“Have you booked our trip to the Sunshine State?”
“Sure did. We leave on Saturday. Pack your bags.”
Trudy
Trudy wandered into the library. Waist-high shelves filled with books traversed across the back length of the room. Long tables, arranged in perfect rows, filled the middle of the space. A sign on a post had the image of a woman with her finger up to the lips and word Shhhh underneath. Are there secrets in this room? Trudy wondered.
The only other person in the library was a woman wearing a white scarf on her head. She tugged at her cardigan, wrapping it tightly around her torso. Trudy thought she looked familiar.
“Angela?”
“I’m sorry. You must have me confused with someone else.”
“That’s right!” Trudy clapped her hands. “You are now Sister Miriam.”
The woman shook her head. “I’m afraid—”
Trudy took the seat next to the scarfed woman. “I’m trying to locate someone. Sal said you can help me. That you know where he is.”
The woman edged away from Trudy. “I’m not Sister . . . Miriam did you say?”
“Oh. I’m . . . I’m . . .. sorry. I thought you were somebody else.”
“That’s okay dear. Happens to all of us here.”
Trudy sighed. “I was just hoping you could tell me where that one Roth lived.”
28
Friday, November 30, 2018
“FIRST ROUND on me,” Eldridge yelled, leaning across the bar to catch the bartender’s attention. “Three pitchers of your finest beer and a bowl of pretzels.”
“There’s a booth,” Ray said, pointing toward the back of the bar. “I’m going to snag it.”
Dad, Ray, and Sally drifted to the booth. Marty and I waited by the bar. With the discovery of Calvin’s gun, everyone wanted to celebrate. I wanted to roll up in a ball and go home. I wasn’t completely out of the woods yet. There was still a chance the Barnes family wouldn’t drop the civil suit. But at least I was at the far edge of the forest—thanks to Mordecai Little’s well-placed camera and Ray’s dogged determination to figure out what happened to the Glock.
Usually we would head to McIver’s Pub, but I was in no mood to get slapped on the back by every cop in this town and surrounding municipalities. Regardless of my exoneration, a kid was still dead. And I was the one who had to live with that. I preferred to simply raise a few pints with a handful of colleagues. I convinced them to meet me at the Underground, a basement bar on the edge of town. In the 1950s, this room had been a fallout shelter, the ubiquitous three yellow triangles in a black circle painted on every wall, faded but visible, so wherever you sat you saw one. No food at this bar. Just pretzels and bar nuts. This wasn’t the type of place you came to eat. This was a place to drown your sorrows. No craft-brewed IPAs or trendy hard ciders. Your choices were Bud, Bud Light, Heineken, and PBR. A place where no one knew your name. Well, at least they pretended not to. It was the consummate dive bar: murky with sticky floors and a no-nonsense bartender who was not there to listen to your sob story or dole out advice or spin a good yarn.
Above this establishment were offices for single-owner businesses. An accountant, a lawyer, a graphic designer on the ground floor. An acupuncturist and another lawyer on the second floor. The first-floor lawyer, Randy Coburn, was sitting at the bar nursing a scotch. He did some work for Dad a few years back when Dad wanted to draw up a living will and health-care proxy. He glanced my way, lifted his glass, and tipped it toward me. I nodded back. He turned away and fiddled with his phone.
The front door opened and the exposed bulb hanging just outside the bar entrance illuminated the room. When the door slammed shut, the room was plunged back into muddiness. Natalie squinted and glanced around until she spotted me near the bar. I waved her over.
“Ray’s got a table in the back.” I handed Natalie one pitcher.
“I’m heading over there,” Marty said. “Follow me.”
I waited with Eldridge to retrieve the second pitcher. Ray texted me telling me to get my ass over to the booth. I texted him back a fist with the middle finger raised. He texted a shocked face. I texted a face blowing kisses. He texted a happy face. Nothing like emoticons to bring out the teenager in you. I grabbed the pitcher and walked by a threesome of black men, midtwenties, congregating at the edge of the bar. One of them held his arm out blocking my route.
