Watch You Die (11 page)

On my way down the hall toward the elevator I was stopped by Nancy, the day manager. A tall woman with short blondish hair and a beautiful complexion like perfectly blended café au lait, she was one of those friendly and efficient people you were always pleased to see.

“Darcy – I didn’t realize you were here. I was about to call you.”

“Hi, Nancy.”

“Someone tried to visit just now but he isn’t on your list. I don’t remember his name. He said he was a cousin.”

“Cousin?” I had no cousins and neither did my parents; all their close relatives had been wiped out sixty years ago in the war and therefore we had no
extended
family whatsoever. It had always been just us three. Then just us two. “What did he say exactly?”

“He was downstairs, asking to be let up. He wanted to see Eva.”

“You didn’t let him up, did you?”

“No! Not without your permission.”

“There are no cousins,” I said. “Definitely don’t let him up, OK? Don’t let anyone up except me or Nat.”

Nancy was directly in front of me now and she seemed to sense that I was upset. She put her hand on my shoulder and smiled. “Don’t worry. We won’t.”

“Thank you.”

I proceeded to the elevator and held my key in the lock until it arrived. My hand was shaking as I clumsily extracted the key. Alone in the elevator, gliding down toward the lobby, I took a few deep breaths. This couldn’t be happening. Joe could
not
come near my mother.

When the elevator door opened, my heart jumped at the sight of a man standing directly in front, waiting to come in. I saw Joe for a split second before realizing that this man was about ninety years old, grey-haired and leaning on a walker. I held the door open for him while he hobbled in.

I expected to see Joe in the lobby. But didn’t.

Outside on West End I walked down the wide avenue busy with traffic and looming on either side
with
tall, hulking buildings each of which housed thousands. So many people and everywhere I looked I saw him. But as soon as my mind focused on a face I saw that it wasn’t him. I walked a ways and turned suddenly to catch him. No one. Walked some more, turned around. And again. Joe was everywhere now but I didn’t see him. I felt him.
He was here
.

I was almost running by the time I reached the subway entrance. I had to swipe my Metrocard three times before it let me through the turnstile. Sitting on the train for the ten-minute ride down to 42nd Street, I struggled to breathe. I could not allow Joe Coffin to frighten my mother. Without meaning to, I had led him to her. He knew where to find her. And the more I went to see her, the more interested he would be in seeing her too, wouldn’t he? Or would the building security dissuade him of his pathetic effort to get upstairs? I didn’t know. But at that moment I felt unsafe in a way I hadn’t all week since Joe had decided to pursue me. Worse was the sense that my mother could be unsafe as well. Joe was crossing boundaries, one after another after another. It had turned into a kind of pursuit the likes of which I had never quite experienced and my head spun from it all the way downtown. It confused me. What
exactly
should, or could, I do about it?

I talked with Courtney as soon I got back to work and we agreed that “freezing out the bastard” as she
called
it was no longer enough. It was time to ask for help.

“Maybe I should go to the police,” I said.

“Listen, Darcy, there’s something you should know about the
Times
if you haven’t already noticed: it doesn’t like the spotlight on itself. You’re still in your hiring review period; they could let you go now without any real explanation. Start with Elliot. Let him guide you, OK?”

It sounded like good advice. “OK.”

Elliot was not in his office so I lay in wait at my desk. As soon as he appeared in the newsroom and installed himself at his desk, I knocked on his open door.

“Come in!”

I did, closing the door behind me.

“How’s the follow-up coming?” He assumed of course that I wanted to discuss the bones story.

“It’s something else.”

“Well, you’re giving my door a workout this week, aren’t you? OK. Shoot.”

I told him about Joe Coffin. Elliot listened intently, tension appearing in horizontal ripples across his forehead. When I was through, he took a deep breath.

“Wow. That’s not good. All this since Monday?”

“Yup. I didn’t talk to you sooner because I honestly assumed he’d back off, but instead it seems
to
be getting worse. It really scared me that he tried to get up to my mother’s floor.”

“It would scare me, too. He’s a new hire, you say?”

