Havoc-on-Hudson

by Bernice Gottlieb

  My hand flew to my wine glass, grabbed it, lifted it. I took a big gulp. Then another.

  I knew that face. I’d seen that face before!

  But, where? And when?

  21

  I did exactly what the Chief asked me to do: I quietly took my colleagues aside, one by one, and showed them the photo. I started with the brokers in Hudson Hills, and then went as far west as White Plains, as far south as Yonkers, as far north as Katonah. Nothing. Nobody recognized the man in the doctored photo. By the time I was done, I’d looked at the damn thing so many times, I was no longer certain I did, either.

  One late-October afternoon when the oak leaves had begun to fall, I sat out on the terrace with the picture of the adult Danny Joe Farrell on my lap and stared at it for a long time. Rape is more about anger than it is about sex, that’s what all the books say. And, after all, I should know. I shuddered. Why are you so angry, Danny? I thought. Why are you attacking my colleagues?

  Then I stared out over the choppy gray river and thought about the last time I’d seen Amy Honeywell. It had been at a fundraising Gala for a food pantry in Mount Kisco. Oh, yes, even in our affluent county there are people who need help staving off hunger. It’s great P.R. for brokers to show their faces at these benefit events. The economy’s good, and the housing market is booming. Wall Street tycoons, who abound in the river towns, are always ready to trade up in terms of housing. At the Food Pantry Gala, a TV celebrity chef who lived in the county had donated for live auction a dinner for ten to be personally cooked by him in the winner’s own home. The starting bid was ten thousand dollars.

  Festively clad Gala attendees whispered to each other at the large round tables. Excitement filled the perfume-scented air. The first bid came in. “Eleven-thousand dollars.” It was followed immediately by “twelve-thousand dollars.” Some bold attendee bid fifteen-thousand. Amy Honeywell raised a languid hand. “Fifty-thousand dollars,” she said. It was over the top --the winning bid.

  And now she was dead.

  I wondered if she’d enjoyed her celebrity-chef dinner.

  Daniel Joseph Farrell, I want to find you, I thought. I will not stop until I am able to help get you out off the streets. You are evil and cruel and you don’t deserve to live among the rest of us. I want to even the score … for what happened to me so long ago, but especially for what happened to Amy and any other woman you have raped or killed.

  I felt as if I were making a sacred oath.

  22

  It was six weeks now since I’d come up with the idea to place an ad in the Personals column of a new print magazine called Looking, that, marketed throughout the Northeast, devoted itself to everything beyond Google’s information highway. I went out to check my mailbox, wrapping the warm cashmere bathrobe close to my body against the winter wind. I’d been watching the mail every day to see if anyone had responded.

  The ad read: $500 reward to anyone with information about Daniel Joe Farrell, approximate age 29, please write: MM, Box 261, Hudson Hills, New York, 10016.

  Chief Betsy would be livid if she knew what I’d done. Not only had I broken my promise to her, but also, I thought, she might be able to charge me with interference in a police investigation. But I’d felt compelled to place that ad. After having exhausted any possible leads among my professional acquaintances, I still felt that I hadn’t done enough.

  Then I got the idea of a Personals ad. I’d talked it over with Claire, who had scoffed and told me that the print media were old fashioned, and that she could get far better results by doing intensive online searches. “Amy Honeywell was my colleague, too,” she told me. “I’ve got a stake in this as well.”

  “So, do it, then,” I said, blithely.

  My ad had now been running for the entire six weeks, and there had only been one, totally incoherent, response.

  My only consolation was that Claire hadn’t done any better in her online search.

  This morning, the mailbox was stuffed with the usual depressing bunch of department-store flyers and utility bills. But, sorting through the junk mail, on the way back to the house, I suddenly caught my breath. Almost lost among the pieces of junk mail was a small, pink envelope with scalloped edges on the flap, hand-addressed in purple ink but with no return address. Very deliberate. Very organized. Very feminine.

