“He owns four dealerships. Two are within fifteen miles of here, but the other two are several hours away.” A melodious beep-beep rang out as I unlocked the car doors. “Are you suggesting we drive to each one?”
20
Friday, November 16, 2018
IT WAS six in the morning. The sun had lifted off from the horizon about fifteen minutes earlier. Deep crimson and bright purple clouds dotted the eastern sky. I yawned. One of those big, vocal ones that last a good five seconds. I peeled back the tab on my plastic coffee lid and took a sip. Dad fiddled with the radio tuner, landing on a local sports station. A chocolate croissant smiled at me atop the dashboard. Dad bit into his blueberry muffin and an avalanche of crumbs cascaded down his shirt and into his lap.
“This really brings me back,” Dad said. “Stakefast, we used to call it.” He brushed the muffin crumbs onto the floor.
We were parked three houses down from Scott’s driveway. Our hope was that he would turn right out of his driveway toward his Delray Beach dealership, so we wouldn’t have to bank a U-y. If he decided to go to his dealership in Pompano, he’d probably be heading our way, and we’d have to duck out of sight before we started tailing him. That meant we risked losing him if his destination was one of the other two dealerships, the one in Vero Beach or the one in Miami. I still couldn’t believe Dad had talked me into this insane ploy.
As each hour ticked by, the temperature climbed a few degrees. The TV weatherman assured us it would be less humid today. I reached around to the cooler perched on the backseat and grabbed a bottled water. I eyed the sandwiches, potato chips, and the six-pack of Diet Pepsi we had bought at Publix last night, just in case we got stuck here through lunch (I did manage to convince Dad that six o’clock in the evening was quitting time). I was already hungry and it was only nine-thirty.
At ten o’clock, a car appeared at the edge of Scott’s driveway. It inched out and the distinctive Mercedes grill came into view. He turned right. I counted to five and then pulled away from the curb. Ten minutes later we arrived at Roth Mercedes Motors. I snagged a spot across the street from the entrance. Scott turned into the dealership lot and parked in front of a metal signpost marked “Reserved.” When he emerged from his car, I raised my binoculars and adjusted the dial to zoom in on his face. It had been quite a while—forty years to be exact—since I had last laid eyes on him. He had not aged well. Maybe it was the paunch. Maybe the lack of hair—he was nearly bald, except for a few strands of hair that stood straight up like baby grass sprouting from newly seeded soil.
“Ready to do some car shopping?” Dad asked.
“A Mercedes? I wish.”
My anxiety from the day before had been replaced with Zen-like calm. Perhaps it was because now that I’d seen him, he didn’t remind me of the Scott I knew in my youth. Or perhaps it was because the element of surprise was gone. This didn’t feel like much of an ambush. He had to know we were coming. He could have hidden out in his house or ditched us, but he didn’t. He drove to his nearest dealership, almost making it too easy. If this was a game of cat and mouse, he made for a lousy rodent.
We stepped into the brightly lit showroom. A thirtysomething woman broke from a group of suited-up men. Her four-inch stiletto heels click-clacked on the white tile as she hurried toward us like a heat-seeking missile. To her, we probably looked like two dupes looking to buy a fancy car. Her cream-colored blouse did little to hide the outline of her lace bra. Definitely intentional. Her ample backside was squeezed into a black pencil skirt. Hair like Morticia Addams—long, shiny, straight, licorice black. Skillfully applied makeup accentuated her wide eyes, high cheekbones, and full lips. She was both intimidating and accessible. Presumably, a perfect combination of assertiveness and cool poise to be a successful luxury-car salesperson.
“Welcome to Roth Mercedes. Have a car in mind, or browsing?” she asked, with a practiced vocal fry. She held out her hand. “I’m Christie Lamont.”
Dad grinned like a besotted school boy and shook her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
I cleared my throat. “Actually, we are here to see Scott Roth,” I said. “I have a feeling he’s expecting us.”
“Um, okay. Follow me.”
I smacked Dad’s arm when I caught him ogling her rear end. STOP IT! I mouthed.
