The Follower (27 page)

“Stop it, Duncan,” she said, and the dog scampered away. Then she said to Peter, “Sorry—he hates new people. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“I’m fine,” Peter said. “Actually, I was hoping you could go over to her place right now. Here, I can give you some money. I’ll give you more tomorrow, or even tonight if you want to meet then.”

Peter opened his wallet and took out several hundred-dollar bills and said, “This enough for now?”

Without taking the money, Hillary said, “Why do you think she’s with someone right now?”

The questions were getting to be a pain. “Look,” Peter said, “you said you can start immediately. That’s why I’m giving you all this money.”

“I’ll take the job,” she said. “I’m just trying to find out as much background as possible.”

“This isn’t that type of job,” Peter said. “I just need to know if she’s seeing someone else. If she is, some pictures of the guy would be great. But I think what I’m asking for is pretty simple.”

“Do you have a photo of her?”

Shit, Peter hadn’t thought of that.

“I can describe her. She’s short to average height. Medium-length straight brown hair. Wait a second.”

He asked her if he could go online for a second, and she said that was fine, to go right ahead. He sat at her desk and did a Google image search for Katie Porter and scrolled down to one of the photos he’d found on the Internet while he was in Mexico. It had been taken a couple of years ago, while she was in college and was working as a career resource assistant. It wasn’t the best picture of her—no photo did her justice—but it would do.

After printing out the photo on a regular piece of paper, Peter wrote her address below it, along with his cell number.

“This is all the information you need,” he said. “Just watch her all day today and tonight, and if we could talk this evening, maybe around ten or eleven, that would be perfect.”

Hillary seemed hesitant—Peter couldn’t tell if she was suspicious of something or not—but agreed to get to work immediately.

Peter took a cab to his hotel. He was relieved that the problem had been taken care of, that Katie was being watched.

Last night and early this morning, Peter had packed all his belongings into two suitcases. After he took a last look around in the closet and under the bed, he wheeled the suitcases onto the elevator and went down to the lobby.

Hector saw him and said, “Say it ain’t so, man.”

“It’s so,” Peter said.

“Yo, it won’t be the same here,” Hector said. “Serious. Who’m I gonna talk to?”

“You have Lucy.”

“That’s true, but she ain’t here at night and I can’t talk on my cell all the time, know what I’m saying? Yo, where’s your new apartment at again?”

“Thirty-second Street.”

“Yo, that shit’s close by. You can still come by here and hang sometimes, right?”

“Of course.”

“That’s cool, yo. And we’re gonna go out with our girls sometime, right?”

“Yeah, let’s definitely do that.”

Hector gave Peter a printout of his bill. Peter signed it without bothering to even glance at the total. Then Hector came around the counter and gave Peter a big hug goodbye.

“I’m gonna miss you, man,” Hector said.

Peter told Hector he would miss him, too. But then, walking down Lexington, pulling his luggage behind him, he doubted he would ever talk to Hector again. He had nothing against the guy—he’d actually enjoyed all of their conversations and the guy couldn’t have been nicer to him—but he
didn’t expect his future with Katie to include interacting with many other people outside their marriage. Once they settled down and quit their jobs, the world would be about them and them alone. He couldn’t see them as one of those couples that socialized a lot. They’d definitely be homebodies.

It was Sunday, so the workers at Peter’s apartment had the day off. When he arrived, he took a look around, delighted with the progress that had been made since his last visit. The final coat of paint in the master bedroom had been applied and Peter was relieved that the Martha Stewart delicious melon looked as good on the walls as it had on the color palette. More furniture had arrived—the Crate & Barrel maple coffee table, the Charles P. Rogers wrought-iron canopy bed, the dining room table and chair set from Domain. The sixty-four-inch wide-screen LCD TV had arrived and the home theater system was all hooked up. Considering he had only hired a contractor and not a decorator, Peter was very pleased with how well everything went together. He had purchased most of the stuff from catalogs, wanting to get the place together as quickly as possible. If Katie had other ideas, he’d let her redecorate however she wanted to. Hell, if she didn’t like the apartment, they could sell it and buy a different one, or buy a house in the country. Peter had only bought the apartment because he wanted to show Katie he was serious about starting a life with her. When he’d arrived in New York from Mexico, he’d immediately gone to several real estate agents and told them that he only wanted to see apartments that he could close on quickly, where the sellers were desperate to make deals. On the second day of looking, he’d found the apartment he ended up buying. He paid for it in cash and was able to close within three weeks.