“Monday was his first day.”

I could see Elliot’s mind working. Something he didn’t say, something that struck me for the first time and now seemed obvious, suggested a possibility that already made me feel some relief: if Joe was also in his new hire review period then he too could be let go without detailed explanation – if the
Times
chose to handle it that way.

“I’ll think we’ll take this to HR.” He picked up the phone and dialed an extension he knew by heart, which implied a familiarity that was encouraging. As he waited for someone to answer he seemed to concentrate on what he’d say, but in the end all he did was leave a message for Paul Ardsley.

“We’ll wait for Paul to call back,” Elliot said. “In the meantime, try to get your mind off it and get back to work. But tell me if this Joe character bothers you again, OK? I’m in all afternoon. Any new leads on the bones?”

“No, but the racketeering trial for Tony T’s guy starts on Monday.”

“We’ve got a reporter on it. Anything interesting, I’ll make sure you and Courtney know about it.”

“Thanks.

“Get in touch with your source?”

“Yes. He didn’t sound surprised we hit a wall. He promised me paperwork over the weekend.”

“
Ex
cellent. Now get busy.”

I returned to my desk. I took Elliot’s advice and buried myself in work. By the end of the day we had our follow-up piece for the Saturday edition, basically explaining that both the developer and city officials denied any knowledge of or connection to the bones. It rang with the kind of overzealous protest you don’t engage in unless you have something to hide.

We did not have a return call from Paul Ardsley in Human Resources. Elliot summoned me to his office to assure me that he had left another message before finally learning that Ardsley had been out at meetings all afternoon and wouldn’t be in the office until Monday.

“Can we hold on until then?”

“No problem,” I said with more confidence than I actually felt. Joe had my home phone number which meant he could easily find my address through a reverse directory. At this point I assumed he had already done so. The question was whether he would have the audacity to actually show up.

“OK. You’ve got my cell number, so if you need me, use it. And just to cover our bases, here’s my home number, too.” He wrote it neatly on a slip of
paper
and handed it to me with a smile. “This is top secret, so don’t share it.”

“I’m sure I won’t need this, but thank you, Elliot.”

“OK. So I’ll see you Monday morning and we’ll talk to Paul and see what we can do. Now go home and see your kid and forget about all this.” He waved a hand toward the newsroom, meaning I should forget about bones and empty lots and anonymous sources and obsessive mailroom clerks – though how could I? Joe was
out there
. And Abe Starkman was coming to my house with copies of secret documents he was risking his career to share with me.

CHAPTER 5

I STOOD OUTSIDE
Rich’s building – a wide double-door entrance to a converted carriage house on Verandah Place – and rang the doorbell again. I could hear the thrum of music coming from inside; it seemed reasonable to think that Rich might not be able to hear the bell. It made me wonder if he felt as ambivalent as I did about this possible
thing
that seemed to be developing between us. If he wanted to make sure to hear the bell, he wouldn’t play loud music, right? And if I wanted to make sure not to discourage him, I wouldn’t have arrived twenty minutes late. Right? But I had been on the phone with Sara, using the landline with its limited range, and lost track of time. I had wanted to talk to her about Joe and to find out what was in his box. She hadn’t had a chance to look yet but promised she would.

“So what’s the deal exactly?” Sara had said. “You can’t go anywhere now without him following you?”

“I really don’t know. I only saw him that one time near my mom’s.”

“Twice by your mom’s,” she corrected me.

“I didn’t actually see him the second time, but you’re right. Twice.”

“It’s not good, Darcy.”

“No. But you know what? He’s a jerk. I’m not going to let him scare me and I’m not going to stop living my life. My editor’s going to talk to the
Times
’ HR guy on Monday and hopefully that’ll help.”

“Maybe they’ll can him. I mean, he’s in the mailroom and you’re a reporter.”

“Exactly.”

“Good for you. Just keep your eyes open, OK? And don’t walk down any dark alleys!”

“I won’t. Trust me.”