  Could this be a response to the magazine ad?

  I carried the mail into my kitchen where a warm cup of cocoa, half empty, awaited me. Tossing out every catalog, I stacked the bill envelopes neatly, all the while staring at the pink envelope. Was it? Or was it not?

  Hand shaking, I finally reached for it, studied the scalloped flap, fearing disappointment but hopeful, nevertheless. I picked up a butter knife from the table, inserted it under the flap, opened the envelope.

  Dear Sir/Madam. Many years ago in Buffalo, New York, I was a close friend of Daniel Joseph Farrell’s mother. In fact we were neighbors. If you will meet with me personally, I have information about Danny Joe that I may share with you if I find that your query is for legitimate purposes. Please call me at the number below. Very truly yours, L. Goldman.

  Bingo! I was over the moon. I’d found a source! I was dying to reach out to the Chief, to involve her in a meeting with this woman. (The envelope, the handwriting, and the message made me certain it was a woman.) I also wanted to let Andrew know. Then, with my hand already on my cell phone, I thought twice; each of them, for different reasons, would order me to back off, and I wasn’t about to do that. And, after all, how dangerous could it be? It wasn’t as if I was going to meet this unknown woman in the haunted attic of a decaying mansion after midnight. In my nightgown. We’d meet in a public place, in full daylight. With lots of people around.

  But then, maybe nothing useful would come of my meeting with Ms. Goldman, anyhow, and I was worrying for nothing. And in that case no need to let anyone know. Ever.

  I sat back in my cozy kitchen chair and decided to go it alone. I’d arrange a solo meeting with this woman, and see what I could find out. I picked up my phone, and dialed L. Goldman’s number.

  “Hello. This is Leah. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you.” The recorded voice sounded pleasant, and I left my name, number, and the purpose of my call.

  Leah Goldman called right back. She did not want to talk about Daniel Joseph Farrell on the telephone. “I have no idea who you are and what you’re up to. I want to meet you before I tell you anything about that family. Ms. Mitty, just tell me one thing,” Leah asked, “you’re not a detective or anything, are you? Because, if you’re involved in law enforcement, in any way, shape, or form, I will not talk to you.”

  23

  The tall man wearing a hoodie and dark glasses parked his car in the Stop and Shop supermarket lot, across the street from the business district. Ignoring the red light and the oncoming traffic, he zig-zagged between fast-moving vehicles and crossed Main Street’s busy thoroughfare. As he continued down the street, he stopped briefly and peered into the window of a real-estate office, easily picking out the sales woman he was scheduled to meet in half an hour. The description she’d emailed him was perfect. He moved on.

  Suddenly, right there on Main Street, a whirlpool roiled his gut. His eyes welled up. What the fuck is wrong with me? This nauseating vortex of exhilaration and depression was not unfamiliar. He mopped his eyes with a hand-hemmed linen handkerchief, and then tossed it in a wastebasket on the curb. He detoured into a small park with two benches and a statue of Washington Irving, and sat there breathing slow, deep breaths until the spell had passed.

  From there, it was only a short distance down the hill to the train station, where the woman was planning to pick him up in her car. Once he got himself together, he removed the loose grey hoodie that covered his Prada suit coat, tossed it into another trash receptacle. He reached the station, breathing smoothly, just as the train pulled in, slicked back his dark
hair, and waited for the agent to arrive.

  24

  Leah was a lively, bright woman and I took to her right away. We’d arranged to meet for lunch the following day at the Dobbs Ferry Diner, not far from that town’s train station. She lived nearby, in Pleasantville, so Dobbs Ferry was an easy drive for both of us. I must say I was surprised when I met her. Somehow, I had pictured someone named Leah Goldman as being white, probably Jewish. Rather, Leah was a tall, stately, African woman, most likely my age. She’d been born in Ethiopia and had come to New York in the 1970s to attend NYU. Later, modeling for a wholesale fur business, she’d married the owner, Larry Goldman.

