Chapter Seven
Avgustin Juniper jerked awake.
He was disorientated. Too much good wine and Russian vodka floated in his blood stream and he barely remembered his name, let alone that he was now residing in Cassandra Moúsa’s apartment. It was pitch dark and his hand reached out searching for his cell phone on the table beside the bed. The light from it was enough for Juniper to see the room and remind him where he was. He turned on the lamp beside the bed and the room lit up just as he heard raised voices in the hallway outside.
So that was what had disturbed him.
Cassandra Moúsa lived in an exclusive block in a warehouse conversion near Wall Street. She had the top floor all to herself. It was a completely private and quiet place that had large rooms with ceilings higher than Juniper had ever seen in his life. She had given him a suite of rooms all to himself. A studio, with perfect daylight streaming through. A bedroom with an attached bath, and a small lounge area with cable television. He even had a fridge full of cold drinks, beer and vodka. As much as he wanted.
Juniper pushed back the covers, turned his legs out of the bed, stood and reached for his dressing gown. As he tied the robe the door to his room burst open revealing Detective Chandler and a bunch of uniformed cops.
“This is an outrage!” said Cassandra from the corridor beyond.
Juniper noted that she was still dressed and wearing the suit she had worn earlier. He had been alone for the best part of the day, with the exception of the bodyguards who never spoke to him—and all looked so much alike that he couldn’t remember any of their names—but he had seen Cassandra leave in the morning for work and had noted her clothing.
“Juniper, you need to come with us. Right now,” said Chandler.
“What is it?” Juniper asked.
“Avgustin hasn’t left this apartment,” Cassandra said. “I can vouch for him. He’s had security guards with him all day.”
“What has happened?” Juniper asked again.
“Another girl was attacked,” Cassandra said.
Juniper blanched. “How horrible. Is it … like Annabel?”
“This one is still alive,” Chandler said.
“I’m confused, Detective. Why have you been brought into this? I thought you were homicide,” Cassandra said.
“There are some … similarities to Annabel Linton’s case,” Chandler said. “Which is why we need to establish your client’s whereabouts.”
Juniper couldn’t understand how they would even suspect him of a random attack. Annabel, he understood—on some level. Even though he knew he hadn’t hurt her he had at least known her, been involved with her. Also, he had been there when it happened, even though he had been unable to explain to anyone’s satisfaction what he had seen.
This whole thing was getting out of hand. It was insane.
“What have you been doing today?” Chandler asked.
“Working. I’ve been here all zhe time, just as Ms. Moúsa said,” Juniper answered.
“Show me,” said Chandler and when Juniper frowned and looked confused he continued, “your work. Show me what you’ve done today.”
Juniper met Cassandra’s eyes over Chandler’s shoulder.
“Do you have a warrant?” Cassandra said.
Chandler turned and looked her in the eye. “Juniper here is on bail under suspicion of a similar crime … we don’t actually need one.”
Cassandra held Chandler’s eye for a moment, and then she shrugged, “Let him see. I can’t see any harm in it. Not worth the argument.”
The police stepped aside to allow Juniper to pass through the doorway and lead them to his makeshift studio.
This part of the loft had huge windows that looked out onto the street as well as skylight windows above. It was perfect for painting.
“This is your apartment?” Chandler said to Cassandra, but it was rhetorical. “What did you use this room for before?”
Cassandra didn’t answer and Chandler forgot his train of thought as Juniper led him to the canvas nearest the big windows.
“This is what I was working on,” Juniper said.
Chandler stared at the painting. The girl that Juniper had pictured looked almost exactly like the girl, Maria Matthews, who had been attacked at Battery Park.
“Who is this girl?” Chandler asked.
“Oh, that’s Susan Matthews. She’s a student at the college. She models for me sometimes,” Juniper said.
“Susan Matthews? Do you know if she has a sister?”
“No, I don’t know much about her. She doesn’t talk much and I don’t encourage it in the models. It’s too much of a distraction.”
“When did you see her last?” Chandler asked.
“A few weeks ago. Why?”
“You’re coming with us, Juniper, and I want your security men to accompany us to the station for questioning. That’s before you get time to talk to them, Ms. Moúsa,” Chandler said. “Maria Matthews was the name of the girl who was attacked this evening and I’m pretty certain we are going to find out that your model, Susan, is related to her.”
“I resent the implication that I might coerce my guards to lie to the police, Detective Chandler,” said Cassandra. “And Avgustin told you he didn’t know anything about his model’s private life. This whole thing sounds like an unfortunate coincidence. And I’m sure the DA will agree with me on that.”
“I wasn’t implying anything, Ms. Moúsa,” Chandler said. “Merely that I want to speak to them before you do. And if Mr. Juniper has done nothing wrong then he won’t object to it if we confirm his whereabouts.”
“This is insane,” said Juniper. “Why would I attack my model’s sister? Even if what you say is true. I was here the whole day and evening. Why won’t you believe me?”
“I have an assault and a murder to investigate, Mr. Juniper. And right now you’re coming up as the one thing in common with both of the victims.”
“That doesn’t mean I did it,” said Juniper.
“No. It doesn’t,” Chandler said, surprising both Juniper and Cassandra, “but you’re the only connection we have.”
Back at the station, the bodyguards confirmed Juniper’s alibi, and Chandler had very little he could use to detain the artist further.
“Maybe it would be best if I am locked up,” Juniper said to Cassandra as she bundled the tired artist back into her limousine.
