Someone Is Watching (37 page)

I shrug, afraid to say anything for fear I’ll burst into tears. Why has he picked now, of all times, to be honest with me?

“I’m so sorry,” he says, and I know he’s referring to more than his remark about my appearance.

I lower my head as my tears start to fall. I’m not ready to have this discussion. Not yet. “How was your trip?”

“Good. It was good. The girls seemed to enjoy it.”

“And you?”

“Well, cruises aren’t exactly my thing, as you know.”

How would I know? “You should have told me,” I say, unable to keep the words at bay any longer. “About the baby.”

He sighs. “I know. I wanted to. I came over that afternoon to tell you, but I … I just couldn’t. Not after everything you’ve been going through.”

Lucky for you my rape was so convenient, I think, but resist the urge to say.

“What can I tell you, Bailey? That I’m a coward, that I’m a bastard?… Feel free to stop me any time,” he adds with a forced chuckle and a squeeze of my hand. “It was just one time, Bailey. One night when we had a few too many drinks at dinner and …”

“Oh, please,” I interrupt, my voice louder than either of us expected, causing Sean to glance over his shoulder toward the door. “Don’t insult my intelligence.”

“It’s complicated.”

“You’ve been sleeping with your wife, Sean. Sounds simple enough to me.”

“It has nothing to do with us.”

“It has
everything
to do with us.”

“It doesn’t mean I don’t care about you, Bailey.”

“Just that you care about yourself more.”

“That’s not fair.”

“A lawyer who expects fairness? How unusual.”

“I care deeply about you, Bailey. You know that.”

“You have a funny way of showing it.”

Silence.

“You’re angry,” he says finally. “And understandably upset.”

“I’m so glad you understand.”

“This couldn’t have come at a worse time for you.…”

“Yes. First I get raped, then my lover gets his wife pregnant. The timing pretty much sucks.”

Again, Sean glances self-consciously toward the door. “Maybe we should bring this down a notch.…”

“When’s the baby due, Sean?”

“February.”

“So, you’ve known about this for quite a while.”

“A few months,” he admits.

“Girl or boy?”

“A boy,” he says with a smile. “How about that?” He looks at me for approval, as if we are just two old friends celebrating his good fortune.

“Congratulations.” I push myself to my feet. “I guess I should get going. I’ll email you my resignation this afternoon.”

“Bailey, no. That’s completely unnecessary. I’m not asking for your resignation.”

“And I’m not asking for your permission.”

Another sigh. “Okay. As you wish,” he says formally, having the good grace not to look overly relieved. “Are you going to be all right?”

My lungs fill with false bravado, and I all but puff out my chest. “Count on it.”

—

Somehow I manage to keep it together after I leave the conference room, forcing one foot in front of the other, my tears in check, my head held high as I wait for the elevator. I close my eyes to block out the other passengers as I step inside, only opening them again when we reach the ground floor, remaining upright by sheer force of will as I cut across the lobby and step into the blustery afternoon. The rain has temporarily let up, although the sky remains dark and the winds are blowing as fiercely as ever.

I see him as soon as I exit the building.

He is standing on the sidewalk, struggling to fix his umbrella, which the wind has blown inside out. Even though he has exchanged his jogger’s uniform for a pair of black pants and a sports jacket, I recognize Colin Lesser immediately. I know he works in
the area and that it’s lunchtime, so it’s not out of the question that we would run into each other. Still, it seems more than mere coincidence that he would be in this spot at precisely the same time I am. Has he been following me?

“What are you doing here?” I demand.

He looks up, startled. “What?”

“I’m so sorry,” I say, realizing only then that the man I have just accosted is not Colin Lesser at all. “I thought you were someone else.”

The man mumbles something unintelligible before hurrying away.

What’s the matter with me? Probably I have Colin Lesser on the brain because of his phone call this morning. I close my eyes, picturing the address printed at the bottom of his business card; his office is approximately three blocks from here, not even a two-minute sprint away. What am I thinking?

Clearly I’m not thinking at all, I decide, as I begin hurrying toward it.