We ascended a spiral staircase, the centerpiece of the showroom, to a floor of glass-enclosed offices. Probably for the guys in finance who are called in at the last minute of a deal to sell you the unnecessary extras—floor mats, rust protection, extended warranty, mud flaps. At the end of the hallway was a door to a private office. The affixed plaque read Scott Roth. Christie knocked on the door to the beat of “Shave and a Haircut . . . Two Bits.”
“Come in.”
She opened the door and poked her head in. The unmistakable scent of Lemon Pledge escaped. “A couple of folks here to see you, Scott.”
“Yes, I’ve been expecting them.”
Christie ushered us into Scott’s expansive office, then stepped back out and closed the door. The room felt more like a movie set than a place where actual work got done. On one side of the rectangular space, a toffee-hued leather couch with two matching leather chairs formed a semicircle around a mahogany coffee table. Modern Dealership, Dealer Magazine, and Auto Dealer Today were meticulously layered in three piles, tiered with the most recent issue of each magazine on top, only the titles of the older issues peeking out from underneath. On the other side of the office, Scott was seated in a leather swivel chair behind a massive mahogany desk. The stapler was positioned perfectly parallel to, and in-between, a Scotch Tape dispenser and a Post-it Notes dispenser—all branded with the Roth Motors logo. Twenty or so cobalt-blue ballpoints, also sporting the Roth Motors logo, poked out of the pen holder. No errant clear plastic Bic or No. 2 pencil to break up the uniformity. The only item on the leather-lined desk blotter was a closed spiral notebook, about the size of my old diary. A pen stand with two fancy pens was positioned dead center above the blotter. On the mahogany credenza behind Scott was a Dell computer, the screen black. Next to the computer sat a tiered folder holder, each slot containing one manila folder. Each folder’s purpose designated by a type-written label on its tab. The intense order of everything made me uncomfortable. For Dad, this must have been nirvana. Scott motioned us to sit in the plush upholstered chairs across from him.
“I take it you’re here regarding Trudy Solomon,” Scott said. His voice flat and monotone. No pleasantries to start the conversation. No Hi Suzie, great to see you after all these years. He continued, “I heard from Meryl that you found her. Case closed, right? So, what’s your purpose in stalking me?”
“We’ve got a few unanswered questions,” Dad said. “Questions we thought you might want to avoid answering. For instance, you knew back in 2007 she was alive and well, yet you never reported this to the Monticello police. Why?”
“You know about that, huh? Well, to what end? She was alive. And the case was long closed. I figured, let her live her life the way she wanted to. It was obvious to me she wanted to remain missing. She had no relatives, and she told me she didn’t want Ben to know where she was.”
“Was she afraid of Ben?” I asked.
“How would I know? I just know she wanted a new life. Is that it? Are we done here?”
“Not quite.” I paused, holding his emotionless gaze for a few seconds. “We interviewed a few hotel workers and guests from that summer, and they were all under the impression that you thought your dad killed her. Now, why would that be?”
His head remained forward, but his eyes fixed on the ceiling. He shook his head slowly, then puckered his lips so that they disappeared into his mouth. He rested his pointer finger under his nose and his thumb under his chin. “Not ringing any bells for me. They must be mistaken.”
“All of them? Mistaken?” Dad asked.
“Memories fade. Or get warped. This was forty years ago and I was eighteen years old. You expect me to recall
what I said or thought in 1978?”
“Okay. So how about 2007? That’s just eleven years ago. Why did you go see Ed and Trudy?” I asked.
“I ran into them on the street in Boston and they invited me over.”
I wondered how long it took him to come up with that line. He had eleven years to settle on the reason he was in their apartment, should anyone ask him, and this was what he was going with?
“I think we are done here. I’m sorry I couldn’t have been of more help.” He stood up.
“We know about the extortion. We know you went there to discuss it with Ed. We also suspect the blackmail scheme is tied to his murder.” Dad recited it exactly the way he had practiced. Assertive but not overly threatening.
Scott’s stoic expression dissolved. In its place, a fusion of surprise and anger. A whisper of flush surfaced on his cheeks and spread upward to his forehead. “Get out of my office now,” he barked in staccato, as if each word were its own sentence.
