Jilliane Hoffman

RETRIBUTION

Contents

Part 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Part 2

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Part 3

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Chapter 97

Chapter 98

Chapter 99

Epilogue

Acknowledgment

Follow Penguin

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jilliane Hoffman was an Assistant State Attorney between 1992 and 1996. Until 2001 she was the Regional Legal Advisor for the Florida Department of Law Enforcement advising special agents on complex investigations including narcotics, homicide and organized crime. She lives in Florida and Retribution is her first novel.

For Rich, the love of my life
and the one who never doubted.
And for Amanda and Katarina,
who always believed.

1

June 1988 New York City

Chloe Larson was, as usual, in a mad and blinding rush. She had all of ten minutes to change into something suitable to wear to The Phantom of the Opera – currently sold out a year in advance and the hottest show on Broadway – put on a face, and catch the 6:52 P.M. train out of Bayside into the city, which was, in itself, a three-minute car ride from her apartment to the station. That left her with really only seven minutes. She whipped through her overstuffed closet that she had meant to clean out last winter, and quickly settled on a black crepe skirt and matching jacket with a pink camisole. Clutching one shoe in her hand, she muttered Michael’s name under her breath, while she frantically tossed aside shoe after shoe from the pile on the closet floor, at last finally finding the black patent-leather pump’s mate.

She hurried down the hall to the bathroom, pulling on her heels as she walked. It was not supposed to happen like this, she thought as she flipped her long blond hair upside down, quickly combing it with one hand, while simultaneously brushing her teeth with the other. She was supposed to be relaxed and carefree, giddy with anticipation, her mind free of distractions when the question to end all questions was finally asked of her. Not rushing to and fro, on almost no sleep, from intense classes and study groups with other really anxious people, the New York State Bar Exam oppressively intruding upon her every thought. She spit out the mouthwash, spritzed on Chanel No. 5, and practically ran to the front door. Four minutes. She had four minutes, or else she would have to catch the 7:22 and then she would probably miss the curtain. An image of a dapper and annoyed Michael, waiting outside the Majestic Theater, rose in hand, box in pocket, checking his watch, flashed into her mind.

It was not supposed to happen like this. She was supposed to be more prepared.

She hurried through the courtyard to her car, her fingers rushing to put on the earrings she had grabbed off the nightstand in her room. From the second story above, she felt the eyes of her strange and reclusive neighbor upon her, moving over her from behind his living room window, as they did every day. Just watching as she made her way through the courtyard into the busy world and on with her life. She shook off the cold, uncomfortable feeling as quickly as it had come and climbed into her car. This was no time to think about Marvin. This was no time to think of the bar exam or bar review classes or study groups. It was time to think only of her answer to the question to end all questions that Michael was surely going to ask her tonight.

Three minutes. She had only three minutes, she thought, as she cheated the corner stop sign, barely making the light up on Northern Boulevard.

The deafening sound of the train whistle was upon her now as she ran up the platform stairs two at a time. The doors closed on her just as she waved a thank you to the conductor for waiting and made her way into the car. She sat back against the ripped red vinyl seat and caught her breath from that last run through the parking lot and up the stairs. The train pulled out of the station, headed for Manhattan. She had barely made it.

Just relax and calm down now, Chloe, she told herself, looking at Queens as it passed her by in the fading light of day. Because tonight, after all, was going to be a very special night. Of that she was certain.

2

June 1988 New York City

The wind had picked up and the thick evergreen bushes that hid his motionless body from sight began to rustle and sway. Just to the west, lightning lit the sky, and jagged streaks of white and purple flashed behind the brilliant Manhattan skyline. There was little doubt that it was going to pour – and soon. Buried deep in the dark underbrush, his jaw clenched tight and his neck stiffened at the rumble of thunder. Wouldn’t that just put the icing on the cake, though? A thunderstorm while he sat out here waiting for that bitch to finally get home.

Crouched low under the thick mange of bushes that surrounded the apartment building there was no breeze, and the heat had become so stifling under the heavy clown mask that he could almost feel the flesh melting off his face. The smell of rotting leaves and moist dirt overwhelmed the evergreen, and he tried hard not to breathe in through his nose. Something small scurried by his ear, and he forced his mind to stop imagining the different kinds of vermin that might, right now, be crawling on his person, up his sleeves, in his work boots. He fingered the sharp, jagged blade anxiously with gloved fingertips.

