Someone Is Watching Page 26

“You gotta be kidding me,” Detective Castillo states, taking several steps back as Heath tumbles toward him.

  “Uh-oh.” Heath dissolves in a fit of giggles at the sight of the two police officers.

  “Heath, for God’s sake …”

  “Suppose you hand that over.” Castillo lifts the lit joint from between Heath’s fingers and pinches it out.

  “Hey …”

  “Bailey, I think your brother could use a glass of water,” he suggests.

  “Or even better, a nice tall gin and tonic,” Heath calls after me as I hurry back into the kitchen.

  “Suppose we go into the living room,” I hear Officer Dube say.

  “And who exactly is doing this supposing?” Heath asks. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.”

  “This is Officer Dube,” Castillo is saying as I return with Heath’s water.

  “You’re kidding me, right?” comes Heath’s instant reply, followed by another round of giggles. “Officer Doobie? Is he kidding me, Bailey?”

  “Shut up, Heath,” I tell him, following the men into the living room and pushing the glass into my brother’s hands. We stand in a loose square in front of the sofas. Nobody sits down.

  Detective Castillo is glaring at Heath. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

  “What am I doing?” Heath repeats. “I’m here to support my baby sister during her time of need.”

  “You think this sort of behavior is helping her?”

  “More than you are, I bet.” He takes a long sip from his glass. “Love your shirt, by the way. There’s just something about those bold Hawaiian prints that screams competence.”

  “Please, Heath. Be quiet.”

  “Tell me you didn’t drive here,” Officer Dube says.

  “Okay,” Heath replies with a smirk. “Have it your way. I didn’t drive here.”

  “Don’t be a smart-ass.”

  “Or what? You’ll haul my smart ass off to jail?”

  Detective Castillo drops Heath’s joint into the same pocket as he put Colin Lesser’s business card. “You have any more of these on you?”

  “You looking to score?”

  “Heath …”

  “Regrettably, no, I have no more doobies, Officer Doobie,” Heath says. “Oh, no, wait. That’s Officer Doobie over there, isn’t it?” He turns away, singing, “Doobie, doobie, do …”

  “Heath …”

  “You’re welcome to search me, if you’d like.” He plops down on the sofa, stretching his long legs out in front of him and cradling the back of his head in the palms of his hands, as if relaxing in a hammock on the beach.

  “Please don’t arrest him,” I say, wanting to kick Heath’s feet out from under him.

  Detective Castillo nods. “Just don’t let him leave here until he sobers up.”

  “I won’t. Thank you.”

  Detective Castillo’s cell phone rings, and he answers it before it can ring a second time. “Castillo,” he says. I watch his face as he listens. “Really? Okay, thanks. That’s very interesting.” He’s looking at me as he disconnects. “Apparently Jason Harkness does indeed have a record.”

  “What for?”

  “Don’t know. The record’s sealed.”

  “What do you mean it’s sealed?”

  “Just that. Apparently whatever offense he committed happened when he was a juvenile, and his record was sealed.”

  “Can you get it unsealed?”

  “Come on, Bailey,” Heath says. “Even I know better than that. Once a record’s sealed, it’s sealed.”

  “Your brother’s right,” Castillo says. “Unless, of course, someone at the District Attorney’s Office happens to hear about this and pulls a few strings.”

  Can I ask Gene to do this? Would he even consider it? And in the unlikely possibility my half-brother were to agree to peek into Jason Harkness’s juvenile files, what would he ask for in return? “I’m sorry. I can’t ask him.…”

  “I’m not asking you to. Don’t worry. I’m sure someone will bring it to his attention. Not that we’d be able to use any evidence obtained in those records in court. It would be inadmissible,” he reminds me.

  “It would still be helpful,” I counter. “If there’s a conviction for any kind of assault in those files, it would give us leverage. We might be able to use it to extract a confession.…”

  “We won’t be doing anything,” Castillo says, emphasizing the pronoun. “I thought I had made that clear.”

