Date Rape New York (5 page)

Chapter 6

The glare of winter sunshine on the banked snow hurt Grazia’s tired eyes. Cindy had escorted her to the taxi stand, but then Cindy’s smartphone rang. After a lengthy call, she looked at Grazia with a worried frown.

“I’ve got an emergency on my hands. Can you take a taxi by yourself?”

Grazia was shocked that Cindy thought she needed help. She was even more shocked at her sudden terror when Cindy said she was leaving her alone.

“I’m fine!” she lied. “I’ve been taking taxis all over New York for a week!”

With a pat on the shoulder and a reminder of their appointment the next morning, Cindy left her in the line of people waiting for cabs. Grazia felt exhausted. The crunch of her boots on the salted walk was too loud for her tired ears. The taxis that moved forward in line were too yellow. When it was her turn, the taxi driver was male. Grazia’s knees started to shake. She stumbled to a nearby bench.

An elderly woman with gray hair was sitting at one end of the bench, holding a small black dog. She wore a black skirt that skimmed the tops of her red rubber boots and a bright blue cape. Her dog sported a quilted coat of the same blue. The second that Grazia sat down, the little dog yelped and jumped onto Grazia’s lap. He whipped his tail back and forth, frantically licking her face.

For no reason that she could fathom, Grazia burst into tears. “Jacky!” she sobbed. She wrapped her arms around the little dog’s wiggling body and buried her face in his fur.

The elderly woman yanked the dog away. “Jacky, what’s got into you! Young woman, did he bite you?” Then she took a good look at Grazia. She clutched her little dog to her thin chest. “Keep away! Isn’t it enough to be drunk in public, smearing your lipstick all over Jacky’s best coat? I had to take it to the cleaners, and I can’t pick it up until I get my Social Security check.”

“What are you talking about?” Grazia’s head was spinning.

The old lady looked around wildly. “I’m calling the police! Is that man here, the one who kicked Jacky? He should be ashamed! You bit him, didn’t you, Jacky, that’s a good doggie.” She had her mitten off now and was pulling her cell phone out of her handbag.

“Please don’t call the police,” Grazia begged. “If you’re talking about last night, I don’t remember anything. A man drugged my drink. He took me to my hotel and he . . . I was in the ER all morning. The nurse says I’ll never remember his face.” A sob wrenched out.

The woman went silent. Her sharp eyes took in the dark circles under Grazia’s eyes, her pale face and trembling voice. “You’re in a pickle, aren’t you, young woman?”

Grazia nodded, not knowing this odd American expression but guessing it meant “in trouble.”

“You were more polite when we met earlier last evening. Wasn’t she, Jacky? You petted Jacky. You asked directions to the Brazilian Bar. I warned you about that place, but you said you were meeting a woman friend. Jacky liked you. That’s why he ran up to you later, when you were drunk.”

“What time did we meet?” Grazia desperately needed to know. The information would start filling in the dark hole of that night. But all at once, she felt dizzy. She swayed. Unexpectedly, the woman moved over to steady her. Grazia felt gratitude sweep over her. Americans could be so immediate in their response. And their willingness to be helpful seemed a cultural trait.

“Nine-fifteen, the first time. That was when Jacky ate something bad from the gutter, naughty doggy. He had watery poo-poo, so we went walkies again at ten-thirty when it was snowing hardest. That’s when I saw you with that awful man.” Her frizzy gray hair bristled from under her bright green hand-knitted hat. Her eccentricity was strangely comforting and the serendipity of the meeting made Grazia hopeful. This woman could help her.

“Would you recognize him? I have to find him.”

“Why? Stay away from that horrible creature!”

“The police detective said that men who drug women to have sex do it again and again.
He says we must stop this man. And I want to know who did this to me.” Grazia looked at the woman. “I need to see his face.”

The elderly woman held her gaze and softened. It was as if years of life experiences reached across to Grazia. “Young woman, in life there are many things that are better to forget. But I get the feeling you’re not going to forget this one.” And then she added the one phrase that brought a lump to Grazia’s throat. “A woman needs to know the whole story of her life, not one with gaps. All right, let me think. He was medium height, and he had a deep voice, and he was shouting in Italian. I can recognize Italian even though I don’t understand it. I couldn’t see him clearly because it was snowing hard and we were between streetlights in front of the rectory by Menno House. All I saw was a dark knit cap pulled down to his eyebrows. His parka was zipped over his mouth.”