There were no signs of life in the deserted courtyard. All was quiet, but for the sound of the wind blowing through the branches of the lumbering oak trees, and the constant hum and rattle of a dozen or more air conditioners, precariously suspended up above him from their windowsills. Thick, full hedges practically grew over the entire side of the building, and he knew that, even from the apartments above, he could still not be seen. The carpet of weeds and decaying leaves crunched softly under his weight as he pulled himself up and moved slowly through the bushes toward her window.

She had left her blinds open. The glow from the street-lamp filtered through the hedges, slicing dim ribbons of light across the bedroom. Inside, all was dark and still. Her bed was unmade and her closet door was open. Shoes – high heels, sandals, sneakers – lined the closet floor. Next to her television, a stuffed-bear collection was displayed on the crowded dresser. Dozens of black marble eyes glinted back at him in the amber slivers of light from the window. The red glow on her alarm clock read 12:33 A.M.

His eyes knew exactly where to look. They quickly scanned down the dresser, and he licked his dry lips. Colored bras and matching lacy panties lay tossed about in the open drawer.

His hand went to his jeans and he felt his hard-on rise back to life. His eyes moved fast to the rocking chair where she had hung her white lace nightie. He closed his eyes and stroked himself faster, recalling in his mind exactly how she had looked last night. Her firm, full tits bouncing up and down while she fucked her boyfriend in that see-through white nightie. Her head thrown back in ecstasy, and her curved, full mouth open wide with pleasure. She was a bad girl, leaving her blinds open. Very bad. His hand moved faster still. Now he envisioned how she would look with those long legs wrapped in nylon thigh-highs and strapped into a pair of the high heels from her closet. And his own hands, locked around their black spikes, hoisting her legs up, up, up in the air and then spreading them wide apart while she screamed. First in fear, and then in pleasure. Her blond mane fanned out under her head on the bed, her arms strapped tight to the headboard. The lacy crotch of her pretty pink panties and her thick blond bush, exposed right by his mouth. Yum-yum! He moaned loudly in his head and his breath hissed as it escaped through the tiny slit in the center of his contorted red smile. He stopped himself before he climaxed and opened his eyes again. Her bedroom door sat ajar, and he could see that the rest of the apartment was dark and empty. He sank back down to his spot under the evergreens. Sweat rolled down his face, and the latex suctioned fast to the skin. Thunder rumbled again, and he felt his cock slowly shrivel back down inside his pants.

She was supposed to have been home hours ago. Every single Wednesday night she’s home no later then 10:45 P.M. But tonight, tonight, of all nights, she’s late. He bit down hard on his lower lip, reopening the cut he had chewed on an hour earlier, tasting the salty blood that flooded his mouth. He fought back the almost overwhelming urge to scream.

Goddamn mother-fucking bitch! He could not help but be disappointed. He had been so excited, so thrilled, just counting off the minutes. At 10:45 she would walk right past him, only steps away, in her tight gym clothes. The lights would go on above him, and he would rise slowly to the window. She would purposely leave the blinds open, and he would watch. Watch as she pulled her sweaty T-shirt over her head and slid her tight shorts over her naked thighs. Watch as she would get herself ready for bed. Ready for him!

Like a giddy schoolboy on his first date, he had giggled to himself merrily in the bushes. How far will we go tonight, my dear? First base? Second? All the way? But those initial, exciting minutes had ticked by and here he still was, two hours later – squatting like a vagrant with unspeakable vermin crawling all over him, probably breeding in his ears. The anticipation that had fueled him, that had fed the fantasy, was now gone. His disappointment had slowly turned into anger, an anger that had grown more intense with each passing minute. He clenched his teeth hard and his breath hissed. No, siree, he was not excited anymore. He was not thrilled. He was beyond annoyed.

He sat chewing his lip in the dark for what seemed like another hour, but really was only a matter of minutes. Lightning lit the sky and the thunder rumbled even louder and he knew then that it was time to go. Grudgingly, he removed his mask, gathered his bag of tricks, and extricated himself from the bushes. He knew that there would be a next time.

Headlights beamed down the dark street just then, and he quickly ducked off the cement pathway back behind the hedges. A sleek silver BMW pulled up fast in front of the complex, double-parking no less than thirty feet from his hiding spot.

Minutes passed like hours, but finally the passenger door opened, and two long and luscious legs, their delicate feet wrapped in high-heeled black patent-leather pumps, swung out. He knew instantly that it was her, and an inexplicable feeling of calm came over him.

It must be fate.

Then the Clown sank back under the evergreens. To wait.

3

Times Square and 42nd Street were still all aglow in neon, bustling with different sorts of life even past midnight on a simple Wednesday. Chloe nervously chewed on a thumbnail and watched out the passenger-side window as the BMW snaked its way through the streets of Manhattan toward 34th Street and the Midtown Tunnel.

