I believe I’m sitting opposite one again now. You’ve got two minutes to alter that impression or I’m out of there and that’s the end of it.”
For a moment she looked furious, or as if she was going to cry. Then she started to talk.
I told Kristina about the meeting as soon as I got back to the apartment. I could tell from her body language that this was several hours too late.
“So who is he?”
“Ex-boyfriend. They went out for six months way back. She decided it wasn’t working and let him down gently. She’s now saying he could be the guy, maybe. Their relationship ended right before the first night she thought she was being followed. She ‘feels’ it could be the same person now.”
Kristina looked out of the window onto the rooftops. “Drop the quote marks, John. People feel stuff. And it’s women who do, more often, and sometimes they’re right.”
“I know,” I said.
“So why didn’t she mention him before?”
“Didn’t believe him capable, she says. Or didn’t want to, anyway.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“What makes you think I’m going to do anything?”
“The fact that you’re you.”
I had to smile, and after a moment, she smiled back. It looked underpowered. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I should have told you about arranging to meet her.”
“Yeah, you should have. You should have told me last night you thought you saw someone following her, too.”
“What’s my punishment?”
“Don’t know yet. But it’s going to be severe. In the meantime, what’s the plan?”
“This Clark guy lives in the back end of Williamsburg. Works there, at least.”
“Am I allowed to come?”
“Of course,” I said. “I’m hoping you will.”
I’d been back and forth on this, in fact. I did want Kristina to come. Partly because she had skills when it came to assessing people—far better than I, and drawing on deeper wells—and also because it would make a nicer trip of it. Assuming the guy didn’t become violent when confronted. In that case I’d prefer it to be just me and him.
“Well, I can’t,” she said. “The heater guys are coming, finally.” She looked cranky, but she often does, and I knew I’d said the right thing.
“So?”
“So be careful. And I want to know what happens. And not just the nonexecutive summary this time.”
I don’t enjoy the subway. I know I should, that it’s part of the fabric and texture of the city, and come, let us behold urban kind in its glorious variety, but I prefer to get that kind of experience aboveground, where you can walk away from it when you want. On the L line urban kind is like a too-tight, unwashed coat, and by the time I emerged in Brooklyn I was low on temper and pretty convinced that this was my second dumb idea of the day.
I’d traced Clark via Facebook. I’m not on it, but the restaurant is, courtesy of some nephew who thought it might shift more pizza. You can go like the Adriatico online if you want. I cannot imagine how that would help anything. It sure as hell will not get you a free pizza.
There were plenty of people listed under some variation of “Thomas Clark” but only one who lived in the area Catherine had suggested and who showed other likely characteristics. When they’d dated, Clark had been a decorative fine artist with a high opinion of himself. It was evident from his page that he now co-ran a small gallery instead. The gallery had a website with its street address all over it. As a job of hiding, it sucked.
Assuming he had reason to hide, of course.
The gallery was at the far end of the hipster pocket and I arrived just after two o’clock. The entire width of the store front was glass, a single large, square painting on an easel in windows on either side of a central door. I have no idea what they were paintings of. Apparently that’s not the point. In the back of the white-walled space beyond stood a minimalist white desk. A man sat behind it, slender in build. There
For a moment she looked furious, or as if she was going to cry. Then she started to talk.
I told Kristina about the meeting as soon as I got back to the apartment. I could tell from her body language that this was several hours too late.
“So who is he?”
“Ex-boyfriend. They went out for six months way back. She decided it wasn’t working and let him down gently. She’s now saying he could be the guy, maybe. Their relationship ended right before the first night she thought she was being followed. She ‘feels’ it could be the same person now.”
Kristina looked out of the window onto the rooftops. “Drop the quote marks, John. People feel stuff. And it’s women who do, more often, and sometimes they’re right.”
“I know,” I said.
“So why didn’t she mention him before?”
“Didn’t believe him capable, she says. Or didn’t want to, anyway.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“What makes you think I’m going to do anything?”
“The fact that you’re you.”
I had to smile, and after a moment, she smiled back. It looked underpowered. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I should have told you about arranging to meet her.”
“Yeah, you should have. You should have told me last night you thought you saw someone following her, too.”
“What’s my punishment?”
“Don’t know yet. But it’s going to be severe. In the meantime, what’s the plan?”
“This Clark guy lives in the back end of Williamsburg. Works there, at least.”
“Am I allowed to come?”
“Of course,” I said. “I’m hoping you will.”
I’d been back and forth on this, in fact. I did want Kristina to come. Partly because she had skills when it came to assessing people—far better than I, and drawing on deeper wells—and also because it would make a nicer trip of it. Assuming the guy didn’t become violent when confronted. In that case I’d prefer it to be just me and him.
“Well, I can’t,” she said. “The heater guys are coming, finally.” She looked cranky, but she often does, and I knew I’d said the right thing.
“So?”
“So be careful. And I want to know what happens. And not just the nonexecutive summary this time.”
I don’t enjoy the subway. I know I should, that it’s part of the fabric and texture of the city, and come, let us behold urban kind in its glorious variety, but I prefer to get that kind of experience aboveground, where you can walk away from it when you want. On the L line urban kind is like a too-tight, unwashed coat, and by the time I emerged in Brooklyn I was low on temper and pretty convinced that this was my second dumb idea of the day.
I’d traced Clark via Facebook. I’m not on it, but the restaurant is, courtesy of some nephew who thought it might shift more pizza. You can go like the Adriatico online if you want. I cannot imagine how that would help anything. It sure as hell will not get you a free pizza.
There were plenty of people listed under some variation of “Thomas Clark” but only one who lived in the area Catherine had suggested and who showed other likely characteristics. When they’d dated, Clark had been a decorative fine artist with a high opinion of himself. It was evident from his page that he now co-ran a small gallery instead. The gallery had a website with its street address all over it. As a job of hiding, it sucked.
Assuming he had reason to hide, of course.
The gallery was at the far end of the hipster pocket and I arrived just after two o’clock. The entire width of the store front was glass, a single large, square painting on an easel in windows on either side of a central door. I have no idea what they were paintings of. Apparently that’s not the point. In the back of the white-walled space beyond stood a minimalist white desk. A man sat behind it, slender in build. There
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