—

Colin Lesser’s office is on the second floor of an eighteen-story, baby pink building less than three blocks from Holden, Cunningham, and Kravitz. I take the stairs, relieved at not having to get into another elevator, and locate his office, which is halfway down the long hall. I’m here to apologize for my puzzling and probably rude behavior this morning on the phone and to explain that, while he is an attractive and no doubt fascinating man, it would not be a good idea for us to have dinner anytime soon. This is what I tell myself. Perhaps I even believe it.

The office appears to be empty, which isn’t surprising, given that it’s lunchtime. There is no one sitting at the receptionist’s tidy desk, no patients waiting in the cozy waiting area, with its long, green leather sectional across from a large TV, which is currently tuned to CNN. An espresso machine is built into the pale green wall alongside several impressive abstract oils, and on the limestone
top of a wide coffee table are several of the latest in celebrity gossip magazines.

“Can I help you?” The voice is familiar and I turn toward it, expecting to see Colin. Instead I come face to face with a balding man with kind eyes and a gentle smile, some three decades Colin’s senior.

“I’m looking for Dr. Lesser.”

“You found him.”

“You’re Dr. Lesser?” What does this mean? That Colin isn’t who he claimed to be? That everything he told me was a lie? That our meeting was far from chance and even farther from “cute,” that he has, in fact, been stalking me, that he is the man who raped me.…

“Do you have an appointment?”

“What? No. I … I’ve made a mistake.…” I head to the door.

“Wait. Perhaps you’re here to see my …”

“Bailey?” I hear.

I turn around, watching the Colin Lesser I know emerge from one of the inner rooms to walk toward me. He is wearing a white lab coat over a checkered shirt and a pair of khaki pants. Even from this distance, his dimples are clearly visible.

“What are you doing here?”

“I … I …”

“I see you’ve met my father.”

“If you’ll excuse me,” the older man says, retreating down the inner corridor.

“What are you doing here?” Colin asks again.

“I’m hungry,” I tell him, surprised to realize that this is true. “I was hoping you might be free for lunch.”

—

“So you quit?” he is asking, putting his elbows on the Formica-topped table and leaning toward me.

“I didn’t really feel I had any other choice. I mean, it was stupid,
right?” I say. “Having an affair with a married man who also happens to be my boss.…” I glance at Colin Lesser’s plate, his enormous corned beef sandwich sitting, half-eaten, in front of him. He is staring at me, his dark blue eyes fastened on my lips, which haven’t stopped moving since we sat down.

After asking a few perfunctory questions—How long have you been in practice? What’s it like working with your father? Have you ever been married?—and receiving some mercifully ordinary answers—Four years; it’s great; my girlfriend and I broke up about a year ago—I completely steamrolled the conversation. I was talking even as I wolfed down the diner’s hot turkey special, and now I can’t seem to stop. I’m pouring my heart out to a man I barely know, a man I suspected less than an hour ago could be the man who raped me. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”

“Sounds like you have a pretty good case for sexual harassment,” he offers.

“I was hardly harassed. He didn’t force himself on me.”

“But somebody did,” Colin says after a pause.

“Yes,” I hear myself admit. Why am I confiding in this man? Because he has the same kind eyes as his father?
Because he’s here?
The truth is, he
wasn’t
here. The truth is that I went out of my way to bring him here. Why? Because I’m angry at Sean? Because I want to prove to myself that a man—a seemingly sane, reasonable man whom I might normally find attractive—might find me attractive as well? Because I desperately want to believe that despite what has happened,
some men are good
? Or do I harbor deeper, darker, suspicions? “Was it you?” I hear myself ask.

“What do you mean?”

“Are you the man who raped me?”

“What!?”

The waitress approaches our table. She is about sixty years old and speaks with a thick Hungarian accent. Her pendulous breasts strain against the front of her mustard-colored uniform, its round black buttons threatening to pop right off. “What’s the matter?”
she asks Colin, whose face has gone ghostly white. “You don’t like your sandwich?”

“What did you say?” he asks me, ignoring her question. “What on earth would make you think that?”

“Dessert? Coffee?” the waitress asks.

