Kiss the Girls and Make Them Cry

by Mary Higgins Clark

  She was about to start making a list of the questions she would ask Carter when her landline phone rang. The caller ID showed “NYPD.”

  “Gina Kane, please.”

  “This is she.”

  “I’m Sergeant Kevin Shea from the Twentieth Precinct. Miss Kane, we recovered your cell phone—”

  “Do you have it there now?”

  “Yes, it’s on my desk.”

  Gina glanced at the clock on the refrigerator. There would be barely enough time. If she could get her hands on the phone, she would know if it had the recording of the seven names. Armed with that information, she would have a much stronger hand to play with Carter.

  “Sergeant Shea, I’m on my way over right now to get it,” she replied.

  “Okay, but—” He heard a click as the call disconnected. People are funny sometimes, he thought to himself as he looked at the phone. It was dry now. A pedestrian had found it in a puddle and given it to an officer in a squad car. A business card taped to the back of the phone showed Kane’s numbers. What was the big rush to come over and pick up a useless phone?

  He got up, walked the phone to the front desk, and said the owner was on her way over to pick it up.

  * * *

  Gina felt her chest heaving up and down after jogging the seven blocks from the police precinct back to her building. It was two minutes before ten o’clock. She wanted to see if the recording was in the phone, but she also wanted to be waiting outside when Carter arrived. Her attempt to turn on the phone was unsuccessful. If the Record mode had been left on, that would have run down the battery.

  She spotted the doorman behind the desk and hurried over to him. “Miguel, you use an iPhone, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you keep a charger handy?”

  “Right here,” he said as he pulled it out of a drawer, plugged it in, and extended it to her. She attached the phone and waited. Nothing. She unplugged and tried again. Same result. She looked at her business card attached to the back of the phone. Some of the ink was smudged. It must have been in water, she said to herself. It’s ruined.

  Trying to stave off her disappointment, she shoved it in her jacket pocket and went outside to wait.

  106

  Gina looked at her new phone. Ten o’clock. If she’d had more time to plan, more time to think things through, she probably would have insisted on conditions before agreeing to this meeting. Maybe at a quiet table in a public place such as a Barnes & Noble, or she would have insisted on bringing somebody with her. But every fiber of her being wanted to bring this investigation to a conclusion. She wanted to stop Brad Matthews before he could prey on another young woman. Another reason, she admitted to herself, was personal. Once the story broke, she could bring Ted back into her life forever.

  A black Lincoln Navigator proceeded slowly down her block before coming to a halt in front of her building. An African-American man who looked like a football player stepped out of the driver’s seat and walked toward her.

  “Gina Kane?”

  She nodded.

  He opened the rear door, allowed her to climb in, and then closed it behind her.

  A console separated her from the other passenger. The man, who appeared to be in his mid-forties, was in the backseat on her opposite side. He had on a white collared shirt. His tie was loosened at the neck. In his hands was a legal pad atop a manila folder. Her eye was drawn to the cuff link at his left wrist. Even in the dim light she was certain the initials on the link were a small “F,” a large “C,” and a small “V.” The “C” could be Carter, but the other initials did not match.

  Gina felt the car begin to move. The feeling that something wasn’t right grew stronger, but she forced herself to stay calm. We’re probably going over to the REL building to talk there, she reassured herself.

  It was clear that if the silence was to be broken, the burden fell on her to do it. “Mr. Carter, I appreciate your reaching out to me. I want the story I’m going to write to be as accurate as possible. Our talking now can go a long way to make that happen.”

  He turned and looked directly at her for the first time. She wasn’t sure why, but she was certain he looked familiar. “Before we talk, let’s establish the rules of the game. No recording permitted,” he said crisply. “Hand over your cell phone.” He extended his hand, palm up, across the console.

  The alarm bells in Gina’s brain grew louder. The Michael Carter she had spoken to on the phone had a thin, nasally voice with a distinct New York accent. He would have said, “yaw” cell phone. The man in the car with her now had a cultured voice that was closer to a baritone.

  “All right,” Gina said. She had begun to shift in her seat to reach into her back pocket when she stopped. Reaching instead into her jacket pocket, she pulled out the phone she had retrieved from the police and handed it over. She breathed a silent sigh of relief as the man slipped it into a bag at his feet.

  “We’ve established we’re not recording,” Gina said, trying to maintain an even tone in her voice. “I’d like to start by asking—”

  “What they tried to do to my company is an abomination!” he snapped, clearly trying to contain the anger he felt building inside him.

  “My” company, Gina repeated to herself. His next words confirmed her suspicion.

  “My father worked his whole life to build REL. It is my destiny to guide it to its place among the world’s great news organizations. Can’t anyone understand why that is so important?”

  It was Frederick Carlyle, Jr., who was sitting across from her. He never looked at her as he spoke. He had the air of a Shakespearean actor in a soliloquy, trying to resolve a consuming internal dispute.

  Gina glanced out the window. They were driving east, heading toward Central Park. Clearly they were not taking the most direct route to the REL building.

