“A group of couples that meets at your country club,” I replied.
Whitaker’s eyes nearly popped out.
“But I didn’t get any names,” I said. “The only other detail was that Isabella and Marco went to a swingers’ party in Scarsdale.”
I knew better than to say anything more, but I couldn’t help myself.
“You nervous, boss?”
Anger replaced the astonishment on Whitaker’s face. “Watch yourself, young lady,” he said. “I’m still the boss here.”
“There was something else,” I said. “My source said Marco not only took Isabella to a house in Scarsdale for a sex party, but they also went to a different location to watch a consensual rape.”
“Consensual rape?” Myerson repeated. “What the hell is that? I don’t believe it is legally possible to consensually rape someone.”
“A woman agreed to be tied up and violated. Several men had sex with her in a mock rape and then spit on her.”
Steinberg said, “A mobster’s daughter is murdered and her husband turns out to be a swinger who attends deviant sex parties. That’s dynamite news for reporters.”
“Do you think the Butcher might be a swinger?” Whitaker asked, clearly hoping for a tabloid trifecta.
I decided to pop their balloon. “I seriously doubt it. Persico is a family man and is in his midseventies. Unless science has come up with a tiny blue pill that will turn an older man into a jackrabbit, I can’t see him attending sex parties in Scarsdale.”
Whitaker looked disappointed.
“All of this,” I said, “is why we have to look at suspects besides Persico. Agent Coyle may be correct in saying it was Tiny Nunzio who killed Roman and Maggie Mancini. Maybe Marco Ricci paid to have Isabella Ricci murdered. If those theories are true, then Persico wasn’t involved in any of these homicides.”
“And maybe you’re making this much too complicated,” Myerson said. “You could be chasing red herrings. When all the smoke clears, your best suspect is still Nicholas Persico.”
“I’ll give you another twenty-four hours,” Whitaker said. “Then we got to make some sort of announcement about a new break in this case.”
O’Brien and I were the first to leave the morning briefing. Whitaker had asked everyone else to stick around for a few moments to discuss an idea that he had and apparently felt we didn’t need to hear. Although I was curious, leaving first was fine with me. I was eager to get back to the hunt.
18
We hurried from the courthouse to our offices, where a stack of pink “While You Were Out” slips was waiting on my desk. I popped a Junior Mint into my mouth from a box left over from the day before and fanned through the slips like they were playing cards. When I saw Adalina’s name, I immediately reached for my phone.
“I forgot something important,” Adalina explained excitedly. “Really, it’s a someone. Donnie Gilmore. He was stalking Isabella. His name just popped into my noggin this morning.”
“Donnie Gilmore. Who is he and how did Isabella know him?”
“Oh, he’s one of them swingers in Scarsdale I was telling you about. Isabella didn’t know his real name when they met. They all use fake names. But he really was bugging her about doing it with him and she didn’t want to. She said he got real mad.”
“Mad enough to kill?”
“He was the sick son of a bitch who took them to that house where they raped that woman and took turns spitting on her. She told me that Gilmore told Marco that his wife was a stuck-up bitch who needed to be put in her place.”
“Is Gilmore from Scarsdale? Do you know where he works? How’d she find out his actual name?”
“That’s why I called you first thing. Isabella knew who he was because she bumped into him at the Midland Apartments. That freak lives in the same place where she was murdered. How’s that for a coincidence?”
“It doesn’t sound like one,” I replied.
“I know. I can’t believe how stupid I was not to tell you earlier. But this morning, Petey was getting dressed and I shot up in bed and told him, ‘Donnie Gilmore.’ Petey thought I was dreaming but it was my brain working while I was asleep. Sometimes I go to bed thinking of a problem and wake up with the answer. There’s been—”
“Adalina,” I said, interrupting her, “this is really, really helpful. Now, do you know if Isabella ever had sex with Gilmore?”