  “Of course. It was just a figure of speech.”

  “Who’s Jason Harkness?” Heath asks. “Is he a suspect?”

  “I’ll let your sister explain,” Castillo says, as he and Officer Dube step into the hall. “Get your act together,” he advises Heath.

  “Get your act together,” Heath mimics after they’re gone and the door is safely closed. “Who the hell does he think he is?”

  “He’s a police detective, you idiot.”

  “Well, he’s not a very good one.” Heath kicks off his shoes, and half a dozen hand-rolled cigarettes immediately scatter across the marble floor. He is instantly on his hands and knees, scooping them up.

  “What is the matter with you?” I ask. “Are you trying to get arrested?”

  He dismisses my concern with a shake of his hand. “They never look in your shoes.”

  “You deliberately tried to provoke them.…”

  “In my defense, I didn’t know they’d be here.”

  “How is that any kind of defense?”

  “I was caught off guard. You know I always go on the offensive when I’m surprised.”

  “Well, you were offensive all right.”

  “Whoa! Welcome back, little sister. Nice to see you’re finally starting to get your mojo back. I’ve missed you.”

  His comment momentarily takes my breath away. I sink to the sofa across from him. Is he right?

  “Look. I just came by to tell you I’m really sorry about the other day. You were right. I shouldn’t have disobeyed a court order. I shouldn’t have brought those people into our father’s house. My behavior was unacceptable, not to mention reckless and maybe even stupid. I did a bad thing and I apologize. How’s that for sounding like a grown-up?”

  “Not half-bad.”

  “Good. I think this calls for a celebration.” Heath holds up one of his newly recaptured joints. “A smoke of the old peace pipe?”

  “Put those damn things away.”

  “Not until you have a puff. Come on, Bailey. It won’t kill you to relax a little.” He pulls a tattered book of matches from the side pocket of his tight leather pants and lights a joint, inhaling deeply. He tucks the others in his pocket, along with the matchbook. Then he holds the cigarette out for me to take.

  I haven’t smoked weed since I broke things off with Travis, and even before that, I was an infrequent user who never particularly enjoyed getting high. I take the joint from his hand, intending to do as Detective Castillo did earlier and extinguish it between my fingers. But instead of butting it out, I find myself lifting it to my lips and taking a drag. I feel the smoke fill my throat and settle deep into my lungs.

  “Atta girl, Bailey,” Heath says proudly, reaching across the coffee table to take a toke of his own.

  We spend the next fifteen minutes passing the joint back and forth, smoking it down until it literally disintegrates in my hands. I am very pleasantly stoned, and wondering when exactly that happened. I didn’t feel anything for most of those fifteen minutes, convinced my long layoff had left me immune to the drug’s supposed charms, and yet here I am, feeling quite mellow and even a bit serene.

  The phone rings, and for the first time since my attack, I don’t jump. Instead my head turns lazily toward the sound.

  “Who is it?” Heath asks. “Don’t answer it,” he advises in his next breath.

  But I’m already on my feet, the ringing pulling me like a magnet. “Hello?”

  “Bailey?”

  “Claire?”


  “Were you sleeping? Did I wake you up?”

  “No. What time is it?”

  “Just after six. You sound funny. Are you feeling okay?”

  I try to pull myself together. Claire would definitely not approve of my getting stoned. “I’m fine.”

  “Are you having a panic attack?”

  “No. I’m just a little tired.”

  “So how’d it go this afternoon?” she asks.

  Have the police already contacted her? I wonder.

  “With Elizabeth Gordon,” she qualifies, as if sensing my confusion. “You went, didn’t you?”

  I breathe a sigh of relief, although the relief is tinged with guilt. I don’t like lying to Claire. I don’t like keeping things from her. “Yes. Yes, of course I went.”

  “And? How’d it go?”

  “It went well.”

  “You think she’s helping?”

  “I do. I really do.”

  “Doobie, doobie, do,” I hear Heath sing out from the other room, and I can’t help myself—I laugh.

