Anne gave him a happy wave. “Be just a minute!” she called out, and she fumbled in her purse for her keys and bounded to her stoop. It still had a few bouquets, withering in their cellophane. She didn’t linger to look at any of them. She tore off the crime-scene tape, slid her key in the lock, then steeled herself to go inside.
The front door swung open, permitting the acrid stench of dried blood to greet her, but Anne ignored it and closed and latched the door behind her. He is going to pay, Willa. She hurried through the entrance hall without looking around, then darted upstairs and ran to her bedroom. She rushed to her closet, listening to the blare of angry honking outside her bedroom windows, from the backed-up traffic.
Anne opened the louvered door, reached for the top shelf, shoved aside a stack of winter sweaters, and fumbled around for the Prada shoebox. She found it with her fingertips, scraped to get it down but ended up batting it to the ground, the lid coming off. She knelt down and moved the white tissue-paper aside, and there it was, nestled safe and sound.
Her little black semi-auto, the Beretta Tomcat. It was a sleek little gun of Italian design, the Armani of handguns. She lifted it from the box, feeling its heavy, deadly heft in her palm. She pushed the grooved button in the handle and slid out the magazine. It smelled of gun cleaner and was fully loaded. She pressed the mag back, clicked the safety into place, and slipped the tiny gun into her purse. She was about to run downstairs when she thought of something. She couldn’t run in Blahniks and she’d need to run. Why not think ahead, for once? She rooted in the bottom of her closet, found a pair of red canvas espadrilles, and slid into them. Then her eye fell on her summer dresses, hanging in the closet.
Why not? She’d be more recognizable in her own clothes, and for the first time in her life, she knew just what to wear. She tore through her clothes, sliding each work dress and suit along the hanger with a screech. There it was, way in the back. The dress she’d worn on her first and only date with Kevin. She hadn’t worn it since, but something had prevented her from throwing it out. It was a part of her history. Now it would be a part of her future. She stripped, slipped the white picot dress from the hanger, and shimmied into it. The sleeveless skimmer felt cool, and she suppressed the bad memory it carried. She dropped the Beretta into its front pocket, because she’d be freer to move without her messenger bag. She went to her dresser, grabbed some cash in case she needed it, and headed out.
Honk! Honk! It was a hornfest out there, and Anne hurried downstairs. She hated going through the entrance hall again, and flung open the front door so fast that she startled an old man on the sidewalk. He looked vaguely familiar in his gray shorts, white T-shirt, and black socks-and-sandals combo, and he was walking a fawn pug, tugging mightily for such a tiny dog.
The old man’s eyes widened, his cataracts ringing them with a cloudy circle. “Miss Murphy! You’re alive?”
Anne came down the steps and steadied him by his arm, its bicep slack with advanced age. “I am, sir. Did you see the newspaper? It was an awful mistake. I was just out of town.”
“Well, how remarkable! You know, I live next door to you, in 2259. My name is Mort Berman.” Mr. Berman’s head shook slightly. “I was so sorry to hear that you had been killed! You were such a nice, quiet neighbor. We felt funny holding the block party, but we thought we’d do a sort of memorial to you. And now you’re alive! Will you come?”
“Thank you, Mr. Berman, I will.” Horns blared from the line of traffic, and the man in the white TransAm was flipping Anne a very aggressive bird, moving his middle finger up and down. She hoped Mr. Berman couldn’t see. “I’m sorry, I really have to go now. Happy Fourth!”
“See ya at the block party!” he called back, as Anne jumped inside the VW and shifted it into gear.
Her thoughts moved a lot faster than the traffic. She checked the Beetle’s purple-and-red clock. 9:48. It was early. Good. She was one step ahead of Bennie, and Kevin, too. The newspapers wouldn’t have published her photo so soon after she’d left the Roundhouse, but there was still a lot she could do in the meantime. She sensed Kevin wouldn’t make his move until dark, because it would be safer for him, but she could let him get a bead on her before then. Anything could happen once she put herself in harm’s way. At least now she had the Beretta for protection. And the gold charm necklace Mrs. DiNunzio had given her. She’d be ready for him and any other hobgoblin.
Come out, come out, wherever you are.
