Kiss the Girls and Make Them Cry

by Mary Higgins Clark

“Number three,” Charlie interjected, “is that the same person or people who got rid of Ryan and Stephenson arranged his suicide because he knew too much.”

  “Believe me, I thought of that. But I’m trying to avoid the temptation to see a conspiracy behind everything that happens.”

  “Have you had any more contact from your mystery emailer, the one you referred to as Deep Throat?”

  “In my last message I expressed in pretty strong terms that it was time to come forward. But so far, nothing.”

  “And the only victim who’ll talk to you is Meg Williamson?”

  “She’s the only ‘living’ victim we know about. It’s a bit of a stretch to say she’ll talk to me.”

  “So where do we go from here?”

  “I’m wondering if we have enough to get the police involved.”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” Charlie said, “but the question is where to start.”

  “Our stronger case is Paula Stephenson. Shortly after demanding that REL News renegotiate her settlement, she dies in a questionable suicide.”

  “If your retired detective, Wes Rigler, is onboard, things will move a lot faster if he goes with you to make the case to the Durham police. If you try to do this yourself, you’ll end up talking to a bored desk sergeant.”

  “Agreed. But how do we get them to look into Cathy Ryan?”

  “If the Durham police believe the Stephenson death should be further investigated, the Cathy Ryan situation would be further evidence that something strange is going on with women who used to work at REL. One case would support the other. The FBI would at least listen if they were approached by the Durham police. The Bureau, of course, is the only agency with the resources to conduct an investigation in Aruba.”

  “I don’t know,” Gina said. “We need something stronger.”

  “Yes, we do,” Charlie agreed, “and for another reason as well. I have tremendous respect for the FBI and the work they do. But their decision, justified or not, to investigate a major news organization is going out on a limb. It will open them up to an avalanche of criticism.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Gina sighed. “We definitely need something stronger.”

  Charlie tried to stifle a yawn.

  “You must be exhausted,” Gina said.

  “It has been a pretty long day. Submit your expenses on the Nebraska trip and we’ll cover them. Keep going, Gina, but be careful.”

  101

  Gina left the subway station and began the four-block walk to her apartment. Lisa had texted her while she was meeting with Charlie. She and some friends were meeting for a drink at the Sugar Factory. Did Gina want to join them?

  I behaved myself this time, Gina thought to herself. She had limited herself to one glass of wine.

  She turned off Broadway and was one hundred yards from her apartment when she heard her cell phone ring. The call was from a number she didn’t recognize. She was tempted to ignore it, knowing in all likelihood it was yet another annoying robocall. Despite her misgivings, she answered.

  “Miss Kane?” a heavily accented voice asked.

  “This is Gina Kane,” she replied, forcing herself to be civil.

  “I am friend with Meg Williamson. I send you email about Paula Stephenson.”

  Gina stopped in her tracks. She pressed the button to put the call on speaker, to allow her to hear better. She held the phone in front of her face.

  “Thank you for calling me. I won’t ask your name. Are you ready to meet me?”

  “Me temo que, I’m sorry, I’m afraid. If they find out—”

  “It’s okay,” Gina said soothingly. “We don’t have to meet. Let’s just talk. I know Cathy Ryan, Paula Stephenson, and Meg Williamson were victims. I need more names. If several women come forward, we can stop them.”

  “No tell these girls I talk to you.”

  “I won’t. I promise. Please give me the names.”

  Gina didn’t want to make her wait while she fished for a pen. She pressed the RECORD button on her iPhone and watched the red light go on. She listened as the caller slowly spoke seven first and last names.

  “Ayer, they hurt another beautiful young girl,” the caller said, clearly on the verge of tears.

  Gina recognized ayer as the Spanish word for “yesterday.” “I wish I knew what to call you.”

  “Martina, mi madre’s name.”

  “Okay, Martina. I will make this stop. I need to know who is hurting the girls.”

