The Disappearance of Trudy Solomon

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The Disappearance of Trudy Solomon Page 19

by Marcy McCreary


  RAY LOOKED up from his phone and yelled across the room, “Hey Susan! Just got off the phone with Marty. Seems Wayne and Melvin rolled over like an SUV doing ninety when it swipes a curb.” A round of applause broke out. Back slaps and handshakes all around as Ray made his way over to my desk.

  “Let’s go out and celebrate,” Ray said. “Just you and me, dinner at Ciao Bella, a nice bottle of chardonnay.”

  I was not keen on going out to celebrate. It felt premature. There was still the hearing to get through, and there were plenty of people in town who would swear up and down this was a cover-up or insist the gun was planted. But I didn’t want to spoil Ray’s high. This was a big win for him. It was his idea to follow up with the company that moved the pallets out of the warehouse. He had every right to feel celebratory right now, regardless of what might happen.

  26

  Tuesday, November 27, 2018

  LENNY slouched forward, his arms outstretched on the wooden table. Occasionally, his head bobbed downward. Probably didn’t sleep much in the cold jail cell last night. Ray walked in with two cups of coffee and put one down in front of Lenny. Lenny pulled back the tab and took a sip.

  “You tryin’ to burn me, man?” He peeled off the lid and steam wafted skyward.

  “If I was trying to burn you, I would have poured it over your head,” Ray said. “Next time, let it sit a while.”

  Ray took a seat across from Lenny. He was lead on this interrogation. He had a gift for motivating people to talk, to get them to spill their guts like lava oozing out of a volcano, as he would say. He disarmed them. Charmed them. Then went for the jugular. That was pretty much how he got a first date with me. Marty walked in, spun the metal chair around and sat on the backward-facing chair next to Ray. Dad and I were watching this unfold behind the two-way mirror. I was pretty sure Lenny knew we were behind it—he occasionally glanced in our direction and scowled.

  “While we’re waiting for your PD to arrive, thought we could shoot the shit a bit,” Ray said. “We know for a fact that you came into possession of a baby who you pawned off on Ben Solomon. Why don’t you enlighten us as to how you got to be in the adoption business?”

  “I’m not sayin’ nothin’ ’til my lawyer gets here.”

  “Okay. Have it your way. But just so you know, we already got you for kidnapping—that’s twenty-five years right there. And if you think your PD is going to save your sorry ass, well, go with God.” Ray leaned in closer to Lenny. “So my suggestion, should you be smart enough to take it, is to tell us why you killed Renee Carter.”

  Lenny hooked his hands behind his head and leaned back, forcing the front legs of his chair to rise slightly. As he shifted forward, the chair clattered when the legs reengaged the floor. He took a gulp from his Styrofoam cup of coffee, now probably lukewarm. He smiled. “I didn’t kill her.” He ran the tip of his tongue along his yellowed teeth. “But I know who did and I know why. And I got the proof. And if you wanna know, I want some . . . assurances. A little tit for tat.”

  “You’re in no position to bargain, Lenny,” Ray said. “So why don’t you tell us what you know, and then we’ll decide what it’s worth.”

  “Well, I’m not sayin’ a word without my lawyer. I said enough already.” He looked down at his cup and swirled the liquid. “This coffee is cold. I want another.”

  Ray stared coldly at Lenny while drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “Maybe when I want more coffee, I’ll get you some too. Depends how I’m feeling. Right now, I’m not feeling much of anything. So, help me out here.”

  Lenny’s court-appointed attorney, Malcolm Whittaker, stumbled into the room, breathing heavily and reeking of cigarette smoke. “Sorry. My case this morning ran late,” he said with a raspy, tobacco-damaged voice. “I’d like some time with my client.”

  “We’ll be back in fifteen,” Marty said.

  EXACTLY FIFTEEN minutes later Ray and Marty parked themselves across from Lenny and his attorney. Ray’s take on Attorney Whittaker was pretty accurate. Not the sharpest tool in the shed. He usually picked up petty theft and DWI cases, or maybe the occasional assault and battery. But kidnapping and murder? Out of his depth. But the last thing Ray and Marty wanted was for Lenny to claim he had incompetent counsel. Which meant they would have to play it by the book. Or at least as close to the book as possible. A clean interrogation, no coercion. Disclosure of the evidence. In other words, stick to Eldridge’s mantra: t’s crossed, i’s dotted, don’t screw this up!

