Playing Dead

by R. G. Belsky

  The thing is though, sooner or later, every good reporter winds up having to do a long stakeout. Sometimes it’s the only way to get information.

  So there I was, sitting in front of the Martins’ house in Wayne, and waiting for the sister to make an appearance.

  It was just a hunch, of course. But the more I thought about it, the more excited I got.

  Now all I had to do was talk to the little sister.

  I’d gotten there at 7 a.m. and parked down the street from the Martin house—close enough so that I monitor their comings and goings, but far enough away to avoid attracting their attention. I ate Dunkin’ Donuts for breakfast, a Big Mac and french fries for lunch, and a couple of slices of cold pizza for dinner. I listened to the news, an afternoon Mets game, and lots of classic rock and roll music on a Walkman I’d brought along. I played solitaire with a deck of cards left over in my glove compartment from my gambling days. I sang songs to myself. I recited “Casey at the Bat” and “The Raven.” I made lists of every woman I’d ever been with—or wanted to be with—since high school, then ranked them in their order of desirability. By 9 p.m., there was still no sign of Elizabeth Martin. I drove back to Manhattan.

  The next day I did it all over again. The exact same procedure. Except this time I switched from pizza to Chinese food for dinner. Still nothing. I was starting to get frustrated. Maybe she wasn’t even at the house. Maybe she was back at Boston University. Maybe it really was Whitney that Albert Edelman had seen that night.

  On the third day, something finally happened. It was a Saturday, about 11:30 a.m., when a woman came out the front door of the house, walked down the driveway, and got into a Honda Accord parked by the curb. She was young, she was pretty—she looked almost like a dead ringer for Whitney Martin. Only younger. Her sister Elizabeth.

  She started up the Honda and drove away down the street. I followed her in my car.

  She took me through some local streets and then onto Route 17, which is a large highway that runs across much of New Jersey. We stayed on that for a half dozen exits. Then she got off at the sign for a large shopping mall. I followed her off the exit ramp and into the mall’s parking lot. She parked the Honda near one of the big department stores. I pulled up alongside her, parked in the next spot, and got out.

  She was still totally unaware of me.

  “Are you Elizabeth Martin?” I said to her.

  She seemed stunned.

  “Who are you?” she asked warily.

  “My name is Joe Dougherty. I’m a reporter. I work for the New York Banner.”

  “Is this about Whitney?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know anything about it.”

  She turned her back and started to walk away from me.

  “I know you were at Billy Franze’s house on the night that she died,” I said.

  That’s when she began to cry. . . .

  Chapter 53

  We sat on a bench inside the mall and talked.

  She wanted to tell the story. She’d kept it bottled up inside her for weeks—ever since the murders happened. It was eating her up, I could see that. Reading about it in the newspapers every day. Seeing Lisa Montero arrested. Hearing about the search for a mystery witness. Her mother had made her keep quiet all this time, she said, but she knew that was wrong. All she needed was someone to come along and help her make it right.

  That was me.

  “I called Whitney that night at her apartment in the city,” she said. “I’d just finished taking my spring finals at Boston University, and I came home to New Jersey to see my parents. They talked about how bad things had gotten between them and Whitney. They didn’t say what the fighting was all about, of course, but I knew. Whitney had already told me what she was doing to make money. She was my big sister. We were always very close.

  “Anyway, I wanted to see how she was doing. I was in Manhattan that night, so I called her. I got her on the phone just as she was about to walk out the door. When I asked her where she was going, she just laughed. She said she had to go to work. Now, like I said, I knew exactly what kind of work she was talking about. So I told her I wanted to hear all about it.

  “I said it was because I was worried about her. Mom and Dad were worried too, I said, and I wanted to assure them that she was going to be all right. But do you want to know the truth? That wasn’t the reason I wanted her to talk about it. I was curious. No, more than curious—I was fascinated. I wanted to hear all the steamy details.

  “You see, I really idolized my sister. She was two years older than me, and she always did everything first. I thought she was so cool. She had cooler friends than I did. She wore cool clothes. She did cool things. I just couldn’t imagine her ever doing anything wrong. So when I heard all the stuff about her and the escort agency, I never thought any of it was wrong, I just thought it was really cool.

  “Whitney told me on the phone she’d just called this client to get his exact address—and that he asked for another girl to come with her. He wanted a three-some. He said this girlfriend of his who was supposed to be the other girl had freaked out and left when he suggested the idea. So he told Whitney to call the agency and make the arrangements for somebody else.”

  Whitney Martin called him! Of course. That’s how it happened. That’s why there was no record of another call to the Elite Escort Agency on Franze’s phone.

  “Well, then my sister got this idea,” Elizabeth said. “She said I should come along with her. I would be the second girl. That the client would probably really love it if he got a sister act. Especially two sisters who looked so much alike. Men really got off on that sort of thing, Whitney told me. And I could pocket all the extra money, we wouldn’t have to share it with the escort agency. They’d never even know.”

  “Had you ever done anything like this before?” I asked.