She knew that she should not have gone out tonight. The tiny, annoying voice inside her head had told her as much all day long, but she hadn’t listened, and with less then four weeks to go before the New York State Bar Exam, she had blown off a night of intense studying for a night of romance and passion. A worthy cause, perhaps, except that the evening hadn’t been very romantic in the end, and now she was both miserable and panic stricken, suffering from an overwhelming sense of dread about the exam. Michael continued to rant on about his day from corporate hell, and didn’t seem to notice either her misery or her panic, much less her inattention. Or if he did, he didn’t seem to care.

Michael Decker was Chloe’s boyfriend. Possibly her soon-to-be ex-boyfriend. A high-profile trial attorney, he was on the partner track with the very prestigious Wall Street law firm of White, Hughey & Lombard. They had met there two summers ago when Chloe was hired as Michael’s legal intern in the Commercial Litigation Department. She had quickly learned that Michael never took no for an answer when he wanted a yes to his question. The first day on the job he was yelling at her to read her case law more closely, and the next one he was kissing her hot and heavy in the copy room. He was handsome and brilliant and had this romantic mystique about him that Chloe could not explain, and just could not ignore. So she had found a new job, romance had blossomed, and tonight had marked the two-year anniversary of their first real date.

For the past two weeks Chloe had asked, practically begged, Michael if they could celebrate their anniversary date after the bar exam. But instead, he had called her this same afternoon to surprise her with theater tickets for tonight’s performance of Phantom of the Opera. Michael knew everyone’s weakness, and if he didn’t know it, he found it. So when Chloe had first said no, he knew to immediately zero in on the guilt factor – that Irish-Catholic homing device buried deep within her conscience. We hardly see each other anymore, Chloe. You’re always studying. We deserve to spend some time together. We need it, babe. I need it. Etc. etc., and etc. He finally told her that he’d had to practically steal the tickets from some needy client, and she relented, reluctantly agreeing to meet him in the city. She had canceled on her study group at school out in Queens, grabbed a quick change after her bar review class, and had shlepped into Manhattan all the while trying to quiet that disconcerting voice in the back of her head that had suddenly begun to shout.

After all that, she had to say that she wasn’t even surprised when, ten minutes after curtain call, the elderly usher with the kind face handed her the note that told her Michael was stuck in an emergency meeting and would be late. She should have left right there, right then, but, well … she didn’t. She watched now out the window as the BMW slid under the East River and the tunnel lights passed by in a dizzying blur of yellow.

Michael had shown up for the final curtain call with a rose in his hand and had begun the familiar litany of excuses before she could slug him. A zillion apologies later he had somehow managed to then guilt her into dinner, and the next thing she knew, they were heading across the street together to Carmine’s and she was left wondering just when and where she had lost her spinal cord. How she hated being Irish-Catholic. The guilt trips were more like pilgrimages.

If the night had only ended there, it would have been on a good note. But over a plate of Veal Marsala and a bottle of Cristal, Michael had delivered the sucker punch of the evening. She had just begun to relax a little and enjoy the champagne and romantic atmosphere when Michael had pulled out a small box that she instantly knew was not small enough.

‘Happy Anniversary.’ He had smiled softly, a perfect smile, his sexy brown eyes warm in the flickering candle-light. The strolling violinists neared, like shark to chum. ‘I love you, baby.’

Obviously not enough to marry me, she had thought as she stared at the silver-wrapped box with the extra-large white bow, afraid to open it. Afraid to see what wasn’t inside.

‘Go ahead, open it.’ He had filled their glasses with more champagne, and his grin had grown more smug. Obviously, he thought that alcohol and jewelry of any sort would surely get him out of the doghouse for being late. Little did he know that at that very moment he was so far from home, he was going to need a map and a survival kit to get back. Or maybe she was wrong. Maybe he had just put it in a big box to fool her.

But no. Inside, dangling from a delicate gold chain, was a pendant of two intertwined hearts, connected by a brilliant diamond. It was beautiful. But it wasn’t round and it didn’t fit on her finger. Mad at herself for thinking this way, she had blinked back hot tears. Before she knew it, he was out of his seat and behind her, moving her long blond hair on to her shoulders and fastening the necklace. He kissed the nape of her neck, obviously mistaking her tears for those of happiness. Or ignoring them. He whispered in her ear, ‘It looks great on you.’ Then he had sat back in his seat and ordered tiramisu, which arrived five minutes later with a candle and three singing Italians. The violinists soon got wind of the party downtown and had sauntered over and everyone had sung and strummed ‘Happy Anniversary’ in Italian. She wished she had just stayed home.

