“Do you mind if I record?” I asked, placing a small recorder on the cocktail table in front of us.
“Yes, I do mind. If you want to remember what I said, I suggest you take good notes.”
Like a submissive child—perhaps an ingrained reflex left over from my reverence of her in my youth—I obediently picked up the recorder and deposited it in my bag. I retrieved a pad and pen. “As you were saying, Mrs. Roth. What can you tell us about Trudy and Ed—why they left the area and your subsequent dealings with them?”
“As far as why they left the area, I have no idea. In fact, I too thought she was dead or kidnapped, until Ed came knocking at our door in the fall of ninety-five.”
This statement lined up with what Brian the Lifeguard had told us and further solidified my thinking that she was not the one who gave Ed and Trudy five thousand dollars.
“She wasn’t with him?” I asked.
“No. He was by himself. He told us that Trudy was in Boston. And that Trudy had found out where we lived from a nun, which was odd, because I don’t know any nuns.”
“Why didn’t you contact Monticello police when you found out she was alive?”
“Stanley told me to keep my mouth shut. Told me we risked losing everything if we reported her whereabouts.” She snorted. “Yeah, well, look at us now. He managed to lose everything anyway.”
“Why did Stanley tell you to keep quiet? What was he hiding?” Dad asked.
“I was not privy to whatever Ed and Stanley were up to. He wouldn’t tell me and I just let it go. He convinced me that going to the police would make our situation worse. But one day, about three years after Ed’s visit, I was looking through our bank records and saw a monthly withdrawal of two thousand dollars and asked Stanley about it.”
“So, you didn’t regularly check your bank records? You just happened to be looking at them in 1998?” I asked.
“Stanley took care of the finances. But that year he was traveling a lot. Back and forth to Monticello, working with his brother to bring gambling to the raceway. And the mail was piling up. So, I opened a few envelopes—including our bank statement—and saw the withdrawal. I snooped around Stanley’s office for past statements and saw the withdrawals dating back to the fall of ninety-five.”
“Stanley was working with David?” Dad asked.
“Yes. And that turned out to be a disaster.” She rolled her eyes.
“Did you confront Stanley about the money?” I asked.
“Yes. That’s when he admitted that Ed was pressuring him for money. When I pressed him about it, he refused to tell me more. I let it go. It was just two thousand dollars a month. At that time, it seemed like a drop in the bucket. Knowing Stanley, I figured he probably owed it to them in some way. Some business gone bad one way or another.”
“I’d like to ask you a personal question,” Dad said.
Rachel nodded.
Dad continued, “I get the feeling you weren’t happily married to Stanley. Why did you stick around?”
“My father was old-fashioned. He didn’t believe women were capable of running a hotel. When he died, he passed ownership to Stanley. And to make matters worse, Stanley and I signed a prenup before we got married. I did it thinking it would protect my assets should our marriage not stand the test of time. But it turned out that it locked me out of my rightful inheritance. If I divorced him, I would get nothing.” She pulled a tissue out of her purse and dabbed her eyes.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Dad said. “But what’s with the small house and beat-up old car?”
“David Roth. That’s what. He convinced Stanley to invest almost all of our money in that stupid racetrack. They called it a racino. A combo racetrack and casino that was supposed to revive the area. By 2006, we had lost a boatload of money when the stock went belly-up. It was that and a whole lot of other bad investments that David talked him into.”
“So I would imagine giving away two thousand dollars a month started feeling like a burden around that time,” I said.
“Well, it wasn’t helping matters. And on top of that, Stanley’s health started to deteriorate. We had no money for quality care. Stanley refused to ask the kids for money. We don’t even think they knew, or now know the extent of our loss. What was I going to do at that point . . . leave him to rot in some old-age home? We might have our problems, but . . .” She trailed off, never making her point.
“So you decided to take a trip up to Boston in the summer of 2008 and remedy the situation?” Dad said.
