Someone Else's Husband(102)
“But they didn’t take anything? And you didn’t actually see anyone. And now they’re gone.”
“They were here,” I repeat. My voice is shaking.
“Okay,” the operator says. She may very well believe me, but she also doesn’t sound concerned.
“He’s been harassing me. He also broke into my art studio and trashed that.”
I’m pretty sure it was the Senator who broke into my apartment, Richard my studio. But what difference does it make if they are two different people? That’s the police’s job to figure out.
“Then there’s an open case. You should call those detectives directly.”
“I didn’t report the first incident.” A long pause. “It’s someone who—it’s an ex-boyfriend. He’s really angry.” I almost say it out loud: He raped me. I almost do. “I’m scared. Can you please just send someone?”
Maybe by the time they get here I’ll finally be ready to tell the whole story.
“I’ll put in a report,” she says, then lowers her voice. “Listen, if they don’t show up within an hour, call back. And maybe say there’s someone in your apartment right then? You hear what I’m saying?” Lie—that is the point she is making. Lie, when here I am finally trying to tell the truth. “With a crime in progress, a car goes out right away.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I will.”
After I hang up, I manage to paint the rest of the day. I am so amped on adrenaline, I don’t even notice that the police never arrive. When I finish, I swear I’ve only been working a few hours, but it’s dark when I step back and see what I’ve been up to in the hours lost to my unconscious. It’s a portrait of me. More realistic than anything I’ve ever done. I’m sitting alone in the apartment, facing the windows, wearing my favorite painting overalls. It could have been a mournful, lonely image. But there is something strangely hopeful about it. Almost celebratory—but quietly so, like a whisper. I sit for a long time on a kitchen chair some distance away from the canvas, just staring at it. I can feel my whole body unspooling. That person in the painting—she is going to be okay. She is okay.
I’ll call the police again. I’ll keep calling until someone comes. Until someone makes the Senator—and Richard, I guess—answer for what they’ve done.
I stand, raise my brush again to quickly smooth over one last overly harsh edge before I make the call. But then a creak right behind me, the floorboards.
I freeze.
Someone is there. In my apartment.
They’re already right behind me.
Grand Jury Transcript
Testimony of Richard Falk
Conducted by Abigail Hoffman, Assistant District Attorney
November 30
Q. How did you first meet Frankie Callahan?
A. On a trip to Kilimanjaro.
Q. Were you in love with her, Mr. Falk?
A. No.
Q. Did you have romantic feelings for her?
A. I think I’d call it a crush. She was tied up in the climb—and that was a very emotional experience for me, for a lot of reasons, including the death of a close friend.
Q. But you had romantic feelings for her also, didn’t you? You are under oath, Mr. Falk.
A. Yes. Some.
Q. Do you know what happened to Ms. Callahan, Mr. Falk?
A. No, I do not.
Q. Were you at one point charged with her murder?
A. I was. The charges were dropped shortly after the arraignment.
Q. But you were convicted of a related crime?
A. Tampering with evidence. I wasn’t convicted, though—I pled no contest as part of a plea agreement.
Q. You’re still considered convicted even if you pled no contest.
A. I stand corrected.
Q. Were you in Frankie Callahan’s apartment in the early-morning hours of September 11th?
A. Yes.
Q. What were you doing there?
A. We’d had a—not a fight—a misunderstanding earlier. And I wanted to clear it up.
Q. What was the fight about?
A. She thought I’d done something to her studio, which I hadn’t.
Q. Because she found spray paint in your apartment?
A. Yes.
Q. Originally you thought maybe your wife had killed her?
A. Yes. But I was wrong about that. Completely and totally wrong, obviously.
After
Gretchen
September 19
Gretchen decided to approach Noah King down at his office instead of at home. It seemed safer that way and also less threatening. Surely he knew what had happened to Frankie by now, so he wouldn’t be happy to see Gretchen either way. But for Becks she would do it. For him, she would do anything. She needed to find Frankie’s ex-boyfriend before the police started sniffing around her son.
It was just after 5:00 p.m. as she waited near the entrance to his stately Beaux Arts office building on Thirty-Third and Park, scanning the tired faces of people exiting the building. Finally, Noah King appeared, even more attractive than he had been in his headshot, certainly more attractive than any psychiatrist should safely be. But he also looked stressed, face drawn, dark circles under his eyes. Maybe just grieving. He turned right, headed swiftly toward the subway entrance. Gretchen had to jog to keep up.