  “Mr. Carlyle,” Gina began. If he had any reaction to her now knowing his identity, he didn’t show it. “There’s no question that the company your father,” she paused and in an attempt to pacify him added, “and you, built is an extraordinary achievement. It’s natural you want that to be recognized. But a light also has to be shined on horrible things that happened at your company. Innocent young women—”

  “The women were treated fairly,” he said. “They were generously compensated, including those who didn’t even ask for money. No harm came to any of them who stuck to their agreements.”

  Gina was astonished that Carlyle was defending the behavior that had led to settlements. This was the man who, it was rumored, would become the chair of REL a few years down the road? she asked herself. Time to confront him head on.

  “Tell me, Mr. Carlyle, what happened to Cathy Ryan, who wouldn’t settle, or Paula Stephenson, who wanted to renegotiate her agreement? Explain to me how they were treated fairly.”

  “Paula Stephenson was a drunken waste of a human being,” he said and scowled, clenching his hands into fists. “Complaining while she lived on other people’s money, demanding more money because she made bad decisions. What is it about women like that and their fondness for vodka?” he demanded, his head turning away from Gina, looking out the window.

  Gina froze, recalling the picture of the half-empty vodka bottle on Paula’s kitchen table, the empty bottles on the counter, and Wes Rigler’s insistence that the police never release the crime scene photos to the public.

  “Did you ever meet Stephenson when she was at REL?” Gina asked, trying to make her voice sound casual.

  “No. I’m happy to say I never had the pleasure.”

  That confirms it, Gina thought, while trying to control her nerves. The only way Carlyle could have known that vodka was Stephenson’s alcohol of choice was if he had been in her apartment!

  Grateful that the console provided a small visual barrier, she leaned forward slightly and used her right hand to ease her cell phone out of her right back pocket. Noticing that Carlyle was beginning to turn toward her, she slipped it under her left
thigh and clasped her hands together in front of her.

  “So Gina, what do you think you’re going to get out of all this?”

  It was imperative to keep him talking. “I’m not sure I understand the question.”

  “Well let me put it in simpler terms that even a woman can understand.”

  She turned away from him as if in disgust over his chauvinistic comment. She glanced down at the phone, tapped it, and in a quick glance watched the screen titled “Recents” light up. Who was the last one to call her? That number would be on top. Was it Charlie Maynard or Michael Carter? Using her memory to picture the screen she used her left index finger to touch what she hoped would be Charlie’s number.

  107

  Michael Carter was sitting alone in the living room of his apartment, grateful for the solitude. His wife had taken their son and one of his friends to see the latest Disney movie. The boys had probably prevailed on her to take them for ice cream afterward, he speculated.

  As he waited for Junior to pick him up, he found himself envying ordinary people who were leading ordinary lives. They worried about cranky bosses, nagging wives, pushy in-laws, and their kids getting Cs in school. His concerns were more profound. No matter how this plays out, he thought, I’m almost certainly looking at jail time. Glancing around the living room, he tried to imagine how big a jail cell was and what it would be like to share it with someone he didn’t know. And the toilet with no privacy. He didn’t want to think about that.

  His cell phone rang. He had put Gina Kane in his contacts. It was her number on the screen. He answered, “Hello,” but got no response. “Hello,” he said for a second time. He could clearly hear Junior and Kane talking in the background. You’d think a reporter would be more careful not to make a “butt call,” he thought, before deciding to listen. Maybe it would give him some advance intelligence about how to answer the journalist’s questions.

  108

  “What did you think was going to happen, Gina? You would publish an article in your magazine, ridicule my company, destroy me and any chance I had to be my father’s successor? And while REL was going down in flames, you would prance over to 60 Minutes and do another interview?”

  “Mr. Carlyle, I’m not the one who will destroy your company. It was rotting from within. I became aware of the stench, and I will write the story. Isn’t it your own Brad Matthews who is fond of saying, ‘Sunlight is the best disinfectant’?”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Gina, but in a sense I admire you. You’re courageous to the end. I don’t know if Cathy Ryan was that way. I was on another pier, watching through binoculars when she went for her last ride. I couldn’t see her face. Paula Stephenson was facing the other way when she went to that great distillery in the sky.” He turned and stared directly at her, his pale blue eyes cold and lifeless. “It’s fascinating to look at someone in the final moments of her life and try to imagine what she’s thinking.”

  Forcing back her feelings of terror, Gina responded in a voice that was calm but deliberate. “I find it fascinating that you’re a big enough fool to think you can do something to me and get away with this. Empire Review knows what I’ve been working on, and they’ll pursue the story. They know I was meeting you tonight.”

  Junior smiled condescendingly and said, “Gina, you’re right and you’re wrong. Your magazine will pursue the story. I’m counting on it. But there will be zero connection to me. The late Ed Myers can be counted on to remain quiet. All the evidence will point to Dick Sherman, who will make a pathetic, unsuccessful attempt to involve me. And remember, you arranged to meet Michael Carter tonight, not me.”