Anne hit the gas and took a left, heading west. She knew where to look for Kevin, so that he could find her. Twenty blocks later she was there. Powelton Village was a city neighborhood that lay between Drexel University and the University of Pennsylvania. The architecture was decidedly different from Center City; instead of the brick rowhouses that marked Philly’s downtown, there were large, detached Victorian houses made of stone, with slate-shingled turrets, funky gothic parapets, and arched porches. Their gingerbread trim had been painted in whimsical Cape May colors. Some of the large houses bore signs with Greek letters, and Anne assumed they were frat houses from nearby Drexel University and Penn. She took a left past the row of frats and then a right onto the street.
3845 Moore. She had remembered the address from the answers to interrogatories. It was where Beth and Bill Dietz lived. Anne had never visited the home of a plaintiff before, but Kevin had never started stalking anyone else. There was a chance that he’d be here, watching Beth’s house, and if he was, Anne wanted him to see her. Maybe she could do some good, too. She had thought about calling ahead, to see if it was okay for her to come, but there’d be too much ‘splainin’ to do, and she didn’t want to ask for permission she wouldn’t get.
The Beetle cruised up the street, and she inched up in the driver’s seat with anticipation. Tall, narrow houses lined the street like books on a shelf. American flags hung from the arch on the porches, and the smell of barbecued hamburgers blew from the backyards, but the streets were less busy than downtown. If Kevin was stalking Beth Dietz, he’d have a harder time finding places to hide. And so would Anne.
She found a space near the Dietzes’ and parked legally, taking it as a good omen. Maybe she’d have some luck and draw fire. She got out of the car, walked down the street slowly in case Kevin was watching, and found the right house. It was made of large, dark stone and stood three-stories high, apparently only one-room wide, and had a green-painted porch with no flag. The porch’s gray floorboards had warped, and its plank edges were crooked as bad teeth. She walked to the front door and knocked under its four-paned window.
It was opened after the second knock by Beth Dietz. She wore jean shorts, an embroidered peasant blouse, and a shocked expression on her pretty face. “I read you were alive, but seeing you—” she stopped in midsentence, her blue eyes astonished. “Well, I mean, what are you doing here? You represent Gil Martin. You have no business being here, and my husband will be home any minute.” She glanced worriedly up the street, tossing back long blond hair, and Anne formed the instant impression that she was nervous.
“I know this seems inappropriate, but I came to talk to you about Kevin Satorno, not the case.”
“Please. You have to go. My husband is on his way.” Beth started to close the door, but Anne stopped her.
“Did the police tell you that Kevin Satorno is stalking you? Did Matt?”
“No one’s stalking me. I would know if someone was stalking me.”
It struck a chord. Anne had felt that way, too. “No, he is, and you have to take him seriously. He believes you’re in love with him, and the cops don’t understand how to deal with him. I’m worried—”
“Oh, please.” Beth scoffed. “You’re worried about me? You’ve spent the last year making my life miserable.” She tried to close the door again, but Anne shoved her espadrille in it.
“Have you had a lot of hang-ups on your phone? Don’t change the number, it takes away his outlet. Get a second phone line and leave an answering machine on the first. And save the tape,
for evidence.” Anne could see Beth hesitate for just a second, and was surprised to find herself softening inside. She and Beth were both women in the same predicament, even though they were at odds in the lawsuit. And she didn’t judge Beth for having an affair; Bill Dietz would have driven any wife away. “I know it seems weird, but we have a lot in common. It’s very possible that Kevin’s watching us both, right now.”
“Look, you know that my husband doesn’t like you, especially after our depositions. You should really go. Our lawyer will be with him, you can talk to him.” Beth glanced worriedly down the street, and Anne realized she was more worried about her husband than Kevin.
“Matt is with your husband? So, he told you about Kevin Satorno.”
“They went out for a minute, for more charcoal. Please, go.”
“Let me in, just for a minute. We’re both in danger.”
“Please, please go!” Beth’s gaze remained fixed at the end of the street, then her eyes flickered with fear. Anne looked over her shoulder. A black Saab was cruising toward the house, and Beth let out a low groan. “Now he’ll see you leave.”
