Someone Is Watching (38 page)

“Elizabeth Gordon.” I’m seized with the fear that Adam Roth might actually know Elizabeth Gordon, that he could be one of her clients.

“Nice to meet you, Miss Gordon,” he says. “Pretty nasty day
to be out apartment hunting.” He leads me around the corner to his office.

In contrast to the large, empty lobby, the manager’s tiny office seems more like a storeroom. In the middle sits a large desk piled high with papers, folders, and floor plans; behind it, a comfortable-looking brown leather armchair; in front of it, two brown leather tub chairs. Several folding chairs are stacked in a corner. A large bookshelf full of colorful binders lines the wall to the right of the desk, while to the left stands an easel with an artist’s rendering of a tall glass building, probably this one, although it’s hard to tell since they all look pretty much the same.

“This is shaping up to be quite the storm,” Adam Roth remarks, sitting down behind his desk, and motioning toward the chairs in front of it for me to do likewise. “How can I help you, Miss Gordon?”

“I’m looking for an apartment.”

“To buy or rent?”

“Rent.”

He looks disappointed. “Are you sure? This is an ideal time to buy. Prices are down, interest rates are low.…”

“I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying in Miami.”

“I see. So we’re talking more short-term.”

“Yes.”

“A year’s lease or month to month?”

“Probably month to month.”

Adam Roth smiles, although he looks even further dejected. “How big an apartment are you interested in, Miss Gordon?”

“A one-bedroom, preferably on one of the upper floors, looking west.”

“Really? Most clients prefer an eastern view. Well,” he says, sifting through the papers on his desk until he finds the folder he’s looking for, “let’s see what we have available.”

I inch forward in my seat.

“As it turns out, we have quite a few one-bedroom suites available that face west. How does the eighteenth floor suit you?”

“How many floors does the building have?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“Then I’d prefer something higher. Maybe around twenty-seven?” According to the directory, Paul Giller lives in apartment 2706.

“Well, I should warn you that the prices go up with each floor and the view is pretty much the same.” He waves in the general direction of my building. “Let me see. I have a one-bedroom available on the twentieth floor, two on the twenty-first, one on the twenty-fourth, and one on the twenty-eighth.”

“What number is the suite on the twenty-eighth floor?”

“What number? Uh … it’s number 2802. Any particular reason you’d ask that?”

“Just curious. I once lived on the twenty-eighth floor of a building, and I thought it would be interesting if it were the same number.” I give him a shrug and my most winsome smile, a smile that says “charmingly kooky,” not “crazy.” “I’d like to have a look at that one, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course. That’s why I’m here.” He reaches inside his desk drawer for a set of keys. “The unit rents for sixteen hundred dollars a month. But for a down payment of only twenty thousand dollars, you could pay much less monthly and start building some home equity as well.”

“Would that I had twenty thousand dollars to put down,” I improvise, pushing myself to my feet and following after him as he exits the office.

“We do insist on a security deposit and first and last months’ rent in advance,” he tells me as we wait by the bank of elevators. “What is it you do, Miss Gordon, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I’m a therapist.”

“Really? Physical, occupational …?”

“Psycho,” I say, thinking this might be the best term to describe me.

“A psychotherapist? Really? You look so young.”

We take the elevator up to the twenty-eighth floor.

“This way.” He points to his right and we walk down the gray-carpeted hallway. I’m looking toward suite 2806 as Adam Roth
inserts the key inside the lock of suite 2802 and gives it a twist. “Miss Gordon? Or should that be Dr. Gordon?” he asks when I fail to respond to the name.

“Miss Gordon is fine.” The door falls open and we step inside a tiny gray-and-white marble foyer.

He shows me around the small apartment. “Floor-to-ceiling windows throughout. Marble flooring in the main area. Granite countertops in the kitchen. Modern appliances, including a dishwasher, microwave, and stacked washer-dryer,” he rattles off. “And now the bedroom.” We step inside the small square whose entire westerly wall is window. “Wall-to-wall plush carpeting as well as a walk-in closet and marble en suite bathroom. Quite a nice size, by today’s standards. So, what do you think?”

“It’s lovely. Do all the one-bedrooms facing west have the same layout?”

