Chapter
26
It was almost 5 a.m. by the time I was comfortably settled into a nightgown and robe, sipping some warm, exotic combination of herbs that was prepared for me by Joan Stafford’s Asian housekeeper, after David had refused my request for a double Dewar’s. He had called Joan from the Emergency Room of New York Hospital, when I admitted that the only way I could get any sleep during the next few days was in the care of a friend I could trust.
Mike had known the triage nurse in the ER from years of working the same midnight shifts. She had taken me into an examining room after the domestic stabbing and before the alcoholic who cracked her elbow tripping off a curb. By the time the resident came into the cubicle to inspect me, the nurse had wiped all my scrapes with alcohol, determined that the wound on my thigh was too shallow to need stitches, and ordered that a set of x-rays be taken to make sure the injuries to my ankle were not serious. The doctor finished the once-over and prescribed some medication for pain and sleep.
Ellen Goldman had been taken to a hospital on the West Side. Mike was smart enough not to tell me which one, although I overheard him phoning the captain to say that her condition was critical but stable when she got out of surgery shortly after four, about the same hour of the morning I was released from the Emergency Room.
Mike and David drove me to Joan’s apartment, where she had dressed to meet us in the lobby. “I didn’t think you could look any worse than you did when we had dinner on Tuesday, but you’ve reached a new low, girl. We’ll get you back in shape,” she said as she embraced me, preparing me for what I would see when I got up my nerve to look myself over.
She lived in an eight-room duplex in one of the most elegant buildings in Manhattan, and her guest bedroom, overlooking the East River, was plumped and fluffed for my arrival, like a soft aqua-toned cocoon, ready to shield me from the real world. I spent a few minutes checking myself out in the bathroom mirror, appalled by the number of lacerations and marks that criss-crossed my cheeks and neck, and the variety of bruises that had swollen and discolored my slender fingers and hands. I changed into Joan’s lingerie and velvet robe, and descended to the library, where she had poured a brandy for herself, David, and Mike.
“Anybody want to tell me what took you guys so long?” I asked, directing my question to Mike. I screwed up my face at the first swallow of the tea, which was sour and tasteless, so Joan came to sit beside me on the thick arm of my lounge chair, offering me a mouthful of her Courvoisier.
“Next time I call you, don’t tell me you can’t take the call,” Mike fired back at me.
“In the middle of a line-up? The first time you called, right after I got to the Special Victims Squad, nobody said it was urgent.”
“Well, it wasn’t—then. I hadn’t spoken to David yet. After I started to get information from him, I called back twice. Got some old hairbag who didn’t seem to know what was going on. Finally, when we put most of it together, I called there frantically, telling them to find you and get you back upstairs to take the call. That’s when the desk sergeant told me you’d gotten into a car with a woman.”
“Start over,” I said. “Tell me how you figured it out.”
David started to talk, describing his meeting with Jed. “He showed up in my office a bit earlier than expected, at seven-fifteen, eager to tell me—to tell anyone who would listen, I think—what had been going on. I asked him to describe the details of the case of the woman who had been stalking him in California—he said her name was Ellie Guttmann—”
Mike interrupted him. “Yeah, I had already gotten that from the Threat Management Unit during the afternoon, when they pulled up Segal’s case for me in Los Angeles. I just had no way to connect it to Ellen Goldman then.” “Jed insisted to me—and I believe him, Alex—that he never had any kind of relationship with Goldman or Guttmann, whichever is her real name.”
“It’s Guttmann,” Mike broke in again. “I checked with Immigration. Israeli passport.”
Joan had joined in the hunt. “After you guys called me from the hospital, I checked her name in Nexis, on my computer. Just territorial on my part—I couldn—t believe a writer had tried to kill you, Alex. There must be fifty Ellen Goldmans with published articles in the last year alone. My guess is that it was a pretty safe alias, close to her real name, if anybody was going to try to check out her press credentials and see if she had ever written anything before.”
David went back to his story. “My secretary had pulled some of the recent publications on erotomania. I read them on the shuttle yesterday, and then Jed and I went over the information. He had never heard whether there was a diagnosis in Goldman’s case, but it’s true that Jed’s wife was the complaining witness. He had wiped his hands of the matter once the police locked her up, and he was moving East.”
“No diagnosis was made, according to the LAPD,” Mike reported. “They had an easy conviction for aggravated harassment, based on the telephone records of her calls to Segal’s home and office, and the letters to his wife. Just a lock-up, no psych report.”
“Ellen Goldman is a classic case. I read Dietz, Zona, Sharma-all the current experts on the subject.”
“What’s a ‘classic’ erotomaniac?” I asked.