“If that’s your husband, I’ll talk to him, too. I can explain—”
“No!” Beth pressed hard on the door and almost slammed it on Anne’s fingers. “Don’t you see? You’re just making it harder for me!”
Anne felt torn. She had no right to be here, but she didn’t like a woman being bullied when her life was at stake. “Kevin is out there, Beth! He’ll be looking for me today. And for you.”
Suddenly Anne heard the loud slamming of a car door on the street and she turned in time to see Bill Dietz double-park the Saab and rush out of it, his long ponytail flying. He was alone; Matt wasn’t in the car. He took big strides on long, thin legs and reached the front porch in no time.
“Oh, no,” Beth moaned, and Anne edged backward. She put up her hands almost reflexively as Dietz charged toward her and bounded to the front door.
“Mr. Dietz, Bill, I can explain—”
“Anne Murphy!?” Dietz shouted. “Who the fuck do you think you are, coming to our house?” His chest heaved under a thin yellow surfer shirt, and his deep voice thundered. “You’re dead, you’re not dead? You like to play games, fuck with people? What is your problem?”
Anne’s mouth went dry. “I’m here to talk with your wife and you about the stalker, Kevin—”
“What, you haven’t hurt her enough? Hurt both of us? What is this? Are you crazy, or just a bitch?” Dietz raged in Anne’s face, his skin tinged redder than it had been at the deposition.
“I’m trying to help Beth—”
“Oh, it’s ‘Beth’ now? You didn’t call her ‘Beth’ at her deposition! You called her a whore!”
“Bill, no, please!” Beth pleaded from the door. On the sidewalk, a mother with two young children hurried them past the house, avoiding the scene.
Anne stood her ground, wondering how much of his rage was because of the CD. Dietz was trapped and he knew it. The trap had been set by Gil, not her, but she couldn’t say that. Anne was getting angry. “I never called her anything and I’m not here about the lawsuit! I’m here because—”
“I don’t give a shit why you’re here! You’re a manipulative bitch! You’re fucking Matt! Screwing my lawyer, that’s rich! Using him to get to us! You can fool him but you can’t fool me, you little whore!”
“What?” Beth asked in a whisper, and Anne’s face went hot.
Matt had told Dietz. She felt ashamed, betrayed, driven to respond. “I’m not using Matt, and he never let—”
“You’re the whore, not my wife! You think I’m gonna take that shit from him—or you? I fired his ass, and I’m reporting you to the state bar! I’ll have you both up on charges! Now get the fuck off my property!”
Oh no. Anne’s mind was reeling. She didn’t see Dietz’s hand coming. He cuffed her across the face. Her cheek exploded in pain. She stumbled backward and grabbed the porch railing to keep from falling down the stairs.
“Bill, no!” screamed Beth, clutching her husband at the front door. “Stop! Come inside!”
“Get out of my sight!” Dietz bellowed, shaking Beth off.
Anne scrambled to her feet. She thought of the Beretta but would never go there. She bolted from the porch and ran.
27
Anne dashed down the sidewalk to Judy’s car. Her breath came raggedly and her knees had gone weak. She looked behind her. Dietz wasn’t chasing after her. The porch was empty and the front door was shut. Beth must have coaxed her husband inside. Still Anne jumped into the car and fumbled for the keys, slamming them into the ignition despite the wrench in her shoulder.
She turned on the ignition, hit the gas, and tore out of the parking space, with one eye plastered to the rearview mirror. A block away, she reached for her cell phone, flipped it open, and pressed in Matt’s cell number.
Come on, Matt. Pick up! But the ringing stopped and a mechanical voice came on. “The Verizon customer you are calling cannot be reached . . .” Anne sped away from Moore Street as the beep sounded.
“Matt, call me on the cell!” she shouted into the phone. “I just had a fight with Dietz. Why did you tell him about us? I heard he fired you. Call me as soon as you can.” She hit the End button and tossed the phone onto the seat. She didn’t breathe easier until she was two blocks away and the rearview mirror was filled by cars driven by normal people.