  Ray directed his opening statement to the attorney. “Before you arrived, your client here was explaining that he knows who killed Renee Carter. So, why don’t we start there?”

  Lenny and Whittaker huddled and whispered for a few minutes.

  “My client is willing to tell you everything you want to know about Renee Carter’s murder for a reduced sentence on the kidnapping charge. He said he has proof he didn’t do it. Once we get assurances from the DA, he’ll tell you what you want to know.”

  RAY TURNED on the tape recorder. It had taken several hours for Whittaker and the DA to come up with a plea deal, all of it contingent on whether or not Lenny’s version of events could be proven. Since there was no intent to harm the child, Lenny would plead guilty to second degree kidnapping and serve the minimum five-year sentence, with parole eligibility after two and a half.

  Ray started the interview by introducing those present in the room, the date, and time, two o’clock. “So, Lenny. You got your deal. You lead us down any wrong paths or make shit up, the deal goes away and you could be looking at the maximum twenty-five on a second degree kidnapping charge. And depending on how the evidence breaks, you could also be looking at a murder charge. Got it?”

  “I want a fresh cup of coffee,” Lenny said. “Then you’ll get your story. Black, two sugars. Real sugar. Not the fake cancer-causin’ shit.”

  Ray tilted his head toward Marty. Marty exited the room. Ray turned off the tape recorder.

  Five minutes later, Marty returned with a cardboard tray cradling four coffees. “Everyone happy now?” Marty said, placing the individual cups on the table.

  Lenny flipped back the lid and blew into the opening before taking a sip. “Ahhh.”

  “This ain’t Dunkin Donuts, Lenny. Time to start talking.”

  Ray turned on the tape recorder. “Leonard Berman interrogation with Ray Gorman, Marty Stiles, and Leonard Berman’s court-appointed attorney, Malcolm Whittaker. Tuesday, November twenty-seventh. Two-fifteen pm. Now, Lenny, what can you tell us about the murder of Renee Carter?”

  Lenny stiffened his spine, rolled his shoulders back, and puffed out his chest. He inhaled. He exhaled. He stroked an imaginary beard. “Well, first of all, like I said, it wasn’t me. A guy named Panda killed Renee. Well, that wasn’t his real name. His last name was Pandolini or something like that. Panda was his nickname. Big, blotchy-faced, burly guy.” He slid his hands over his hair. “Black hair. In a pompadour, slicked back. Y’know, like Elvis. He was a line cook at the Cuttman Hotel.”

  Panda. I remembered that guy. When I was a kid, I would sometimes see him walking his dog around the hotel. A pug with one eye and three legs. Heard it was also deaf. Sometimes it had a pink ribbon tied around its neck. It was a sight to behold. A gigantic man with port wine stains on his face and his tiny invalid dog. I once heard him call her Dolly.

  Lenny took a sip of coffee, then continued: “He asked if I wanted to help him with a muscle job. Scare someone—Renee, that is—to keep her from yakkin’ about somethin’ or someone. Said there was a C note in it for me, and no one would get hurt. He said cuz I knew her—Renee, that is—I would be helpful in gettin’ her to comply. As a junkie at the time, it was hard for me to say no to quick money. But things went south pretty fast. Renee said she had no intention of shuttin’ up and she wanted the money she was owed for somethin’ or other. In the middle of them arguin’, Panda’s dog—this pathetic thing that maybe weighed fifteen pounds—starts barkin’ its head off. Rene
e lunged for the dog and Panda freaked out and his gun went off. I’m just standin’ there thinkin’, holy shit. I didn’t sign up for this. Then Panda confessed to me that he was told to off her if she didn’t play ball. I’ve never known Panda to do anythin’ violent. All I could think is he must have really needed the money.”

  “So where can we find this Panda?”

  “He’s six feet under. Died a few years ago.”

  “How convenient,” Ray said. “How do we know it wasn’t you who pulled the trigger?”

  “Because I ain’t no cold-blooded murderer, that’s why. I wanted nothin’ to do with Panda after that fiasco. I dealt with the kid, and after that we went our separate ways. Once in a while, he’d come by the coffee shop to chat with Trudy.”

  “Trudy Solomon?”

  “Yeah. That Trudy. They were friends.” Lenny crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back, seemingly satisfied with part one of his story.

  “Okay, Lenny,” Ray said. “But I don’t see how any of this helps your cause. Where’s the so-called proof you said you’ve got?”

