Havoc-on-Hudson

by Bernice Gottlieb

  “What’s a disclosure form, Ma’am?” Mike asked Sally. (At Chief Betsy’s suggestion, I’d casually dropped in on local real-estate agents at the precise moment Mike was scheduled to show up to question them. I guess Betsy thought I could provide expert knowledge to catch my colleagues out in any evasions or prevarications.)

  “It’s a law that requires a real-estate broker to declare who she represents,” Sally explained. “In fact, since we first learned about the rapist, we’ve been asking new clients for an I.D. and now attach a copy to the disclosure for our files. Poor Amy should have followed normal procedure. At this point, when it really matters, we don’t know anything at all about the people she was to meet at the house.”

  Hmm, I thought, if Amy had followed the protocol, she might still be alive.

  15

  “A Mighty Fortress is our God, our hope for years to come,” the congregation sang. “Our shelter from the stormy blast, and our eternal home.” On the word home, the All-Saints-Episcopal-Church-of-Hudson-Hills organist held the note so long my singing voice almost ran out of song.

  The sanctuary was packed. River-town real-estate agents, soberly clad in black and navy blue, were well-represented, and were also probably responsible for the ostentatious displays of Calla lilies that packed the nave and threatened to choke the mourners with their cloying scent. I reminded my little inner list-maker, In Funeral Preparation Instructions: Number One: Lose the lilies!

  It was a week after the murder, the forensics had been completed, and the police had released Amy’s body to her family for burial. The funeral was now being held at All-Saints, the most picturesque house of worship in this picturesque town.

  I sat in a mahogany pew toward the back of the large nineteenth-century-Gothic stone church, with its long aisles and decorative finials, so I could get a good look at the entire gathering—my own initiative, not Chief Betsy’s. Betsy had been avoiding me lately, probably because I’d become obsessed with finding Amy’s killer. That wasn’t because I’d been fond of Amy—I hadn’t—but because she was the third broker to be attacked in the past few months. During the service I found my mind wandering, still troubled by the fact that local agents were being targeted for rape—and now, murder. Who’s next? I wondered.

  I did hope it wasn’t me; Andrew would be heartbroken.

  Many of the funeral attendees were known to me: Sally Whitten from Amy’s office, wearing, instead of sober black, a spiffy red suit and not looking terrifically broken-up; Chief Betsy, of course, dressed in civvies—a stunning gold-and-brown African inspired print dress—for the occasion and sneaking sidelong glances at Amy’s husband; Amy’s family, her stoic husband, Frank Honeywell and two gangly teenage daughters. Just about everyone I’d expected to see was there, and more, their low-key, but pricey, attire marking them as local residents.

  Then my glance fell on Doc Bondi, the retired vet, tanned and wearing a green sport jacket over his golf regalia. Note to Self: Call Lily Gould to follow up on her interest in former Veterinary Hospital. I had to get that property back into play.

  When a tall man wearing a brown felt Borsalino slouch hat passed by my pew, my heart gave a little leap. The Lover! Then the man’s female companion elbowed him in the ribs and hissed something, and he snatched off the hat—his wife then. Directly behind him came another man in a Borsalino, a yellow straw fedora, this time.

  Oh.

  With a brief intro from the organ, we once again launched into song. “Jerusalem, my happy home,” the congregation intoned. Who chooses these songs? I wondered.

  Amy’s daughters were weeping now. Was it the happy home lyrics that had gotten to them—their happy home gone forever. Or—I took a second look at the girls, now dabbing tissues to their eyes—were they even weeping at all? Maybe, like me, they were simply allergic to lily pollen.

  I sneezed, earning a look of disapproval from an attractive young man who’d come in late and sat at the end of my back row. Now he didn’t look local, with his longish dark hair pulled back in a tight bun at the nape of his neck. That, along with the unstructured oatmeal linen jacket and high-end black jeans, made him look more Downtown than River-town. One of Amy’s younger conquests, I assumed.