“You’re that cop that killed Calvin,” he said. “I knew I recognized you.”
“I suggest you move your arm.”
“You suggest, do you? You gonna shoot me if I don’t?” He dropped his arm. I walked past him.
“We be watching you,” he whispered to my back. He raised his voice slightly above the din of the bar chatter. “Ain’t no cover-up gonna save your ass, bitch.” They snickered.
When I looked sideways, I saw another young black man heading toward me and steadied myself for the confrontation.
“Is that you, Detective Ford?” he said. “It’s me. Thomas. Were those guys bothering you?”
“Oh. Hi, Thomas. Hard to see in here. It was nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
“I know them. They went to high school with my brother. Want me to say something? Cuz I will. They have no right to hassle you. No matter what they think you done to Calvin.”
“You know about that, huh?”
“Yeah. News all over that you got yourself cleared.” Thomas lowered his voice. “Didn’t go over well with a lot of folks.”
“And you? You think there’s some cover-up?”
“I look at the facts. I learned that in my classes. If what you’re saying is true, you got a solid case of self-defense. Besides, your dad is pure gold. I’m sure the apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree.”
“Dad’s here,” I said, pointing to the booth. “Wanna join us?”
Thomas shifted his eyes toward the three men at the bar. “Next time. You go enjoy yourself.”
“What was that all about?” Dad asked when I set down the pitcher.
“You don’t recognize Thomas . . . Mom’s housemate?”
“Was that him? Man, it’s dark in here. I can’t even see the nails on my fingers.”
Eldridge came up behind me and slapped me on the back. “Well, Ford. You dodged a bullet, you did. Drink up.”
I peeked to my left. The Knicks game had captured the attention of the three men.
Eldridge continued: “Now let’s get some closure on the Solomon case. I hear you’re heading back down to Florida tomorrow.” Eldridge turned to face me and made sure I had his full attention. He did. “Will here tells me he thinks you’ll have it wrapped up by Christmas. New Year’s at the latest. No pressure, guys, but tick tock. Tick tock.”
“That’s the plan,” Dad said. “This trip to Florida is probably our last, best hope for a straight answer from the Roth clan.”
With Eldridge’s deadline looming, we had four weeks to figure out three things: why did Trudy flee the area (what/who was she afraid of)? Was Ed’s murder tied to an extortion scheme (and if so, who was he blackmailing)? And who ordered the killing of Renee (the most likely suspect being David Roth, now deceased)? The icing on this three-layered cake would be finding out who gave Trudy and Ed the five grand to disappear. Dad still thought it could be Rachel (she had the means), but Brian the Lifeguard had told us that Rachel thought Scott had something to do with Trudy’s disappearance and, perhaps to protect him or the family, shipped him off to her sister’s home for the remainder of that summer. If that was indeed the case, Rachel didn’t aid Trudy’s getaway. But why did she (under a false name, Martha Stuart) commit Trudy to a mental hospital? Shutting her up was the answer that came to mind.
“To hidden cameras!” Ray yelled, raising his glass, bringing me back from my reverie.
“To hidden cameras!” everyone echoed.
I glanced sideways and eyed the guys sitting at the bar’s edge. Even though I was holding a cold glass of beer, my hands started to sweat.
Sunday, December 2, 2018
WE FOUND the Roths’ address the old-fashioned way—the White Pages—tucked inside one of the bedside table drawers at the hotel, between a King James bible and a takeout menu from a nearby pizza place. If we had to, we could have found out where they lived through the Florida DMV database. But at this point, we didn’t want to involve the local police.
Ray lifted his binoculars. He’d wanted to join us. (“What better way to use my few remaining vacation days than to sun and sleuth,” he had said.) Dad sat in the passenger seat. I was behind Dad. We were all staring at a modest beige-pink ranch with a Spanish-inspired tiled roof, the last dwelling on a dead-end street. A Toyota Camry with a dented right bumper was parked in the liberally cracked cement driveway. Weeds stood at attention in the narrow fissures. Not exactly what I was expecting. It seemed everyone in Florida who had money lived in a gated community or along the intracoastal. But here they were, in a house on a totally accessible street. No gate. No security guard. Just an ADT sign partly obscured by overgrown bushes.