“Yes. We were going anyway. Josh . . . you remember Josh? . . . he was getting married at an inn in North Adams, which was a couple of hours from Boston. Our plan was to simply tell Ed that the gravy train had run out of gravy.”
“And what was his reaction?”
“Well, I don’t know. Stanley went by himself. They arranged to meet when Trudy was out of the apartment. I stayed back at the inn. But when Stanley came back I had a feeling something had gone terribly wrong.” She dabbed again at her eyes, although I did not see any tears. “He told me to pack my bags. That we were going home early.”
“I take it you didn’t go home early. You hung around long enough to check Trudy into McNair Hospital.”
“The murder was on the news that night. I just thought—”
Dad ends her sentence. “That Stanley murdered Ed.”
“I had no proof, but I sure thought so. As you say in your world, he had motive and opportunity.”
“Did you ask him if he did it?”
“I did. He insisted Ed was alive when he left the apartment.”
“And did you believe him?”
“I was skeptical. But I’d like to believe that if he did kill Ed, he didn’t intend to. Maybe things got out of hand . . . maybe it was self-defense. Anyway, I told him I was planning to visit a friend and needed to stay on. So he went home without me.”
“He left the day of the murder?” I asked. “July twentieth?”
“Well, the next morning. The twenty-first. And then when things quieted down a bit, I went to visit Trudy.”
“When was this?”
“Um, two or three days after Ed’s murder.”
“Go on.”
“She was pretty distraught. I asked her if she knew who did it, and she said no. That she was out shopping. But I was so afraid she would talk to the police about Stanley, and they would put two and two together. So I thought, if I can get her out of the reach of the police, I can fix this mess.” She paused. “That’s my life . . . literally and figuratively cleaning up Stanley’s messes. You can even say I was doing her a favor—she did need emotional support.” The sliders opened and a rush of warm air filled the lobby. A rambunctious family tumbled in, startling Rachel. She abruptly turned, perhaps thinking it was the police dashing through the doors to arrest her.
“And then what happened?” Dad asked, recapturing her attention.
“Nothing. I went home. No one came knocking at our door, so I figured they caught the person who did it or they never connected the murder to Stanley. So now you know the whole story.”
Dad nodded and slapped his thighs. “Okay, then.” If this was someone else other than Rachel, he might have had another follow-up question, probed deeper, but perhaps he couldn’t let his old feelings slide away that easily and gave her a pass. Or maybe he had some other scheme up his sleeve.
“Are you going to arrest him?” Rachel asked.
“Stanley? Even if we wanted to charge him, it sounds like he is not in any condition, mentally or physically, to undergo questioning or stand trial,” Dad replied. “And really, all we have is circumstantial evidence. The body is long buried, the murder weapon never found. No witnesses. No forensics.”
“If it makes you feel any better, the autopsy report points to a murderer who was shorter than Ed,” I added. “More your height.”
Rachel cleared her throat. “So it’s quite possible Stanley did not murder him. Well, that’s comforting to know.”
She checked her watch.
“Our original intent with this case was to find out what happened to Trudy Solomon—why she left, what became of her, and if there was any criminal malfeasance.” I laid my pad and pen on the table. “We still don’t know why she left, although we do know she felt threatened in some way. We have a witness who saw Stanley badgering Trudy. So I’ll ask again, can you think of any reason why Ed and Trudy came after your husband for money?”
Rachel shifted slightly in her chair. “As I told you, I have no idea.” She pinched the top of the pleats on her trousers and ran her fingers down the crease. “He was mixed up in a number of shady business dealings that, I will admit, I turned a blind eye to. I'm sure he stiffed Ed out of some money at some point and this was his comeuppance.” She checked her watch again. “So what do you plan to do now?”
“As for Ed’s murder, we’ll be reporting what you told us to the Waltham police. They’ll determine whether or not to close this line of inquiry, which might be the case seeing that Stanley is, well, non compos mentis.”