The car now moved along the Long Island Expressway toward Queens with Michael still oblivious to her absence from the conversation. It had started to sprinkle outside, and lightning lit the sky. In the side-view mirror Chloe watched the Manhattan skyline shrink smaller and smaller behind Lefrak City and Rego Park, until it almost disappeared from sight. After two years, Michael knew what she wanted, and it wasn’t a necklace. Damn him. She had enough stress in her life with the bar exam that she needed this emotional albatross about as much as she needed a hole in the head.

They approached her exit on the Clearview Expressway and she finally decided that a discussion about their future together – or lack thereof – would just have to wait until after she sat for the bar. The last thing she wanted right now was the heart-wrenching ache over a failed relationship. One stress factor at a time. Still, she hoped her stony silence in the car would send its message.

‘It’s not just the depo,’ Michael continued on, seemingly oblivious. ‘If I have to run to the judge every time I want to ask something as inane as a date of birth and Social Security number, this case is going to get buried in the mountains of sanctions I’m going to ask for.’

He pulled off now on to Northern Boulevard and stopped at a light. There were no other cars out on the street at this hour. Finally he paused, recognized the sound of silence, and looked over cautiously at Chloe. ‘Are you okay? You haven’t said much at all since we left Carmine’s. You’re not still mad about my being late, are you? I said I was sorry.’ He gripped the leather steering wheel with both hands, bracing himself for the fight that hung heavy in the air. His tone was arrogant and defensive. ‘You know what that firm is like. I just can’t get away, and that’s the bottom line. The deal depended on me being there.’

The silence in the small car was almost deafening. Before she could even respond, he had changed both his tone and the subject. Reaching across the front seat, he traced the heart pendant that rested in the nape of her neck with his finger. ‘I had it made special. Do you like it?’ His voice was now a sensuous inviting whisper.

No, no, no. She wasn’t going to go there. Not tonight. I refuse to answer, Counselor, on the grounds it may incriminate me.

‘I am just distracted.’ She touched her neck and said flatly, ‘It’s beautiful.’ The hell she was going to let him think that she was just being an emotional bitch who was upset because she didn’t get the ring she’d told all her friends and extended family she was expecting. He could take what she said and chew on it for a few days. The light changed and they drove on in silence.

‘I know what this is about. I know what you’re thinking.’ He sighed an exaggerated sigh and leaned back in the driver’s seat, hitting the palm of his hand hard against the steering wheel. ‘This is all about the bar exam, isn’t it? Jesus, Chloe, you have studied for that test almost nonstop for two months, and I have been really understanding. I really have. I only asked for one night out … Just one. I have had this incredibly tough day and all during dinner there has been this, this tension between us. Loosen up, will you? I really, really need you to.’ He sounded annoyed that he even had to bother having this conversation, and she wanted to slug him again. ‘Take it from someone who has been there: Stop worrying about the bar exam. You’re tops in your class, you’ve got a terrific job lined up – you’ll do fine.’

‘I’m sorry that my company at dinner did not brighten your tough day, Michael. I really am,’ she said, the sarcasm chilling her words. ‘But, let me just say that you must suffer from short-term memory loss. Do you remember that we spent last night together, too? I wouldn’t exactly say that I have neglected you. Might I also remind you that I did not even want to celebrate tonight and I told you as much, but you chose to ignore me. Now, as far as having fun goes, I might have been in a better mood if you hadn’t been two hours late.’ Great. In addition to the guilt pangs her stomach was digesting for dessert, her head was beginning to throb. She rubbed her temples.

He pulled the car up in front of her apartment building, looking for a spot.

‘You can just let me out here,’ she said sharply.

He looked stunned and stopped the car, double-parking in front of her complex.

‘What? You don’t want me to come in tonight?’ He sounded hurt, surprised. Good. That made two of them.

‘I’m just really tired, Michael, and this conversation is, well, it’s degenerating. And quick. Plus I missed my aerobics class tonight, so I think I’ll take the early one in the morning before class.’

Silence filled the car. He looked off out his window and she gathered her jacket and purse. ‘Look, I’m really sorry about tonight, Chloe. I really am. I wanted it to be special and it obviously wasn’t, and for that, I apologize. And I’m sorry if you’re stressed over the bar exam. I shouldn’t have snapped like that.’ His tone was sincere and much softer. The ‘sensitive guy’ tactic took her slightly by surprise.

