Watch You Die (20 page)

“Drop the knife!”

“She’s mine!”

“I said
drop the knife
!”

Instead, Raul turned, drove the knife into Angela’s chest and pulled it out to drive it in again. She wept and screamed. Blood bubbled out of her wound. Blood dripped from the knife as it flashed through the air, back toward Angela.

Detective Jesus Ramirez, twenty-five years old, the newest and youngest detective in the New York City Police Department, drew his gun. He had shot it before in real-life situations but only to call attention to his authority; he had never, though, shot to kill.

He did now. Killing Raul with a single bullet to his heart.

Raul lay in a heap on the floor at Angela’s feet, his eyes glazed, blood gurgling from his mouth onto the carpet, lifeless fingers relaxed around the handle of the knife.

After a moment of stunned silence, Detective Ramirez walked over and carefully freed Angela from the chair. Then he went to the phone and called an ambulance.

More police arrived within minutes and found a scene of almost church-like tranquility. An officer told the first reporter to arrive, “The girl might seem calm and collected to you but she’s in shock.” Detective Ramirez waited for the ambulance and was then ordered to report back to his precinct, where he was debriefed by his sergeant. He was later decorated by the city as a hero, a title he refused, saying, “I only did what any decent man would do.”

Angela spent two weeks in the hospital, ultimately recovering from her wound, a deep one, which had required surgery to repair. Jess Ramirez visited her every day. He never asked for anything, just paid close attention to her needs. They became friends. Two years later, lovers. And eventually, more than six years after she first sought his help, they were married.

“And the rest,” I could just hear Angela say in her colorful way of speaking, “is history, mister.”

All the way to pick Nat up from school – in the
car
, which I’d decided would be safer because I could lock myself inside and it was also essentially a two-ton weapon – I thought about Jess and Angela. What he did for her: killing a man to save her life. I saw that the rest of his life had blossomed out of that moment. And understood why he was adamant about the danger inherent in restraining orders. For a moment I wondered why Jess hadn’t told me his and Angela’s story himself; it was a perfect cautionary tale. But as soon as I thought that, I realized it just wasn’t his style. He did not feel comfortable putting himself forward unless it was to respond to someone else’s direct and immediate need.
That
was his talent. He knew in the moment exactly what was necessary. And he allowed himself to learn from history so that it wouldn’t be repeated … by people like me.

Later, back home with Nat, I returned my attention to Google and LexisNexis.
Stalking
, I typed, and was astounded by what popped up. I clicked and read, clicked and read, for two solid hours. There were countless stories, each one exceptional for the terror it had caused someone – the
victim
– and yet they all shared common denominators. It was like the moment you see a stranger who looks almost exactly like yourself and you realize you’re not as unique as you thought you were. You’re one of many.

Every year in America, one out of twelve women, and one out of forty-five men, was stalked. While
every
stalker differed in his details, each fell into some category. Joe qualified as an
acquaintance stalker
with a
love obsession
, specifically
erotomanic-type disorder
. Meaning he really thought he loved me and, stranger still, believed I loved him back despite all my efforts to deflect, ignore, insult and reject him. And I had made so many mistakes. I never should have had lunch with him, because it had encouraged him in his deranged thinking about our so-called relationship. (But how was I supposed to have known what he was thinking? I’d had many lunches with colleagues and friends over the years and nothing like this had ever happened to me before.) I never should have called him in the mailroom to ask him to stop delivering breakfasts; paying him any attention, even negative, fueled his fantasy that I cared. I never should have stayed in the elevator the other day when he wheeled in; I should have hit the emergency button and screamed my lungs out.

Why didn’t we, as women, scream our lungs out the minute some nutcase decided he had to date us? Why did we always stand back and make room? Chat with people we disliked? Feel obliged to be polite? Hope he would just go away? Why couldn’t we learn when it was time to pull the trigger – and pull it?

