security office and patiently listened to her babble about her failure of courage at the Brazilian Bar.
“You should stay in your room until you leave for home,” he cautioned. “Stanley says you’re looking for the man who assaulted you. Not wise. Why don’t you order takeout dinners until you leave? Make early nights of it?” He brought her a stack of takeout menus and watched her phone in an order. Her grateful smile faded when she saw what he was holding up.
“Another phone message?” she whispered.
“Luigi took this one a few minutes ago. Luigi informed the caller that you were in the lounge and could take the call at the reception desk, but the caller said he knew where you were. He preferred to leave a message.”
“He knows where I am! He’s following me!” Her voice shook. She made herself read the words out loud. “Give up. You won’t find me.” Panic hit like an oncoming train. “A message this morning and now another one! He’s stalking me!” Grazia’s heart was pounding so hard that her whole body seemed to shake.
Edmondo’s voice was calming. “He may have been bluffing, trying to frighten you. Luigi didn’t see anyone in the lobby who wasn’t a guest. He looked around the second he heard the message.”
Grazia wasn’t listening. “He was in the elevator, then! Or the stairwell!”
“Do you want me to inform the police?”
“No, no. I’ll call Detective Cargill myself. Listen. When my supper arrives, you bring it to my room. Only you. No one else comes to my room tonight—not housekeeping, not the nurse, not anyone. If anyone phones my room, tell Luigi to take a message. I can’t take this anymore. And walk me to my room. He could be hiding in the hallway near my door!”
For the second time that day, Grazia stood nervously in the hallway until her room was searched so she could feel safe going inside. After Edmondo left, she looked under the bed. Then, heart pounding, hands shaking and sweating, she upended her handbag and pawed through the jumble of pens, receipts, and candy wrappers for Detective Cargill’s card.
“Detective Cargill is out,” a calm police voice informed her. “What’s the problem, Ma’am?”
“When will he be back?”
“Tomorrow morning, eight o’clock.”
Panic made her voice hoarse. “Tell Detective Cargill that the man who assaulted me left another message at my hotel. He said, ‘Give up. You won’t find me.’ He knows the police are looking for him. And he was following me! He knew I was in the lobby! Edmondo said he didn’t see anyone, but Edmondo doesn’t know what he looks like!”
“Your name, Ma’am?”
“Grazia Conti. I have to talk to Detective Cargill. I’m very frightened.”
“Do you want a female police officer to come talk to you?”
She hesitated. “What could she do?”
“The officer would advise you on what information to obtain the next time this man calls you. Certain information will help us trace him.”
“Talk to him? No. I couldn’t do that. Impossible.” She hung up and pawed through the mess on the bed for Cindy’s card. She was startled to hear herself panting. She found the card and forced herself to place it deliberately on the bedside table. Then she went to the minibar and drank a carton of juice. Next a piece of chocolate. More in control, she dialed the crisis center.
“He knows I’m trying to find him,” she told the on-call counselor after she had read aloud both messages and explained about the police investigation. “He’ll attack me to stop me. I can’t defend myself because I don’t know what he looks like!”
The counselor’s matter-of-fact tone steadied her. “The caller is trying to frighten you so you will tell the police to stop the investigation. He is leaving messages because he thinks you will recognize his voice if he speaks to you directly. You are safe in your hotel. And drug-facilitated offenders don’t attack their victims on the streets of New York.
“You should stay in your room until you leave for home,” he cautioned. “Stanley says you’re looking for the man who assaulted you. Not wise. Why don’t you order takeout dinners until you leave? Make early nights of it?” He brought her a stack of takeout menus and watched her phone in an order. Her grateful smile faded when she saw what he was holding up.
“Another phone message?” she whispered.
“Luigi took this one a few minutes ago. Luigi informed the caller that you were in the lounge and could take the call at the reception desk, but the caller said he knew where you were. He preferred to leave a message.”
“He knows where I am! He’s following me!” Her voice shook. She made herself read the words out loud. “Give up. You won’t find me.” Panic hit like an oncoming train. “A message this morning and now another one! He’s stalking me!” Grazia’s heart was pounding so hard that her whole body seemed to shake.
Edmondo’s voice was calming. “He may have been bluffing, trying to frighten you. Luigi didn’t see anyone in the lobby who wasn’t a guest. He looked around the second he heard the message.”
Grazia wasn’t listening. “He was in the elevator, then! Or the stairwell!”
“Do you want me to inform the police?”
“No, no. I’ll call Detective Cargill myself. Listen. When my supper arrives, you bring it to my room. Only you. No one else comes to my room tonight—not housekeeping, not the nurse, not anyone. If anyone phones my room, tell Luigi to take a message. I can’t take this anymore. And walk me to my room. He could be hiding in the hallway near my door!”
For the second time that day, Grazia stood nervously in the hallway until her room was searched so she could feel safe going inside. After Edmondo left, she looked under the bed. Then, heart pounding, hands shaking and sweating, she upended her handbag and pawed through the jumble of pens, receipts, and candy wrappers for Detective Cargill’s card.
“Detective Cargill is out,” a calm police voice informed her. “What’s the problem, Ma’am?”
“When will he be back?”
“Tomorrow morning, eight o’clock.”
Panic made her voice hoarse. “Tell Detective Cargill that the man who assaulted me left another message at my hotel. He said, ‘Give up. You won’t find me.’ He knows the police are looking for him. And he was following me! He knew I was in the lobby! Edmondo said he didn’t see anyone, but Edmondo doesn’t know what he looks like!”
“Your name, Ma’am?”
“Grazia Conti. I have to talk to Detective Cargill. I’m very frightened.”
“Do you want a female police officer to come talk to you?”
She hesitated. “What could she do?”
“The officer would advise you on what information to obtain the next time this man calls you. Certain information will help us trace him.”
“Talk to him? No. I couldn’t do that. Impossible.” She hung up and pawed through the mess on the bed for Cindy’s card. She was startled to hear herself panting. She found the card and forced herself to place it deliberately on the bedside table. Then she went to the minibar and drank a carton of juice. Next a piece of chocolate. More in control, she dialed the crisis center.
“He knows I’m trying to find him,” she told the on-call counselor after she had read aloud both messages and explained about the police investigation. “He’ll attack me to stop me. I can’t defend myself because I don’t know what he looks like!”
The counselor’s matter-of-fact tone steadied her. “The caller is trying to frighten you so you will tell the police to stop the investigation. He is leaving messages because he thinks you will recognize his voice if he speaks to you directly. You are safe in your hotel. And drug-facilitated offenders don’t attack their victims on the streets of New York.
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