Anne’s heartbeat slowed, but her shoulder hurt and her cheek stung. She checked the mirror. Her cheekbone was swollen and puffy, but the skin wasn’t broken. She felt angry, frightened, and bewildered. At a stoplight, she tried to reconstruct what had happened. Matt had told Dietz about their night together, in a moment of what? Honesty? Conscience? Closeness? She shook her head as the light turned green. Lots of plaintiff’s lawyers got friendly with their clients, but this was ridiculous. Mental note: Men may be better at intimacy than Dr. Phil thinks.
Anne pulled up beside a minivan flying the American flag from its antennae and played out the scenario. Dietz was trying to deep-six the lawsuit because of the CD, but Matt didn’t know that. So Dietz must have taken the opportunity, when Matt told him about their affair, to fire him. Now Dietz would come home, tell Beth the news about Anne and Matt, and blame it all on them. How could she have let herself get in this position?
Anne cruised behind the minivan and switched the air-conditioning up to MAX, letting it blast away at her stinging cheek. She remembered Kevin. He could be watching, waiting, listening. Fear shot through her but she willed it away. She had to draw Kevin out or she’d never catch him. She searched the street but she didn’t see him; then again, she wouldn’t. Then it struck her: If Kevin had overheard that scene on the porch, he learned that Anne had been sleeping with Matt. The news would enrage him and place Matt squarely in jeopardy. Anne’s thoughts raced. Matt was stranded in West Philly without a car. Where had he and Dietz gone? What had they bought?
She gunned the engine to the end of the block, then crossed onto the next. It was a residential neighborhood, with not a store in sight. A young mother with two kids stood waiting to cross the street, and Anne called out, “Do you know if there’s a convenience store around here? One that sells charcoal?”
“The minimart at the gas station. Up five blocks, then take a right. They’ll have charcoal, if they’re not out of it already.”
“Thanks!” Anne waved them across and followed the directions to the minimart. A bright-white building with gas pumps and a bustling parking lot in front. Matt wasn’t outside, but Anne pulled in, switched off the ignition, and jumped out of the Beetle. She hurried into the store, past a pyramid of Kingsford charcoal. She looked around quickly, but no Matt. If he had been here, he’d gone. She was about to head for the exit when she spotted a ratty black-and-white TV set on a counter behind the register, and the image on the TV screen stopped her.
It was her mother, standing with the deputy commissioner. It must be the press conference. Anne
screened out the noise in the store and leaned over the counter toward the TV.
“In answer to your question,” her mother was saying, “I am overjoyed that my daughter is alive, and I won’t be filing a lawsuit now or at any other time against the police department, the city, or the medical examiner’s office.”
Anne blinked in surprise. Her feet itched to go, but she stood on the spot as if rooted. Her mother, turning down money?
Off-screen, one of the reporters was asking, “Mrs. Murphy, why weren’t you called to identify your daughter’s body?”
Anne held her breath for the answer.
Her mother bent her head and, when she looked up, her eyes were teary. “I wasn’t called to identify Anne because she had no idea of my whereabouts. I have made some terrible mistakes in the past, but the biggest one was abandoning my daughter, long ago.”
Anne was amazed at what she was hearing. She wanted to go, she wanted to stay.
“As terrible as it sounds, it took the report of my daughter’s death to make me realize what I had lost, in her. I have an opportunity that many parents don’t get—a second chance. I only hope she’ll let me set things right. Anne, if you’re out there, please know how sorry I am for what I’ve done.” Her mother looked into the camera with a new earnestness.
Anne felt her chest tighten. “Bullshit,” she heard herself saying reflexively, and the cashier looked at her sideways.
Anne hustled for the exit, running away from the TV, trying to forget the image. It was too little, too late. For as long as she could remember, her mother had blamed her addictions on casting directors and small-time agents who didn’t recognize her talent. Anne had grown up shuffled from baby-sitter to neighbor to stranger, moving though a series of apartments, and usually finding herself alone, doing her homework in front of a television. It wasn’t so bad. In her mind, she lived at 623 East 68th Street, in a modestly furnished New York apartment, with one wall of exposed brick, painted white, and a fireplace mantel that held two Chinese figurines, a clock, and an occasional pack of Phillip Morris cigarettes. Her mother was Lucy Ricardo, her father a handsome Cuban bandleader, and they were all very happy until little Ricky came along. Nobody needs a little brother.