“To begin with,” he responded, “most of the subjects of the disorder are women, young women—like Ellen Goldman—in their early thirties. Their victims are male, usually older, and usually men of a higher status, socioeco-nomic class—or even an unattainable public figure, like a celebrity or politician. Jed fit every one of those categories when she first encountered him in California.”
We were all listening attentively. “It’s interesting, too, that almost half of the subjects studied were foreign-born. Again, like Goldman. And a lot of them adopt different personae that they use for writing letters to their targets, because they’re so smart and articulate’in this instance, the Cordelia Jeffers correspondence.”
“How long before they give up this delusion?” Joan wanted to know.
“With other obsessions, so-called ‘simple’ obsessions,” David told her, “the subjects only made contact for less than a year. With erotomaniacs, these episodes have gone on for ten or twelve years, with repeated efforts to keep in touch with the man. They make phone calls, write letters, stalk their subjects at home, in offices, on airplanes, in hotels—you name it. They are convinced—that’s the delusion’that if they can get the obstacle, the other woman, out of the way, the man they’re obsessed with will be united with them and able to declare his love.”
“Wasn’t Jed aware of any of this, with Isabella? Didn’t it ever occur to him that Goldman was her killer?” I wanted to know.
“Absolutely not,” David said. “When Goldman got out of jail, there was an order of protection still in effect by the court. She was not allowed to have contact with either of the Segals. And she was otherwise sane enough to avoid them at first, knowing that would land her back in jail.
“So she didn’t bother Jed when she first got to New York last month. At least, not directly—not that he knew about. There was enough publicity about his move to find his office at CommPlex, after the Senate race. But I’d have to guess that she spent more of her energy finding out about you, once she learned you were dating him. Was that fact ever in the newspapers?”
“Yeah, Liz Smith did an item in her column,” Mike added, “ ‘SEX CRIMES CRUSADER DOES SENATE LOSER,’ or something like that. That’s how she knew about you. We figure she found out about Isabella by intercepting some of Jed’s messages on his voice mail at CommPlex. He said she did that all the time when he was in California.”
“She had her eye on you, Alex,” David continued, “trying to figure how long you would last with him. Then along came the ultimate antagonist, in the form of a Hollywood goddess: Isabella Lascar. You were a mere mortal, but Isabella was serious competition.”
Ellen and I apparently had that much in common.
“But I thought Jed and Isabell
a had discussed their stalkers with each other?” I queried aloud, remembering that snippet of conversation with him.
“Yes, that’s true, in general,” David told us. “But it had never occurred to either one of them that they were being harassed by the same person. Isabella was a celebrity and had been exposed to a lot of unwanted attention, as you know, Alex. When she started to get hang-up calls at the hotel she didn’t know what their source was, and the letters from Cordelia Jeffers were a complete mystery to her. She never divulged their exact contents to him—and Jed thinks that’s because she knew how guilty he felt about betraying you.”
“When David called me tonight after he finished his meeting with Segal, he asked me to come over to his apartment to talk to him about the interview. I got there about nine, with Joe Duffy,” one of the other guys who worked the squad with Mike. “Up to that minute, I was still convinced Segal was the killer. But David said Segal could prove his alibi—that his lawyer had the Cape Air ticket receipt that would show he was already on the plane off the Vineyard by the time Iz was blown to bits. Just that his lawyer is playing hardball ‘cause we haven’t released the exact time of her death yet. He doesn’t want to show us the plane ticket till we tell him time of death.”
David was nodding his head in support of Mike’s information.
“The reason Jed was leaving messages for you all over, Alex, was that Goldman finally began to dare to get closer to him. Finding Isabella’s Filofax was a gold mine for her, and made it much too easy. It had loads of information about access to Jed, as well as to you. Not only was she erasing the messages he left you,” David explained, “but she waited for him outside his office these last few mornings—not to make contact, but just to see him. That—s typical of the disorder.”
“So who figured out that Ellen was the killer?” I looked from David to Mike, but both shook their heads.
“We didn’t exactly figure it out,” Chapman said. “When David told me about the reappearance of Jed’s stalker, I asked him to make a call and get her description. He told us what she looked like, even mentioned the accent, and told us she was driving a white Celica, with rental plates.
“I gotta say, Alex, my thinking was like yours. It never occurred to me a woman was the killer. I was so sure it was Jed—or some other jilted lover boy.
“But by the time David and I had gone over all the stuff about erotomania, and how the person most in danger is the one in the middle, and Jed’s insistence that he was leaving messages that you weren’t getting—we just assumed you were in danger, whether or not it had anything to do with Isabella Lascar.”
“So why did you call me back at the precinct, you know, the last call?”
Both David and Mike hesitated, before David answered. “Actually, it was Jed’s idea.”