  “Que un cerdo, what a pig. Brad Matthews.”

  Gina felt herself reeling as she stared at the phone in disbelief. America’s most trusted anchorman, this generation’s Walter Cronkite, was a serial abuser. She was trying to process Martina’s revelation when she heard the sounds of running footsteps behind her. A hand brushed against hers and snatched away the phone. In the same motion the attacker put his shoulder into her back, sending her sprawling on the sidewalk. Gina gasped loudly as she used her arms to push herself up. “Stop!” she yelled. “Help!” All she could see was a tall figure in a hoodie and blue jeans sprinting away from her.

  * * *

  Rosalee heard the gasp and the screams. “Gina, Gina, are you okay?” About ten seconds later the call disconnected. Rosalee slowly settled down on the couch of her South Bronx apartment. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed. “The mal has taken another young girl,” she said to herself, “and it’s my fault.”

  102

  An officer in a patrol car volunteered to drive Gina back to her apartment. Someone had heard her cry for help and had called 911. The police had arrived within minutes. She had refused their offer to take her to an emergency room. They had taken her to the 20th Precinct on West 82nd Street to file a complaint. It was almost one o’clock in the morning by the time she was inside her door.

  While waiting at the precinct, she had jotted down three of the victim names “Martina” had provided. She had racked her brain but couldn’t recall the others.

  The police had told her the odds were very much against getting her cell phone back. Worst case, whoever stole it would download the information and sell it to a hacker. The more likely scenario was that everything on the phone would be erased. Hers was the most current generation of iPhone. It could be resold for $350 on the black market.

  Although it would be a nuisance, she knew she could recover the Contacts from her phone. They were stored in the Cloud and could be retrieved. What she didn’t know was whether or not the recording of the conversation with “Martina” was somehow salvageable. She was pretty sure she would be able to recover the number the woman had used to call her. But there was no guarantee she would answer. Gina tapped on her computer. The Verizon store five blocks away opened at nine o’clock. She would be its first customer.

  103

  When Gina woke the next morning, her back felt stiff as a result of the shove. Her wrists were still sore from having used her hands to break her fall. Fortunately, the scrape marks on her palms and her right knee were not deep.

  Her visit to the Verizon store accomplished half of what she had hoped. After providing her phone number and pin, she purchased a new phone. Fortunately her Contacts were stored in the Cloud. In a matter of minutes the sales assistant was able to download the information, and as if by magic, her emails and texts populated the new phone.

  When she asked about retrieving the recorded conversation she had been having with Martina, the sales assistant was unsure. “I don’t know if things get stored in real time. I’ll ask the manager.”

  The manager came over and introduced herself. She was a pretty black woman who Gina guessed was about forty. After introductions were made, the manager said, “I’ve been here for twelve years and I never had that question. Let me see. Your recorded conversation would have to have been backed up to be in the Cloud. That usually happens when the phone is charging and connected to WiFi. If your thief was really stupid and he charged your phone in a WiFi zone, you might be in luck. When you
go home, check your Apple iCloud account. If it doesn’t show up in a day or two, I’m afraid it’s gone.”

  The first thing she did after getting back to her apartment was to check her iCloud account. No recording. She then called her editor. When Charlie didn’t pick up, she left a message filling him in on her phone contact with “Martina” and the incident on the street. Next she dialed the number “Martina” had used to call her. An electronic voice began, “You have reached…” After waiting for it to finish, Gina left a detailed voice mail message explaining what had happened the previous evening and imploring “Martina” to contact her. She sent the same message in a text and then in an email. Ball in her court, Gina thought to herself, wondering if she would ever again hear from the frightened “Martina.”

  I have to assume I’m never going to get that recording back, Gina thought to herself. The only option left to her was to work with the names she had.