“Well, let’s see. She told me about having sex with two guys at swingers’ parties but he wasn’t one of them. That’s why he got mad. She thought he was creepy, especially after he took them to that house where the rape was. She said he was always bugging her and Marco. He really had the hots to get into her panties.”
A few minutes later, I thanked her for calling, put down the phone, and hurried across the hall to where O’Brien was drinking coffee. We left before he had a chance to finish.
The names Donnie and Rachel Gilmore were printed on the registry next to Apartment 104. I tried to open the building’s front door but someone had repaired the broken lock. I pressed the intercom button next to the Gilmores’ names and a woman’s voice responded. “Can I help you?”
“Is this Rachel Gilmore?” I asked.
“Who’s asking?”
“Dani Fox. I’m an assistant district attorney with the Westchester County District Attorney’s Office and I have Detective Thomas O’Brien with me. We’d like to speak to your husband.”
“Donnie? He’s at work, but two detectives already talked to me.”
“We have a few follow-up questions,” I said. “Can we come up?”
She buzzed us in and was waiting with her apartment door half open.
“I expect Donnie to get home any minute,” she said, greeting us. “He usually is here by now when he works the early morning shift.”
I checked my watch. It was nearly 10 a.m.
Rachel Gilmore was a painfully thin woman in her twenties with long brown hair and blue eyes that looked as if they were all pupil. Their apartment was identical to the Mancinis’ two-bedroom place, only freshly painted and not dreary. Nor did it reek of alcohol and cigarettes. Instead it smelled like dirty diapers. I didn’t know which was worse.
“This is our son,” Rachel said, hoisting up a tubby two-year-old wearing only a diaper. “His name is Charles Henry Gilmore, but we call him Chucky.”
Chucky was wearing a milk mustache and holding the remains of a soggy Oreo cookie in one hand.
“I was just finishing feeding him. Donnie wants to eat lunch with me when he gets home from his shift so I try to have Chucky fed and put down for a nap. Only all he’ll eat today is cookies.”
Chucky smiled, burped, and held the half-eaten cookie out toward O’Brien.
“No thanks, kid,” the detective said, patting his stomach. “Watching the waistline. You might want to do the same before your folks begin calling you Chunky.”
Rachel didn’t smile.
“This seems like an odd hour to get home from work,” I said. “What exactly does your husband do?”
“He sorts mail at the post office. But they only have been calling him in to work split shifts, you know, four to six hours, at peak times. It’s tough ’cause I can’t work now since Chucky is such a handful.”
She reached for a paper towel from an end table and wiped Chucky’s face but he refused to surrender the remains of his cookie. By this time, we’d moved into the living room, which was littered with baby toys.
While Rachel deposited Chucky into a playpen next to a lounge chair, O’Brien and I sat on the sofa.
Rachel ran a finger through her hair and said, “I’m a mess. I never knew a baby could be such hard work.”
“Have you lived here long?” I asked. “Your place looks like it was recently painted.”
“Only four months. I still got boxes to unpack. We were at my parents’ place in Queens before Donnie found us this apartment.”
O’Brien said, “You talked to the police, you said. Was your husband he
re for that?”
“Two Yonkers detectives came on the day after that woman’s body was found. Donnie was at work. But I’m afraid I didn’t help them much. I never met her. And when I mentioned that the cops had been here, Donnie told me that he’d seen her in the stairwell once but that was it. I heard she stuck out when she was here.”
“Stuck out?” I repeated.
“Mrs. McCurry next door said the woman didn’t really live here. Donny and me are the only young tenants in this building so when someone younger than sixty is in the halls, people notice. Mrs. McCurry said her granddaughter saw her, too.”
“This granddaughter, does she live with your neighbor?” I asked.
“That’s right. She babysits for us sometimes. She saw the woman, too, but she never spoke to her. That woman didn’t talk to anyone. This building is like a small town, so everyone knew she was coming here to meet her boyfriend.”
“Did you ever see the boyfriend?”
“Naw, I don’t go out much because of Chucky. He likes playing here.”