“Looks like we hit a nerve there, Susan,” Dad said without taking his eyes off Scott. “This is a murder investigation, Scott. There is no statute of limitations on murder. So, I suggest you do yourself a favor and tell us what the hell you were doing at Trudy’s in 2007.”
Scott clearly understood we were out of our jurisdiction, with flimsy evidence, and no authority to actually arrest him. He had no intention of cooperating or shedding any light on the case and seemed to take great pleasure in showing us out of his showroom with nothing to show for it.
Turned out Dad had a Plan B.
Trudy
Trudy heard two men arguing outside her room. She held her palms over her ears.
Dr. Meadows poked his head in. “You okay?”
“Is that you, Ed?”
“No, Trudy. It’s Dr. Meadows.”
“Why are Scott and Ed fighting? Is this about the money?”
“No one is fighting. Just a little commotion in the hallway.”
She could have sworn she just heard Ed shouting that they deserved every penny. Only he said goddamn penny.
“They were fighting about the money,” Trudy insisted.
“Well, everything is fine now,” Dr. Meadows replied.
Trudy knew everything was not fine. Why was Dr. Meadows lying? “Ed is really mad. Scott wants us to stop. Said twelve years is enough. But Ed said no.”
“What needs to stop?”
“The money. That’s what they’re fighting about.” Trudy replied, confused that Dr. Meadows wouldn’t know this. Didn’t he just hear them fighting? “Every month. Like clockwork. Tick. Tock. Can’t stop.”
“No need to worry about that anymore, Trudy.” Dr. Meadows smiled and closed the door.
The two men started arguing again. Then she heard a loud knock on the door. Ed told her to be quiet. That the police were outside. That he would do all the talking.
21
Saturday, November 17, 2018
DAD CALLED the airline last night, canceled our flight back to New York, and rebooked us on an early-morning flight to Logan Airport in Boston.
He had gotten in touch with Ed Resnick’s siblings the day before after our fiasco of a meeting with Scott and they’d agreed to meet with us. (“And hey, since we are going to be in Massachusetts, why not visit Trudy Solomon?” Dad said.) Sure, why not? As long as we got back in time for Thanksgiving. Natalie would never speak to us again if we failed to show up for the one holiday she seemed to cherish above all others. (“What’s better than a whole day of cooking, eating, and washing dishes with family?” she reminded me every year. “Root canal?” I always replied.)
The flight was uneventful—on-time takeoff, landing fifteen minutes earlier than scheduled. Naomi Resnick lived south of Boston, in a coastal town called Hull. That’s where Dad arranged to meet both Naomi and her brother, Alfred. The Alzheimer’s facility Trudy lived in was north of Boston. Our plan was to see her the next day.
Dad fiddled with Google Maps as I drove us out of the rental car parking lot towards 93 South. Estimated driving time, forty-five minutes. I hated driving around cities I didn’t know. Especially ones like Boston, notorious for confusing road signs and impatient drivers. And rotaries.
A couple of miles after crossing the Hull town line, we passed through a two-block commercial district—grocery store, bank, real-estate office, hardware store, nail salon, bakery, diner, pharmacy, liquor store, sub shop, post office. As the saying goes, “Blink and you’d miss it.” Then came streets designated from A through Z (although the last street sign we passed was XYZ Street, so perhaps they ran out of streets along this stretch). We continued on a narrow two-lane road that separated the ocean from the bay, driving past a lifesaving museum, a yacht club, a cemetery, and what appeared to be an overdeveloped cluster of condominiums built on a tiny island connected to the peninsula by a bridge. As we approached a bend in the road, Google Maps directed us to take a right and a couple of lefts. “Your destination is on the right.” We pulled up in front of a brown foursquare in need of a paint job.
Naomi must have seen us pull up. She opened the door and stepped out onto the porch cradling a fluffy white dog. She waved.
As we climbed the three steps, she said, “I wanted Popeye to meet you out here. He’s very excitable and pees in the house when strangers walk in.”
