cut off,” I lie.

“Sounded like somebody yelled ‘No!’ or something. It was weird.”

“Really? That
is
weird.”

“Hold on and I’ll connect you to Johnny.”

A brief interlude of salsa music follows. “This is Johnny Kroft.”

The same voice as on my voice mail. Nothing like that other voice.

“This is Bailey Carpenter. I believe you phoned about my car.”

“Right. The silver Porsche.”

“That’s the one.”

“Yeah, sorry for calling so early. I wanted to catch you before you left for work.”

“At seven o’clock this morning?”

“Seven? No. It was only about ten minutes ago.”

Ten minutes ago, I repeat silently. “You said my car is ready?”

“Yep. There was a pretty deep scratch across the hood and one of the headlights was damaged, plus there were a few minor dents
along the driver’s side that we took care of. Bill comes to four thousand seven hundred dollars and twenty-six cents.”

Tell me you love me.

“What?”

“Sorry. I know it’s a lot,” Johnny Kroft apologizes.

What’s happening?

“But what can you do?” he asks. “It’s a Porsche, right? Expensive car, expensive repair bill.”

“What did you just say to me?”

Tell me you love me.

“What did I just say to you?” he repeats. “ ‘Expensive car, expensive repair bill’?” he asks, as if he’s not sure. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be flip. Of course it’s a lot of money.…”

“You didn’t just tell me to …?” I stop. Obviously he said nothing of the sort. We’re operating in two different realities. My reality is that I’m stark raving mad. “So my car is ready to be picked up?”

“Anytime you’re ready to stop by.” He gives me the address, at the corner of Third Street and Northwest 1st Avenue, within walking distance of my condo. I tell him I’ll drop by sometime this morning. He says he’ll look forward to showing me exactly what was done, adding that he thinks I’ll be pleased.

Tell me you love me
.

I hang up. But the words tunnel into my brain:
Tell me you love me. Tell me you love me. Tell me you love me.
They follow me into the shower.
Tell me you love me. Tell me you love me.
“You are officially off your rocker,” I acknowledge, pulling my wet hair into a ponytail as I emerge from the shower and get dressed—baggy white jeans and a loose black jersey top—before opening the blinds and staring toward Paul Giller’s apartment. Even without my binoculars I can see Paul and his wife moving about their bedroom. They are dressed—he in a casual shirt and jeans, she in some kind of uniform, like the kind my dental hygienist wears. They pass each other in front of their bed without touching.

The phone rings, and I jump. “Hello?”

“It’s Claire. Did I wake you?”

“No. I’m up.” I don’t tell her that I’ve been up since seven, when the first phone call of the morning jolted me rudely awake, because I’m no longer sure of any such thing. I remind myself that Claire and I drank almost two bottles of wine last night and that the alcohol is still in my system, no doubt causing me to hear things that aren’t there. There were no phone calls from the man who raped me, no voices commanding me to say anything. The only calls I got were from Carlito’s Auto Repair. Everything else is a product of my paranoid, alcohol-soaked brain. “My car’s ready,” I tell Claire. “I was just going to walk over and pick it up.”

“Please tell me you aren’t planning to drive it home.” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “I’ll be right over.”

“No, Claire. It’s your day off. You’re supposed to be relaxing and taking it easy.…”

“Don’t argue,” she says. “I’ve always wanted to drive a Porsche.”

She hangs up and I return to the window.
It can’t have escaped your notice that the man you’ve been watching fits the description of the man who raped you,
Claire said. Is it possible?

Just who is Paul Giller anyway?

Seconds later, I’m in the next room, leaning over my desk and accessing my computer. I haven’t so much as glanced at my Mac in weeks. My hands hover over the keyboard, shaking. This is who you are, I remind myself. This is what you do. And if you don’t start doing something soon, something concrete, you will never regain your sanity.

I google the name “Paul Giller.”