Leaning over the car seat, he traced a finger up her neck and over her face. He ran his finger over her cheekbones as she looked down in her lap, fidgeting for the keys in her purse, trying hard to ignore his touch. Burying his hand in her honey-blond hair, he pulled her close and brushed his mouth near her ear. Softly he murmured, ‘You don’t need the gym. Let me work you out.’

Michael made her weak. Ever since that day in the copy room. And she could rarely say no to him. Chloe could smell the sweetness of his warm breath, and felt his strong hands tracing farther down the small of her back. In her head she knew she should not put up with his crap, but in her heart, well, that was another story. For crazy reasons she loved him. But tonight – well, tonight was just not going to happen. Even the spineless had a limit. She opened the car door fast and stepped out, catching her breath. When she leaned back in, her tone was one of indifference.

‘This is not going to happen, Michael. I’m tempted, but it’s already almost one. Marie is picking me up at eight forty-five, and I can’t be late again.’ She slammed the door shut.

He turned off the engine and got out of the driver’s side. ‘Fine, fine. I get it. Some great fucking night this turned out to be,’ he said sullenly and slammed his door in return. She glared at him, turned on her heel, and marched off across the courtyard toward her lobby.

‘Shit, shit, shit,’ he mumbled and ran after her. He caught up with her on the sidewalk and grabbed her hand. ‘Stop, just stop. Look, I’m frustrated. I’m also an insensitive clod. I admit it.’ He looked into her eyes for a sign that it was safe to proceed. Apparently, they still read caution, but when she did not move away he took that as a good sign. ‘There, I’ve said it. I’m a jerk and tonight was a mess and it’s all my fault. Come on, please, forgive me,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t end tonight like this.’ He wrapped his hand behind her neck and pulled her mouth to his. Her full lips tasted sweet.

After a moment she stepped back and touched her hand lightly to her mouth. ‘Fine. Forgiven. But you’re still not spending the night.’ The words were cool.

She needed to be alone tonight. To think. Past her bedroom, where was this whole thing headed anyway? The streetlights cast deep shadows on the walkway. The wind blew harder and the trees and bushes rustled and stirred around them. A dog barked off in the distance, and the sky rumbled.

Michael looked up. ‘I think it’s going to pour tonight,’ he said absently, grabbing her limp hand in his. They walked to the front door of the building in silence. On the stoop he smiled and said lightly, ‘Damn. And here I thought I was so smooth. Sensitivity is supposed to work with you women. The man who’s not afraid to cry, show his feelings.’ He laughed, obviously fishing for a smile in return, then he massaged her hand with his and kissed her gently on the cheek, moving his lips lightly over her face toward her lips. Her eyes were closed, her full mouth slightly parted. ‘You look so good tonight I just might cry if I can’t have you.’ If at first you don’t succeed … try, try again. His hands moved slowly down the small of her back, over her skirt. She didn’t move. ‘You know, it’s not too late to change your mind,’ he murmured, his fingers moving over her. ‘I can just go move the car.’

His touch was electrifying. Finally, she pulled away and opened the door. Damn it, she was going to make a statement tonight and not even her libido was going to stop her.

‘Good night, Michael. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’

He looked as if he had been punched in the gut. Or somewhere else.

‘Happy Anniversary,’ he said quietly as she slipped into the foyer door. The glass door closed with a creak.

He walked slowly back to the car, keys in hand. Damn it. He had really screwed things up tonight. He really had. At the car, he watched as Chloe stood at the living room window and waved to him that all was okay inside. She still looked pissed. And then the curtain closed and she was gone. He climbed in the BMW and drove off toward the expressway and back toward Manhattan, thinking about how to get back on her good side. Maybe he’d send her flowers tomorrow. That’s it. Long red roses with an apology and an ‘I love you’. That should get him out of the doghouse and back into her bed. With the crackle of thunder sounding closer still and the storm fast moving in, he turned on to the Clearview Expressway, leaving Bayside way behind him.

4

The Clown watched with wide eyes through parted branches as her luscious legs stepped out of the BMW. Long and tan, probably from some high-priced tanning salon. She was wearing a short and tight, oh so tight, black skirt and a pink silk camisole that showed off her full, perky breasts. Over her arm she carried a matching black suit jacket. Pink was her favorite color – and his too – and he was glad she had chosen to wear it tonight. Mmmm-hmmm … pretty in pink! A slow smile spread over his face and he began to think that perhaps tonight – well, tonight might not be so bad after all. In fact, things were starting to shape up quite nicely. He put his hand over his mouth to suppress an escaping giggle.