  She glanced at the list she had made while waiting at the police precinct. Laura Pomerantz, Christina Newman, Mel Carroll. Each name presented a problem that was going to make her search more difficult. She wasn’t certain if Pomerantz’s first name was Laura or Lauren. There were a number of ways to spell Newman. The name “Carroll” could begin with a “C” or a “K,” and Mel didn’t sound like a name that would appear on a birth certificate. Short for Melissa? Melanie? Carmela? She didn’t know.

  An additional complication was the heavy Spanish accent of the woman who called herself “Martina.” Did she say “Christina Newman” or “Christine Anaman”? Gina asked herself as she opened Facebook on her computer and began her research.

  * * *

  A full day of work had produced a list of leads that filled four pages on a legal pad. As she had thought from the very beginning, any woman who was victimized at REL would remove all references to the company from her Facebook page. Not a single name on Gina’s pad had any direct link to REL.

  A late-afternoon run in Central Park helped reduce some of the stiffness in her back. She showered, cooked some pasta, and was ordering herself to get back to her research when Charlie Maynard called on his cell. He began by asking if she was okay, and then apologizing for not getting back to her sooner. After marathon meetings all afternoon, he was going in for a session with the publisher.

  He told her he had done some checking. After killing her story, Geoffrey Whitehurst had taken an on-air job at a station REL owned in London. “I detest journalists who sell out,” Charlie said. “After your article breaks, Gina, I’m going to see that the closest he ever gets to working in journalism again is delivering newspapers.”

  Charlie had a concern about her cell phone incident. “Are you sure that doesn’t have any connection to your investigation?”

  “I got a brief look at the guy. He was a kid,” Gina assured him. “I’ve been waiting, hoping for weeks for my mystery source, Deep Throat, to call me. There’s no way anybody could have known she was going to do it last night.”

  “All right, be careful. Keep me posted on any new developments.”

  104

  Michael Carter stood on the street in front of his apartment. Unlike the previous times he had met with Junior, there was no place along the curb to pull over. Precisely at 9 p.m. the black Lincoln Navigator slowed to a halt where he was standing. Oscar opened the back door and Carter climbed in.

  “Oscar, find a place where you can pull over,” Junior ordered. Turning to Carter, he said, “Then we’ll talk.”

  They rode in silence for two blocks. Junior stared straight ahead. This is my third time in this car, Carter thought to himself, but the only time when it’s been moving.

  Oscar pulled over to the curb in the NO PARKING area in front of a church. Without any conversation, he left the engine running, got out, closed the door behind him, and walked away.

  In Japan, Carter mused, underlings show deference by letting the person with higher status speak first. They were a long ways from Japan, but it might be a good idea—

  “How did we ever let it come to this?” Junior asked, his voice filled with anguish, his eyes red and on the verge of tears. “Carter, you created a monster,” by now he was screaming, “and I was foolish enough to get involved with your plan!”

  Carter didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know that people who were as rich as Junior could get this angry. For the moment he thought it would be better to let him vent.

  “My father spent a lifetime building REL News. Part of me is relieved he’s too ill to see what’s going to happen to his company. As a tribute to him I wanted to elevate it from America’s best news organization to the best in the world. And now, thanks to you and your… ‘schemes,’ ” grimacing as he said the word, “my family’s company will be mired in scandal. All because I put my trust in a hack labor lawyer.”

  By now Carter had had enough. In the army he had been forced to listen as higher-ranking first sergeants and sergeant majors vented their spleens, blaming those in lower ranks for their shortcomings. This wasn’t the army, and he didn’t have to take it from a jerk whose only accomplishment was being born into the right family.

  “You know something, Junior, you’re right. That’s one hell of an organization your father built. The face of the company is an out-of-control sex maniac who can’t keep his hands off the young female employees. Your CEO, when he’s not busy running the business, is a murderer whose victims include the company’s CFO. I was only at REL a short time. I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet all the other fine people who work there.

