The Deep End (10 page)

“Really?” Joanne suddenly had no idea where she’d left the car.

“Didn’t you park on Manhasset?”

“Did I?”

“I think so.” The two women did an immediate about-face and started walking the other way. “Is that it?” Eve
pointed to a maroon Chevrolet parked at the far end of the street.

“I think so. What’s that on the windshield?”

“Shit—a ticket.” They drew nearer to the car. “No, it’s too big to be a ticket. It’s a piece of newspaper. Looks like the wind blew it across your windshield. Yeah, that’s all it is.” Eve reached the car before Joanne and pulled the piece of newspaper free of the windshield wipers. She took a brief glance across it, then tossed it onto the road. “Too bad about that roominghouse fire,” she said matter-of-factly as she and Joanne climbed into their respective seats.

“What are you talking about? What roominghouse fire?” Joanne asked, faint traces of the movie’s musical score wafting through her memory as she started the engine and pulled the car away from the curb.

“It happened last week sometime, I guess,” Eve said. “I don’t know, I noticed it on that newspaper I took off your window.”

Joanne slammed down hard on the brakes, violently thrusting both women forward in their seats despite their seat belts.

“Jesus Christ, what are you doing?!” Eve exclaimed.

“The newspaper!” Joanne demanded. “Where is it?”

“You saw me—I threw it away. Why? What are you doing?”

But Joanne had already opened her door and run around to the other side of the car.

“For God’s sake, Joanne, where are you going?” Eve shouted as Joanne scooped up the newspaper from the curbside just as it was about to blow away. “Is there a sale at Bloomingdale’s or something?”

Joanne said nothing. She stood motionless at the side of the road, clutching the piece of damp newsprint firmly between her fingers. Half the page had been torn away, and the rain had rendered most of what remained virtually illegible. Still, it was unmistakable.

Last Sunday’s New York
Times.
Page thirteen.

“I
t could be a coincidence,” Eve was repeating, as much to herself as to Joanne as the two women waited in Joanne’s living room for Paul to arrive.

“You keep saying that,” Joanne reminded her. “Do you really believe it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Could you try Brian again?”

“I’ve already left two messages.”

“Well, maybe I should speak to someone else.”

“Go ahead.” Eve followed Joanne into the kitchen. “You don’t think you should wait till Paul gets here?”

“Who knows when that will be? You know the traffic on a Friday afternoon.” Joanne picked up the phone and held it against her chest. “He didn’t sound very happy about having to drive out here. He’s taking Lulu for the weekend, and this means he has to make an extra trip.”

“Tough,” Eve said simply. “Some crazy threatens the mother of his children, I think the least he can do is drive out here and give you some support. Are you going to use that or do you just enjoy holding it?” Eve pointed to the receiver in Joanne’s hand.

“I don’t know the number.”

“555–5212.” She picked up Joanne’s telephone address book, which rested on the counter underneath the phone. “Here, I’ll write it down for you.”

Joanne’s fingers pressed down on the appropriate buttons, missing one and having to push them again, then pressing down on a three instead of the final two and having to repeat the procedure yet another time.

“Let me do that,” Eve said, taking the phone. She pressed the buttons quickly and accurately. “I might as well do the talking. Sit down. You look like you’re going to faint.” Joanne lowered herself into one of the kitchen chairs without any recollection of having crossed the room. Her eyes watched Eve, who smiled as if to reassure her that everything would be all right, she was in control. “Yes, hello. My name is Joanne Hunter,” Eve said confidently, making a face in Joanne’s direction. “I’d like to speak to somebody about some threatening phone calls I’ve been getting. Thank you.” She pushed the hair out of her face and waited. “Hello. Yes, this is Joanne Hunter. I live at 163 Laurel Drive. I’d like to report some threatening phone calls I’ve been getting. Who am I speaking to, please?” Joanne leaned back in her chair in admiration. She would never have thought to ask for the man’s name. “Sergeant Ein,” Eve repeated, then copied it down on a piece of scrap paper. “Yes, I’ve been getting these calls lately. They started …?” She looked at Joanne for the necessary answer.