“So that’s it then. You’ll leave us be now?”
“Perhaps.” Dad leaned closer to Rachel. “We’re sorting through some other criminal activity we stumbled upon in this investigation—the murder of a prostitute and the kidnapping of a child.” Dad waited a beat. “It seems David Roth had a hand in that.”
Rachel straightened her spine and rolled back her shoulders. “A prostitute? A child kidnapping? Don’t be ridiculous. What would I know about that? I kept my distance from David and his henchmen, his prostitutes, and his lunatic wife.” Rachel gathered her coat and purse. “Are we done here?”
Before either of us had a chance to answer, she stood abruptly and briskly made her way to the front doors.
“Shit.” Dad shook his head. “I fucked that up. Man, I should have, I don't know—”
“Pushed harder? Well, I wasn’t exactly putting a lot of pressure on her either—it's what we agreed to.”
“She is something else.”
“That’s one way of putting it, Dad.”
RAY FOUND a hamburger joint in a nearby strip mall, the kind of place where you “built your own burger” and were given a numbered stanchion so the server could match your order to your table when it was ready. (“This place got tons of five-star reviews,” Ray informed us when we left the hotel. “It’ll be worth the twenty-minute drive.”) I was famished and would have been happy with Burger King or the place around the corner with a one-star review. But I didn’t want to rain on Ray’s parade.
Ray leaned forward from the backseat. “So how did it go with Rachel?”
Dad grunted.
I took my right hand off the wheel and gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Well, I get the feeling that Rachel is still hiding something. She’s just so . . . so . . . I can't explain it.” I shuddered. “I just want to wring her neck. It's like she’s got a pre-scripted answer for everything.”
“She should have pursued an acting career. That was some grade-A Oscar-worthy shit she was spinning. But . . . the one thing I do believe—based on my fine-tuned Spidey senses—is that she had no idea why Stanley was coughing up two grand a month.”
“That’s why I wanted to record the conversation,” I said to Ray. “Dad and I might be a little biased in the Rachel department, and it would have been nice to get an impartial take on her story.”
WE SAT in hungry silence as waiters—plates balanced on their arms— crisscrossed the dining room like wayward bees seeking a flower to pollinate. My stomach growled every time a server passed our table.
“There’s gotta be another angle to pursue,” Dad said. “We may be on the ropes, but I got some fight left in me.”
“I don’t know, Dad. I think we’ve reached a dead end,” I said, eyeing the plates of burgers and baskets of onion rings whizzing by. “Or to stick with your metaphor, we’re down for the count. We can’t talk to Stanley. David’s dead. Panda’s dead. Trudy’s unreliable. We can have another go at Lenny and Ben, but I’m pretty sure they’ve told us all they know.”
“This is not over for me,” Dad said, clearly frustrated. “We just need a little more time. We are so close. I can feel it.”
“I understand where you’re coming from Dad, but Eldridge only gave us two months to figure this out and we are running out of time. I can’t see—”
“I suspect there is still one person who knows something about all this,” Dad seethed. “And his initials are SR . . . but it’s not Stanley Roth.”
“He wasn’t too keen on helping us last time,” I said when, finally, a waiter stopped at our table and set down three hamburgers, an order of fries and a basket of onion rings. Silence once again fell over the table as we dug in.
“I have an idea as to how we might get to Scott,” I said when I came up for air.
“I’m all ears,” Dad said between bites.
I reached into my backpack, pulled out a small envelope, and handed it to Dad. “Go ahead. Read it out loud.”
“Come celebrate. Explanation point. You and a guest are invited to attend a party celebrating four Roth milestones. Josh and Steven’s tenth wedding anniversary. Meryl’s retirement. Lori’s fifty-third birthday. Scott’s engagement.” Dad paused and looked up. “Sounds fun.” He continued reading, “December eighth, two thousand and eighteen. RSVP, blah, blah, blah.” Dad inserted the card back into the envelope and handed it back to me. “When did you get this?”
