“He thinks the paper might help find this killer. He wants you to know what he knows. Do me a favor, Ellie, and drop by his house around six.”
“What about George Walsh?” I asked. “Why don’t you ask him to go?”
Frank Olney stopped at the door and stared back at me across the room. He raised his hat to his head and yanked it on tight. “He asked for you by name.”
Great.
“By the way,” he said, smiling, “good one about George and the Lindbergh baby.”
Back at my place on Lincoln Avenue, I went to work on my story for the next edition. “LOCAL GIRL FOUND MURDERED,” I led. I had a jump on my competition and was confident I would score my first big story. Charlie Reese had tried to temper my expectations when I’d begged him for the assignment. I knew my best chance to get the byline was to write a better story than Georgie Porgie. That much, at least, I knew I could do.
My father was not far from my thoughts. He had never approved of my choice of career, and he considered New Holland an inbred hick town, undeserving of his child. His only surviving child. How I had longed to prove him wrong, serve him a helping of humble pie with a shovel, and watch him admit grudgingly that I hadn’t failed him. It was an all-consuming desire that I had chronicled in a journal, pursued with vigor and singularity of purpose. Then, with the passing of the months, anesthetized by obscene quantities of whiskey and bad behavior, I had somehow lost the impetus and put the journal aside. The lack of urgency, the slow pace of life, the absence of intellectual challenge had lulled me into a personal and professional slumber. I squandered my days and wasted my nights in trifling pursuits, meaningless, passing diversions. And then my father died in January, leaving me no opportunity either to sweep up the shards of our shattered relationship or to salvage his respect. I wondered if it mattered now that he was gone, if I still had a chance at ultimate success and redemption in my own mind. If not, then what was there to do but drown myself outright, dissolute, in a pool of whiskey and decadence?
That’s what I thought in my darker, drunker moments. But somehow, when the sun rises and the day calls, you answer the alarm and go on. Something beckons: a cup of coffee, a football game, a chat with Fadge. Or a murder. Each new day is a chance to reinvent yourself, after all.
None of the regional papers—not the Albany Times-Union, the Knickerbocker News, or the Schenectady Gazette—had picked up on the story in time for their Sunday-morning editions. But I wasn’t discounting their ability to catch up. And George Walsh was nipping at my heels. My piece was almost complete, lacking only some background on the victim: details about school, her future hopes and dreams, some personal anecdotes. I would get all that and a photograph of her for the front page when I met the judge at six.
I pulled the last page of copy out of the typewriter at half past four. Hoping to catch some of the Giants’ game, I folded my story into my purse and scooted across the street to Fiorello’s. Fadge was alone at the soda fountain, back to the door, eyes fixed on the flickering blue television screen behind the counter. Another quiet Sunday, he told me, typical for November.
“Business stinks after Labor Day,” said the huge man, drawing me a Coke from the fountain. Ron “Fadge” Fiorello was in his late twenties, a few years older than I, but more than twice my size at six foot two and over three hundred pounds.
I asked how the Giants were doing without Gifford, and Fadge cursed Chuck Bednarik.
“They were winning seventeen to nothing, and now it’s twenty-three to seventeen. Shaw keeps throwing it to the other team.” He handed me my drink. “Hey, Ellie, speaking of Shaw, maybe you know something about this,” he said, leaning over the counter. “I heard Judge Shaw’s daughter was killed Friday night. Is that true?”
I took a straw from a nearby dispenser and nodded. Van Brocklin heaved the ball to Ted Dean, who scampered into the end zone to tie the score. Fadge groaned as the point after fluttered through the uprights to give Philadelphia the lead, 24 to 23.
“I was in Wentworth’s Woods last night,” I said. “I saw everything. Even took pictures.”
“So what happened?”
I shrugged. “Nobody knows yet. They just found her murdered, buried in the mud, naked.” I sipped my Coke. “Say, did Jordan Shaw ever hang out around here?”
“Now and then about six years ago,” he said. “She used to go out with Tom Quint. You know Tommy. He worked here before he went to college.”