  The service was short and the eulogies perfunctory; Amy had never seemed like a churchgoer to me. By the time we launched into the final hymn, “How Lovely is Thy Dwelling Place,” it finally hit me: our eternal home, our happy home, how lovely is thy dwelling place. All the hymns had been about Real Estate!

  Amy was still selling!

  16

  Uninterested in the fancy little sandwiches and cakes likely to be served in the church social hall following the service, I hotfooted it out through the wide double doors behind Chief Betsy. “Wait up,” I called, as we descended the curving stone steps, the organ blaring “How Firm a Foundation” behind us.

  The Chief looked back over her shoulder and sighed, but she waited for me to catch up. Together we walked downhill on bustling Main Street.

  “Any updates?” I asked her, as I nodded at a former client who’d bought a post-modern McMansion in an exclusive gated community. The young blonde, trophy wife of a Wall Street mogul (second or third wife, I couldn’t remember), smiled widely. Looked like she was still married to her money guy.

  “Updates?” Betsy scoffed. “Maggie, upon thinking it over, I believe it’s probably best if you back out of any involvement with this case.”

  “Back out? What’s up, Chief? You were begging for my help!” Maggie was feeling bruised.

  She looked me straight in the eye. For her that meant looking down—way down—and that only enhanced the chilling effect. “Maggie, this is a professional homicide investigation. You have to understand that we are now cooperating with the Westchester D.A.’s office, and they have their own real-estate specialists.”

  Okay, so the D.A. was giving her grief. “But, why the D.A., Chief?” I queried. “In Manhattan you must have handled lots of homicides without outside help.”

  “Yes, I did, but Hudson Hills is not Manhattan, and they, er, we haven’t had a homicide here since 1923. To be honest, it’s a whole different ballgame in these small towns; we don’t have the budget or the manpower necessary to handle homicide ourselves.”

  I was miffed about being so abruptly dropped from my investigative role. “But—” A stiff breeze came in off the river and blew my hair across my eyes.

  “Of course,” she said, “our P.D. is nevertheless still very much involved. It’s our murder, and it took place in our jurisdiction.”

  “I do understand, Betsy.” I shoved the errant hair back behind one ear. “But surely you’re still connecting this murder to the real-estate-agent rapes, you know, the serial rapist?”

  She was a diva of the exasperated sigh. “Maggie, we honestly don’t know if there’s any connection. At the same time, we haven’t ruled it out entirely—it’s simply too early to make that determination. A murder investigation takes time. Some of the test results, the DNA, for instance, won’t be ready right away.”

  Betsy was brand new as our police chief, and she knew everyone—especially the D.A.—was watching to see how she carried out her duties during this crisis; I could see the strain in those beautiful blue eyes. I didn’t envy her the job one bit, but, at the same time, I was even more obsessed with this rapist/murderer. Every time I thought about what had almost happened to me when I was barely seventeen … well, I almost went ballistic. I wanted in on this investigation.

  Right there, in front of the pocket park with the Washington Irving sculpture in it, the Chief stopped and gave me a level look. Then she held up a finger, like a schoolteacher instructing a recalcitrant child. “Listen, Maggie. I’ve been doing my research. Statistics from the Department of Labor tell us that every year seventy to eighty real-estate agents, both women and men, are attacked in the pursuit of their professional work—raped, robbed,
and/or murdered. It’s a dangerous profession, lonely and isolated. I’m worried about you. This perp is dangerous—smart and dangerous. And he’s after brokers. He’s killed once now—a Hudson Hills agent. He’ll kill again.

  “And you’re a broker. A Hudson Hills broker.” Her schoolteacher finger had turned into a cop finger. “Stay out of it! You hear me? For your own safety!”

  I swallowed hard and nodded.

  “You hear me?”

  I nodded again. “I hear you.”

  “Good!” Betsy softened her tone. “By the way, Maggie, because you were first on the scene, you’ll be called into the D.A.’s office. They’re also going to call the Mullers.” She noticed my grimace. “What?”

