My phone rang.
“Hey Susan,” Dad said. “Got a minute?”
I nodded and he continued to speak as if he saw my head move.
“I dug up some info on Naomi and Alfred Resnick. Naomi still lives in Hull, Massachusetts, and Alfred lives a couple of towns over from her in . . . wait a sec . . . I have this written down somewhere.” Dad paused. “Here it is . . . Marshfield. Their spouses died a few years back.”
“Nice sleuthing, Dad. Hopefully, they’ll agree to talk to us.”
“Man, I hope so. They just might know if their mother gave Ed five grand. And who knows, maybe they know why Trudy and Ed took off like they did, without telling anyone. And maybe, if we’re lucky, they know something about this monthly two-thousand-dollar payment to Ed.”
“That’s a lot of maybes.” I closed my diary and ran my finger across the felt appliqué daisy. “I got a question for you. It’s got nothing to do with this case—do you remember if Mom dated someone the first year you guys separated?”
“Not to my knowledge. Why?”’
“Thomas found my old diary when he was cleaning out my bedroom closet and a couple of times I wrote about seeing a man talking to Mom at the house. I mean, it’s probably some innocent encounter mixed with the imagination of an emotionally fraught thirteen-year-old girl.”
“Did you ask your mother about this?”
“Not something I really want to chat with her about. Besides, even though this was forty years ago, I’m not so sure she would come clean about sneaking around with another man. It’s even quite possible she doesn’t remember. Vodka can have that effect.”
“Well, I have no memory of her dating anyone that year. If you really want to know, you’re going to have to ask her.”
“Do you remember taking me to the movie Grease?”
“Now, that, I remember! You told me that Lori was sick . . . or grounded . . . something like that . . . and you really wanted to go. So I was your stand-in. I even remember going to Lefty’s before the movie for your favorite dinner—French onion soup and a cheeseburger.” Dad paused and then deftly changed the subject. “So, Susan, the Resnicks. Should we give them a call?”
“Sure. Why don’t you call them, and if they are willing to talk with us, we’ll just squeeze them in between Carlos, Ben, Joyce, Jake, and Scott.”
“Carlos?”
“The Cuttman bartender.”
Trudy
“Would you like to watch some television?” the nurse asked, fiddling with the remote.
Trudy nodded. “Is Laverne and Shirley on?”
“Laverne and Shirley?”
“Isn’t that your favorite show?” Trudy asked.
“I remember that show,” the nurse said. “Two girlfriends who worked in a beer plant sharing an apartment. Well, I don’t think that show is on anymore.”
“We just watched it the other day. Remember, I came over after that fight with Ben.”
“Um, well, let me check the TV listings, okay?”
“Eleanor, you should not have told Ben that I had a visitor. He insists on knowing who my friends are and what I’m doing at any given moment. He just likes being in charge.”
“Well, here’s a show we can watch. The Kids Are Alright.”
Trudy slapped at her head. “Eleanor, you can’t tell Ben about this woman!”
“What woman?” the nurse asked.
“You know. The woman who came to visit. The one with the blue-and-white scarf.” Trudy glanced over at the television. “In fact, don’t tell anyone.”
“Okay, Trudy. Our little secret.”
Trudy frowned. More secrets.
16
Sunday, November 11, 2018
JOYCE SOLOMON was alive and easy to find. She lived in Liberty, a couple of towns over from Monticello. We decided to ambush her in the morning before talking to Ben in the afternoon. We didn’t want Ben sounding the alarm with his sister before we had a chance to speak with her. In a ploy to determine if she was at home, Dad dialed her landline. When she picked up, he asked for George. I heard her reply, “Sorry, you must have the wrong number.”
On the fifteen-minute ride to her house, Dad fumed nonstop about how pissed he was, being deceived by Ben. I didn’t blame him one iota, so I let him vent.
“Yes?” Joyce asked, slightly cracking open the glass storm door. She was short and redheaded, like Ben. But that was where the similarities ended. Joyce’s facial features were soft and gentle—muted gray eyes, lightly freckled cheekbones, ivory complexion, heart-shaped lips à la Betty Boop. Delicate burgundy curls fell generously onto the shoulder pads of her winter coat.
“Good morning, Ms. Solomon. I’m Detective Susan Ford, and this is my father, retired Detective William Ford. May we come in?”
“I was just about to head out to pick up some groceries. What’s this about?”
“Just need to ask you a few questions about a cold case we are working on. We also have a few questions about Ben.”
Joyce pushed open the storm door to let us in. Dad and I stepped over the threshold and we all stood huddled together in a dark entryway.
“I haven’t seen or heard from Ben in months, not sure how much help I can be.”
“We really just need a few minutes of your time. Is there a place we can sit and talk?”
Joyce led us out of the entryway and into a cramped living room, where a sofa, recliner, television console, and coffee table took up most of the space. Along one wall was a narrow book case filled with trophies. Bowling trophies, to be precise. About one hundred of them, in varying shapes and sizes. Bowling plaques dating back to 1957 were mounted on the walls.
“Yours?” I pointed to the bookcase.