  Lenny uncrossed his arms. “Right. Take it easy. I’m gettin’ to that.” He rubbed his hands up and down his thighs. “A couple years ago, Panda’s sister calls me. I didn’t even know he had a sister. And when I say sister, I mean sister—she’s a freakin’ nun. She lived in a convent up in Poughkeepsie. For some reason, he told her that I was his only true friend—maybe cuz I didn’t rat him out—and asked her to contact me when he died. She said Panda wanted to say he was sorry for what he done to me. Then she asked if I wanted his journals. Somethin’ to remember him by, I guess—like I was his best friend, or somethin’. I politely declined. She said she would hold on to them in case I changed my mind. Then she told me she had found a gun among his possessions and was plannin’ to turn it over to the police. That would have been two years ago. If I’m a bettin’ man, I’d bet that’s the gun that killed Renee Carter.”

  “Is Panda’s sister still alive?”

  “I have no idea. But I sure as shit hope so. She said he wrote about his ‘sinful deeds’ in those journals. Maybe the whole story is in there, includin’ the guy who hired Panda. That’s your real murderer.”

  Ray leaned forward. “And the nun’s name?”

  Lenny squinted and turned his head to the left. “Um. Miriam? Yeah. Sister Miriam.” He turned back toward Ray and smirked. “Pulled that one out of my ass.”

  “And she lived in a convent in Poughkeepsie?”

  “Yeah. And Panda was livin’ nearby, right up until he died.” Lenny rubbed his hands together as if they had suddenly turned cold from all this talk of murder and death.

  “How well did you know Renee?” Marty asked.

  “What kind of question is that? You suggestin’ I was one of her customers?”

  “Just answer the question,” Ray said.

  “I seen her around. We had a few mutual friends. Why?”

  “Well, we've come to learn that that baby wasn't hers. Maybe you can explain that,” Ray said.

  “Hmm.” Lenny scratched his stubbled chin. “I’m gonna tell you somethin’ that I should get extra credit for.”

  “Extra credit? This ain't high-school math class,” Marty scoffed.

  Lenny sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. And waited.

  Marty broke the silence. “Just tell us what you think is so worthwhile and we’ll decide whether this information will help your cause.”

  Lenny leaned forward, squaring off with Marty. “Renee was a baby broker.”

  I wish I had a pin. That’s how quiet the room got.

  “A baby broker?” Ray asked, and Lenny turned to face him.

  “Yeah. She and some lawyer friend of hers helped women who needed to find loving homes for their unwanted babies . . . for a price, of course. Usually arranged by the parents of girls who wanted to keep things on the QT. Whoever Renee was demandin’ money from was probably mixed up in this baby business. We talkin’ blackmail.”

  Ray leaned over and whispered in Marty’s ear. Marty nodded.

  “Well?” Lenny shouted. “Do I get a break?”

  “We’ll see how that bit of information pans out,” Marty said.

  “Fuck, man. That ain’t fair.”

  “I’ve got one last question for you, Lenny.” Ray stood and walked around the table to Lenny’s side. “Do you know who killed Ed Resnick?”

  “Man. He was a friend of mine. I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re gettin’ at. And if I knew who did, I would tell you. I wish I knew somethin’. But I don’t. Are we done here?”

  Malcolm Whittaker finally spoke. “Yeah. We’re done here.”

  27

  Thursday, November 29, 2018

  AFTER MUCH back and forth, Eldridge finally gave me the green light to join Ray and Marty on their excursion to Poughkeepsie, an hour-plus drive from Monticello. Even though this field trip was related to the Renee Carter case, The Cuttman connection was deemed enough of a reason for me to tag along. I invited Dad to join us, but he declined, opting to defend his title at a Horizon Meadows billiards tournament instead.

  I hunkered down in the backseat, ruminating over Tuesday’s interrogation. When Ray questioned Lenny about a possible connection, Lenny claimed there wasn’t one, as far as he knew. Was it just a coincidence that there were overlapping players? Both Renee and Trudy seemed to be caught up in blackmail schemes. Renee didn’t get her money. But Trudy did. Did Panda threaten both women? Was Panda the person Trudy feared? But Lenny described them as friends. Perhaps Trudy was afraid of the person who hired Panda to off Renee.

  Ray switched off the radio and looked at me in the rearview mirror. “What do you think of Lenny’s cockamamie story?’