Joanne shrugged. “He spoke to me for the first time last Sunday, but I’ve been getting weird calls for a few weeks now, maybe more,” she whispered quickly.

“Yes, I’m still here. I’ve been getting them for a few weeks now,” she said, paraphrasing Joanne’s reply. “Some
guy …” Joanne lifted her palms into the air to indicate doubt. “At least I
think
it’s a guy,” Eve corrected, “has been calling at all hours, early in the morning, the middle of the night, that sort of thing, and then on Sunday, he threatened me. Yes, threatened. What exactly did he say?” she repeated.

“He says I’m next,” Joanne whispered.

“Well, when he called last Sunday,” Eve embellished, “he told me to look at page thirteen of the New York
Times.”
Joanne nodded approval. “And I did and there was that article about the woman who was murdered in Saddle Rock Estates, which is just near here. And then he called back later and told me that I’m next.” There was a pause. “Yes, that’s all he said. No, he didn’t come right out and say he was going to kill me … but today I found a piece of newspaper on my car window, and it was the same page thirteen of last Sunday’s
Times.
The same page, so this guy is obviously following me and I’m afraid that if he’s the one who killed that other woman … yes, I know that. Yes, I’m sure there are. Yes, I realize that but … well, I hate to do that. Isn’t there anything else you can do?” There was a long pause. “Yes, I understand. Thank you very much.” She hung up the phone in obvious disgust. “New York’s finest,” she said sarcastically.

“What did he say?”

“What I knew he’d say.”

“Which was?”

“That ‘you’re next’ isn’t exactly the worst threat he’s ever heard, and have I any idea how many phone calls the police have received in the last few weeks from women who are convinced that they’re the Suburban Strangler’s—that’s what they’re calling him—next victim?
He said some women have even pointed a finger at their husbands and boyfriends, and that if they had to investigate every crank call people received, they wouldn’t have time for anything else. So, he advises me—or rather, he advises you—to change your phone number because there’s really nothing else he
can
advise you to do, and there’s nothing else that he can physically do unless the guy actually makes a move.”

“At which point I could well be dead.”

“Come on, cheer up. Brian wouldn’t let anything happen to you. That’s one of the benefits of living next door to a cop. I’ll tell Brian about the calls tonight. That’s if he gets home before I’m asleep, which is unlikely given the way his week has been running.”

“What did the policeman say when you told him about the newspaper on the windshield?”

Eve shrugged. “Not much. Said it could be a prank … or a coincidence. Listen, it’s a sad state of affairs, I’ll grant you, but looking at the situation objectively, what can the police do?”

“Couldn’t they put a tracer on my phone?”

“Only if this were the movies. Basically, it’s like the man said—they have to wait for this kook to make a move … which he won’t,” Eve said quickly. “What about installing a burglar alarm? Now that Paul’s gone …” She broke off abruptly. “I mean, even if, even
when
Paul comes back …”

“That’s a good idea,” Joanne agreed. “It would make me feel a lot safer. I’ll ask Paul when he gets here.”

“Why don’t you just
tell
him?”

“I’ll ask him,” Joanne repeated as the doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it,” Eve volunteered, walking to the front door. Joanne hoped that Eve would excuse herself immediately
and leave, but after greeting Joanne’s husband with surprising warmth, she followed Paul into the kitchen and leaned against the counter, watching them carefully and obviously going nowhere.

Joanne felt a dull ache at the sight of him. He looked so handsome, so concerned.

“Now what’s this about some guy threatening you?” Paul asked, coming directly to the point.

Joanne haltingly explained the phone calls and the piece of newspaper that had been left on her car window.

“Have you called the police?” he asked.

“Eve just spoke to them.”

“And?”

“And there’s nothing they can do unless the guy actually makes a move,” Eve told him. “I’ll talk to Brian about it later and see if he can persuade them to do a little more.”

“Where’s this piece of paper?”

Joanne couldn’t remember. What had she done with it?

“It’s on the coffee table in the living room,” Eve reminded her, leading the way.

Paul took the piece of newsprint from Eve’s hand and quickly looked it over. “There’s nothing here about a murder,” he said.

“That part is missing,” Joanne explained, feeling a sudden hollowness in her chest.