“Tall? Dark hair? Yeah, I know him.”
“A good kid. He’s at RIT. Probably back in Rochester already, unless he heard the news.”
I asked for Tom’s local number, figuring it was worth a try, and secluded myself in the phone booth to dial. Tom’s mother answered and said he’d taken the morning bus back to Rochester on Sunday. I told her I was a classmate from RIT and needed his dorm-hall number to ask him about a homework assignment. She gave it to me, and I made a note to phone him after my meeting with Judge Shaw.
At six sharp I lifted the heavy, brass knocker and clapped it twice against the door. The evening air was cool, with just a hint of burning firewood floating on the breeze. As I waited for someone to answer the door, I surveyed the surroundings. Tall, green pine trees and bare elms; a manicured lawn; a long, concrete driveway. The gardener had already planted wooden stakes on either side of the drive to guide the plow once the snows started. The house was a spacious redbrick mansion with green shutters and three chimneys. To my right, I noticed a blue Chrysler New Yorker parked in front of the two-door garage. A red-white-and-blue sticker on the rear bumper read “Experienced Leaders—Nixon-Lodge.” Great; maybe we could talk politics. I could tell him how I had canvassed for Kennedy and spent election night celebrating the victory flat on my back with the local Democratic campaign manager.
Almost a minute later, a tall, thin man with graying temples answered the door. He looked like hell, as if he hadn’t slept for two days, as if the world had crashed down on his shoulders. He looked like a man who’d just learned his only daughter had been murdered.
“Miss Stone?” he asked softly. I nodded. “Come in.”
The neat house creaked under the ponderous grief that hung in the air, hushing every room. Clean and ordered, the Shaw residence discouraged the visitor from making himself at home. I followed the judge through the foyer and down a long hallway to his den. Despite efforts to quiet my step, my heels thumped over the carpet runner and the wooden floor underneath, emitting a hollow echo as I went. I felt like a plow horse on a putting green. Once in the study, he offered me a leather armchair.
“Please accept my condolences, sir,” I said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Will you have a drink?” he asked, seemingly unwilling to acknowledge my sympathies.
“Scotch would be nice,” I said, feeling as if I’d asked for the moon.
“You must be wondering why I’ve asked you here,” he said, dropping three ice cubes into a tumbler with a pair of tongs. His voice was a measured baritone, thoughtful and precise. He looked off into the distance for a moment, as if he’d lost his train of thought. “We’ve never met,” he continued, returning to the task at hand. “And I’m not familiar with your work at the paper.”
I just stared at him, wishing I could find something to say.
“I spoke to Fred Peruso this afternoon,” he explained, pouring the Scotch absently. A healthy two fingers. “He spoke highly of you.”
“Dr. Peruso’s very kind.”
The judge handed me my glass, stared at me purposefully for several seconds, as if trying to understand what value Fred could possibly see in me, then turned away. He gazed at a wall of books, lined up from floor to ceiling on mahogany shelves. Law tomes and heavy, leather-bound volumes.
“I think Frank Olney is in over his head,” he continued. “Fred says you’re smart, creative, and tenacious. I have my doubts, of course. You seem rather young, and you’re just a girl, after all.”
“I can’t help my sex,” I sai
d. “If you like, I can go.”
The judge shook his head vaguely and took a seat on the divan. He wasn’t drinking. Then he leaned forward, the muscles in his face gradually tightening beneath the pale skin.
“I need help,” he said in a strangled whisper. “All the help I can get. I want you to find the monster who did this to Jordan.”
“I don’t understand. I’ve never investigated a murder before,” I lied.
“Really?” he blurted out. “What about your father’s? Fred Peruso told me all about it.”
I was stunned. My face surely blanched, and I stammered something inadequate about that being different. Then I took a large swig of Scotch and choked a bit on the first sting.
“I apologize,” he said. “That was wrong of me.”
I tried to compose myself, drew a couple of long breaths through my nose, then sipped my drink. Judge Shaw rose suddenly and crossed the room, stopping above me. He reached down to hand me a handkerchief. I dabbed my eyes, then looked up at him.