  Even I could hear the edge in my voice. “That poor couple is traumatized enough without being questioned again,” I said. “And now their baby is a week overdue. They don’t need any more hassle.”

  “Well, at least the investigators can talk to David, can’t they? Or does the twenty-first-century father now suffer labor pains, too?”

  “Ha! I wouldn’t be surprised.” So, the Chief had a sense of humor, did she? We walked past South of the Border Taqueria, and the spicy aromas of fresh fish tacos drifted towards me.

  Turning the corner of Main and Elm, Betsy and I stopped for a moment in front of Olde Towne Antiques before we went our separate ways. “You know,” she said, “the listing agent at the murder house”—even the Chief was calling it the murder house—“left shoe covers at the front door for anyone showing the place …”

  I would have done the same thing. “Because of the polished floors and white carpeting, of course,” I said.

  Betsy chuckled. “Actually Maggie,” she said, “what I wanted to tell you is, those gorgeous Ferragamos of yours were the only shoe prints the forensic people could immediately identify; your entry by way of the patio, in the master bath, and at the front door when you went to open it to let the Mullers in. Both your clients had stepped out of their shoes at the door and Amy had as well.”

  My heart suddenly felt like a stone. “I hope that doesn’t make me a suspect. What about the murderer? Didn’t he leave foot prints?”

  “Various imprints were found, but they still need to be analyzed. Remember, a couple of men from the cleaning crew had also walked around earlier in the day—but they didn’t have those killer stiletto heels!”

  Betsy’s cell phone beeped, and she cut the conversation short, turning away from me as she answered the call.

  I knew the Chief couldn’t tell me much more, and I appreciated what she did share. But of one thing I was sure: a person couldn’t kill someone in such a messy way without leaving lots of evidence behind. I waved goodbye and turned toward the office, but I was still frustrated. I still couldn’t control my obsession; I still wanted to have a role in the capture of this madman.

  17

  “Y’know,” I said to Andrew, “I could try to contact the Page Six reporter from the New York Post. Because of the high profile of that case, the reporter’s probably doing her own research. Hmm. Do you think maybe the husband hired someone to ‘take care of his wife?”

  He turned abruptly from his apartment window, where he’d been looking down onto the lazy Sunday midtown streets. “Maggie! Let it be!”

  But I just couldn’t. “You know, because of the nasty divorce and custody battle. I’ve read that a large percentage of female homicides are committed by their husbands or lovers.”

  I know I’d promised Andrew that I’d stay out of the investigation, but that had been before the murder of Amy Honeywell. I knew Amy. Amy had been a colleague. Not a friend, but a professional colleague. The ante had been upped, from rape to murder, from across the river to right here in my very own town. Yes, I’d promised Andrew, but now I was torn. I was in love with him. I didn’t in any way want to jeopardize our relationship, but I felt compelled, despite that promise—and despite the warning from Chief Betsy—to do what I could behind the scenes to help put Amy’s killer behind bars. But what could that be?

  We were at his apartment that sunny Sunday afternoon shortly after the funeral when I began to get restless: after all, how much making love and eating five-star leftovers could two people do? The type A in me kept nagging to get something more substantive done before I headed home. Curled up on Andrew’s tan leather chaise, wrapped in a faux mink throw, I picked up a yellow legal pad from the side table and began writing.

  “What are you up to now?” he teased when he saw me wrinkling my brow in concentration.

  “I’m trying to explore every possible motive that homicidal psycho could have,” I replied, “however mundane it might appear to be.”

  Andrew sighed in the way men do when a woman is taking something other than them far too seriously: sort of a huge huff, like an old steamboat getting ready to launch. “You’re wasting your time! Glassy-eyed lunatics don’t need motives for their craziness.”

  “Andrew …” I frowned at him as I continued to write.