  “Bailey, Bailey, what’s going on? Is someone there?”

  “No, of course not. Nobody’s here. Nothing’s going on.” I force a cough from my lungs. “I think I might be coming down with something.”

  “Shit. I knew you sounded a bit off.”

  A bit off, I repeat silently, trying to remember where I’ve heard something like that before.

  “You want me to bring over some chicken soup when I’m finished work?”

  “No, that’s all right. I was actually thinking of getting into bed early.”

  “That’s probably a good idea. You sure you don’t want me to drop by?”

  “What I want is for you to go home to Jade and stop worrying about me.”

  “Okay. But feel free to call me if you start to feel worse. Don’t worry about the time. I’ll probably be up.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” I tell her.

  “Feel better,” she says.

  I hang up the phone, feeling the pleasant buzz I’d been experiencing already starting to dissipate. I return to the living room and stand in the doorway, watching as Heath lights up another joint and extends it lazily toward me. I shake my head and continue down the hall toward the bedroom. I crawl into my unmade bed and pull the covers up over my head to block out the evening sun.

  —

  The phone rings, and I open my eyes to darkness. I check the clock as I reach for the receiver, see that it is almost midnight. I raise the phone to my ear, about to say hello when I realize there is no one on the other end. Just a dial tone. I return the phone to its charger.

  My head feels as if it is weighted down with sandbags, and my throat is so dry I can barely muster up enough saliva to swallow. I get out of bed and shuffle to the bathroom, pour myself a glass of water. I think your brother could use a glass of water, I hear Detective Castillo say. When was that? How long ago?

  I have a sudden image of Heath sprawled out across my living room sofa, his head lolling back against its pillows, his beautiful face hidden inside a cloud of marijuana smoke. Everything falls into place. “Damn it.” What the hell was I thinking?

  I return to the bedroom and grab the scissors from my nightstand, carrying them in front of me as I proceed down the corridor. “Heath?” I call out, flipping on the light when I reach the living room and looking toward the sofa where I last saw him.

  He’s not there.

  Nor is he on the other sofa or on the floor or in the kitchen, the powder room, or sprawled across the sofa bed in my office. “Heath,” I call again, even though I know he’s no longer anywhere in my apartment, that he must have slipped out sometime after I fell asleep.

  Which means that he left the door to my condo unlocked.

  Immediately I secure the lock, then do another search of my apartment, my heart racing, my legs shaking, my panic building, as I peek into every nook and cranny, all traces of my drug-induced calm now gone, although the suffocating scent of marijuana trails after me.

  I return to my bedroom, understanding full well that I won’t be able to sleep. Instead, I grab my binoculars off the nightstand and push the button that raises the blinds, knowing that the lights in Paul Giller’s apartment will be on. I’m aware I’m disobeying another police directive, that they have warned me against spying on my neighbors, but what the hell? I’m already in their bad books, and this beats staying up all night, wandering the halls and berating myself for my stupidity.

  I see them.

  They are standing in front of the bed and they are arguing. Even with no sound, I can hear Paul’s voice rising in anger as his hands wave theatrically in front of him, the index finger of his right hand jabbing repeatedly at the air. Elena is shaking her head and crying—pleading, interrupting, trying to get a word in.

  I move closer to the window, adjusting the lens of my binoculars in an effort to bring these two strangers closer. If the expression on Paul’s face is indicative of the tone of his voice, he is only seconds away from losing control. I watch, helpless and spellbound, as he advances menacingly toward Elena, backing her against the window.

  They remain in their respective positions for several minutes: Paul shouting, Elena cowering: Paul accusing, Elena denying. And then Elena has had all she can take. She tries to break away, getting as far as the bed before Paul physically restrains her, grabbing her elbow with his hand and spinning her around. Elena attempts to pull out of his reach, which only enrages Paul further. He slaps her hard across the face, so hard that she falls back across the bed, and when she tries to get up, he slaps her again.

  And he doesn’t stop.