Her long blond hair met the small of her back in a cascade of tender curls and he could smell her sweet, sexy perfume, heavy in the humid air. He recognized it immediately as her favorite – Chanel No. 5. The perspiration rushed down from the nape of his neck, soaking his back and armpits.

She seemed to go on forever talking with that preppie little prick of a boyfriend. She didn’t look happy. Blah, blah, blah … Didn’t they know what time it was? It was time to go home. Time to go to bed. His fingers drummed impatiently against the black nylon bag. His bag of tricks.

She slammed her door. He, in turn, suddenly got out of the car and slammed his. Down the street a dog began to bark. The Clown’s knees quivered slightly. What if a nosy neighbor woke up?

But no neighbors came out to play, and Preppie walked fast to meet her on the sidewalk. He grabbed her hand and they exchanged words that he could not hear. Then he kissed her full on the lips. Hand in hand they walked to the front door of the complex. Her high heels clicked on the cement walk, so close he could practically reach out and touch her ankle. Again, he began to panic. Was the boyfriend going in, too? That would just ruin everything. Preppie had had his fun with her last night – tonight was his turn.

On the stoop of the foyer they kissed again, but then she slipped in the main door of the complex alone. Not so lucky tonight, are we, Preppie? The Clown chuckled softly.

Preppie turned, his head down, and walked slowly back to his car, jingling the keys in his hand. Like a good little boyfriend, he waited until the light went on in the apartment and he saw her wave from the living room window before he drove off into the night.

The Clown smiled. How quaint! The Preppie Prick walks her to her door and kisses her good night. Don’t let those bedbugs bite! And he even stays around to make sure that she is safe and sound and that no bogeyman is lurking inside. What a laugh riot!

Five minutes later, the lights in her bedroom went on, illuminating the bushes. He pulled himself deeper into the hedge. The air conditioner rattled to life above him and condensation dripped through the evergreen on to his head. He saw her shadow bouncing about in the bushes as she walked around the room, and then she closed the blinds and the light grew dim.

He sat completely motionless for twenty minutes after all the lights went out. Thunder rumbled, louder this time. The rain had started. Soft at first, but he knew that would change. The wind gusts were strong now, and the bushes swayed back and forth, dancing a strange dance in the dim streetlight. The storm was almost upon them. She had made it just in the nick of time.

He grabbed his bag of tricks and snaked his way around the corner of the building until he was directly beneath the window with the broken latch in her living room. Then at precisely 1:32 A.M., the Clown pulled his mask on snug over his face. He stood and brushed off his now very tight blue jeans, silently lifted the darkened window and slithered inside out of the rain.

5

Chloe watched from her window as Michael walked slowly back to the car, rejected, his head down. She waved half-heartedly, purposely closing the curtains on him as he waved back at her. Another message sent.

She stood alone in her living room and looked around her. The apartment was silent, lonely, and unbearably hot. The small feeling of victory melted away as quickly as it had come. Now she almost wished that she had just let him stay the night.

The gym had been a flimsy excuse at best. Who was she kidding? There was no way that she was going to get up at 6:00 A.M. to do aerobics. And if she wasn’t going to raise the ‘Where is this relationship really headed?’ conversation for another two weeks, then what would have been the harm in letting him stay the night?

Because you were upset that you didn’t get what you wanted on this Happy Anniversary, and so you certainly weren’t going to give him what he wanted.

Great, even her schizophrenic conscience now thought she was being a bitch. She knew, though, that if Michael had stayed the night she would have held a similar conversation with herself at 3:00 A.M., but this one would have been for being such a lily-livered weak pushover. You’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t. It was all too exhausting and depressing and she hoped a couple of Tylenol would fix the pounding in her head.

The apartment was an oven. The windows had been closed all day, and everything in the place had just baked – even the furniture was still warm to the touch. She grabbed the mail that sat stuffed in the front-door slot and headed into the kitchen.

She flicked on the lights, and the kitchen was instantly illuminated. Chloe sighed at the mess that was her table, littered with breakfast dishes from the morning, dinner dishes from the night before, parakeet seed, and feathers. Pete the Parakeet, temporarily blinded by the fluorescent light, fell from his perch on to the cage floor with a thud.

She piled all the dishes from the table into the already overcrowded sink, squirted some green Palmolive in, and hosed down the mountain of porcelain with the sink nozzle. Pete, meanwhile, had mustered up some dignity and fluttered back to the perch, squawking angrily all the while at Chloe and sending tiny green and white feathers wafting through the air and back on to the table. Chloe gritted her teeth and quickly threw a towel over Pete. Then she took one last look at her kitchen, turned off the lights, and made a mental note to call the Merry Maids Emergency Cleaning Service in the morning. She downed her two Tylenol with a Mylanta chaser before finally heading for the air-conditioned relief of her bedroom.