I glanced at Chucky, who had fallen asleep in his playpen still holding his soggy cookie.
“The detectives never came back to talk to your husband, is that correct?” I asked.
She nodded and asked, “Why do you want to talk to Donnie?” Just then, the apartment door opened and a man wearing a postal service uniform came in. “Donnie,” Rachel said, “this lady is a prosecutor from the D.A.’s office and he’s a detective.”
Donnie was a few years older than Rachel, with a slender build, kinky black hair, a thick mustache, and long sideburns.
“Hello,” he said. “The police were already here.” If he was worried, he didn’t show it.
“We have a few follow-up questions,” I replied. “Did you know Isabella Ricci well?”
“No, I just bumped into her a few times in the building,” he said. He sounded confident, cocky almost.
It was time for me to crack that façade. “You hadn’t met her earlier in Scarsdale?”
Gilmore’s eyes widened and his lips parted slightly as he glanced at Rachel and then back at me and said, “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“She’s asking if you ever met her at any parties,” O’Brien said. “Like when she was with her husband, Dr. Ricci?”
“Scarsdale? Parties?” Rachel repeated. “What are they talking about?”
A look of panic appeared on Donnie’s face. “Can we step out to talk? In the hallway.”
“Why do you want to talk to them without me?” Rachel asked, looking concerned.
I had no interest in helping Gilmore keep secrets about his sexual swinging from his wife, but I also knew he was more likely to talk freely with us if she wasn’t listening.
“Let’s go for a walk and then you can talk to your wife about all this later,” I said.
“Why can’t you talk about it now, Donnie?” Rachel said harshly. “What are you hiding?”
“It’s nothing,” he said. “I’ll explain later.”
Gilmore nearly ran out into the hallway with O’Brien at his heels.
As soon as I joined them, Gilmore said, “Rachel doesn’t know anything about Scarsdale. Can we go get coffee down the street? I can explain everything. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
We walked in silence to a coffee shop, where we settled in a booth near the back.
“You might as well tell us the truth because we know about you and Isabella and her husband,” I said.
“It will go better if you don’t hide nothin’,” O’Brien chimed in. “Lying isn’t going to win you any brownie points.”
“Let’s start with you telling us about your relationship with Isabella,” I said.
“Relationship? It wasn’t a relationship,” he protested.
“I just told you not to lie,” O’Brien replied.
“But I didn’t have a relationship with her. I met her and Marco when they came to a party in Scarsdale, that’s it.”
“A sex party,” O’Brien added. “Right? You think we don’t know that?”
“Some people call them that, but it’s just a group of people who are more open-minded. A guy and his wife at work invited me but I knew Rachel would never agree so I’ve been going by myself.”
“Without telling her,” I said. “I’m guessing she has no idea you’ve been cheating on her with other women?”
“I’m not cheating. I mean, this is about my needs and to tell you the truth, I think Rachel probably will be happy when I tell her because since the baby, she’s not really wanted to have sex that much. She’ll probably be glad.”
Sure, I thought. Keep telling yourself that when she kicks you out of the apartment. “Mr. Gilmore,” I said, “we’re not here to discuss your marriage. We’re here to ask about your sexual relationship with Isabella Ricci.”
“Relationship?” he replied, his voice rising in fear. “You got the wrong impression. We never did it. I wanted to, but she said no. She and Marco were first-timers—cherries, is what the group called them when they showed up at Scarsdale. Isabella wasn’t really into having sex with other men. She left without doing it with anybody and I didn’t think they’d ever come back. I mean, he was ready to swing, but not her.”
“When was that?” O’Brien asked.
“Maybe six, seven months ago. I was shocked when they showed up later and this time, she did it with two men while Marco had a party with their wives.”
I noticed he was keeping his eyes on O’Brien, avoiding contact with mine.
I said, “Mr. Gilmore, is that when you first tried to have sex with her? At the second party?”