“Coffee,” Colin snaps.

“Make that two,” I add as the waitress gathers up our plates.

“Are you serious? You actually think I could be the man who raped you?” Colin looks around the crowded deli, as if half-expecting a cop to jump up from behind the next booth, wrestle him to the tabletop, and cuff his hands behind his back.

“Are you?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”
he repeats. “That’s it?
Okay?
”

The waitress brings our coffee, depositing a bowlful of cream and sugar packets on the table.

“I don’t understand. What are we even doing here, if you think I could have …?” Colin asks as soon as she is gone.

“I don’t think that. I really don’t.”

“Then why …?”

“Can we just forget I mentioned it?”

“Forget you mentioned it? No, I don’t think I can do that. What’s going on here, Bailey? Were you trying to trick me into saying something incriminating?”

“No. I honestly wasn’t.”

“What then?”

“I don’t know. Clearly, I have issues.…”

“Clearly.”

Neither of us speaks for a good minute or two. Instead we sip at our coffee and stare at the rain.

“I take it the police haven’t caught the guy,” Colin ventures just as the silence is becoming unbearable.

“No, they haven’t.”

“I also assume you never saw the guy’s face?”

“No, I didn’t.” Is he fishing?

“It wasn’t me,” he says. “I swear to you, Bailey. It wasn’t me.”

“I believe you.”

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay,” I repeat.

He raises his cup of coffee to his lips, doesn’t put it down until he has finished every last drop. “I really should be getting back,” he says finally. “I have a patient in fifteen minutes.” He stands up and reaches into his pocket, lays a twenty-dollar bill on the table. “I really have to run.…”

“I know. I understand. I really do.”

“Are you going to be all right?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I hope they catch the guy.”

“Me too.”

He pauses for another second, as if debating with himself whether to say anything else. When he finally speaks, the message is simple and crystal clear: “Goodbye, Bailey.”

An hour later I’m sitting in a taxi in front of the building where Paul Giller lives.

“This the right address?” the driver is asking, regarding me suspiciously through his rearview mirror.

I know what he is really saying is that if this is the right address, why don’t I get out of his cab? I’ve paid what I owe, and we are experiencing another temporary break in the rain. This would be the perfect time to make a run for it.

I hadn’t intended to come here. My original plan was to go straight home. Yet when the seventy-something, gray-haired cabbie pulled to a stop in front of me, the address I gave him wasn’t mine, but Paul Giller’s.

I’m operating on pure adrenaline, and I know it.

Except …

I feel more in control than I have in weeks.

I am not crazy.

Yeah, right.

Tell that to Colin Lesser.

And David Trotter.

And Jason Harkness.

Tell it to Detective Castillo and Officer Dube.

Tell it to the judge, I think, and almost laugh.

A flash of light is followed, seconds later, by an ominous roll of thunder. Another major downpour is imminent. The prudent thing would be to abandon whatever hare-brained scheme my mind is cooking up and head for home. But, of course, since
I’m not crazy,
I do just the opposite, exiting the cab and running toward the entrance of the tall glass building. I push open the lobby door and head straight for the residents’ directory.

The manager of the building is listed at the bottom, and I press the buzzer and wait.

“Yes?” comes the booming male voice seconds later. “Can I help you?”

I take an involuntary step back. “I want to inquire about an apartment.”

“Be right with you.”

I look around the sparsely furnished lobby, wondering if its minimalist content is one of design or necessity. There are hints the economy might be starting to improve, at least according to several pundits I’ve heard posturing on TV. Then maybe the real estate market will pick up, and people will start buying again. Condos won’t have to resort to renting out their units by the month in order to stay afloat. Lobbies will once again overflow with furniture.

I watch a man in neatly pressed jeans and a bright blue golf shirt approaching from the other side of the glass door. He is short and middle-aged, good-looking. A full head of salt-and-pepper hair, excellent posture, a trim physique. He opens the door and motions me inside, extends his hand in greeting. His handshake is strong, almost crippling, my knuckles squeezing against one another before he releases me from his iron grip. “Adam Roth,” he says. “You are …?”