“Yes. There may be minor variations, if people purchased before construction began, but essentially what you’re seeing is the identical unit throughout.”

I walk to the window, stare out toward my building, trying to determine which apartment is mine. But the rain makes it almost impossible to see anything. I lay my head against the glass, straining to pinpoint my unit.

“Miss Gordon?” Adam Roth asks. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Just trying to get a feel for things.…”

I try counting the floors of my building from the ground up, but this proves too difficult, and I’m forced to settle for a general sense of where everything is located. But it’s obvious, even with the rain, even one floor removed and two units down, that Paul Giller has as good a view of my apartment as I have of his.

“Any questions?” Adam Roth asks as we return to the main living area.

“How much of the building is currently occupied?”

“Slightly less than half. We had a lot of speculators, and unfortunately, when the markets collapsed …”

“And the ratio of owners to renters?” I interrupt, wondering into which category Paul Giller falls.

“Probably about equal.”

“Is there a high turnover with the renters?”

“Not really, no. I assure you, Miss Gordon, that this is a very safe building, if that’s what’s concerning you.”

“No, I’m not concerned. I actually think I might know someone who lives here.”

Adam Roth looks at me expectantly.

“I met him at a party the other week. I think he said he was an actor. God, what was his name? Paul Something. Gilmore? Gifford?”

“Giller?” the building manager offers.

“Yes. That’s it. Paul Giller. Good-looking guy. I thought he said he lived in this building.”

“He does, yes.”

“Has he been here long?”

Adam Roth says nothing.

I pretend to take a closer look at the granite countertop in the kitchen. “I can’t remember if he said he owned or rented.”

“I’m afraid we don’t give out such information. You’d have to ask him those things yourself.”

“Oh, I doubt I’ll be seeing him again. I was just curious. Guys tell you all sorts of stories these days. You know how it is.”

“Is that what you’re really doing here, Miss Gordon? Checking up on a potential boyfriend?”

“What? No! Of course not. I was actually under the impression that Paul Giller already had a live-in girlfriend.”

“Again, something you’d have to ask him. Now, if we’re done here …” He walks toward the door.

“I guess we are.”

“I assume you’re not interested in seeing any of the other units.”

“No, thank you. I think I have a pretty good idea of what’s available.”

“Should I tell Mr. Giller you were asking after him?” Adam Roth asks as we step inside the elevator.

“I wouldn’t bother.”

“I suspected as much. It was lovely meeting you, Miss Gordon.” The elevator doors open into the lobby. “Oh, look. There’s Mr. Giller now.”

I take a step back, knowing there is nowhere for me to hide and trying to will myself into invisibility.

“Oh, sorry,” Adam Roth says, not even trying to disguise the smirk on his face. “I’m mistaken. It isn’t Mr. Giller after all.”

I stuff my hands into the pockets of my pants, partly so that he won’t see them shaking and partly to keep from wrapping them around his throat. I stare at the floor, afraid to even glance at the man who is not Paul Giller as he walks toward us.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Whiteside,” Adam Roth says in greeting.

“Hardly,” Mr. Whiteside replies, stepping inside the elevator. “Have you seen what it’s doing out there?”

“Good afternoon to be inside,” Adam Roth agrees. “Try not to get too wet, Miss Gordon,” he calls as I step out into the storm.

—

Heath is waiting in the lobby when I get home. “You look like a drowned rat,” he says.

“Where did you disappear to last night?” I ask in response, shaking the rain from my hair and watching him jump to avoid the spray.

He shrugs, all the answer I’m going to get.

“Good afternoon, Miss Carpenter,” Wes calls out as we pass by the concierge desk. “Hope you didn’t get too wet out there.”

“She looks like a drowned rat,” Heath calls back.

“Thank you for that.” I press the call button. “I’m really tired, Heath.” While part of me—the concerned sister part—is relieved to see that he is safe and sound, resplendent in a pair of skinny black jeans and a black silk shirt, another part of me—the exhausted human being part—just wants him to go away so that I can crawl into bed and pretend that today never happened. “Is there something you want?”

