Someone Is Watching (23 page)

I can follow him at will. No one can stop me.

The elevator stops on the twentieth floor and a middle-aged man and woman step inside. They smile. There’s nothing to be afraid of. You’re getting better, taking control. These are my thoughts as the elevator makes another stop, this time on the fourteenth floor.

The doors open and David Trotter steps inside.

I cry out, everyone turning toward me as I back into the corner. I will myself to disappear, but it is too late. David Trotter has already seen me. He is staring right at me.

“What the hell is your problem?” he demands as the elevator doors close behind him. “What have I ever done to you?”

“Please leave me alone.”

“Leave
you
alone? My mother had a stroke, for God’s sake! She’s in the hospital up in Palm Beach, I have to drive all the way up there, I don’t sleep for days, and I come home to find the police on my doorstep.…”

“I’m sorry. It was all a misunderstanding.…”

“You bet it was.”

“Please …”

“Take it easy,” the gray-haired man advises.

“I was trying to help you!”

“It was a mistake.”

“Relax, mister,” the woman says. “You’re scaring her.”

“Scaring her? The bitch accused me of rape!”

“Oh, God.” I feel myself sinking to the floor as the elevator comes to a stop on the ground floor, its doors opening into the sun-filled lobby.

“Just stay the hell away from me,” David Trotter warns, the index finger of his right hand pointing at me like a gun. Then he turns and exits the elevator.

“Can I help you, Miss?” the gray-haired man is asking, his hand extended toward me.

I shake my head as I scramble to my feet. Then I push past him out the elevator. “What was that all about?” I hear somebody ask as I hurtle past the concierge desk.

“Miss Carpenter,” another voice calls out, but I don’t stop.

Minutes later, I find myself standing outside Paul Giller’s building. I’m not sure exactly what I intend to do, but I most definitely intend to do something.

—

The building in which Paul Giller lives—and in front of whose ornate wrought-iron-and-glass-paneled doors I am currently standing—is several stories taller than the one in which I live and more austerely modern in appearance. Or maybe it’s just more austere. The lobby is white on white—white marble walls and floors, a single white sofa, fake white flowers reaching toward the high ceiling from a tall white porcelain vase that stands in a corner. Not nearly enough furniture for the space, which is perhaps indicative of the building itself, which has remained more than half-empty since it was completed. Originally intended as a luxury condominium complex, much like mine, construction was already well under way when the economy suddenly tanked. Owners fled in droves. Prices dropped precipitously. Buyers dried up, then disappeared altogether.

The builders regrouped, deciding to rent out the remaining units, although judging by the large signs that hang along the exterior walls—
LUXURY UNITS FOR RENT BY THE MONTH
.
NO LONG
-
TERM LEASE REQUIRED
—they’ve had only limited success. I note that there is no concierge and that a resident directory is posted just inside the lobby doors. I open them—they are lighter, less substantial than they appear—and approach the directory, locating Paul Giller’s name and the number of his apartment. I also note there is a building manager, but when I press his number—drawing up a list of questions in my head to ask him—there is no answer.

Which is when I see them.

They are walking side by side across the lobby, and while they aren’t touching, they seem friendly enough. Friendlier, certainly, than they were moments ago in their apartment. He’s leaning toward her, and she’s smiling at something clever he’s said. Perhaps he apologized for last night’s boorish behavior on the elevator ride
down, spoke the words she needed to hear. Who knows? We see what we want to see. We hear what we want to hear.

Not always, I remind myself.

Tell me you love me.

I spin around. A man brushes past me, his shoulder slamming into mine as he hurries outside, as if I’m invisible.

I no longer have any sense of myself, I realize, panicking as my reflection in a nearby square of glass disappears in a sudden streak of sunlight. I no longer know what is real and what is imaginary. I no longer know who I am.

Except I
do
know. I’m a private investigator. And I’m doing what I do best: I’m watching.

I lower my head as Paul Giller and his wife, if that’s who she is, stride past me, almost close enough to touch, then exit the building. I watch as they approach the curb and wait to cross the street with the lights.