“In early November—soon after our Facebook exchange. I thought about going, to see Lori, but talked myself out of it. Seeing we are now in a desperation mode, well, maybe this is our last shot. And, this might be a way to talk to all the Roth kids, not just Scott.”
“I understand your apprehension, but really, Susan, all that stuff between you and Lori is ancient history. You should have told us about this,” Ray said. “Where is this party taking place?”
I was not keen on the scolding. But yeah, he was right. Because I was still chickenshit about rubbing elbows with the Roths, and coming face-to-face with Lori, I was willing to muff up this golden opportunity to get some questions answered. In all fairness, I had been planning to tell them about the party depending on what we were able to extract from Rachel.
“Vermont. At Josh’s bed and breakfast.”
“Did you already turn it down?” Dad asked.
“Yes, but Meryl emailed me, said if I changed my mind, she would add me back in. She said Lori would love to reconnect.”
“All the Roths in one room,” Dad said. “You’re either walking into a gold mine or a minefield.”
31
Tuesday, December 4, 2018
RHONDA SLID into the bench seat across from me. I was on my third (and last) cup of coffee. I wiped my suddenly moist hands with the little square paper napkin.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said, slightly out of breath. “Crazy morning.”
Rhonda had called me the night before. She was hoping to meet with me sooner, but I was in Poughkeepsie, then Florida, and she was caring for a sick kid.
“No worries.” I stared down into my cup of coffee. “Should I be worried?”
“Hard to say. There’s definitely a lot of anger in the community. Talk of a cover-up. You can’t blame people for being skeptical.”
“Do you think there’s a cover-up?”
“You know I don’t. But others are wondering why the police are not releasing the video.”
“They will. In due time. There’s a process. I’m not really privy to all this.” I paused, modulating my voice so as not to sound defensive. “Calvin had a gun on him. You can see it clear as day.”
“I’m hearing terms like photoshopped and fake video. I’m not up on the technology, but I do know video can be manipulated . . . edited.”
“That video was not doctored in any way, shape, or form. Mordecai Little was present when he showed us the footage. In fact, he refused to give us his log-in information to view it beforehand. In hinds
ight, I’m glad he was protective of his privacy.”
“I really do hope it’s released sooner rather than later. Nip the rumors in the bud.”
“I’ll see what I can do. I’ll talk to Eldridge.”
“There’s talk of a march.”
“In support of what? Calvin Barnes?”
“Community policing reform. Calvin’s mother is organizing it.”
I wondered if Natalie knew about this. “When is it?”
“Mid-January. Look, I just wanted to give you a heads-up on this. Until that video is released, there’s gonna be a lot of bad feelings stewing.”
“Should I do something? Talk to the group?”
“I thought about that. But I don’t know. Things are still too raw right now.”
“I got harassed the other night. At the Underground.”
“What the hell were you doing at that shithole? McIver’s closed?”
“Just looking for a change of scenery that night.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Some guys recognized me. Gave me the ‘watch your back’ threat.”
“Jeez. Did you recognize them?”
“No. It was hard to make out faces. That place is like a dungeon.”
“Look. I’ll try to calm the tensions. But do me a favor.”
“And that would be?”
“Don’t go to the Underground.”
I HEARD a car door slam. Ray was volunteering at Better Mad Than Sad this afternoon, Natalie was at a Black Lives Matter meeting, and Dad’s pickup was declared a total loss, so he was without wheels until the insurance payment came through. I peeked out the window and spied my mother making her way up the walkway. Her gait slow, limping slightly as she favored her better knee. She was carrying something, but it was hard to tell exactly what from this angle. I descended the stairs and opened the door before she had a chance to ring the doorbell.
“Hi Mom. What brings you out this way?”
“Can’t a mother just visit her daughter? Does there have to be a reason?”
The Disappearance of Trudy Solomon Page 22