She tossed the mail on the bed, turned the AC on high, and searched her drawers for her favorite and most comfortable pink pajamas, pushing aside the collection of flimsy Victoria’s Secret lingerie that she had gotten as gifts from Michael over the past two years. She found them stuffed in the bottom drawer – cotton, oversized, and not at all sexy. Outside, the hedge branches scraped against her bedroom window, making a desperate, screeching sound, and a spatter of raindrops dotted the glass. The forecast had called for intense thunderstorms tonight. She stood at the window for a moment and watched as the trees bent like straws under the wind, then she closed the blinds and flipped on the television for some company. An old Brady Bunch episode came on the screen.

She flopped on the bed with the day’s mail and hit the Play button on the answering machine. Bills, bills, advertisements, People, and more bills. It never ended.

The female computer-generated voice spoke: You have no new voice messages in your mailbox.

She looked over at the answering machine. That was funny. The number 3 flashed red in the machine’s message box, indicating three messages. And she had emptied her mailbox messages before leaving for the city. She hit the Replay button on the machine.

You have three stored messages in your mailbox.

First message: Today, seven-nineteen P.M. Her mom’s frazzled voice. ‘Chloe, it’s Mom. You must be out studying tonight.’ Chloe’s stomach flip-flopped with guilt again.

‘Call me when you get in. I need to talk to you about our visit next month. Your dad and I think maybe we should stay in a hotel, you’re just so cramped in that apartment. I need to know some hotels in Manhattan that are nice, but not too expensive and are in a good neighborhood. Call me.’

Yeah. Good luck finding that short list in New York City.

She went back to the mail. Another bill. When had she found the time to buy all this stuff she was being billed for?

A credit card solicitation. Great, so she could get even more bills.

Finally on the bottom of the never-ending bill pile, an ivory envelope with the familiar chicken scratch of her father’s handwriting on it. Chloe smiled. Since she had moved to New York from California for law school her dad wrote her faithfully at least once a week, and his warm, funny letters were a welcome break. Sometimes there were pages and pages, and others only a few short lines, but they all began with the same salutation: ‘Hey, Beany! How is my big girl in the big city?’ Beany had been his nickname for her since she was five, a reference to her sweet tooth for jelly beans. Even at twenty-four, she was still his little girl. She set his letter aside for later and leafed through People.

Second message: Today, eight-ten P.M. It was Marie. ‘Thanks for blowing us all off tonight, Chloe. It was a blast. It really was. You missed our round-robin discussion about the Rule Against Perpetuities. Now that’s a lot more fun than Phantom of the Opera. Hey, don’t forget the practice multistate is tomorrow, so I’ll be at your door at eight-thirty instead of eight forty-five. Don’t be late! Hmmm … Maybe I should have told you eight o’clock, then. See ya.’

Damn. She had forgotten all about the practice test. Another reason to be mad at Michael.

Third message: Today, eleven thirty-two P.M. A long silence. In the background Chloe could hear a rustle, like the muffled sound of paper tearing. Then, a male voice in a taunting singsong whispered low, ‘Chloe. Chloe. Where are you, Chloe?’ More crackling silence. She could hear breathing for just a moment and then the line hung up.

That was bizarre. She stared for a few seconds at the machine.

End of messages.

It must have been one of the guys from her study group. Their study sessions were known to go on until the wee hours anyway. It was probably Rob or Jim just joking around with her. They probably figured that she was home by then and having a good ole time while they studied, and they were just spoofing her for blowing off the study group, hoping to bug her with a message while she was in a compromising position. That was probably it. She hit the button on the machine.

Messages erased.

She got under the covers and propped up the pillows behind her to read her dad’s letter. She was an only child and it had hit both of her parents really hard when she left for St John’s. It had hit them even harder when she told them recently that she wasn’t moving back. Neither of her parents liked New York, and they certainly didn’t trust it. She had been raised in a small town in northern California. Walking a dog on cement and living in a high-rise, fifty stories off the ground, not more than thirty feet across from your neighbor in the next building over, was about as foreign to them as living in an igloo. In fact, given the choice, her parents would probably pick the igloo. Her mother called two to three times a week just to make sure Chloe had not yet been robbed, raped, burgled, or pillaged in the big city, the den of three million thieves, rapists, burglars, and pillagers. And, of course, her father wrote his letters.

