Someone's Watching (26 page)

Robbie guessed this was where the more serious crimes were investigated. There were several desks in rows, occupied by people looking at their computers or engaged in conversation with each other. Well, at least it wasn’t the interrogation room.

Lieber was sitting behind a corner desk covered with files and a computer monitor. Behind her were whiteboards filled with writing in different colors. Her face was drawn and strands of hair escaped from her hairclip. “What’s wrong?” Lieber asked.

Did the detective think Robbie had returned to tell her that Jeremy had, in fact, killed Brett? And Robbie realized Lieber was probably working as hard as Robbie to clear Jeremy of suspicion.

“I have some new information about my sister.”

Lieber’s face relaxed. “Please, sit down.” She touched the chair that was catty-corner to the desk.

There was a coffee stain on Lieber’s white blouse that hadn’t been there this morning, and Robbie noticed the cover of a folder on the corner of the desk was dark and damp, probably from spilled coffee.

“So tell me,” the detective said.

“I think Kate posted a new message on Joanne’s Facebook page.”

“Damn. How could I have missed that?” Lieber tapped on a few keys, going directly to the group page set up for Joanne. “I’ve been checking back for messages from time to time.” She scrolled down, stopping at the arrowhead photo. “Well, look at this.”

She read it and shook her head.

It’s my fault you’re in heaven. But remember, Joanne. You were always better than an angel
.

Lieber tapped her fingers against her desk. There were age spots on the backs of her hands. Around them was the buzz of voices, phones ringing. “I don’t know, Robbie. Anyone could have posted it.”

“But I think it was Kate. That she’s still alive.”

“And announcing to the world that she may have been complicit in Joanne’s death? That doesn’t make sense.”

“But isn’t there some way you can trace the message? Figure out where it was sent from? Then maybe you’ll be able to find her.”

“We can try that, but even if we find the computer that this was sent from, that doesn’t mean Kate will still be near it. She could have used one at an Internet café, or hotel business center. Or more likely, it wasn’t even sent by Kate in the first place.” She typed something into her computer. An e-mail. Then she pressed “send.” “Okay, I’ve asked one of our techie guys to trace this.”

“But look at the message itself. It feels like Kate was giving us a clue here.”

“Maybe.” Lieber scrolled up to the recent messages.

Robbie saw the one she’d posted with the picture of the sandal. There was no reply.

Lieber leaned in closer. “What’s this? You found a sandal?” She read aloud:

Hi. I’m a relative of Kate’s. Please let me know if you think this sandal belonged to Kate or Joanne. It may help us find Kate and figure out what happened to Joanne
.

“Where did you find a sandal?”

“At Mike’s house in Key Largo. In the bushes.”

“Where is it now?”

Where was it? At Jeremy’s apartment? No. She’d put it back in her satchel. “Here,” Robbie said. Jeremy had sealed it in a plastic baggie to preserve the soil and water spots.

Lieber took it from Robbie. “What made you pick it up?”

“I guess I wondered why someone would leave a shoe behind.”

Lieber studied it. “It’s from Payless. There must be hundreds of girls and women who could own this shoe.”

“Right. But don’t you see? The women at Mike’s house aren’t the types who shop at Payless. A teenager from Deland might.”

Lieber shook her head.

“It’s too much of a coincidence,” Robbie said. “A water bottle receipt from Key Largo was in Joanne’s Volvo, someone saw the girls at the tiki bar, then this sandal is lying in the bushes. How can there not be a connection?”

“I’m not saying there isn’t.”

“Then Kate’s disappearance and Joanne’s death are connected to Mike. It has to be.”

“It’s a possibility.”

“No. It’s more than a possibility.”

“Calm down, Robbie. This is a good lead. And we’ll be following
up on it. But we’re also juggling lots of other things right now. Things that point to who may have killed Brett Chandler.”

A heaviness settled in Robbie’s chest. “Like what?”

Lieber leaned closer to Robbie. “You must know Jeremy’s in a bad situation.”

Robbie looked down at the damp folder on the corner of Lieber’s desk.

