The Night Stalker

Nine

‘Oh please, tell me you’re not cancelling on me already, Dad?’ Katia wasn’t impressed.

‘Dad?’

Katia suddenly realized that the voice at the other end of the line wasn’t her father’s. ‘Who is this?’

‘Not your daddy.’

‘Phillip, is that you?’

Phillip Stein was the new conductor for the Los Angeles Philharmonic, and Katia’s latest affair. They’d been seeing each other for four months, but three days before the end of the tour they’d gotten into a heated argument. Phillip had fallen head over heels for Katia, and wanted her to move in with him. Katia liked Phillip and she had enjoyed their affair, but certainly not with the same intensity as he did. She wasn’t ready for that type of commitment, not now. She had hinted at the idea that maybe they should take a few days off from seeing each other — just to see how things panned out. Phillip hadn’t taken the suggestion well, throwing a tantrum and conducting the worst concerto of his career that night. They hadn’t spoken since.

‘Phillip? Who’s Phillip? Is that your boyfriend?’ the voice asked.

Katia shivered.

‘Who is this?’ she asked again, firmer this time.

Silence.

An uncomfortable sensation made the hairs on the back of Katia’s neck stand on end. ‘Look, I think you dialed the wrong number.’

‘I don’t think so.’ The man chuckled. ‘I’ve been dialing this number every day for the past two months.’

Katia breathed out, relieved. ‘See, now I’m sure you’ve got the wrong number. I’ve been away for a little while. I actually just got back.’

There was a pause.

‘It’s no big deal, it happens,’ Katia said kindly. ‘Look, I’m gonna put the phone down so you can redial.’

‘Don’t put the phone down,’ the man said calmly. ‘I haven’t dialed the wrong number. Have you checked your answering machine yet, Katia?’

The only phone in Katia’s apartment with an answering machine was the one at the far end of the worktop in the kitchen. She covered the mouthpiece with her hand and quickly made her way towards it. She hadn’t noticed the blinking red light until then. Sixty messages.

Katia gasped. ‘Who are you? How did you get this number?’

Another chuckle. ‘I’m. .’ there was a click on the line again, ‘. . a fan, I guess.’

‘A fan?’

‘A fan with resources. The kind of resources that make information very easy to come by.’

‘Information?’

‘I know you are a fantastic musician. You love your Lorenzo Guadagnini violin more than anything in this world. You live in a penthouse apartment in West Hollywood. You’re allergic to peanuts. Your favorite composer is Tchaikovsky and you love driving that torch red, convertible Mustang of yours.’ He paused. ‘And you’re having lunch with your father tomorrow at one o’clock at Mastro’s Steak House in Beverly Hills. Your favorite color is pink, just like the bathrobe you’re wearing now, and you were just about to open a bottle of white wine.’

Katia froze.

‘So how dedicated a fan am I, Katia?’

Instinctively, Katia’s eyes shot towards her kitchen window, but she knew she was too high up for anyone in one of the neighboring buildings to be able to spy on her.

‘Oh, I’m not peeping on you through the window,’ the man said with a sneer.

The light in the kitchen went out and the next voice Katia heard didn’t come from her phone.

‘I’m standing right behind you.’