“Thank you,” I said, returning the handkerchief. “But my father’s murder is something I prefer not to discuss.”
“And I wish I didn’t need to discuss my daughter’s murder with you. But I do.” He paused and drew a breath. His eyes were bone dry, staring sternly down at me. “I will pay you to find Jordan’s murderer.”
“I’m paid by the paper,” I said. Had he just offered me a bribe?
“Just find him, Miss Stone.” His body shook with a buried rage.
“Yes, sir.” I downed half my drink, then cleared my throat, resolved to see this through. “I’ll have to ask you a few questions. You might know some details that could prove useful.”
He nodded stiffly. “Of course. Go ahead.”
“Did she have a boyfriend?” I asked.
“I don’t know. She always had suitors, if that’s what you mean. Jordan didn’t have to worry about finding a date for Saturday night. But she hadn’t mentioned anyone in particular recently.”
“What about Tom Quint?”
The judge seemed surprised that I knew about Tom. “No, they went steady in high school, but Jordan ended it before she went away to college.”
“Where did she study? Boston, was it?”
“Yes, Tufts.”
“Did she see anyone over the holiday?”
“Tommy called Jordan on Wednesday night,” he said. “But I don’t know if she went out that night. I’m not sure. And I don’t know if they saw each other or not after that.”
“Tell me about him.”
“Tom never quite got over her.” He weighed his words carefully. “The boy was crushed when she broke it off. He came by the house once three years ago to talk to me about it.”
“Yes?” I thought it charming, if somewhat obsequious, that a spurned adolescent would turn to his beloved’s father for solace.
“He’s a good boy,” said the judge. “Better than the others she went out with.” He seemed to suppress a shudder. “Tommy got along with Mrs. Shaw and me. Happy to sit in my den, chatting on a Saturday night, as if auditioning to be my son-in-law. He loved Jordan. Probably tried too hard. Jordan was like any other girl her age: not especially keen on spending her evenings sitting on the couch between her dad and her boyfriend watching Red Skelton.”
“I get the picture,” I said, emptying my glass before realizing my haste; Judge Harrison Shaw was surely a slow, pensive drinker.
“Anyhow, I came to understand that Tommy wrote Jordan many letters that first year of college. He called her almost every week. He tied up the pay phone in her dorm. Finally she became annoyed, and they had a falling-out.”
I asked the judge if Jordan had received any other phone calls. Maybe visitors? Letters?
“Some calls, I think,” he said. “No visitors, I’m sure of that. That is, except Glenda. She stopped by on Wednesday. And they may have spoken by phone on Thanksgiving.”
“Who’s Glenda?”
“Jordan’s oldest friend. A nice girl. A bit awkward. Never quite fit in with others, but Jordan was always friendly with her.”
I asked for her name and address, and the judge wrote it down: Glenda Whalen, 23 Lombard Street, just a few minutes’ walking distance from the Shaw home.
“Poor Glenda,” said the judge. “She’s rather a large girl, tall and heavyset. The kids made fun of her for her last name. They called her ‘Glenda the Whale,’ but Jordan always stood up for her. They’ve been fast friends since kindergarten. That’s the kind of girl Jordan was: caring and loyal.”
I waited while the judge savored some private memory of his daughter. He smiled gently, looking at nothing in particular.
“What about Friday night?” I asked finally, calling him back. “Did the phone ring before she went out?”
“Not that I recall.”
“Did she say where she was going?”
“Just out. I didn’t require explanations from her.” He paused. “Perhaps I should have.”
“Did she keep a diary?”
“I don’t know.”
“And what was she studying at Tufts?”
“French language and literature. But she was planning on pursuing a graduate degree in engineering next fall. Jordan was one of those rare girls who are whizzes in both language and science. Every subject, really. Unusual for a girl.”
He stopped suddenly and stared at me.
“Aren’t you writing any of this down?” he asked.