“Why on earth would you think that?”
“At least then, if there are more attacks it would be impossible for me to have done them. Then they might start to believe that I didn’t hurt Annabel.”
“Believe me, what has happened this evening is for the best. If they had revoked your bail it would have meant the press would condemn you. No way would you ever get a fair trial after that. If there are further attacks we will just keep proving your innocence. Okay?”
“You believe me, don’t you? I didn’t hurt either of those girls.”
“Avgustin, if I didn’t already know that I wouldn’t have brought you into my home.”
Juniper sank back into the leather seat. It meant a lot to him that someone believed him. He couldn’t understand how, in such a short time, his whole life had taken a turn for the worse. And it had all begun with Annabel. Despite Cassandra’s reassurances, he was terrified that he would be found guilty of her murder.
Avgustin had moved to the United States because he believed in their justice system. It was so deeply ironic that he now found himself in this position. It was the most terrible thing in the world to be accused of something that you knew you hadn’t done and, somehow, it was even worse that it had happened to him in the land of freedom.
As the car drew closer to Cassandra’s apartment Avgustin was overwhelmed with immense gratitude towards her. If anyone would clear his name it would be her, and his career just might be left intact at the end of it too. As much as it still horrified him to be cashing in on someone else’s tragedy, he was even coming around to her way of thinking regarding the sale of the paintings.
Back at the apartment, Cassandra poured him a brandy. The security guards were no longer inside. Avgustin wondered briefly if this meant they were still at the police station.
“The guards are outside now. I don’t necessarily need my home filled with people all the time. I want some privacy.”
“You must be certain, also, that I will not hurt you,” Juniper said voicing his suspicions that the men had mostly been there to protect Cassandra from him.
Cassandra laughed. It was three in the morning, yet she still looked fresh. Juniper wondered how she managed to keep going like that. He was exhausted. Frazzled.
“I have no doubt in my mind that you couldn’t hurt me,” Cassandra said.
“You mean, wouldn’t?”
Cassandra smiled, downed her brandy and wished him goodnight. Then she left the sitting room and went down the corridor to her own rooms.
Juniper stayed in the lounge sipping the brandy until his shaken nerves began to calm down. It was a close call again that night, as though someone was playing a cat and mouse game with him.
Cassandra had learned that the victim was in fact Susan’s twin sister. He couldn’t deny the connection between Susan Matthews and himself, but why would the killer attack Maria? It was probably just a fluke and nothing to do with him at all, but Juniper couldn’t help being paranoid.
“Why would anyone want to do this to me?” he murmured into his glass. “I’m not a bad person. I don’t hurt anyone. All I vont to do is paint.”
He gazed into space for a while letting his mind wander. He couldn’t recall a single moment when he had made any serious enemies. He was a loner for the most part, had few friends, but now he wondered what he had done to make him the target of this person.
He placed the empty brandy glass down on a coffee table near his chair, then stood and made his way to his own bedroom. Outside the small suite he heard running water. He knew Cassandra’s room was just down the hallway, but he would never dream of going there. He would never ruin her trust.
Juniper stripped down to his shorts and climbed into the bed once more. His head began to hurt. He was thinking too much, analyzing something that he had no control of. He turned off the lamp and the room returned to the pitch blackness that should help him sleep better, but he lay in the dark unable to switch off his mind.
He heard a noise outside. A strange scraping, like tree branches on glass. It reminded him of the trees on the farm he lived on as a child. Juniper’s overactive imagination remembered that sensation, that feeling of helplessness he had as a child when he heard those noises in the night. Part of him knew it was just the wind making the branches move, but another part of him had believed that the trees were crowding round, trying to get inside. Now he had that same irrational fear. A claustrophobic horror pumped adrenaline around his body until Juniper recalled that Cassandra’s apartment was several stories above the ground. No trees could reach the window.
As he drifted to sleep, barely reassured, his half-conscious psyche shifted into a scenario where he imagined that he stumbled across the room to open the curtains. Outside, his dream conscious could see nothing. No branches, no reason for the ambiguous noise, no lights from the city even. All he could see was a black void, as though some darkness had stretched across the window and now obscured his vision.
He floated deeper into his strange imaginings: he was an artist after all, and much of his inspiration came from his dreams. As the dark fog cleared, he saw another girl, one whose face he must paint. A beauty with long dark hair and a cherry red smile. The girl was dancing. A flowing dress falling around her perfect thighs. She was a ballerina then.… That was the picture he must paint; a beautiful dancer, with the most exquisite legs. The shape of them was magical.
Sometime during the night, Juniper heard a scream. In his dream he saw the dancer tumble. He saw the darkness swoop on her, tearing at those unique limbs until she was left with bloodless stumps.
He tried to run, to get away, but could make no progress.
He looked down and saw that his own legs were no longer there, just stumps waving back and forth.
Juniper jerked upright, a cry of disgust choking in his throat. He sat in the silent darkness, his breath steadying. It was just a dream.
It was still dark out, but the curtains were now open. He must have opened them in his sleep after all. The thought that part of his dream was real sent a shiver through him.
On trembling legs, he left the bed and pulled the drapes closed, but not before he glanced out over the illuminated city.
He still felt shaky, but there was nothing wrong with the view outside. A dream. It was all just a dream.
He fell back into the bed, not caring what time it was. He was so tired that all he wanted to do was to sleep. And, hopefully, not dream.