  “No!” I cry out, my cheeks on fire from the force of his slaps, my ears ringing as he climbs on top of her, straddling her while continuing to pummel her with his fists. “No!” I shout as he pulls up her nightgown and unzips his jeans. “No!” I scream as he pushes his way roughly inside her.

  I am sobbing as I stumble across the room and reach for the phone.

  Feel free to call me, Claire said. As late as you want. “Bailey?” she says when she picks up the phone. “What is it? Are you okay?”

  I tell her what I’ve just witnessed.

  “Call the police,” she says. “I’ll be right over.”

  — TWENTY-FOUR —

  Twenty minutes later, Claire is at my door. She is wearing gray sweatpants, a rumpled gray T-shirt, and lime-green Crocs. Her face is devoid of makeup, and her hair is pulled into a loose ponytail at the base of her neck.

  “What’s happening?” she asks, heading straight for the bedroom and grabbing my binoculars off the floor where I dropped them earlier. “Have the police shown up yet?”

  “No.”

  “I can’t see anything,” she says, sweeping the binoculars across the side of Paul’s building. “All the lights are out.”

  “What? No—they were on a minute ago.”

  Claire hands me the binoculars for me to check for myself.

  I shake my head. Paul must have turned the lights off when I left the room to answer the door.

  “You did call the police, didn’t you?” Claire says.

  “I told them that a woman was being attacked in her apartment. I gave them the address and apartment number.”

  “What did they say?”

  “I didn’t give them a chance to say anything. I just told them a woman was being attacked and hung up.”

  “You didn’t tell them your name?”

  I shake my head again, trying to shake away lingering feelings of guilt. I know the police aren’t always quick about following through on anonymous tips. I should have given them my name.

  Claire takes a moment to think this through. “Okay. Okay. Let’s wait and see what happens. How are you doing? Are you feeling any better?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She reaches out and takes me in her arms. “I’m so sorry, Bailey. I should have been here.”

  “No. I told you not to come.”


  “I shouldn’t have listened. I could tell something wasn’t right.” She puts her hand on my forehead. “You’re feeling a little flushed. Do you have a thermometer?”

  “I don’t have a fever.”

  “I don’t know. You’re a little warm.”

  “It’s nothing.” I look toward the floor as another wave of guilt sweeps over me. “It happens sometimes when I get stoned.”

  “What?”

  “I was stoned,” I whisper.

  “What?” she says again.

  “Heath was here,” I add, as if this explains everything.

  “You got high?”

  I shrug. What is there to say? “I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t owe me any apologies, Bailey. You’re a big girl. It’s just that …”

  “What?”

  “Are you sure about what you saw?” she asks, as direct as ever.

  “You think I made it up?”

  “No. Of course I don’t think that. But if you were stoned …”

  “You think I might have been hallucinating?”

  “It’s a possibility, isn’t it? We get all sorts of people turning up in the ER who got a little more than they bargained for when they lit up a supposedly innocent joint. What Heath gave you could have been laced with some pretty potent stuff.…”

  “But that was hours ago.”

  “If it was laced with LSD, it could stay in your system for days. You know that. Is there any chance you might have been dreaming?”

  Is there? The only thing I know for certain is that for the first time, I see doubt in Claire’s eyes. And I hate it. “I don’t know. I was asleep. The phone rang.…”

  “The phone rang?” she repeats. “Who called?”

  “I don’t know. There was just a dial tone. Maybe it didn’t even ring. Maybe I was dreaming.…”

  “Where is Heath now?” Claire looks toward the hallway, as if he might be lurking in the shadows.

  “He was gone when I woke up.”

  “So he wasn’t here when you saw …” Her voice trails off. The question remains unfinished.

  “No. He wasn’t here. He didn’t see anything.” Did I? I can’t help wonder, knowing Claire is thinking the same thing. “He can’t back me up.”

  Claire’s cheeks redden, as if I’ve physically struck her. “It’s not that I don’t believe you. It’s just that …”