Settling down on the leather couch, Peter imagined that Katie was next to him. It was a normal weekday night. They’d just had dinner and now they were cuddling. He was looking intensely into her eyes, hanging on every word she said. Then they started talking about the future, about the kids they’d have. They would make great parents, and Katie especially would make a great mother.

Instead of ordering in for dinner, Peter decided to christen the kitchen and the new stainless steel appliances. He could never even imagine trying to cook without following a recipe, so he walked to the Borders on Second Avenue and bought a cookbook by Jamie Oliver, which had a recipe for pot-roasted pork with fennel and rosemary. Then he cabbed it to a Bed Bath & Beyond across town and bought the utensils he needed, and on the way back to his apartment he stopped at a gourmet grocery and bought all the ingredients, and went to a wine store and bought a nice California zinfandel. He wished his stereo was connected so he could play some music to help put him in the mood, but he had to make do by singing an off-key version of “You Light Up My Life.” Although he had an awful voice, he loved to sing, especially while cooking or showering, and as far as he was concerned, the love ballads from the seventies were where it was at. He also liked seventies and eighties soft rock and as a teenager lived on Barry Manilow, Air Supply, and REO Speedwagon. As with movies, he only liked music that was uplifting, that made him happy. He could never understand how people could listen to stuff like grunge or metal or—the worst—the blues. Wasn’t life depressing enough?

Although he made sure to measure all the ingredients precisely and he worked slowly, following every instruction, he must’ve done something wrong somewhere, because the food came out awful. The pork was too dry, the rosemary was bitter, and the fennel made the whole dish taste like licorice. Even the arugula salad disappointed. Although he’d washed it carefully, he bit down on a pebble and nearly cracked a tooth, and the vinaigrette was too garlicky. He trusted that Jamie Oliver knew what he was doing and the food wasn’t supposed to taste like this, so the only explanation was that somewhere along the way he had screwed up. Furious with himself, he slapped his head a couple of times and said, “You fuckin’ moron.” Then he sat at the dining room table and poured a glass of wine and tried to enjoy the meal, but he couldn’t even stomach the first bite. He spit the food out and, in total disgust, flung the plate across the room and swatted away the glass and the bottle of wine.

He cleaned up the mess, but decided not to order in any dinner or cook an alternate meal. Maybe if he went to bed hungry, it would teach him to cook his food properly next time.

As nine o’clock approached, he started worrying about the detective. Not about her doing her job properly—he assumed she was qualified—but about what she might find. Peter had no idea how he’d react if it turned out there was some other guy in the picture. While he couldn’t imagine Katie deceiving him in that way, he had to prepare himself for the possibility. He knew what he’d do—get rid of the guy as quickly as possible—but he just hoped that his emotions didn’t get the best of him, and that he was able to deal with the situation in a rational, controlled way.

At a little before ten, his cell rang. He was disappointed to see Hillary Morgan’s number on the display rather than Katie’s. Still, he answered eagerly, saying, “Hey, what’s going on?”

“I’ve been doing a surveillance since a little after you left this afternoon.”

“And? What’d you find out?”

“Not much—fortunately for you, I suppose. I didn’t see her leave the building with anyone except a girl with curly blond hair. But you feared she was having another heterosexual relationship, right?”

“That sounds like it was her roommate,” Peter said. “Where’d they go?”

“To a falafel place on Second Avenue.”

“Did they meet anyone there?”