I was stone-faced, but David went on. “When Mike told me to call him and get the description of the woman, Jed pleaded with me to make you understand how dangerous he was afraid she could be. Once he saw her here in New York—knowing how she had plagued his wife—he was afraid she’d start to harass you next. He didn’t think murder, but just an embarrassment you didn’t need, with the public nature of your work.” “I called them to tell you not to go home alone,” Mike said, “and to make sure Mercer got a patrol car to get you to your apartment and then down to your office in the morning, just until we could find this woman and identify her. But I couldn’t get Mercer on the phone. And it didn’t become urgent till the guy on the desk told me you were fine—you had just gotten into a car with some woman up at the corner. A white car.”
“Dammit, nothing like this ever happens to me,” Joan said.
Mike went on to describe that he had called his office for a backup car to meet him at Fifth Avenue and Seventy-second Street. He planned to go over to the West Side, near the Special Victims Squad, and see if people on the street had seen or heard anything that would give him a lead. He requested that headquarters put out an alert in Manhattan North for a white Celica with two women traveling in it. Then he and Duffy started out of David’s apartment-and David insisted on going along.
Chapman and the backup team met eight minutes later at the Fifth Avenue entrance to the park and started on the cross-drive to the west.
“Like Mercer always says, detective work is ninety-nine percent genius and one percent luck,” Mike reminded me. “I’m whipping through the park like a tornado on the Seventy-second Street crossroad, then Doc in the backseat screams out that there’s a white Celica pulled in under a tree on our right side. I braked, made a U-turn and parked across the way, in front of the Bandshell. We all fanned out, and David offered to do the ruse about the dog—figured you’d either make his voice or the dog’s name. Best thing you did was warn us about the gun. I knew we had a whackjob, but I still didn’t guess that she was the shooter.”
“Talk about blindsided, I’m the one who got right in the car with her,” I said quietly, wondering how an intelligent human mind like Ellen Goldman’s could go so singularly off-track.
“What hurts more, Coop,” Mike questioned me, “your feelings or your neck?”
“At this point it’s about even,” I told him, smiling for the first time in hours.
“She’ll stay with me for as long as her doctor wants her in town, and then, I’m taking her away for some tropical sunshine,” Joan announced.
“This isn’t a great time for me to go—”
“Hey, you think there won’t be any perverts left in town for you to handle two weeks from now? You think they’re gonna go out of business while you take a break, Cooper? Give it a rest—you’re the only person I know who isn’t gonna be outta work in the foreseeable future.”
I wanted to keep my three friends around me and talking to me for hours more, despite my exhaustion, until the daylight poured in through the windows over the river. I wanted to put off my dreams for as long as possible—dreams that would inevitably be haunted by delusion and betrayal, murder and death.
Keep talking, I said to myself, keep talking. It had worked with Ellen Goldman, maybe it would hold off my nightmares as well.
“Did Alex ever tell you about the first case we had together?” Mike asked Joan and David, as I shifted my body in the comfortable chair and rested my head against the pillows, watching for the sunrise.
Acknowledgments
I have always been grateful for the unconditional love and encouragement of my mother and father, which made possible the personal and professional choices that have given me such enormous satisfaction throughout my life. They and all the Fairsteins—Guy, Marisa, Lisa, and Marc—have given me, as a family, great strength and purpose.
The fictional Alexandra Cooper has some extraordinary friends, but they pale in comparison to mine. She gets her name, however, from two of the best: Alexandra Denman, my closest friend from our first day at Vassar, whose loyalty, humor, and intelligence have seen me through everything; and Alexander Cooper—artist, traveling companion, reader, and confidante. Then there are Jane Hitchcock, who has generously guided me through the perils of publishing; Mitch Rosenthal (and Sarah and Casey);Susan and Michael Goldberg; and all of the pals who nourished me—physically and emotionally, in Chilmark and in Manhattan—through the writing of this book.
In my professional life, I have had the good fortune to have worked for the great Bob Morgenthau for more than two decades. His wisdom and integrity have guided me constantly. The women and men with whom I have worked in the New York County District Attorney’s Office and in the New York Police Department are my real heroes, and two of them—Lisa Friel and Maureen Spencer—are the best partners in the business of sex crimes prosecution any lawyer, or victim, could ask for.
My husband, Justin Feldman, makes everything I do possible. On top of that, he introduced me to the incredible Esther Newberg, and the two of them coached me and humored me through the writing of this book. It was Esther’s good judgment that placed me in the gentle hands of Susanne Kirk, where Alexandra Coop
er and I hope to remain for many adventures together. And I thank them all—it’s a dream come true.
Books by Linda Fairstein
The Alexandra Cooper Novels
Cold Hit
Likely to Die
Final Jeopardy
Nonfiction
Sexual Violence: Our War Against Rape
Alex Cooper 01 - Final Jeopardy Page 33