  “You’re confident Carter won’t talk?”

  “I’m scheduled to meet with him later tonight. To answer your question, I am one hundred percent confident Carter won’t breathe a word to anyone. After tonight, he won’t breathe at all,” Carlyle said in a deadly calm voice.

  109

  Michael Carter remained transfixed as he listened to the conversation between Junior and Gina Kane. He was certain he could not be held accountable for playing a role in the murders of Cathy Ryan and Paula Stephenson. When he had provided information about their whereabouts, there was zero evidence that he was dealing with a killer.

  From the moment he began suspecting Sherman might be behind the murders, Junior had encouraged him in that belief. How could he have been so gullible? he asked himself. He had accepted without question Junior’s story about Sherman leaving the building at the same time as Myers the night the CFO disappeared. He had tried to link Sherman to the murders by reviewing his credit card transactions. It had not occurred to him to do the same analysis with Junior’s cards.

  He felt himself barely breathing when Junior revealed his plan for him, “After tonight, he won’t breathe at all.”

  Nervous beads of perspiration forming on his forehead, Carter got up and began to pace around the small living room. A few minutes earlier he had been considering the possibility of making a run for it, literally fleeing the country. He had a little over a million in his attorney trust account and almost as much in his personal account. He could wire money to a new account he would establish in the Cayman Islands. He could look on Google to find out which countries didn’t have an extradition treaty with the United States, then go online to find the next available direct flight to one of those countries out of JFK or Newark.

  As his mind raced forward with the plan, a heavy dose of reality put a wet blanket on the idea. Wiring money took time, probably forty-eight hours, particularly when you have to open an account first. Were Beverly’s and Zack’s passports in the apartment or in the safe deposit box at the bank? If the latter, he wouldn’t be able to get them until nine in the morning. Would she agree to go? If she didn’t, would he leave his son behind?

  When the police found Kane’s body, one of the first things they’d do is examine her cell phone. If they couldn’t find it, they’d go to her carrier and get a record of her calls. It would show the call Carter made to her earlier in the evening on a phone registered in his name. For that matter, it would show the call he was listening to right now! He would quickly become a Person of Interest and be placed on a watch list. Any attempt to use his passport would trigger questions and his arrest.

  I can be the good guy here, Carter thought to himself. I can be the one who saved the reporter’s life. Maybe they’ll even portray me as a hero. The moment I heard her life was in danger, I didn’t think about the consequences for me; I called the police. Satisfied, and more than a little proud of himself, he dialed 911.

  * * *

  Four minutes later a dispatch went out to all units in Manhattan: “Be on the lookout for a black Lincoln Navigator, plate number…”

  110

  Feelings of despair filled Gina’s mind. Where were the police sirens that would have ensued if she had successfully dialed Charlie? They would have been able to trace her movements through her cell phone signal. Who knew what Carter would do if he were listening to this? Maybe he was in on the plan to trick her into getting in Junior’s car?

  She mourned the life she would have had with Ted and their children who would never be born. She wondered how or if her father would survive the loss of another family member. At least Marian would be there to help.

  Snap out of it! she ordered herself. If I’m meant to go down, I’ll go down swinging!

  “So what’s in store for me, Mr. Carlyle, an accident or a suicide?”

  He smiled. “Oh, Gina, nothing as creative as that.” He leaned over to the bag by his feet, pulled out a pistol, and pointed it at her. “When they find your body in the Park, the only question will be whether Dick Sherman was behind it or were you the victim of a senseless mugging?”

  Junior looked toward the front seat and said, “Oscar, it’s about a half mile ahead on the right.”

  Time is running out, Gina thought. What can I use as a weapon? There was a pen in the bag on the floor by her feet, but it would be so o
bvious if she reached for it. There was one other possibility.

  Junior was alternating between looking at her and searching forward for a spot he had chosen. The gun was in his right hand, about three feet from where she was sitting. Gina slipped her left hand below her left thigh until she felt her phone. She leaned forward slightly as she slid the phone behind her back. Using her right hand, she eased it along the seat until she had a firm grip on it with her right hand.

  There was the faint wail of a siren in the distance. Junior pointed the gun at her as he looked around trying to discern from what direction the sound was coming.

  Gina recognized her chance. Throwing herself in his direction, with her left hand she grabbed the barrel of the pistol and pointed it away from her. With her right hand she lashed out at his face while gripping the cell phone. It struck home. She heard a yelp of pain as the hard edge of the phone shattered his nose. Blood spattered on both of them.

  Still wrestling with her for control of the gun, he tried to bring it lower and turn it in her direction. She forced it level. A deafening sound filled the car as the pistol discharged.

  Suddenly, the vehicle began to accelerate. Glancing forward she could see Oscar’s head slumped to one side. She could feel her wrists aching from having used them to break her fall to the sidewalk the previous evening.

  Junior’s strength was prevailing against hers. She could feel the bumping as the SUV ran over an obstacle. Out-muscling her, he maneuvered the barrel of the gun until it was almost at her chest.