“Every last one of them. Got a big tournament coming up next week, so I’m hoping to add another one to my collection. I play in a senior league now. Ain’t too many of us left.” Joyce turned toward Dad. “You look familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?”
“Well, I don’t bowl, so we didn’t cross paths at the local lanes. I’d say we’re about the same age. Perhaps we mingled at some of the same high-school parties.”
“Perhaps. It’ll come to me. You said this was about some cold case and Ben. Not sure what I can possibly help you with.”
“A couple of months ago, state police discovered skeletal remains along 9W in Ulster County. A woman shot point-blank forty-one years ago, in 1977. She was a Jane Doe until a few days ago. A dental X-ray gave us her name—Renee Carter,” I said. Joyce attentively nodded her head, but did not react to the name.
“I don't know a Renee Carter.” She shifted in her chair slightly, stiffened her back, sat up straighter. “As I said, I really do have to get going.”
“That may very well be.” I paused, perhaps for effect, but more so to make sure what I was about to say was clearly understood. “She had a baby that somehow ended up with you after she was murdered.”
Joyce’s eyes widened, then squinted. She leaned toward us, and for a moment I thought she was going to pitch forward out of the recliner. “That can’t be. I adopted Jake.” She swallowed hard. “I wonder if she was the mo—”
“What adoption agency did you use, Ms. Solomon?” I asked.
“I . . . I . . . can’t remember. I’ll have to go through old files.” Joyce yanked up the collar on her coat. “Look, I really have to go.”
“I'm afraid we need to straighten out a few things first,” Dad said.
“I remember you now. You’re the detective who was looking for Trudy. I saw you interviewed on a TV news program. They found her, right?”
“Yes ma’am, I was the detective assigned to Trudy’s case. And yes, she’s recently been found alive. The case was reopened when Renee Carter’s skeletal remains were found—we initially thought it was Trudy. In the course of our investigation, we’ve uncovered new evidence in both cases and we’re chasing down leads. Now this can be pure coincidence, but your brother is connected to both of these women.”
/> “Ben told me—” She stopped.
“Ben told you what?”
Her gaze darted around the room. Her demeanor changed from proud bowling champ to petrified child.
“Ben told you what?” I repeated.
“Are you sure this murdered woman was Jake’s mother?” she stammered.
“Well, here's the thing, Ms. Solomon,” Dad began. “Renee was not Jake's biological mother, but he was in her care. We do not know who his biological parents are. It was DNA on a pacifier found in the apartment that led us to Jake, who was in our system. We’re still trying to sort out why Renee had him. And how he ended up with you.”
Joyce sat erect and still. She lowered her head slightly and her gaze settled on the coffee table. We waited a few minutes for her to reply, but she maintained her perfectly still pose.
“You were about to say something that Ben told y—”
Her head shot up. “I don’t know. Really. I don’t know why I said that. I don’t really talk to Ben. We’re not very close.”
“Ms. Solomon, I didn’t even know about you until last week. Ben never told us he had a sister. We learned of your existence when we interviewed an ex-employee of the Cuttman who was friends with Trudy. Why did Ben keep you a secret?”
“How would I know? You’ll have to ask him about all this. I . . . I really have to get going,” Joyce said, rising from the recliner.
“Here’s what we think happened,” Dad said. “Ben took that child for you. Or the two of you cooked up this scheme together. So, if you know something, trust me, it is in your best interest to tell us.”
Joyce slowly slumped back down on the recliner. She momentarily cradled her head in her hands. “My husband and I tried to have a baby, to no avail. He died when I was thirty-five, and I never remarried.” She leaned toward Dad and touched her bottom lip, as if she was letting him in on a secret. “At one point, I was sleeping around, trying to get pregnant. That’s how desperately I wanted a baby. I tried to adopt, but back then, no adoption agency would let a single woman on welfare adopt a child.”
“And how does Jake factor into this?” Dad asked curtly, his patience worn a bit thin.
“One day, Ben turns up with Jake. He told me the runaway mom had no relatives and the baby would be put in the foster care system. I just assumed it was one of his employees at the hotel.” She glanced around the room; her gaze landed on a display of family photographs wedged between bowling trophies. “I convinced myself it was fate. That I was meant to have this baby.”
“You do realize this was illegal?” I said.
She inhaled sharply, then let out a slow breath. “When you are desperate to have a baby, you do desperate things. But we certainly wouldn’t have hurt anyone.”
Dad lowered his head and peered over his glasses. “So you're saying Ben just turned up on your doorstep with a baby?”
“That’s exactly what happened.” She cocked her head to the side. “You can’t possibly think Ben killed this woman. I mean, I find that hard to believe. He would never do that.”
“We have a witness who saw Ben shove you. That sounds like violent tendencies to me,” he said.
“I don’t recall that incident, but he could pitch a fit if he was upset. I was living in Middletown at the time, and he told me to never bring the baby up this way. I once did and boy, did he get mad. Maybe that’s what this witness was referring to. He had every right to be upset . . . he didn’t want anyone asking questions. But Ben isn’t a bad person. He actually helped out with some expenses at the beginning. When Jake turned five, I went back to college and got a good-paying job as a bookkeeper and office manager, and since then we managed just fine.”