And then I stopped myself. It wasn’t women, generally. It was
me
. Why hadn’t I followed my first
instinct
, two Mondays ago, and avoided lunch with Joe? That was really what it boiled down to. Not a failing on the part of post-feminist women. It had been a failing on the part of my
self
. That old need to please and a refusal to listen to my inner voice. Courtney, with her high heels and tight jeans and polished nails and highlighted hair, would have told Joe to take a hike from the get-go.
She
, post-postmodern femme fatale, would have immediately recognized that lunch invitation as a date and turned it down post-haste.

But was it really my fault Joe was stalking me? If I hadn’t been nice to him at the beginning, would it have made a difference?

I shut the laptop and tossed it aside on my bed. Regardless of how long and deep I searched online, I would never find those answers.

For dinner I ordered Chinese food from the place Nat and I liked. They always sent the same delivery man, which was reassuring, but even so I peered through the window to make sure it was him before opening the door. It was.

Before we were finished with our meal, the doorbell rang again. Nat and I stopped eating and looked at each other.

“You’re not expecting anyone, are you?” I asked him.

“Nope. You?”

“No.” I got up and peeked out the window. It was the UPS man, all in brown, holding a big box. It took all of five seconds to realize that this would be Joe’s treasure chest, sent by Sara before she bid me goodbye.

I waited until Nat went to bed before opening the box.

It smelled of dust and darkness and the contents were just as Sara had described. In my exhaustion each object felt unreal in my hands. Each
thing
was so ordinary and yet so telling my skin crawled when I touched them. A book. A stack of letters. The old marzipan: little colored fruits in bright, artificial hues. The shoes: scuffed white high heels that looked like something an unreal mother would wear to an unreal party in a long-past decade, the 1950s, when women and men strived to embody external perfection and internal life was wholly overlooked. Back when the news didn’t report on presidential mistresses or lost children, when there wasn’t even a word for stalkers. Back when dug-up bones would remain unidentifiable.

The bones
. Courtney had called earlier to tell me they were in the NYPD’s crime lab in Queens, under lock and key, slated for testing as soon as possible though “soon” in city parlance could mean a year, even two. So she planned to turn up the heat by reporting that fact.

I stayed up until midnight reading through the scrapbook Joe had kept on me. It was more extensive than any record-keeping I had ever done on myself. Sara’s guess of two years looked about right: the first page showed the published photograph of me accepting the award for journalistic excellence that had ultimately propelled me past Hugo’s death to a job at the
Times
. After that, he had collected every single column I’d written for the
Vineyard Gazette
and every article I’d published as a freelancer for a variety of other newspapers and magazines. Interspersed with this were photos of me with my family and friends. It was baffling and sickening to know that these images of myself, my loved ones and my life had been collected by someone whose existence I had barely registered.

If a tree falls in a forest and no one hears it, does it make a sound?
Yes. It makes a sound. And Joe existed – he existed
in my shadow
– long before I knew he was there.

In the middle of all this, around eleven, Rich called. When I saw his name on caller ID I thought two things:
I hope he cancels our morning date because I’m not fit for him;
and then,
Don’t cancel
. He didn’t. He was keen on seeing me again in private, as was I him. Hearing his voice – one hand holding the phone to my ear and the other in Joe’s box – was a weird counterpoint but I didn’t want to
tell
him what I was doing and how things had escalated since we’d last spoken about it. Didn’t want to ruin this new sweet spot in my life. I asked him to come fifteen minutes later, at a quarter past seven instead of seven o’clock as we’d originally planned; I’d be back by then from driving Nat to his early rehearsal. That would give us only forty-five minutes together, stolen minutes was how it felt, but neither of us argued that it would be too little time. We were hungry for each other. His voice on the phone those few minutes was enough to lull me back to his smell of hickory and the suppleness of his skin, giving to my every touch like well-worn beloved suede.

When I had looked through everything in the box I hid it in my closet and took a sleeping pill, which knocked me out, giving me six hours of something that felt more like oblivion than sleep but for which I was nonetheless grateful.