“Are you sure this is the right address?” Dad asked.
“I can see the name Roth on the mailbox,” Ray said, handing Dad the binoculars.
“Do you think they fell on hard times?” I asked. “Does this make sense to you? I mean, everyone else in the family seems to be living a pretty charmed life.”
“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” Dad said. “Let’s go.”
Ray watched from the car as I rang the doorbell. I waited a few seconds before ringing it again.
“Coming!” The voice was muffled, but clearly female.
Rachel Roth flung open the door. She was wearing a tennis outfit and holding one of those oversized rackets. A gym bag was draped over her shoulder. “Oh. You’re not—”
“Hello Rachel,” Dad said. “Do you remember me from . . . from high school?”
She stepped out of the house and closed the door behind her. She looked sternly at Dad, then at me, then back to Dad. Her face softened a bit. “I know who you are, Will. And you must be Suzie. I remember you . . . Lori’s friend from elementary school.” She paused, perhaps waiting for us to say something. “Meryl told me you were interrogating Cuttman Hotel workers and guests about the Trudy Solomon case. Which, if you ask me, seems like a waste of time after all these years. I hear you found her. Case closed, I guess.” She twirled the racket in her palm. “Meryl told me you finished your investigation.”
“Well that’s not entirely true,” Dad said.
“I see.”
“Can we ask you a few questions?”
“Now is not a good time. I’m expecting a friend and we are heading out,” Rachel said, raising her tennis racket as proof of this statement.
“We really just need a few minutes,” I said. “Is Stanley home?”
“Stanley won’t be able to answer your questions. He can’t even remember what he ate for breakfast this morning.” Rachel’s phone rang and she removed it from her back pocket. “I have to take this.” She walked past us onto her driveway. “Hello?”
I shifted my attention to Ray, staring at me through the binoculars. I shrugged and held my palms skyward. The universal sign indicating you didn’t know what the fuck was going on. Rachel turned her back to us and continued her phone conversation. Dad was watching her intently. Probably thinking how good she looked for her age. She was trim and fit. Her still-lustrous hair was dyed dark brown, roots included. The short tennis skirt accentuated her long, toned legs. She was tan, but not in that over-the-top bronzy way. If I didn’t know her age, I would have pegged her at mid-sixties, not seventy-eight years old.
“Your lucky day. My friend is running late.”
“Shall we go inside?” Dad asked.
“I’d rather not. Stanley is very confused these days, and not well. He recently had a minor stroke. I don’t want to agitate him, or the rest of my day will be a living hell.”
“You look well, Rachel,” Dad said. “Sorry to hear about Stanley.”
Rachel waved her hand, shooing away an imaginary fly. “You’re looking pretty good there yourself, Will.” She turned to me. “And my oh my, Suzie Ford. Following in your dad’s footsteps. How . . . nice.”
Dad launched into a monologue, recapping our investigation from the moment the skeletal remains were found. He told her about finding Trudy after a social security number search. Our belief she willingly left the area with Ed Resnick, fearing someone or something. Rachel nodded and widened her eyes. A pretty good poker face. It was hard to tell if she was genuinely taken aback or feigning surprise. Dad continued the tale, telling her about Trudy’s pregnancy and putting her twins up for adoption. She gasped, almost inaudibly. He told her about their move from Rochester to the Boston suburbs. He mentioned Scott visiting Trudy and Ed, and the argument in their apartment. She subtly knitted her brow on that news. Then he got to the part about the alleged blackmail scheme and Ed’s murder. She batted her eyelashes, rapidly. A tell? Then Dad went for the jugular.
“Does the name Martha Stuart sound familiar to you?”
“Um. Martha Stewart? The television woman who cooks and does crafts?”
“No. The Martha Stuart who committed Trudy Solomon to a mental hospital in Belmont, Massachusetts,” Dad said.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Rachel said matter-of-factly. Her voice steady and controlled. Man, she would be good at poker.