“No, they dined alone. Then, on the way home, they stopped at a grocery store. I’m in front of the building now, and they’re still there. I was planning to stay till around midnight, and then I can pick up tomorrow morning if you—”

“No, that’s okay,” Peter said, smiling, relieved. “If you can stay till midnight, that would be great. But there’s no need to watch her tomorrow. If I need your services again, I’ll call you. And I’ll bring you the balance of what I owe you tomorrow morning, okay?”

Hillary hesitated then said, “Oh…Okay,” and Peter clicked off.

He went around the apartment, shouting, “Yes! Baby!” and pumping his fist in the air. His prayers had been answered. Katie had been faithful to him; they could start their lives together without any lingering doubts.

Peter felt like he was back in control of everything, and he planned to keep it that way.

When Katie woke up on Sunday
morning she decided not to go to the gym. She knew Peter would be there, and she felt like they needed a little break from each other, and it would be better to spend the day apart.

She still wanted to get some exercise, though, so she went running in the park, around the reservoir. She was in the middle of her second lap when her cell rang. She didn’t recognize the number on the display and let her voice mail pick up. When she finished her run and did her stretching near the Ninetieth Street entrance to the park, she played the message from Detective Himoto. He didn’t say much, just asked her to call him back as soon as possible. It was hard to read his tone because she’d only spoken to him that one time, but he didn’t seem very happy.

She returned the call right away and he said, “Thanks for getting back to me so quickly.”

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you a few more questions,” he said.

“About what?”

“About the murder.”

“I thought you caught the guy.”

“We had a confession, but it’s doubtful the guy did it.”

“What’re you talking about? Yesterday you—”

“He was the wrong guy.” Himoto sounded impatient. “I really need to talk to you again. How’s right now?”

Katie explained that she’d just finished a run and needed to go home and shower, but arranged for Himoto to come by her place in forty-five minutes.

Walking home, Katie felt very unsettled. She’d been starting to accept Andy’s death; now it was like she had to deal with the shock all over again. She also felt guilty as hell for going on a date with Peter, for enjoying herself so soon after Andy was killed.

Then the fear kicked in.

The killer was still out there, and for all she knew he’d come after her next. She knew she was being irrational, that the murder was random and had absolutely nothing to do with her, but on the way home from the park she found herself walking much faster than normal and looking around a lot.

At her apartment, she showered, and while she was still rinsing the shampoo out of her hair, Susan started knocking on the door.

“What is it?” Katie shouted to be heard over the rushing water.

“A detective’s coming up to see you.”

Katie cursed Himoto. It couldn’t have been forty-five minutes already. God, this was so fucking annoying.

She hurried to finish showering and when she came out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, Himoto was sitting on the couch in the living room. He looked over at her, his eyes widening for a moment, then looked away quickly and apologized. Maybe this wouldn’t have been a big deal for some girls, but Katie didn’t have the greatest body image in the world and she couldn’t help feeling embarrassed.

“Give me a couple of minutes,” she said, and then she took a good fifteen, wanting to make him wait as punishment for his rudeness.

When she came out, Himoto said, “Sorry about before. Your roommate let me in and—”

“It’s fine,” Katie said, still embarrassed and wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible. “So what do you want from me? I already told you everything I know the other day.”

“Your cooperation is very much appreciated. Unfortunately,
these situations often require repeated questioning, especially from those closely associated with the victim.”

The formal cop-speak was frustrating, and Katie wished he’d get to the point. She rolled her eyes slightly and said, “I understand.”

“Great,” he said. “I want to know more about your relationship with William Bahner.”

“Who?”

“Andrew Barnett’s roommate.”

Katie needed a few more seconds, then said, “Oh, Will. What about him?”

“How well do you know him?”

“I barely know him at all. Why? Wait, you don’t think—”

“When was the last time you spoke to him?”

“Spoke to him?” Katie was freaking out, imagining having to tell Amanda that the guy she’d set her up with was a killer. “The other day. I mean, Wednesday, when we all went out. Me, Andy, Will, my friend Amanda.”