  “It’s going to be hard to prove if Panda’s sister has no recollection of this, refuses to see us, or is no longer in possession of the journals. Besides, if she did give the gun to the Poughkeepsie police, there’s a pretty good chance they destroyed it.”

  “The whole thing sounds insane,” Marty said. “This repentant gun-for-hire-slash-cook character with a maimed dog. Who just happens to looks like Elvis. His sister a nun, cloistered somewhere in Poughkeepsie. A prostitute moonlighting as a baby broker.”

  “I actually remember Panda,” I said. “He bounced at some of the bars around here. And always had the dog with him. He loved that dog. Funny thing is, I always thought he was a nice guy. He might have been big, but he wasn’t menacing. More teddy bear than grizzly bear.”

  “Catch the connection to the Cuttman and Trudy?” Ray asked both of us.

  “Yup,” I answered. “Did you find anything on him?”

  Marty twisted around to face me. “Short rap sheet. His name is Salvatore Pandelo. A couple of drug arrests and a youthful B and E. Broke into an unoccupied summer cottage during the off-season and stole a bottle of Grand Marnier. Nothing violent. No weapons charges. Like Lenny said, his last known address was an apartment complex in Poughkeepsie, so we’ll do a little nosing around there when we pay his sister a visit. Maybe he confessed his ‘sinful deeds’ to neighbors.”

  The Whitney Apartments, where Salvatore “Panda” Pandelo had resided, would be our first stop. Marty contacted the building’s super and the guy said if we arrived before noon, he would introduce us to a couple of Panda’s former neighbors. (“Can’t promise you they’ll talk,” he warned.)

  Getting hold of Panda’s sister proved to be a bit more challenging. Ray called the Dominican Sisters of Poughkeepsie, the only convent in the area. Although there were contemplative nuns at this convent, the nun he spoke to informed him that Sister Miriam (nee Angela Pandelo) wasn’t cloistered. She was an active sister who worked at the order’s hospice facility. But the nun said the church officials would have to meet internally to decide whether or not to grant permission to interview one of their nuns. So this trip was a bit of a gamble. We had zero assurances that we would get to speak to anybody who actually knew Panda.


  THE BUILDING’s super, Chuck Worchowski, was outside when we arrived, shoveling a thin layer of snow that had accumulated in the past hour. After introductions, he leaned the shovel against the side of the building and led us inside to a small vestibule lined with metal letter boxes on one wall and a press-button intercom system on the other. Seemed no one paid attention to the “no smoking” notice taped to the glass door. Lingering cigarette smoke remained trapped between the inner and outer doors—presumably from residents who couldn’t wait another second to light up before they stepped outdoors.

  “I found two neighbors willing to talk to you.” Chuck fumbled with the massive key ring clipped to his belt loop, isolated one key, and unlocked the inner vestibule glass door. “Mr. Dwayne Mayfield and Rose Saparelli. Both on the third floor. One across from where Sal lived, the other one two doors down.”

  Chuck knocked on 3A. The door opened with the chain still latched, giving us a three-inch view into the apartment, enough to see an older man with a close-cropped gray afro and small wire-framed glasses balancing on the end of a Nubian nose.

  The old man, presumably Mr. Dwayne Mayfield, wheezed, then coughed. In a raspy baritone he hissed, “I changed my mind.”

  “We just need a few minutes of your time, Mr. Mayfield,” Ray said.

  Mr. Mayfield shut the door. “Go away,” he barked from behind the closed door.

  “Guess he changed his mind. He’s a few cards shy of a full deck these days, so not sure how much he could’ve told you anyway.” Chuck shrugged and walked down the hall.

  We gathered around a door marked 3E. Chuck knocked and the door was flung open. Onion and garlic wafted out. Rose Saparelli, a petite woman no taller than five feet, waved us in. Wisps of dyed blonde hair were teased out nearly two inches from her scalp and held in place by a thick, shiny layer of hair spray. Her face reminded me of an apple that had morphed into a little old lady—an arts and crafts project where you peeled the skin, carved out the features, and placed the apple in a bath of lemon juice and salt. Once you removed it and it dried, facial features emerged on the apple, smooshed and distorted. When Rose smiled, her wrinkles collapsed into each other. She pointed to the couch and we obliged. She sat on a well-worn upholstered chair. Chuck, his duty done, excused himself and left the apartment.

 

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