  “Let’s make one thing clear, Junior. I didn’t create the mess at that cesspool family business of yours. I devised a plan to clean it up, a plan Sherman backed, a plan you backed as soon as you found out about it.”

  “You’re convinced that Sherman was involved in Myers’s death?” Junior asked.

  “You’re damn right I am. Using the information I gave him, he got rid of the women who were troublemakers. Now he’s eliminating anybody who could point to his involvement in the settlements. If I go for an unexpected swim in the river, the only one who’ll know anything is Matthews, and God knows he’ll keep his mouth shut.”

  Junior paused and then spoke slowly. “I’m afraid you’re right about Sherman. I went to Security and reviewed the footage from the night Myers died. Sherman left the building five minutes before Myers did.”

  “So he could have been waiting for Myers outside.”

  “Precisely. And if Sherman asked him to go for a walk with him or to get in his car, Myers would not have suspected anything.”

  “Until it was too late.”

  “That’s how I see it.”

  “You fancy yourself a leader, Fred. Here’s your chance. Lead! Tell me where we go from here.”

  Junior was silent for a few moments. Then, in a calm voice, he said, “You’re right. There’ll be time later to sort out who’s at fault for all this, but for now…” He stopped. Struggling to find the right words, he asked, “Is there any chance that we can keep a lid on everything that’s happened?”

  “Slim to none,” Carter replied. “I doubt the reporter, Gina Kane, went all the way to Nebraska to have a good steak. If she got access to Paula Stephenson’s personal papers, she knows about the settlement and about Carter & Associates. She’s met Meg Williamson. If she applies enough pressure, Williamson might cave. If Cathy Ryan and Stephenson were in touch with other victims, has Kane tracked them down and spoken to them? Another unknown is the late Ed Myers. Did he talk to his wife or anybody else in the company about sending the wires? For all we know, an internal investigation is already going on.”

  “I’m on the board. If there were an internal investigation, I’d know about it. But you’re right. This is not going to stay quiet. Our best chance is to get ahead of the story.”

  “It’s a little late for that. How do you propose to do it?”

  “We have to meet with that reporter, Gina Kane, and make it clear to her that your actions and mine were confin
ed to achieving settlements with the victims. We played no role in,” he paused, “what Sherman did to Ryan, Stephenson, and Myers.”

  What Sherman did, Carter thought to himself. Junior still can’t say the word “murder.” “That’s our best option and our only option,” Carter said. Again he began thinking about which criminal lawyer to call. “I’ll set up the meet.”

  “There may be a better way,” Junior said. “My family name still carries a lot of weight. Arrange for her to meet with you. I’ll show up in your place and assure her that top management at REL is behind getting the truth out and fixing the problem. You can then join us and explain the effort that was made to reach amicable settlements.”

  “Fred, by the time this is over, the legal bills are going to run into seven figures. That’s not a burden for somebody like you, but for me—”

  “You’re right, Michael. Help me take control of the crisis, and I’ll take care of your legal fees.”

  Carter felt relieved. He didn’t know how he would come out of this, but at least he wouldn’t be broke.

  “Find out where she lives. Tell her you’ll pick her up in an hour. Oscar and I will get her, then drive back here and get you. The three of us will go over to REL, sit in a conference room, and,” he paused, “do what we have to do.”

  Carter, for the first time, felt admiration for Junior. “If it’s any consolation, Fred,” he said, “you’re doing the right thing.”

  With the phone on speaker, Carter dialed the cell number Gina had given Meg Williamson. She recognized his name immediately. After he explained that he and a member of REL’s board wanted to meet with her, she quickly agreed and provided her address.

  105

  Minutes after Gina finished speaking to Charlie, her phone rang again. She tried to contain her excitement that she was speaking to Michael Carter of Carter & Associates. She was initially taken aback by his request to meet him in one hour. After she agreed and provided her address, she phoned Charlie’s cell. He probably had it off or silenced while he was in with the publisher, she thought. She left him a message about her Carter meeting.