  But he just went on—“I can think of much better things we could be doing on this beautiful day. I’ve wanted to see Mich Hamer’s exhibit at MoMA, for starters. Frankly,” he said, without meeting my gaze, “I’m beginning to feel jealous of this miserable nutcase interfering in our lives. It seems you’re spending more time thinking about him than you are about me!”

  Whoa! And women are supposed to be the jealous ones! Andrew was acting like a child. I’d give it right back to him. “Yeah, right. How about you keeping your promise to help me instead of criticizing what I’m trying to do? Hmm?”

  He spun around and glared at me. Until, that is, he saw the grin on my face. Then he laughed and walked over to sit beside me. “Okay,” Sherlock, so what’ve you come up with so far?”

  Before answering Andrew, I looked straight into those dark, intense eyes of his, to see if he was being serious or not. It looked like he was.

  I’d made a list of unethical or stupid things a real-estate broker might do, and I showed it to him.

  Failure to disclose judgments against a house.

  Misrepresentation of square footage.

  Failure to confirm latest taxes and assessments on a property.

  “Any of these things could infuriate a buyer, “I said. “For one thing, if a broker was selling a home and didn’t disclose that there were judgments against the property, and at closing the client finds out he’s responsible for thousands of dollars which he can’t possibly come up with, he could lose the house as well as his down payment. Could that set someone off?”

  “That’s not bad” Andrew commented.

  “Or, if the square footage was far less than what the listing declared, or the broker neglected to confirm the latest taxes and assessments on a property?” I looked up at Andrew for his reaction.

  “Yep. That could be a problem.”

  “And, here’s a complicated one, Mr. Attorney. What if a half-way house for pedophiles was located right next door and the buyers had young children?”

  “Well, Maggie, that situation is covered under the Fair Housing Act, just like buying a house where a suicide or murder took place, and a broker is not legally required to disclose such facts. Of course, there’s a moral issue in these scenarios, and if not disclosed, they could cause a great deal of rancor, and rightly so, on the part of the unsuspecting buyers.”

  “There are endless scenarios, Andrew.” I paused to think over examples during my own career. Thank god, nothing as egregious as any I’d listed. I shrugged. “But I suppose none of them are enough to actually turn someone into a rapist or a murderer. There has to be a pathological reason for such an animus against one particular profession.”

  “Oh, Maggie, law enforcement’s task isn’t to analyze the bastard—it’s to find him and put him away before he kills someone else.” Andrew jumped up from the cozy chair, took both my hands and pulled
me up. Then, before he spoke again, he hugged me, long and tenderly. Then he looked into my eyes. “Maggie, interfering in something like this could turn out to be so dangerous for a person with no experience in detective work. It’s not just me concerned about you—Chief Betsy wants you out of it, too. If this nutcase learns about your intervention, he will find you and kill you as well. You’d better give that some serious thought. I certainly have.

  “Chief Betsy asked you only one thing—to coordinate with the real-estate broker community. She didn’t ask you to solve the crime. Leave that to the professionals!” Andrew actually had tears in his eyes, and his concern gave me pause.

  But my determination to do what I could to help identify and apprehend this rapist/killer wasn’t because I was some wanna-be girl detective or neurotic sensation monger. I had a much more personal motivation than that, and I began to think about telling Andrew what it was.

  18

  So, the next Friday evening, after a meal of chilled Blue Point oysters followed by T-bones grilled on my patio, I poured fresh glasses of Australian Shiraz and, after a long silence, said, “Andrew?”

  “Yes, Sweetie?” I loved the way he smiled at me, as if I was so very easy to smile at. As if there was nothing in the world he’d rather do than smile at me. “I want to tell you something.”

  “Hmm?”

  It was so lovely sitting there: a river breeze blowing, the ripe midsummer sun beginning its descent over the Hudson Palisades. I was afraid to ruin the mood, but I had to risk it, so I told Andrew something I’ve never talked to anyone about before: something that had happened to me when I was very young; something that explained why these attacks in Hudson Hills haunted me so.