And then my bed was transformed. Shades drawn against a bright morning; seams of daylight outlining rectangular windows, empty frames, hovering on the opposite wall. Empty frames waiting for shades to be lifted, views to be filled. Limbs enfolded by disarranged sheets and blankets, pillows and shadows. Clothes heaped on the floor as with the rush of urgent teenagers into sex. Impatience. Yearning.
Balm
to broken-hearted middle-agers. Reawakening of optimism. Too soon, too risky to call it
love
but certainly this was good. Very good.

And then, quiet. Stillness. Fingers entwined. A play of light and shadows on the ceiling. Attention glancing toward the clock.

“I have to go,” Rich whispered.

“I know. Me too.”

“How can we see each other more?”

“I could talk to Henry’s mother, see if she’ll encourage more sleepover invitations.” We laughed. Silly though it sounded, it was actually not such a bad idea.

“It’s complicated, my being one of Nat’s teachers.” Rich lay a gentle palm against my face. It was heavy and warm and welcome.

“When the time is right,” I said, “we’ll start spending some time all together. But it might have to wait until summer.”

“I already thought of that. It’s so far away.”

I looked at him and smiled. Summer
was
far off and yet it wasn’t, if only we could last that long in our strange state of limbo.

“So what’s happening with that guy – Joe?”

“Don’t ask.”

His eyes turned from soupy to alert. “I’m asking. What’s going on?”

“The short version is he got fired.”

“Why?”

“Personnel put him on warning and he kind of flipped out, so they fired him.”

“Flipped out how?” He was leaning on his elbow now, his face bright with concern.

“He didn’t hurt me. It’s OK. He ran at me outside our office building and he was stopped by a lot of people. New Yorkers are much nicer than they get credit for, you know?”

He didn’t smile.

“The police took him away.”

“So he’s in custody now?”

“Not anymore. They let him out.”

“I don’t like it. How can we keep you safe?”

The
we
was heartening. Rich was to be my compatriot in this, I knew it now. I told him what Jess had advised me to do and about his wife, Angela, and their history. Rich agreed with me that if anyone had the right experience to guide me it was my detective.

“So you’re actually going to work today?” he asked.

“Yes, I am.”

“I wish I could go with you and make sure you get there safely. I
can
meet you at the end of the day.”

“That’s really sweet, Rich. Thank you. But it isn’t necessary.”

His eyes fled to the clock. He sat up on the edge
of
the bed and twisted back to kiss me. “How can I leave you?”

“I’ll be
fine
. It’s broad daylight and there are people everywhere. What could possibly happen?”

CHAPTER 8

AS SOON AS
I walked into the newsroom Courtney jumped up and met me halfway to my desk.

“Abe Starkman. That name ring any bells?”

I had never told her, or anyone, the name of my source.

“Yes. Why?”

“He was a project manager for the Atlantic Yards.”

Was
? Had they found out he was the department leak? Had they fired him?

“What’s going on, Courtney?”

“He was killed this morning, about six o’clock, riding his bike over the Brooklyn Bridge. Dressed for work.”

“Killed? What do you mean?” Though in a heartbeat I knew what she meant or thought I
did
: killed for talking to me. By Joe. Or someone else.

“Shot three or four times. We’re not sure yet; they’ve got him at the Medical Examiner. Stan’s on it. They didn’t even get him off his bike first; just shot him while he was riding.”

“They?”

“They. He. No one knows yet. But here’s the thing, Darcy.” We were at her desk now, in a huddle in front of her computer screen. “Watch this.”

She opened a YouTube window onto a dark, grainy shot and clicked the
play
arrow. It was a poor quality video, as if taken with a camera phone, of a man and a woman standing together talking although nothing they said was audible. As my eyes focused I saw that they were outside. In the city. On a street. And then I recognized Abe Starkman’s yellow bike helmet dangling from the man’s hand; and then I recognized Abe. And the woman, who was barely visible, as myself. And then I knew precisely what I was watching: last week, Tuesday morning, 6 a.m. It was the moment I’d taken out my pad and pen and jotted the voucher number for the bones before putting my pad back in my purse. We stood in front of the demolition site at the mouth of my lot. It was the beginning of the bones story. Someone had captured it on video.