“He was seen arguing with Brett at BURN, then at the gym on Monday morning. In fact, a couple of guys had to hold them back from each other. Then several people saw them angry and leaving Mike’s house together. Jeremy’s admitted that they got into a physical fight.”

“But Jeremy didn’t kill Brett. You know that.”

“What I believe is irrelevant. When the DA has enough evidence—”

“But then you’ll stop looking for the real killer. And that’s very likely someone who’s connected to Kate’s disappearance and Joanne’s death.”

Lieber put the sandal, still in the plastic bag, down hard on her desk. “I’m doing everything I can, Robbie.”

The light caught the Lucite heel of the delicate shoe.

And Robbie thought about her sister wearing it. How pretty it would have looked on her foot.

Something was wrong. Very wrong. And Angel was scared. More scared than usual. Even the fuzz in her head couldn’t block the needles. The needles that flew out of Tyra like a runaway sewing machine—jabbing, jabbing, jabbing.

“What the fuck’s he thinking?” Tyra said under her breath. She was watching that guy go back into the building. The sad-looking one named Jeremy. Angel liked him. Had liked him the first time she’d seen him and he told her to come by if she ever needed something. But she hadn’t dared. What could he possibly do to help her, anyway?

“Trouble,” Tyra muttered. “That’s all we need now. More fucking trouble.” She sat up and fastened her bikini top. “Come on, girl,” she said to Angel. “Get dressed. I need to get upstairs and make some calls.”

Angel tied the back of her top while Tyra gathered up their towels. The sun burned through her back. Burned through the blur in Angel’s head. Tyra was distracted. Not watching Angel like she usually did. For an instant, Angel’s heart raced. She could bolt. Run across the pool area out to the lobby. Tell the concierge to call the police.

But then what? Then she’d be back with the same old problem. They’d ask about Joanne, and they’d lock her up for good.

Tyra walked ahead, expecting Angel to follow. Angel lingered, adjusting her sandal. What was she thinking? Was she crazy? Like
early this morning when everyone was arguing in the living room. Someone had left a laptop opened on the kitchen table and Angel had gone and sent Joanne a message. Almost like she wanted to get caught.

Tyra stopped and turned around. “Get a move on, Angel.”

Angel followed Tyra into the lobby—white marble floors, backless black leather sofas. And cold. Angel shivered in her sheer cover-up as they waited for the elevator. Two of the four were out of commission. Tyra tapped her foot and muttered obscenities. Her toenails were long and painted orange with tiny, sparkly diamonds.

Something was going on. Why had that old, weird-looking man yelled at Tyra and Luis this morning? He’d been talking about fuckups, some client jumping off his balcony. Angel thought he meant the creep from Friday. The one she vomited on.

Tyra had acted all tough with the old guy until he said that someone got killed last night. And that freaked out Tyra. Like suddenly she was scared for herself.

The elevator door opened. Tyra tugged Angel’s arm and pulled her in. But just before the door closed completely, some guy stuck his hand into the elevator and the door opened back up. He kept his mirrored sunglasses on, even though he was inside.

Angel recognized him from the pool. He was wearing this dumb shirt, a floppy hat, and carrying a beach bag. He glanced at the lit floor button and didn’t press any others.

Tyra slipped her arm through Angel’s and pulled her closer.

The elevator opened on fifteen, and Tyra and Angel got out. The guy followed. Tyra held Angel tighter and Angel had the sense that she was being used as a shield. Tyra slowed down as they got to their apartment. The guy kept walking past.

“Fucker,” Tyra said under her breath. She relaxed her grip on Angel, reached into her bag for the key and unlocked the door. Angel stepped inside the apartment, but as she did, Tyra screamed.

The guy with the floppy hat had barged in, slamming the door behind him. He had his arm around Tyra, a knife at her throat. “Where are they?” he asked.

Angel froze.

The man poked the tip of the knife into flesh and squeezed Tyra tighter. A spot of red appeared. It began to drip down Tyra’s neck. “Where are the fucking videos?” he asked. His voice was rough and squishy, like he was trying to disguise it. “Talk fast, or I’ll fucking kill you.”