The same impulse that brought me here compels me to follow them.

They still haven’t noticed me, and I’m careful to stay a safe distance behind them. They stop at the next corner, then kiss briefly before going their separate ways. I hesitate, not sure whom to follow. But the choice is made easy when Paul hails a passing cab and climbs inside, disappearing into the morning rush hour traffic. Mrs. Paul, as I have chosen to think of her, continues on by foot.

I scramble to catch up to her.

The neighborhood is a curious mix of old and new, of tall glass high-rises and single-story specialty shops, of sophisticated restaurants and rickety fruit juice stands, of the ethnic and the homegrown, all existing side by side, interwoven and inseparable, although not always compatible. And while English is considered the official language of the financial district, it’s mostly Spanish one sees and hears.

But this morning I see and hear nothing. I am aware only of a woman in a pale blue uniform walking briskly down the street, her arms swinging at her sides.

I am only a few steps behind her when she stops suddenly and
swings around. I brace myself for a confrontation. “Are you following me?”

Except she does no such thing. Instead, she approaches a shop window to take in a display of neon-colored shoes. I wait, holding my breath. After a few moments of staring wistfully at a pair of outrageously high-heeled, raspberry-and-purple pumps, she steps away from the window. I squat down on one knee, pretend to be tying my shoelace, although if Mrs. Paul were to take a good look, she’d notice the flip-flops I’m wearing have no laces. I push myself unsteadily to my feet as Mrs. Paul continues on her way.

A young man brushes past me with such speed that he almost knocks me over.
“Scuse,”
he mumbles over his shoulder, continuing on his way without stopping, even as I spin around, hands shooting out in front of me, my body tipping toward the concrete of the sidewalk. Luckily, other hands reach out to prevent my fall. One hand brushes against the side of my breast.

I slap it away, recoiling as if I’ve been shot.

“Take it easy,” a middle-aged man says, lifting his hands into the air as if someone is pointing a gun at his back. He shakes his head and walks away, mumbling.

“Are you all right?” a woman asks warily.

“Yes,” I say, and then, as she is walking away, “Thank you.”

But if she hears me, she gives no sign. I lose her in the crowd.

I have lost Mrs. Paul as well. I spin around, looking in all directions, but she is nowhere to be found.

I am as much relieved as disappointed. What did I hope to achieve by following her?

It’s better this way, I tell myself, deciding to talk to Paul Giller’s building manager instead, glean any information I might need from him.

And then, of course, there she is.

As I am turning around, I catch my reflection in the front window of a hairdressing salon, just opening for business. And there she is behind the reception counter, alongside another young woman, this one with long curly dark hair and huge hoop earrings. They are laughing. I push open the door, a cold blast of air-conditioning
raining down on my head from the overhead vents. The women continue their conversation, ignoring me as I approach.

“So who’s my first appointment?” Mrs. Paul is asking the woman with the giant hoop earrings.

The other woman checks her computer screen. “Loreta De Sousa, in half an hour.”

Mrs. Paul’s shoulders slump visibly. “Shit. What a way to start the week. She’s never happy with the color she chooses. Never has the patience to sit still and let her nails dry properly. Then she smudges them, and insists I do them all again. Shit.”

So, not a dental assistant after all. A beautician.

“Excuse me,” I venture.

Two sets of startled eyes turn toward me.

“Can I help you?” the woman with the giant hoop earrings asks.

I look directly at Mrs. Paul. “I’d like a manicure.”

The salon is clean and modern, with white walls, black sinks, and burgundy leather swivel chairs, mirrors everywhere. And even though it is first thing on a Monday morning, when many hairdressing salons remain closed, this place is bustling. There are already a handful of clients present, one woman chattering away while getting her hair washed, her head thrown back to expose her jugular, another whose eyes are closed and whose head is completely covered with strips of aluminum foil, and another talking into her cell phone and thumbing through a celebrity tabloid while her stylist, a slim-hipped young man with pink-highlighted, platinum hair and tight, leopard-print pants, flits around her head with a pair of scissors, like a giant gnat.