“What have you told Jake?” I asked.
“About wha—?” She looked up seemingly confused, as if she’d started believing that Jake’s origin was perfectly normal. But within a second her face crumbled. “I’ve never told Jake. He doesn’t know. I thought about telling him when he became a father—his daughter is ten now—but I just couldn’t. I’ve held this secret for such a long time . . . the truth is what feels like a lie now.” Joyce pulled a tissue out of her coat pocket and dabbed her eyes. “What . . . what do you plan to do? Will I go to jail?”
“That’s for the courts to decide. By law, Jake should have been placed in state custody and the Department of Child Services would have been responsible for his well-being.” I shifted my attention to Dad, and then back to Joyce. “Also, if the police knew a child was left behind, their investigation into Renee Carter’s disappearance would have gone in a different direction. Your cooperation in this matter will have some bearing on what happens to you.”
Dad cleared his throat. “This investigation is just getting under way, Ms. Solomon. For all we know, you had a bigger hand in this than you are letting on.”
“A bigger hand? What, now you think I killed that woman?”
“We have no evidence to suggest that . . . right now. Although wanting a child is certainly motive,” Dad said. “We will be speaking with Ben this afternoon. If he was just the recipient of this child, as you purport, then he just might know something that could shed some light on who murdered Renee.”
“You are not to contact Ben. It’s important for us to interview him without the taint of a heads-up,” I said, trying to strike a balance in tone between threatening (to make sure she complied) and compassionate (to gain her trust). “As for Jake, I suggest you come clean. He’ll want to hear this from you, not us or some nosey reporter.”
“Will you give us your word that you will not get in touch with Ben before we’ve had a chance to speak to him?” Dad asked.
Joyce let out a long sigh. “You have my word.”
DAD AND I arrived at the diner early. We grabbed a booth near the front so Ben could easily spot us when he walked in. If he walked in. If Joyce was innocent as she professed, we felt pretty confident she would keep her word and maintain radio silence. However, if she was in cahoots with Ben and tipped him off, well, he was probably halfway to Timbuktu by now. Neither of us had eaten lunch, so Dad called over a waitress and we ordered two cheeseburgers, two Diet Cokes, and fries to split. At ten past two, the bell over the front door tinkled and Ben walked in.
I thought about how Trudy’s roommate described him—troll-like. Spot on. His untamed carrot-orange hair grew vertically from his squarish head. His eyebrows, like two warring caterpillars, twitched inward above beady eyes. His shoulders were bowed, making him appear shorter than he actually was, which was short to begin with. Maybe five seven.
He spotted us immediately. But before he could sit down, Dad slid out and excused himself to go to the bathroom. I knew the ploy. He wanted to trap Ben in the booth. Ben sat across from me, and we engaged in small talk (the weather, my dog, his phlebitis) until Dad reappeared and slid in next to Ben on the red vinyl bench seat.
“I see you got the fries,” Ben said. “Best in Ulster County.”
“Feel free,” Dad offered.
Ben reached over and plucked two fries from the plate and stuffed them into his mouth. “So, what is so important that we must meet again in person? Did you figure out what happened to Trudy?”
“We’re still working on that,” Dad said. “But there’s something else you might be able to help us with.”
Ben eyed the door. It just dawned on him that he was trapped.
Without implicating Joyce, Dad laid out what we knew about Renee Carter and Jake Solomon. The agitation started almost immediately and then it built. His cheeks turned a deep shade of crimson. A vein bulged from his thick neck. He slammed his fists on the table, then he hip-checked Dad in an attempt to dislodge him. Dad managed to keep his butt firmly planted. His old police instincts took over and he grabbed Ben by the shirt collar and pushed him up against the seat. Sally and her partner, Ron Wallace, who were waiting outside for my text signal, ran in.
“Ben Solomon. You’re under arrest for the murder of Renee Carter and the kidnapping of an infant
. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say . . .”
“I did not—NOT—kill Renee Carter!”
“. . . can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.”
“This is bullshit! I didn’t kill anyone!”
The diners, who had been mostly quiet but riveted to the action in our booth, took out their cell phones to record the arrest. I kept my head down. The last thing I needed was to be the star of some viral video making the rounds on Twitter.
“We’ll chat about it at the police station,” I said as Sally handcuffed him and led him out of the diner and into the waiting police car.
RAY LEANED forward in his chair and asked Ben if he would like something to drink, ignoring the public defender seated next to him. Ben bobbed his head yes, and Sally walked in with a can of Coke. Marty leaned against the mirrored wall, playing the role of casual observer. Dad and I were cloistered behind the two-way mirror. Ben had asked for a lawyer immediately upon entering the interrogation room, so now, one hour later, we were finally getting down to business. Ray tried to talk to Ben before the PD showed up, but he just sat there, his arms crossed over his chest, in stony silence.
The Disappearance of Trudy Solomon Page 13