“Would you recognize his voice if you heard it again?”

She patted Grazia’s arm. “Jacky’s sharp nose will remember. He bit the bastard. When you’ve got a suspect, tell the receptionist at Menno House to call me. Jacky will bite him again.”

Chapter 7

“Detective Cargill is waiting in your room with the, uh, others, Miss Conti,” said Luigi, the reception clerk.

“Oh, that’s right!” Grazia had forgotten that Detective Cargill would be with the medical examiner’s team. She was bone tired. Jacky and Mrs. Springer had walked her to her hotel after she had confessed her fear of getting into a taxi driven by a man. But the memory of the talkative Mrs. Springer gave Grazia a burst of energy. She turned toward the elevators.

When she had arrived the week before, the Hotel Fiorella’s subtle European elegance and quiet charm had enchanted Grazia. The minute the uniformed doorman opened the heavy brass doors to the intimate reception area, the Manhattan traffic roar ceased. It was even quieter in the lounge off the lobby where heavy burgundy curtains blocked the street. Deep oriental carpets covered gleaming hardwood floors, and low lamps muted by green shades sat near soft sofas and armchairs. A carved wooden bar offered specialty coffees, teas, and hot chocolate.

Stanley Johnson came out of the security office and held the elevator door open for Grazia. He followed her inside the elevators and inserted his pass key-card. “How are you doing?” he asked with quiet concern as the elevator rose.

Grazia leaned her aching head against the elevator wall. “You were Detective Cargill’s partner before you retired, you said. That’s how you know about drug-facilitated, uh, assault?” She couldn’t say the word ‘rape’ but she needed to know more about this crime to recover from it.

“That’s right, Miss. Detective Cargill and I worked on a number of cases in the East Village and one near Gramercy Park. Cargill was instrumental in clearing it out.”

“Do you think Manuel took me to my room and . . . like Detective Cargill says?” Grazia’s voice trembled.

“No, I do not.” Stanley Johnson shook his head emphatically. “Manuel has been a solid, reliable employee for the two years I’ve been chief of hotel security. Besides, someone would have noticed if he had left the reception desk. Guests and hotel staff are always coming through the lobby, even at late hours.”

“Could Manuel have looked the other way and let a strange man take me to my room?”

“No, Miss! Manuel would never have done that, especially if you didn’t look well.” Stanley shook his head in bewilderment. “I’m baffled. I called his wife in Flushing. She keeps insisting he’s in Italy. I’m driving out to see her this evening; maybe she’ll tell me more in person. Believe me, Miss Conti, I want the truth as much as you do.”

Detective Cargill was waiting by her room door. “The criminologists are done,” he reported cheerfully. “All they need are your fingerprints and a cheek swab for DNA so they can distinguish your DNA from the other DNA they find in the room.”

A quick swab wiped the inside of Grazia’s cheek, and her inked finger pads were rolled onto a sheet of white paper. Then she was alone in her room while Stanley and Cargill held a murmured conference with the medical examiner’s team in the hall. She looked around at the Lord & Taylor shopping bags lying empty, her new clothes littering the floor, her stripped bed, and the white fingerprint dust covering the furniture and doorknobs. Grazia’s knees went weak. She sat abruptly in the chair by the round table. Stanley entered, closing his cell phone.

“Housekeeping is sending a team to clean this up. It’s best if you wait in my office.”

Downstairs in Stanley’s office, Cargill tossed his jacket over a chair and eyed Grazia, slumped on the small sofa. “You need to eat, Miss Conti. Hamburger? No,” he amended at her look of revulsion. “Vegetarian. I’ll call a place on Second Avenue. They’ll send over tomato-carrot soup and a broccoli wrap. That’s what the guys at the station order. Personally, I never touch the stuff.”