“Sorry we don’t have enough time for a pedicure, too. I have this client coming in half an hour,” Mrs. Paul says.

“Loreta De Sousa.”

“What?” She stops, spins around, brown eyes widening with alarm. “You know her?”

“I heard you mention her name when I walked in.”

Mrs. Paul sighs with relief, then shakes her head in obvious
dismay. “Sorry about that. Never good business for one client to hear the staff bad-mouthing another. Tabatha would be horrified.”

“Tabatha? Is she the owner?”

“Oh, God, no. You’ve never watched
Tabatha Takes Over
?”

I shake my head.

“It’s this show on Bravo. It’s great,” she says, directing me to a chair in front of a small manicure table. “Tabatha’s this really cool blonde who takes over small businesses, like hair salons, that are struggling, and plants hidden cameras so she can spy on everyone, and then she tells them what they’re doing wrong and what they should be doing to make it right. She changes people’s lives. She really does.”

“Amazing,” I say. What I find truly amazing is that my niece is far from alone in her obsession with reality TV. Tabatha and her various clones are indeed changing people’s lives because reality TV is changing the face of reality itself. This thought makes me almost dizzy, and I look around the room, trying to ground myself.

On the wall beside me are several rows of Plexiglas shelves filled with small bottles of colorful nail polishes, from the palest white to the darkest black. Behind me are shelves filled with a variety of beauty products—facial cleansers, body lotions, anti-aging creams—and two big burgundy leather chairs used for pedicures. “They’re massage chairs,” Mrs. Paul tells me, following the direction of my gaze. “Absolutely fabulous. Too bad we don’t have time for a pedicure. Maybe next time. Do you know what color you want for your nails?”

I shrug. “What do you suggest?”

She gives me a quick once-over. “Well, you don’t strike me as much of a pastel person. Am I right?”

I nod.

“How about red? This is a great new shade.” She holds up a tiny round bottle of thick red liquid. It looks pretty much the same as all the other bottles of red liquid on the shelf, but then, she’s the expert.

“Great.”

She deposits the bottle of polish on the table and then busies
herself at the sink. I estimate her age as early thirties and note that she is about five feet, six inches tall and approximately one hundred and forty pounds. Her hair is chin-length and light brown. She is pretty in an ordinary, everyday sort of way. Her eyes are brown, her nose narrow, her lips—probably her best feature—pleasantly bow-shaped. If there is nothing unappealing about her, neither is there anything spectacular. Other than liberally applied mascara, she wears very little makeup. It’s hard to picture her as the wife of Paul Giller, alias Narcissus, a man whose tastes veer toward the noticeably younger and more wantonly seductive.

Mrs. Paul turns toward me. “I’m sorry. I just realized I don’t know your name.”

“It’s Avery,” I say, the first name that pops into my head. “And yours?”

“Elena.” She extends her right hand toward me, and I notice her fingers are free of rings. That doesn’t necessarily mean anything. The woman is a manicurist after all.

She deposits a plastic container full of soapy warm liquid on the table and directs my right hand into it while examining my left. “You ever had a manicure before?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Not in some time, I’ll bet. Your hands are a mess. How long have you been picking at your cuticles?”

I feel instantly self-conscious. I used to pick at my cuticles whenever I got nervous, although I had that nasty habit pretty much under control at the time I was raped. Truthfully, I have no recollection of starting it again, but there is no denying the evidence. I try to pull my hand away but she holds tight.

“You see these ridges?” She points to the thin lines cutting into the surface of my nails. “I’ll try to buff these out a bit, but if you don’t stop picking, you’ll make them permanent. And it would be a shame because, otherwise, you have very pretty hands.” She picks up an emery board and brushes it across the nails of my left hand as I ponder the best way to proceed. “So, you’re here bright and early on a Monday morning,” she says before I can decide. “What is it you do, Avery?”

“What do I do?” I repeat.

“Hard question?” She looks up from what she is doing, her brow furrowing.

“I’m between jobs,” I say. Not quite a lie.

“You get laid off?”

I nod. Talk about getting laid, I think, wondering where I have suddenly acquired this macabre sense of humor.