Still looking at O’Brien, he said, “I guess so. I mean, I asked her if she wanted to party but she said no. I figured it was because she already had been with these other two guys. But everyone respects it when you say no. You don’t have to say yes to anyone you don’t want to do it with.”
“Being rejected like that must have hurt your feelings,” I said.
“No, not really. I mean, sure, it was the first time I’d been turned down. Most women are all over me even though I go stag. But it was cool. I mean, I wouldn’t touch some women there with a ten-foot pole.”
He was beginning to get his confidence back and I didn’t like that.
“Maybe the first time, you didn’t mind, but you sure as hell did the next several times, didn’t you?” I asked.
Gilmore must have assumed that we only knew about Scarsdale and not the rest of his attempts to bed Isabella. He finally glanced at me and I saw both fear and anger in his eyes. “Okay, she said no a couple of times. I kept thinking she’d changed her mind so I kept asking. No crime in that.”
“But she didn’t change her mind, did she?” I said.
“That’s right,” he said, with a flash of anger now in his voice. “She kept saying no. I never got to party with her.”
“Maybe not in Scarsdale, but you did have sex with her, didn’t you?” I continued.
His jaw dropped and he realized that I knew much more than he’d thought. Or did I? I was quietly enjoying the fact that we were keeping him twisting in the wind.
Glancing down at his coffee, he said, “Isabella never agreed to have sex with me, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“But it’s not what I’m asking,” I said. “I said you had sex with her. Are you denying that now? And by sex, I mean consensual or otherwise.”
Gilmore still thought he might be able to dodge my question. “I’m not sure what you are asking.”
“Don’t play word games with me,” I said.
O’Brien piped in, “Tell Miss Fox here if you fucked Isabella, with or without her consent.”
“I did not rape her,” he replied.
“But you did have sex with her without her consent, didn’t you?”
“No. I mean, yes. But she knew what was happening.”
“You’d better start from the beginning,” I said. “And don’t lie to us or leave anything out.”
/> “Her husband asked me about this house. He’d heard another couple talk about it. It’s where men and women act out fantasies.”
“What sort of fantasies?” I asked.
“All kinds. But mostly being tied up, spanked, stuff like that. Some broads like being dominated. Some men do.”
“Are we talking about rape?” I said.
“Not really, but yes. I didn’t think you’d know about that.”
“Stop trying to figure out what we may or may not know, because, right now, you’re sounding like a prime murder suspect.”
“Murder? I didn’t kill that broad!”
“But you told her husband that Isabella needed to be taught a lesson,” I said. “That she needed to be raped. That it would be good for her.”
Gilmore glanced around to see if anyone had heard my accusation. “That don’t mean I killed her.”
“Then you’d better tell us what you did do to her and tell us fast,” O’Brien said.
“Okay, okay. I thought she was a snob, that part’s true, and I did take her and Marco to a private S-and-M thing that happens around here from time to time.”
“Go on,” I said.
“You want to know if I had sex with her,” he said in a whisper. “Yes, I did, but not in Scarsdale and it certainly wasn’t rape. She just didn’t know it was me.”
“How’d you manage that?” O’Brien asked.
“Her husband brought her to this hotel. She was blindfolded and he told her to keep it on. Then I came in and he watched us do it. Marco watched and then I left before she took off the blindfold. Like I said, she never knew it was me.”
“When did this happen?” I asked.
“Maybe five months ago.”
“Did you ever have sex with her again?” I asked.
“No, she and Marco disappeared.”
“C’mon, stop lying,” O’Brien said. “You began stalking her. That’s why you moved into the Midland Apartments with your wife and baby.”
“No, no, that was a coincidence. I didn’t know she had a place here. I bumped into her coming down the stairs one day.”
“That’s one hell of a coincidence. Did you speak to her?” I asked.
“I said hello but she acted like she didn’t remember me. I understood why. Later, I asked Mr. Mancini about her and he told me about how she was meeting someone at the apartment. I figured it was one of their rich friends. But that was the only time I ever saw her in our building—that day in the hallway.”
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