Telephone order completed, Cargill pulled his chair around to face Grazia. She was sipping hot chocolate brought to her by Stanley and feeling slightly revived. Cargill flipped open his notebook. “Let me tell you what the medical examiner’s criminologists found in your room, Miss Conti. A big nothing. No fingerprints, I mean. This perpetrator is experienced. The furniture and doorknobs were wiped clean. All we got were Stanley’s and Sophia’s, and prints that are probably yours. But there will be DNA. Like I tell victims all the time, it’s tough to keep DNA from dropping all over the place when sex is involved. Skin cells shed, especially if there’s sweat. The medical examiner’s team took your sheets and towels to the lab. I have hopes for the tabletop.”

“Tabletop?” She was taken aback by his enthusiasm.

“You said you had bruises up your back. The minute I saw that round table in your room, I said to the criminologist, ‘That’s where it happened.’ The perpetrator laid you across the table and stripped off your clothes—they were inside out on the floor. He stood up, keeping on his clothes and using a condom. That would prevent his DNA from transferring to your clothes. Your head would have hung over the edge of the table. Does your neck hurt like it was stretched backwards?”

Grazia felt faint. Black spots floated in front of her eyes. She closed them and concentrated on breathing. That helped when she was in a tense negotiating session. It wasn’t helping now.

Cargill flipped over a page in his notebook. “Do you remember more? The drug should be wearing off some.”

Stanley cleared his throat. “Miss Conti looks done in, Russell. Can’t this wait?”

“She needs to talk while it’s fresh in her mind—you know that, Stanley.” Cargill turned back to Grazia. “Last night about nine o’clock, you went down to the lobby, and Manuel recommended the Brazilian Bar. Right?”

“Nine-thirty,” corrected Grazia, struggling to clear her head. “When I came out of the hospital today, I met an old woman walking her little dog. She saw me last night at nine-thirty.”

Cargill leaned forward. “Where?”

“By Menno House. I asked directions to the Brazilian Bar.”

“So you did go to the Brazilian Bar! And there’s a witness!” He grinned at Stanley. “You have this woman’s name?”

“Mrs. Springer. The dog is Jacky. Menno House can find her.”

“I know Mrs. Springer and Jacky,” commented Stanley.

Grazia thought for a moment. “She was in my nightmare,” she said slowly, understanding dawning. “Just as I was waking up this morning, I dreamed an old lady was yelling ‘Jacky! Bite!’ I saw a flash of gold.”

“That sounds like a memory, not a nightmare,” pronounced Cargill. “Any other new memories?”

Visions were opening. Maybe it was the comfort of the hot chocolate or the feeling of safety being in this office with two authority figures trying to help her. “I know why I went to the Brazilian Bar,” she explained slowly. “Yesterday, I ran into a friend at Lord & Taylor. Seeing the shopping bags reminded me. I had gone there on Saturday for the sale. We agreed to meet at the Brazilian Bar at nine-thirty.”

“Name? Address?”

“Laura Oviedo. She’s a lawyer in Milan. Italy.”

Cargill grimaced. “Another foreigner.” He turned back to Grazia. “This Miss Oviedo is in New York why?”

“I don’t know. Or I don’t remember.”

“Where is she staying?”

Grazia shook her head.

“Phone number?”

“I don’t know.”

Cargill sighed. “Check your cell phone. You professional people exchange personal information like breathing.”

Grazia tried to clear her mind. Fog had descended again. She dug out her two smartphones, business and personal, from her handbag and searched for the name. “Laura Oviedo!” she read aloud from her personal phone contacts, surprised. The memories tumbled in. “Ah. Last night I walked into the Brazilian Bar and saw her talking to some men.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. Did she introduce you?”

“She tried but the music was too loud to hear their names. I was watching their lips.” She brightened. “We must have been speaking Italian because I can’t read lips in English.”

“Manuel says a lot of Italians go there,” Stanley offered.

Cargill made a sour face. “More foreigners.”

“What’s the problem?” Grazia asked.

“Foreign nationals tend to call their consulates and shout police harassment when we ask questions about their activities in bars. Or they get on planes when we start looking for them. Did you get their business cards, Miss Conti? Check your big purse again.”

To Grazia’s surprise, a rummage yielded four business cards. Detective Cargill drew a thin paper envelope from his worn wallet and held it open. “I’ll call these numbers. Maybe they’ll remember who you left with. If one sounds like a possible perpetrator, I’ll get a DNA sample. The medical examiner can run a DNA identity. We could get lucky. There might be a match with what came off you or was found in your room.”