“I rarely take notes,” I said. “Except numbers, name spellings, and puzzling questions. I always remember a narrative.”
“Perhaps you’re something of a whiz yourself,” he observed.
“Did she live alone at school?” I asked, ignoring his comment. “Any close friends?”
“She shared an apartment with a roommate. Ginny something; I don’t remember her last name. My wife will know if you need it.”
“That would be helpful.”
“Surely you don’t think this has anything to do with school,” he said, taking my glass to refill it.
“I don’t know, but I’d like to talk to her roommate.” I paused while the judge poured more whiskey. He handed me what was unmistakably a double, at least three fingers. “I have some difficult things to tell you, sir,” I said, once he’d handed me my refill. “May I speak openly?”
The judge hesitated, clearly dreading what I had to say. “Of course,” he said finally.
“My investigation has revealed that your daughter spent at least part of Friday night in room number four of the Mohawk Motel.”
The judge’s face was a stone, but his eyes betrayed the painful comprehension in his heart. He knew the Mohawk’s reputation. “Go on,” he said.
“It appears a man arrived at her room around nine fifteen or nine thirty that night. He was driving a light-colored sedan.”
Judge Shaw ran a dry tongue around his lips, hesitated for a moment, then rose to pour himself a drink. Bourbon. Straight. A good belt, and he threw it back in one go.
“The man left about two hours later,” I continued. “A second car arrived before midnight, and a tall man went into her room. Different car, different man. He left sometime before one thirty, when a third man was seen leaving her room.”
The judge didn’t move now, didn’t speak.
“Do you have any idea who those men might have been?” I asked finally.
“Of course not. Don’t you have a description of them?”
“You just heard it.”
“Tell me something, Miss Stone,” said the judge, turning his back to me. “Tell me honestly.” He took several measured breaths before he continued. “Did those men rape my daughter?”
I was startled. “Didn’t you speak to Dr. Peruso?”
“I couldn’t bring myself to ask him that. I know Fred too well.”
Too bad the judge didn’t know me so well. Thanks a lot, Fred, for leaving the dirty work to me. I didn’t know how to tell him delicately that his daughter had had “a
good roll,” to echo the words of Jean Trent, Love Detective.
“No,” I said hoarsely. “She wasn’t raped.”
The judge seemed to find consolation in that. He heaved an audible and visible sigh, then poured himself another bourbon.
“She wasn’t raped,” I said again. “But that brings me to another difficult question.”
I saw the skin tighten over his jaw, then he nodded; how could it get any worse? I cleared my throat and asked if he knew what an IUD was.
It was the most painful exchange I’ve ever had. The judge must have hated me for telling him the truth about his daughter. I hated myself for the body blows I delivered; no couching could soften what I said, and it made me sick to my stomach. A metallic taste coated my tongue like a glue, and I couldn’t swallow another sip of the judge’s Scotch for fear of spitting it on the ground in disgust and sorrow. I told him, all right. I gave it to him straight, as he had asked, and the result was a broken man staring me in the face. Damn Fred Peruso.
Before I left, I managed to choke out a request for a family photograph of Jordan, explaining that it might help some witness somewhere remember something. I don’t think the judge bought it, but he produced an album of photographs from which I could choose.
“I’ll get Ginny’s surname from my wife,” he said, leaving me alone in his den.
I held on my lap the record of Jordan Shaw’s short life. From the very first picture, the requisite nude on a baby blanket, to the last—a stylish portrait signed by a Boston photographer named Paul Thibaudet, I was privy to moments shared only by her family and friends. Jordan in the middle row of her third grade class picture; Jordan dressed like a fairy for Halloween; Jordan in her cheerleading outfit; as Homecoming Queen; on skis; at the train depot; with a dog; in saddle shoes, leaning on the car . . . She was a cool beauty. Her scrubbed face and clear eyes revealed an inborn propriety and quiet dignity. She looked like a Protestant princess, too pure and too proud to indulge in the sweaty rut of intercourse, disinclined to sully her body with the sticky intimacies of physical passion. Who said you can’t fool the camera?
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