Angel darted into the bedroom. No lock on the door. Angel already knew that after trying to lock herself in. None in the bathroom, either. The closet was shallow, under the bed too obvious. There was nowhere to hide. She ran out to the balcony. Fifteen stories up. She never came out here, afraid to look down. Afraid of heights since she’d fallen from the uneven bars in gymnastics five years ago.

The balcony continued the length of the apartment with no barriers. But on either side was a concrete wall separating it from the adjacent balconies. The walls extended the height of the room and the width of the balcony. How the hell was she going to climb around to get to one of the other apartments? But she had no choice.

She sat up on the railing and kicked off her sandals. Then she stood on the narrow metal edge, holding onto the concrete wall. The blurriness in her head cleared, replaced with the sound of her breathing. Like someone had put a mike up to her mouth and turned the volume too high. She clutched the wall, feeling her entire body trembling. The rough concrete scraped her fingers. The bar felt familiar beneath her curled feet.

Don’t look down, she told herself. Don’t look down. Somewhere in the distance she heard Tyra scream.

Go, she told herself. Do it.

She reached around the concrete wall with her other foot, until
she was suspended between the two balconies, holding onto the jutting divider with both hands.

One more step. Do it. One more step.

She brought her other foot around. When it touched the rail, she propelled herself forward onto the balcony. She landed hard on the neighbor’s Astroturf. She got up, rubbing her shoulder, and ran to the sliding door. Locked. She could see inside. Unmade bed, dead plant, a pile of clothes. She banged on the door. No answer.

She ran to the next room—the living room—and tried the door. Locked. Shit. Shit. Shit. Then she tried the next door, which led to the dining room. Also locked.

She wrapped her arms around herself, trembling uncontrollably. What to do? What to do? Would the man come after her when he was finished with Tyra? He’d know for sure that she’d climbed over to one of the adjacent apartments. There was nowhere else she could have gone.

She couldn’t take a chance. She had to get to the next apartment before the man came looking for her.

She went to the end of the balcony and climbed up on the railing. You’ve already done it once, she told herself. It’s no big deal. She grabbed the concrete wall, reached around with one foot.

Don’t look down. Don’t look down.

Someone was shouting from below. Her eyes turned to the sound.

Oh my God. Little people like ants. Trees below her. Water. A big blue rectangle. Oh my God. She swooned, her feet clenching the bar. Falling. She was falling. She threw her body forward to counterbalance herself and landed with a thud on tile, knocking over a planter. Smell of damp soil all around her. She started to cry. She was shaking. So scared. Daddy, she thought. Please come help me.

But she knew he wouldn’t. He probably thought she was dead.

Somewhere below came the sound of a honking horn.

She couldn’t stay here. What if the man came after her?

She looked in through the sliding glass doors. The layout of the apartment was reversed. She tried the door that led to the dining room. Locked. Nooooo.

She went to the living room door. Locked.

She doubled over, crying hysterically as she pulled on the bedroom door. It slid open. She stepped inside, locking it behind her, and sank to the floor.

She wasn’t sure how long she sat with her legs pulled up to her chest. Just sat there and cried. Five minutes? Ten?

She looked around the bedroom. Bed made up with dozens of pillows. All different. She wanted to climb between the pillows and just hide there. Hide forever.

But what happened when the people who lived here came home? They’d call the police. Of course they would. Breaking and entering. Not that it was a big deal after murder.

And what about the man? Would he come looking for her? Could he smash the glass door when he found her? Would he kill her?

She had to get out of here. But where could she go?

And then she remembered. The sad guy who said he’d help her.

You can come by anytime
, he’d said.
Apartment 820
.

Anytime
, he’d said.

Jeremy paced across the Oriental rug in front of the sliding doors that led to his balcony. Back and forth. Back and forth. There was nothing else to do. Nowhere to go. He pounded his fist into the palm of his other hand. It was sore from punching Brett. Brett, who was dead.

How long before the cops came to arrest him? And here he was with no idea how to get out of this mess.

There was a knock on his door. He froze. But the cops wouldn’t knock so lightly. He let out a relieved breath. It was probably Robbie back from talking to her father. He wondered if she’d also gone to tell Lieber about the message Kate sent Joanne on Facebook.

The knock again, more urgent.