“What idiot would give a woman his card and then rape her?” Stanley commented.

Detective Cargill watched Grazia write the four names in her journal and drop them into his small bag. “What were you drinking?” he continued.

“One glass of white wine,” Grazia started to say automatically, when another picture dropped into her head. “No! Champagne. The bartender popped a cork. I heard it.”

Detective Cargill tossed a triumphant look at Stanley, then leaned toward Grazia. “Describe him.”

“Red hair cut very short. Red hair on the back of his hands.”

Stanley and Cargill looked at each other. “Did you hear anyone say his name?” asked Stanley.

“Yes. One of the Italians I was with called him Nick.”

“Why champagne?” Detective Cargill asked.

“What difference does it make?” Grazia said. The dizziness was back. Her head throbbed.

“People don’t drink champagne for no reason, Miss Conti. Knowing why you were drinking it could lead us to who bought it for you.”

“I don’t know why. I don’t even like champagne.” She rubbed her forehead.

Cargill made a note. “OK, we know Laura Oviedo is Italian, and we’ll assume your drinking companions were Italian since you remember reading lips in Italian. Do you have any other new phone numbers in your phones that you put in there from last night?”

Grazia lifted her hands helplessly. “I have hundreds of contacts. It would take hours to find new ones.”

Cargill’s voice remained patient. “Check your recent calls—dialed, received, missed. You give some guy your phone number, he calls you; you don’t answer, but now you’re connected.”

“I don’t give my phone number to men I meet in bars.”

“We have to find a trail, Miss Conti, and you’re standing at the trail head.”

Grazia opened both phones. “No missed calls, no dialed calls that evening. One received call from my mother and one from my boss in Naples yesterday.”

“Emails?” Cargill continued.

She tapped. “One. Oh.” She went silent.

“What time did that come in?” Cargill pressed.

“Nine-forty. It isn’t related.”

Cargill rattled his pen on the desk. “Miss Conti, you say a dark hole opened in your life last night. We need to see into it. If you don’t light a match, how can we do that?”

Grazia felt muddled again. Her brain would clear, then fuzziness would descend again. “The email was from a job recruiter in Naples. He scheduled an interview for me on Monday afternoon. The job is perfect, and I think I will get it. Ah . . . that’s why the champagne. We were celebrating.”

“You don’t know anyone in New York yet someone buys you champagne to celebrate. Who?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Did you take any photos with your phone?”

“Of course!” Grazia broke into her first smile. “I always take photos. Why didn’t I think of this?” She tapped on her phone, then tapped again feverishly. She lifted her gaze to Cargill, stunned. “Where are they? There aren’t any here from last night. I have one of Laura from Lord & Taylor, but after that, nothing.”

“This guy knows how not to leave evidence,” commented Stanley.

Cargill made a note. “Deleted. An experienced perpetrator. Did you go anywhere after the Brazilian Bar, Miss Conti?”

“I don’t think so. Mrs. Springer saw me at ten-thirty walking towards the Hotel Fiorella with a man. She thought I was drunk. She said I hugged Jacky and smeared lipstick on his jacket. The man kicked Jacky. Jacky bit him. Mrs. Springer says Jacky will know the man.”

A smile crinkled the corners of Detective Cargill’s eyes, erasing ten years. “Three witnesses! A friend, an old lady, and a dog. We might identify this guy before the day is over. How about you give Laura a call?”

“Call?”

Detective Cargill’s voice stayed patient. “You’ve got a smartphone; you’re a foreign businesswoman, so you have Internet phone service. Ask Laura who you left with last night. If she introduced you, she knows his name. We locate the guy, get him ID’d by Mrs. Springer and Jacky, I get his DNA, establish a connection to Nick the bartender, and bingo, there’s my arrest. So, please make the call, and get the guy’s name.”

The onslaught of detail and her own anxiety left Grazia breathless. Her fingers were trembling as she tapped Laura’s number. She vowed to control her wobbly emotions.

“Laura Oviedo.” The clear, confident voice speaking Italian brought Grazia a rush of relief. She didn’t have to cope in English with an aching head and a sluggish brain.