“Mrs. Roth, we have two eyewitnesses who matched your photograph to the person who signed the papers committing Trudy to McNair Hospital,” I said. “You are a very beautiful woman, not easily forgotten. Are you telling us they are both mistaken?”
“You know that saying, the jig is up?” Dad said. “Well, the jig is up.”
“What are you accusing me of, exactly? Helping someone in need?”
“We’re not accusing you of anything. Not yet,” I said. “But we are conducting a murder investigation. We know Trudy was seeking information on the whereabouts of either your son or your husband, or both, in 1995, the same year Ed started receiving money. Which also happens to be the same year you sold the hotel and walked away with a nice windfall. We have reason to believe that the person Trudy feared and had dirt on—Stanley or Scott or both—led Ed to cook up this extortion scheme. And it just so happens you were in Boston around the time of Ed’s murder, committing Trudy to a mental hospital.” I felt the pulse beating in my wrist and exhaled slowly. My voice was a bit harsher than I intended it to be, so I recalibrated my tone. “That is one hell of a bunch of coincidences, and we think you can help us understand what’s going on here.”
“Rachel, look, we don’t want to hassle you, but we need to know why you used a false name to commit Trudy to care,” Dad said in a soothing voice, taking the tension down a notch. “It doesn’t take a genius to know you were trying to hide something.”
Rachel’s phone rang.
“Shit, I gotta take this. It’s Stanley.”
Dad and I turned to each other, confused. He whispered, “Didn’t she say he was in the house?”
“I’ve got to go,” she said after hanging up.
“Where’s Stanley?” Dad asked.
“Inside.”
“Inside the house?”
“Yes, I told you that already. He’s in a wheelchair. He’s looking for me. I have to go.”
“Rachel—”
“You want to know what happened? Tell me where you are staying. I’ll meet you there tomorrow at noon.”
30
Monday, December 3, 2018
TECHNO MUSIC, set a few decibels too loud for a hotel lobby, thumped through unseen speakers. The fact that someone even chose to play electronic dance music in this hotel—mostly catering to businesspeople and families with young children—struck me as rebellious. I was curious (and annoyed). But not curious (or annoyed) enough to ask the front desk receptionist about it (let alone to lower it).
I told Dad I would
meet him in the lobby at eleven thirty so we could review the questions we wanted to ask Rachel. (We decided it was best to not include Ray in this “friendly” interrogation, so he was relaxing by the pool with a paperback he’d picked up at the airport.) I glanced at my watch—eleven forty. That gave me twenty minutes to get my head in gear for our little chitchat with Rachel. I scoped out the lobby and found a quasi-private seating area in the corner. My rear was barely in the seat when the lobby doors slid open and Rachel, clad in perfectly pressed white slacks and a lavender silk blouse, breezed through—back straight, shoulders squared. Fifteen minutes early. She spotted me and strode over. She sat down, then immediately stood up.
“I’ll be right back,” she said.
I texted Dad to let him know Rachel had arrived and where we were sitting. He texted back, along with a toilet bowl emoji, that he would be down in a few minutes. Okay, thanks for sharing. After our text exchange, I realized the music had been turned down.
“There. That’s better,” Rachel said, sitting down next to me on the love seat. “Now we can hear each other.”
Dad stepped out of the elevator and glanced around. I waved at him and caught his eye.
“Hello Rachel,” Dad said, settling into the mosaic-patterned wingback chair to the right of Rachel. He addressed her sternly but politely. Dad had more power over her than he used to, and could certainly rattle her cage, but we both agreed to treat her more like a witness than a suspect at this juncture. What he cringe-worthily referred to as his taming-of-the-shrew tactic—kill her with kindness to get what you want. “We appreciate you coming here to meet with us.”
“It felt like I had little choice. I was prepared to go to my grave with this, but when Meryl contacted me about you digging around in this case, I knew it was just a matter of time before you would be knocking at my door.”
The Disappearance of Trudy Solomon Page 21