  The first thing Leah wanted to know, as soon as I slid onto the banquette across from her, was why I was asking about Danny Joe Farrell.

  I had to tell her at least a partial truth. “I’m a real-estate agent in this county,” I said, “and we’ve had a series of attacks upon women brokers here—one ending in murder.”

  Leah gasped.

  I went on, “And we have reason to believe that this man may be implicated …”(Notice how loose that “we” is? Technically, if you include the police in the “we,” I’m telling the truth. But, on the other hand, given the syntax of my sentences, it could be much easier to conceive of the “we” as referring to real-estate brokers. Given Leah’s earlier refusal to talk to the police, I’d let her make up her own mind about just exactly who the “we” was.) “So, we decided that I should follow up and see if I could find out anything about him.”

  Before Leah could respond, the young Latina waitress came to take our order—I asked for the Cobb Salad and she ordered the Bison burger with sweet-potato fries.

  Then Leah sat back and regarded me soberly. “Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised at anything you might tell me about Danny Joe. That kid had a rough start. A while back—a long while back—he wrote to me from Juvenile Detention at some place upstate, asking about his mother. He wanted to find her. He sounded desperate about it.” She paused to place the napkin on her lap

  “Were you able to help him?”

  Leah shook her head. “No.”

  “Have you heard from him recently?”

  Another no.

  The diner was crowded, as it usually was at lunchtime. I took a moment to look around, breathe in the delicious air, nod at people I knew. Gather my thoughts. “When was the last time you two communicated?”

  “Let’s see. I guess it was back in the late eighties. DJ stabbed his father. He went after him with a kitchen knife, and that’s why he was sent away. Of course the guy deserved it; he was a monster. I’d be too disgusted to tell you all the stuff he did to that child when he was drinking.”

  “Hmm,” I responded, feeling a bit sick.

  The waitress—her nametag read Luz—delivered glasses of ice water with floating lemon slices. I nodded my thanks and took a long sip.

  Leah went on. “Danny’s mom, Tessa Farrell, and I were neighbors—and, for a while, good friends. When our boys were small, they played together all the time. She was so beautiful she almost made me jealous, a Swedish immigrant with the most gorgeous platinum hair—natural, not bleached.”

  “Do you and Tessa still keep in touch?”

  “Oh, no, it’s not possible. Tessa is dead. Leah teared up.

  “When did she pass, Leah?”

  “I’m not sure, exactly.” She sipped from the Diet Coke Luz had delivered. Seeming to ponder for a moment or two, she looked up at me. “One day, before she moved away, Tessa gave me an envelope. She made me promise not to open it until she’d left Buffalo. I kept my word and waited.

  “Then, poor Tessa, one day after a terrible fight with Frank she just picked up and left—.

  “Who’s Frank?”

  “Her husband, an abuser and a drunk.”

  “Leah, you were a good friend to her, I can tell.” I liked this woman more and more.

  “So, I read the letter. Then I panicked. I tried desperately to reach her but couldn’t. She’d never given me any way to contact her—no address or phone number or anything. I called the police right away, but they couldn’t do anything, because they didn’t know where she was, either. I felt so helpless, for her and also for little Danny Joe. He was only eight at the time.”

  I had no idea what she was talking about. “What did the letter say?”

  “It said she was planning to kill herself.”

  “Oh!” I felt a little shiver all over my body. “What a heartbreaking story! And what an awful position for you to be in! What about her husband—Frank? Couldn’t he do something?”

  “Ha! That loser?” She gave a guttural laugh. “No, he knew nothing about it until I showed him that letter. And then he just laughed and said, “Well, better her dead than me!”

  “What about Danny Joe?”

  “I don’t think anyone ever told him she was dead. I know I never did. He was just too little to understand. God only knows how that child survived the beatings, sexual abuse and neglect. No matter how many times I called Children’s Services, they never removed him. I tried to adopt him, but Frank threatened me. Terrified me. I just couldn’t go through with my plans to help that poor boy.