My computer screen immediately fills with more than a dozen listings. I dismiss several of these immediately. Two are for a photographer named Paul Giller who lives in Texas, another for a Paul Giller who, at a hundred and six, is Ohio’s oldest living resident. But the next five are for a Paul Giller who lives right here in Miami, a Paul Giller whose row of handsome headshots closely resembles the man who lives across the way. An actor, according to his Internet Movie Database profile.
More at IMDbPro,
the listing informs
me.
Contact info; View agent; Add or change photos.
I wonder if Heath knows him.

In minutes, I learn his middle name (Timothy), his date of birth (March 12, 1983), his birthplace (Buffalo, New York), that he was the son of a highly respected, now-deceased symphony conductor (Andrew Giller), and that he has his very own website (www.paulgiller.com). I check it immediately.

It contains a short biography, a list of contact numbers for agents, all of which I jot down, and his résumé (bit parts in several locally shot movies and a minor, although recurring, role in a now-canceled TV series that was shot in L.A. several years ago.)

His brief bio informs me he is six feet one, and 190 pounds. Experience has taught me to automatically subtract two inches and add ten pounds, but in Paul Giller’s case, the description seems accurate. According to his bio, he also spent some time in Nashville, where he recorded an album, now available on iTunes. (I can sample a selection, if I so choose, which I don’t.) Also listed are a few commercials, mostly local.

Again, the disconcerting thought enters my mind that he might know Heath. Could there be a connection between them? “Don’t be ridiculous,” I say out loud, suddenly angry, although I’m not sure why. I quit Paul Giller’s site and log onto Facebook.

Since I’m not an official “friend” of Paul’s, I have limited access to his page. What I
am
permitted to view is more photographs of the man, some serious, some smiling, some in profile, a few without a shirt. There are no pictures of him with anyone else, male or female, no photographs of the woman I saw him with last night and this morning or any of the women I saw him with last week. There is no mention anywhere of a wife.

According to the half dozen “get well soon” messages I see posted on the part of his wall to which I’m granted access, I gather that Paul Giller recently spent a few days in the hospital with a virulent strain of pneumonia. If he was in the hospital the night I was attacked, that would obviously eliminate him as a suspect.

I click out of Facebook and phone the number for Paul’s agent.

“You have reached the offices of Reed, Johnson, and Associates,
representing the finest talent Miami has to offer,” the recorded female voice announces. “The office is now closed. If you want to leave a message for Selma Reed, press 1. If you want to leave a message for Mark Johnson, press 2. If you want to …”

“I don’t want to,” I say, hanging up the phone and returning to my bedroom. What was I thinking? Of course the office is closed. It’s barely eight thirty in the morning.

I move to the window, grabbing my binoculars. Paul and the woman are still in their bedroom, still largely ignoring one another, careful to avoid contact as they move about the small room. The woman reaches into her purse for her lipstick and applies it without looking in the mirror, then she marches purposefully from the room, Paul following right behind.

Where are they going?

The woman’s clothes indicate that she’s dressed for work, as does the hour. Paul’s clothes tell me nothing. Where is he off to, so early in the morning?

Before I can think twice about what I’m doing, before I even
know
what I’m doing, I’m racing down the hall of my apartment, grabbing my purse, and heading out the door. If I stop to think, even for one minute, I will stop this craziness and return to the safety of my bed.

Except I’m going crazy there as well.

The elevator arrives within seconds of my pressing the call button, and I am about to step inside when I see a man standing off to the right. He is tall and heavyset, with graying hair and a nose that is too narrow for his wide-set eyes. My knees almost buckle with relief. He is not the man who raped me.

Although, can I really be sure?

“Going my way?” he asks with a smile.

I hesitate only briefly before my investigator’s instinct pushes me inside. This is what you do. This is who you are. And the only way to regain control of your life is by taking it. If the police lack the authority to investigate Paul Giller, I lack no such power. If there are rules against them tailing him without sufficient so-called cause, I am under no such restrictions.