Chloe tossed the rest of the mail on the nightstand on top of her Barbri bar review books and grabbed her glasses. She flipped over the envelope and frowned.

The top of the envelope had been neatly sliced open. Her letter was gone.

6

She sat straight up in bed, her skin cold. Prickly goose bumps raced up her arm and across the back of her neck, and her thoughts immediately went to Marvin. She stared uneasy at the ceiling above, as if the walls had eyes, and pulled the covers up and around her.

Marvin was her strange neighbor who lived in the apartment directly above hers. An unemployed social recluse, he had lived in the building long before Chloe had moved in a few years ago, and she knew he was definitely odd. Everyone knew he was odd. Each morning he stood watch on the courtyard below from his living room window; his plaid robe open wide, the belt useless and dangling at his side, and his hairy, middle-aged belly exposed, as well as God-knows-what-else under the cover of the windowsill. Thank the Lord for that windowsill. His pudgy, crowded face was always covered with a carpet of gray and brown stubble, and he wore black plastic glasses over eyes that were set too close together. In one hand he always held a black coffee cup. In the other, well, Chloe just didn’t want to think about that.

The rumor around the laundry room was that Marvin was unstable emotionally and lived off a government disability check and help from his elderly mother. Behind his back, the residents called him Norman and speculated about what had really happened to his mother, who had not been seen for some time. For years Chloe had thought Marvin weird, but harmless. She would occasionally see him in the hallway or in the lobby, and he never smiled, but sort of grunted as he passed her.

Two months back, though, she had made the unfortunate mistake of waving hello at Marvin in his morning perch as she headed through the courtyard to her car. That night he was waiting for her in the lobby, with her mail in hand. He had smiled a lopsided smile that revealed tiny yellow teeth, and then had mumbled something about how ‘the mailman must have mixed theirs up’ before he shuffled upstairs to spy on his fiefdom again from his living room.

After that, the inept mailman had mixed up their mail at least three times, and Marvin had taken up a new hobby of watering plants in the lobby, conveniently, it seemed, whenever Chloe came home from class. She could feel his stare locked on her from his living room perch when she walked to her car in the morning, and then when she saw him in the lobby at night. His egghead would bob up and down like a cheap car ornament and she would feel his eyes roll over her. Lately, she had been using the laundry room at the back of the building to come and go.

Two weeks ago she had started to get strange phone calls, where the caller hung up as soon as she picked up. When she replaced the receiver, the ceiling would creak above her as Marvin shuffled back and forth. Maybe that had been Marvin tonight on her machine – finally getting up the balls to actually speak.

And just yesterday, she had left some laundry in the dryer while she went back to her apartment for more quarters and had passed Marvin in the lobby on her way back to the laundry room, again pretending to water plants. When she brought her laundry back to the apartment later, two pairs of her underwear had been missing.

Now her mail had actually been opened and taken. The thought of Marvin touching her panties and reading her letters while his fat body got off in his bed over her head made her queasy. After the bar she was going to have to start looking for a new apartment, no easy task in New York. She could not live beneath this weirdo anymore. Up until tonight she might have even considered moving in with Michael, but now …

Too many thoughts filled her aching head. When was she allowed to take more Tylenol anyway? She got up from bed and plodded across the living room to check the front door once again. She peered through the peephole, half expecting to see fat Marvin squatting naked outside her door, a coffee cup in one hand and a plant in the other. No one was there, and the lobby was dark.

She made sure she had double-locked the doors, and then she placed a large piece of duct tape over the mail slot on the inside of the door, so Marvin’s chubby fingers wouldn’t be able to force an opening wide enough for his peeping eyes to enter her apartment. The next morning she would nail a board over the slot and arrange to pick up her mail at the post office from now on.

She headed back to the coolness of her room and closed the bedroom door. She did a quick check of her ceiling to make sure Marvin hadn’t taken up carpentry as a new hobby. Finding no holes in the ceilings and nothing odd, she watched the television for a few more minutes, until the throbbing in her head subsided a bit. A boom of thunder sounded outside, and the lights flickered. The storm sounded like a bad one – she might even lose the electricity tonight. She turned off the television and the lights and settled into bed, listening to the sound of rain as it hit the windows and the back of her air conditioner. It was a soft, soothing patter now, but Chloe knew the heavens would open up soon. Good. Maybe it would cool things off – the recent heat wave had been scorching.

Both physically and mentally exhausted, she finally fell into a deep sleep. She was in the middle of a strange and complicated dream about the bar exam when she heard the raspy, muffled voice directly over her.

‘Hi, Beany. How is my big girl in the big city? Wanna have some fun?’