  “And it only got worse,” Leah continued, ominously. “Frank died a few years ago from kidney failure, nobody could find Danny Joe, and the house went into foreclosure. So, there’s nobody left. And, of course, now I have a lovely home in Pleasantville, so I’m not around.” Suddenly, she stopped talking, finished her burger and started in on the fries.

  “What a tragic life it was for that child.” I didn’t know what else to say, and Leah was munching the fries, one at a time, deep in thought.

  She remained distracted until I finished my coffee, and then reached into her bag for her car keys. It seemed that our lunch date was over.

  I took out my checkbook to write the reward check, but Leah put her hand on my arm.

  “I didn’t come here for the financial reward,” she said. “I really simply wanted to put some closure on that part of my life. I do hope Danny Joe Farrell is not the man who’s attacking you brokers, but if he is, at least I know I’ve done whatever I could about it.”

  That was the last I heard from her before she left; I was getting my debit card out to pay, when she turned and walked out of the diner without saying goodbye. After the waitress came back with my receipt, I went to the door and watched Leah turn the corner toward the parking lot, and then vanish from sight. Well, that’s that, I thought. I never expected to have anything to do with Leah Goldman again.

  25

  Claire had an appointment with a new customer named Bob Wilson, with whom she’d been in touch by email. His company purchased foreclosed properties, he’d told her, and she had one for sale that she’d been trying, with no luck, to get rid of for months. A tall, good-looking, dark-haired man waited in front of the Hudson Hills’ train station. She pulled up in front of him and powered down the Saab’s windows. “Bob?”

  “And you, my dear, must be Claire.” He reached for the door handle, and Claire clicked the unlock button. His smile was contagious. This could be a pleasurable showing, she thought.

  Bob Wilson settled into the leather seat, fastened his seatbelt, sat back, and grinned. “Whereto, my lady?”

  “The office, first,” she said. “Just for a minute. We have to fill in a New York State Disclosure Form.”

  “Can’t we do that later? Before you take me back to the train. I’m eager to see this place.” He frowned, charmingly. “After all, I’ve come all this way.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, putting the car in gear and turning up Main Street. “But it’s a State requirement.” She was beginning to feel a bit uneasy. ‘The office is right up there.” She pointed. “It’ll just take a second.”

  “Let’s not do it now,” Bob Wilson pleaded.

  Claire was reluctant to
put obstacles in an enthusiastic buyer’s way, and he seemed like a nice guy. The house was close by, on Ogden Street, almost in the middle of town. What could happen? “Let’s do a drive-by,” she suggested. “After all, you might not even want to go in after you see it. In that case we won’t have to go to the office.”

  “That’d be a start.” He sat back.

  “So, I asked, making small talk as we drove, “are your company’s headquarters located in the New York Metropolitan area.”

  “No. Not really.” That was evasive, Claire thought.

  “Oh, is your business national?” She thought she was making polite conversation.

  He swiveled, and pointed his finger at her, no longer Mr. Nice Guy. “Quit interrogating me! Just do your fucking job and show me the damn house!”

  Uh oh, she thought, taking a deep, startled breath, what have I got myself into here!” No way was she going into a vacant house with this man. She pulled up to the slush-piled curb of the nearest house on a busy street and put the car in park. “Here we are,” she chirped, and reached behind her for her bag. “Just let me get the key.” Fumbling through the bag, she groaned, “Oh, no! I must have left the damn key at the office.”

  “What the fuck?” He swiveled toward her.

  She was truly frightened, now. Where was her cell phone?

  “What kind of game are you playing here? Either you get me in that house right away, Bitch, or you drive me right back to Metro North!”

  “Okay,” she said, pulled the car away from the curb, turned right for a block, right, again, and then right again. She was in the residential area of Main Street again, heading back downtown, while Bob Wilson seethed and cursed. When she slowed in front of the train station on Railroad Street, he snapped, “When’s the next train.”