On the way over to Rich’s I had called him from my cell phone to apologize for being late and to say that I was on my way but his voicemail answered. I’d left a message. So as I stood there now, giving up on the bell and trying the old-fashioned knocker, banging the horseshoe handle against the oval brass plate three times, I was aware that he might have abandoned the idea of seeing me. He might have even felt relieved about it. I waited. He didn’t come.

I crossed the narrow cobbled street and stood across from his house. There were two floors above the ground-floor carriage entrance, with wide windows whose shutters opened against a brick façade. I knew from walking the neighborhood and talking with people that the houses on Verandah Place were over a hundred years old and had all started out as carriage houses where horses rested and carriages were parked. Lowly carriage drivers and other domestic caretakers had slept in the apartments above. This narrow street free of traffic, across from which a small park offered a peaceful spot to read and play, had started its life as a kind of neighborhood garage and now boasted some of its most sought after real estate. I wondered how Rich had been lucky enough to land one of these houses, how long he’d lived here, if he owned or rented. But I was late and now he wasn’t coming to the door so I wouldn’t have the chance to ask him. It was my fault. The call to Sara could have waited. I had allowed my ambivalence to jeopardize my date – yes,
date
– with a man I actually kind of liked.

I stepped off the curb and onto the cobblestones and walked toward Clinton Street. Almost at the corner, I heard footsteps quicken behind me.
Joe
. He had hardly been out of my consciousness all day and I was determined not to let him scare me into hiding,
yet
it didn’t surprise me that he had followed me here. I stopped in my tracks and took a deep breath, gathered my courage and spun around:

“Leave me alone!”

Rich looked stunned. His pale face went paler, accentuating the freckles that sprayed across his nose and cheeks. A few strands of his dark red hair had fallen into one of his eyes but he made no move to brush them away. His jeans were half-covered in paint and his black T-shirt was ripped above the pocket. He wasn’t exactly dressed for a date; so he
hadn’t
really expected me to come.

“OK.” He opened his hands at his sides, revealing paint-splattered palms.

“Not
you
.” My pulse was racing, hammering at my ears, introducing me to the sound of panic. A sound that proved how readily I feared Joe as soon as I sensed him (or thought I sensed him) enter my orbit. A sound as persuasive as it was unreal, like the ocean inside a shell. I forced a smile.

Rich matched the stilted smile, which made me feel like such an idiot. “You mean him?” He glanced right and left, indicating all the no ones surrounding us. “Him? Maybe
him
?”

“Enough,” I said. “You scared me, that’s all. I overreacted.”

“Well, this is New York City, muggers everywhere, got to stay on your toes.” His eyes now
twinkled
with humor. Our neighborhood was known as one of the safest in the city.

“I rang your bell a few times and tried the knocker. And I left you a message saying I was running late.”

“I just heard the message. Then I realized I might not have heard the bell. My neighbor blasts music every evening when he gets home from work. It’s a real drag.”

“I thought that was your music.”

“No, I was listening for you. I was in my studio and I can usually hear the doorbell fine back there.” We paused, looked at each other. This was quickly becoming an irresolute conversation that threatened real frustration – not an auspicious start to a third date – and then he said, “Let’s start over.”

Yes
. I walked over and kissed his cheek, which was very soft. His skin had a nice scent I couldn’t identify, something natural, not bought in a bottle. He moved his face to return the kiss and for the moment our cheeks pressed together I felt something inside me drop out – a barrier that had been there since after Hugo died, when I learned that men would now approach me. I was inapproachable, deep in my soul
unavailable
and couldn’t understand why some men thought a new widow was fair game. Hugo’s death was like a fortress crumbling, allowing wanderers to try to cross my borders. And so I threw
up
barriers around myself. This was the first time I had allowed one of them to falter.

Rich looked down at me, his entire face smiling warmly. Our eyes caught for a long moment. It amazed me that he could look at me this way after my harsh reaction to hearing him run up behind me, that he could take it in such stride and not ask for an explanation.

“Glass of wine before we go out to eat?” he asked.

“Sure.”

“And I promised to show you my art.”