He looks hurt, and I feel a stab of guilt. “Why do you always assume I want something? I’m not Claire.…”

“Claire doesn’t want—” I break off. Heath obviously feels jealous and more than a little threatened by my newfound relationship with Claire. There is no point in trying either to explain or defend it. “I’m sorry,” I say again. It’s easier that way.

“Apology accepted,” he says as the elevators doors open and we step inside. “Look. Now that you mention it, there
is
something you can do for me.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“I need a favor,” he says. “I meant to talk to you about it last night, but … you kind of passed out on me.”

A middle-aged woman slips inside the elevator just as the doors are closing, smiles at Heath flirtatiously, and presses the button for the fifteenth floor.

“What kind of favor?” I ask as soon as she gets off.

“I need some money.”

“What do you mean, you need some money?”

He says nothing further until we reach my floor.

“Heath?”

“It’s just a loan. I wouldn’t ask you. It’s just that I don’t know where else to turn. I’m in trouble, and I need money.”

“What do you mean, you’re in trouble?”

“Do you think we could talk about this inside your apartment and not out here in the hall?”

“Do you think you could tell me what this is about?” I ask in return, unlocking my apartment door.

“I need thirty thousand dollars.”

“Thirty thousand dollars? Are you kidding?”

“It’s just temporary. You can take it out of my share of the inheritance.”

“There is no inheritance. Not until this lawsuit gets settled. Which, I remind you, could take years.”

“Well, then this could get tricky because I’m pretty much out of cash. And it seems I owe a few people money. People who aren’t nearly as understanding about this sort of thing as you are.”

“What are you saying?”

“It’s pretty simple, Bailey. I made a few bad bets here and there.”

“When did you start gambling?”

“I don’t know. Five, ten years ago? And I’m usually pretty good at it. Just not lately.”

“Are we talking loan sharks?”

“A quaint term, but an essentially accurate one. I paid them back most of what I owed when I sold my condo. For half of what it’s worth, I might add.”

“You sold your condo?”

“Why do you think I was living at Dad’s?”

“I don’t believe this.” I wonder if there could be a connection between Heath’s gambling debts and my assault. Was my rape intended as some kind of warning? Could my brother be responsible, no matter how inadvertently?

“I just owe another twenty thousand,” Heath is saying, “and then I’m in the clear.”

“I thought you said thirty.”

“Well, I could use a little something to live on. Come on, Bailey. Consider it an advance. I’ll pay you back every cent. Please. Don’t make me beg. We’re family. Not like some people I could mention.”

“Can we leave Claire out of this?” I sink to the sofa, burying my head in my hands, partly because I’m reeling, and partly because he’s right. I didn’t think twice about writing Claire that check for ten thousand dollars.

“Careful,” Heath warns. “You’re dripping all over everything.”

“I’ll call the bank,” I tell him. “Have them transfer the money into your account.”

“That’s great.” The relief in his voice is palpable. “You’re the best. You really are. You’re my hero.”

“Your hero,” I repeat and almost laugh. Some hero. “You can’t keep fucking up,” I tell him. “I can’t keep rescuing you. I don’t have the strength.”

“Are you kidding me? You’re stronger than anyone I know.”

I stare at him in disbelief.

“It’s true,” he says.

The phone rings.

“This is Wes, from the concierge desk,” Wes informs me when I pick up the phone in the kitchen. “Your niece is here.”

Jade is here? Why? “Send her up.”

“Don’t tell me,” Heath says from the doorway. “Saint Claire is on her way up with milk and cookies.”

“It’s Jade,” I tell him, wondering what more could possibly happen today.

“I should leave before she gets here.” Heath gives me a big hug. “I love you. Never doubt that.”

“I never do.”

He pulls out of our embrace. “You really should get out of those wet clothes,” he calls back as I watch him walk down the hall. “Call you tonight,” he says, as I’m closing the door.

Seconds later, Jade is knocking.

“Just ran into that gorgeous brother of yours,” she says by way of hello. She is wearing jeans that appear to have been painted on, a tight blue sweater, and at least three layers of mascara, her blond hair hanging in loose curls around her shoulders. On one side of her four-inch-high espadrilles sits a small suitcase, on the other a large overnight bag.