“Cute . . . dog,” Dad said. Dad didn’t consider these little dogs, dogs. He considered them glorified cats. (“Dogs have owners. Cats have staff,” he would joke, quoting a T-shirt that walked past him one day.) He was not a fan of cats . . . or little dogs.
“Popeye, now you be a good boy. No pee-pee.” She looked up. “Would you mind letting him sniff you? It would really help,” she said, reverting back to an adult voice.
Dad and I held our hands under the dog’s nose. I glanced down at the welcome mat: Ahoy Matey, Welcome Aboard. After this ten-second meet and greet, Naomi held open the door and directed us to a navy-blue sofa. Blue-and-white-striped pillows embroidered with anchors were lined up along the cushions. The lamps were replicas of lighthouses. A ship’s wheel hung on the wall facing the sofa, flanked by a pair of long oars. The coffee table was a flat-top lobster trap (not a replica, the real deal) with a thick pane of glass on top and several reddish plastic lobsters inside. A collection of shells and sea glass laid in piles on the window sills.
Naomi headed to the kitchen and quickly reappeared with a pitcher of lemonade and a plate of chocolate-chip cookies. She handed us coasters constructed of nautical rope and placed the pitcher on a fish-shaped tray. When I lifted a cookie from the plate, an octopus’s eye stared up at me.
A toilet flushed upstairs. A few moments later, a gray-haired man descended the stairs, gripping the banister and taking one step at a time.
“Hello everyone,” he said when he reached the floor. He took a few steps and held out his hand to Dad. “Alfred Resnick. Naomi told me you were stopping by to discuss Trudy and Ed. That you might have a new lead in Ed’s murder.” He shook my hand and sat down on the leather recliner—the one piece of furniture that felt out of place in this over-the-top, under-the-sea decor motif.
“Well, we appreciate you seeing us on such short notice,” I said. “We won’t take up too much of your time.”
“Let’s start at the beginning,” Dad said. “What can you tell us about Trudy and Ed when they arrived in Rochester?”
Alfred gave a go-ahead nod to Naomi. “They wanted us to be quiet about their whereabouts. To pretend they were married. Trudy claimed she was in fear of her life. So we played along.”
“Who was she afraid of?” I asked.
“She didn’t say.”
“Her husband?”
“Perhaps. But like I said, they told us very little, and we respected their privacy,” she said. Naomi glanced at Alfred again. He nodded. “There’s something else you should know. Well, maybe you know already.” She cleared her throat. “Trudy was pregnant.”
I puckered my lips to suppress the outburst of w
hat the fuck exploding in my head.
Dad didn't even flinch. “Go on,” he said flatly. He once told me that a successful interrogation is like a poker game—never give away what’s in your hand and you stand a better chance of winning. He thinks people tend to blab if they think they are telling you something you already know.
“She wasn’t showing when they got to Rochester, but it didn’t take long until it was noticeable. The thing was . . . Trudy was not handling the situation well . . . in her mental state.”
“Her mental state?” I asked.
“Ed said she suffered from anxiety, bouts of depression. Made worse by . . .” Naomi scooped her hands around her belly. “We weren’t sure she could handle caring for a baby, let alone two.”
“Two?” I asked, poker face intact. At least I thought so.
“Twins.”
I wanted to stand up, release the tension building inside me. But I didn’t want to interrupt this flow of information. I also didn’t want to appear rattled. But what the hell was going on? Ben’s babies? Ed’s babies? Lenny’s babies? Stanley’s babies? Scott’s babies? Someone else’s babies? Who’s fucking babies were these?
As though reading my mind, Dad asked, “Was Ed the father?”
“He didn’t say. We didn’t ask,” Alfred said.
“If you had to guess?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. We don’t know,” Naomi said, eyeballing her brother. “Al and I weren’t close to Ed, and we got the feeling their predicament was none of our business. At one point, he had to have Trudy hospitalized. She was on the verge of a nervous breakdown—practically catatonic in the last few months of her pregnancy, waiting for it all to be over. Like I said, she was in no condition to handle the stress of motherhood. And we got the feeling Ed wasn’t keen on being a dad.”
“What happened to the babies?” Dad asked.
The Disappearance of Trudy Solomon Page 16