“There isn’t even a page number,” Paul continued, a slight impatience creeping into his voice.

“It’s page thirteen,” Joanne told him. “I know because I read every article on that page several times and there was that story about the roominghouse fire and that other one below it about the garment workers …”

“This page could have come from anywhere.”

“And the articles on the other side are the same.”

“Joanne, I can see that you’re scared, and I’m not trying to minimize your fear, but don’t you think you’re letting your imagination run away with you just a little bit?”

“No, she doesn’t,” Eve said.

“I don’t know,” Joanne said, sinking into one of the swivel chairs. Was she?

“Look,” Paul continued gently, “some crackpot calls you on the phone and scares you half to death. It’s only natural that you’d be a little spooked, especially now that I’m not …” He broke off, looking toward Eve.

“I’d better go,” Eve said quickly. “Nice seeing you, Paul. Don’t forget to tell him about the alarm,” she added before she closed the door behind her.

“What alarm?” Paul asked.

“Eve thought it might be a good idea if I put in a burglar alarm system. Of course, if you think it’s too expensive …”

“No, it wouldn’t be too expensive. The house is already wired for one. If it would make you feel better …”

“It would.”

“Fine. Then do it.”

“What do I do?” Joanne asked, feeling foolish.

“I’ll do it,” he said, “and call you Monday.”

“Thank you.” They stood in the center of the living room as awkwardly as if they were unwilling participants in a blind date that had confirmed each other’s worst fears. “Would you like to sit down? I could make some coffee …”

“No, thank you,” he responded quickly. “I have to get back into the city. Where are the girls?”

“At a track meet.”

“How have they been?” He paused. “Have they been giving you any problems?”

“Not really. They miss their father.”

“I know,” Paul said softly. “I miss them too. It’s very quiet without them.”

“Lulu’s looking forward to tomorrow,” Joanne said, forcing herself to sound cheerful. “Can’t wait to see her dad’s new apartment.”

“It’s not much,” Paul explained. “It’s very cramped, very impersonal. Did Lulu give you my phone number?”

“Yes.”

“If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call.”

“I won’t.”

“If it’s important, you can always reach me at the office.”

“Thank you. That’s good to know.” There was an awkward pause. “Have you had time to think yet?” she asked finally.

Paul looked across the room. “Not really. I’ve been so busy with the move, trying to get organized. It’s only been a week …”

“I baked a nice lemon cake yesterday,” Joanne said, quickly changing the subject. “I think there’s still some left.”

“I better not.” He patted his stomach. “I’m trying to watch it.”

“You look well.”

“Thank you.”

“I must look awful.”

“You look fine. A little tired maybe. Those phone calls haven’t helped your sleep, I’m sure.”

“I was scared.”

“I’m sure you were.”

“You were gone …”

“Try not to worry about it,” Paul said, sidestepping her remark. “Just hang up the next time the jerk calls.”

“What if he did kill that woman?”

“He didn’t.”

Joanne stared at her husband. “I miss you,” she said simply.

“Joanne, don’t …”

“I don’t think I can manage without you.”

“You can. You’re strong.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You have to.” There was silence. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so harsh. Joanne, you know I’m always here if you need me.”

“I need you.”

“But you can’t come running to me every time you have a little problem. It isn’t good for you, and it isn’t good for me.”

“This isn’t just a little problem.”

“What is it?” he asked, holding up the piece of newspaper. “Let’s look at it realistically. Some guy calls and tells you to look in the paper and that you’re next. A week later you find half a piece of paper on your car window and overreact …”

“I’m not overreacting.”

“Maybe not. But I see this sort of thing all the time, people jumping to conclusions …”

“I’m not jumping to conclusions.”

“Has he called again?”

“What?”

“Has he called again?” Paul repeated though he knew she had heard him the first time.

Joanne shook her head.

“There, you see.”

“No. What should I see?”

“That there’s nothing to be afraid of. Joanne, if I were home, you wouldn’t give this matter a second thought.”

“But you’re not home.”

“No,” he said, the softness of his voice undercutting the harshness of his words, “and this isn’t going to bring me home either. Can’t you see what you’re doing?”

“What am I doing?”