Date Rape New York by Janet McGiffin

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