  “No. But Whitney said it would be a kick. How it would totally blow our parents’ mind if they ever found out. Especially our mother. She’d freak out big time if we ever got up the nerve someday to tell her. I think Whitney really got off on that idea. She told me to meet her at the client’s place. Then she gave me the address of the townhouse on East Sixty-first Street.”

  “But I still don’t understand why . . .”

  “She was my sister,” Elizabeth Martin said. “I trusted her.”

  It was getting later, almost lunch time now, and the mall was beginning to fill up with more people. Mothers holding on to young children. Teenagers shopping for clothes and new CDs. Families out for a leisurely Saturday afternoon of shopping. They talked and laughed and pointed in store windows. But Elizabeth Martin wasn’t paying attention to any of them.

  She was a long ways away now.

  Back at William Franze’s townhouse on the night of the murders.

  “What happened when you got there?” I asked softly.

  “It was horrible,” she said. “That man—Franze—he was so repulsive. He asked me to do things. Unnatural things. I’m no prude, but this was different. He was so perverted. I didn’t even want him to touch me. And when he did, I could feel my skin crawl.”

  “What about your sister?”

  “She was used to it. She dealt with a lot of weirdos. But she was worried about me. I knew that. I think she realized she made a big mistake by bringing me there. She told Franze the deal was off, that it was just going to be him and her. But he kept saying how he paid for two girls—and he wanted two girls. I think he was pretty drunk.”

  “Did you have sex with him?”

  “No. I got sick right after I got there.”

  “Sick?”

  “Literally. The man actually made me nauseous. At some point, I just ran out of the bedroom and found a bathroom. Then I threw up in the toilet. I stayed in there for a long time. My head hanging over the bowl, throwing up, flushing it all down—and then throwing up some more. I finally decided I was going to leave. He could have the money back. I was just about ready to go back out and tel
l him that when . . .

  She shuddered now as she relieved those nightmarish last moments with her sister.

  “. . . when the shooting started.”

  “You were still in the bathroom?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “So the killer never knew you were there?”

  Elizabeth Martin nodded solemnly. “That’s what saved my life,” she told me.

  “But you know what happened?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Tell me everything,” I said.

  Later, I walked Elizabeth Martin back to her car in the parking lot of the mall. She got behind the wheel of the Honda, rolled down the windows, put her key in the ignition, and then just sat there for a long time without saying anything. She looked drained. But I still had one question to ask her. One very big question.

  “You told me you used the bathroom at William Franze’s house that night,” I said. “You said you felt nauseous and went in the bathroom and got sick. You said you just kept throwing up, flushing the toilet, and then throwing up some more.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure that’s exactly what happened?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t you remember anything unusual at all about William Franze’s bathroom?”

  “No.”

  Wrong answer. It couldn’t have happened that way. If Elizabeth Martin was telling the truth, she would know about the bathroom. She would know that the toilet was broken. She would know that she never would have been able to flush it. Because the plumber never showed up to fix it until the next day.

  Was she lying?

  Was this whole story of hers all part of another setup?

  Just like Connie Reyes?

  “So you’re telling me that you left Franze’s bedroom before the murders,” I said, “went into the bathroom next to the bedroom—but you don’t remember anything being wrong there?”

  She shook her head.

  “I didn’t use the bathroom next to his bedroom,” Elizabeth Martin said. “I used the one downstairs. The bathroom next to his bedroom was broken. The toilet didn’t flush.”

  Sonavagun!

  Chapter 54

  It took me a while, but I finally was able to get Lisa Montero on the phone.

  “Stop calling me, Joe,” she said. “I told you before—we have nothing more to talk about.”

  But she didn’t sound angry when she was said it. More like she was sad. Just like the last time.

  “I have some news about your case,” I said.

  “The case is over.”

  “Not quite,” I told her.

  I wanted to ask her about the speeding car that almost hit me outside Lanigan’s. I wanted to ask her about Joseph Corman and Karen Raphael. I wanted to ask her if I was supposed to wind up with them in the morgue—or if it was just a warning to keep my mouth shut.

  “I found the missing witness,” I told her.

  She sounded stunned. “You—you mean the woman you told me about from the Bronx?”

  “No, she was a phony,” I said. “Someone set me up.”

  There was a long silence on the other end of the line. I had her off balance. She wasn’t in control anymore. I liked that.

  “What are you talking about, Joe?” she asked finally.

  “C’mon, Lisa, I’m not that stupid. Oh, I was stupid. Really stupid. But I’ve gotten a lot smarter in the last few days. In fact, I know something you don’t know. There really was a witness there on the night of the murders. Franze did ask for a second girl to come along. Of course, you just made that part up about seeing her go in the house to convince me to chase your phony witness. You had no idea it was true. But someone did see what happened.” I started to laugh. “It’s kind of funny when you think about it.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Sure you do. C’mon, Lisa, it’s just you and me here. I’m not taping this phone call or anything. Let’s be honest with each other. Be honest with me for one goddamned time since I’ve known you, okay?”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “So how did it work anyway? Was it your idea or your father’s? You needed an alibi, a witness who could nullify any evidence the DA’s office threw at you. Only you didn’t have one. So you decided to make one up. But you couldn’t find the phony witness yourself—you needed someone else to do that. I was perfect. A newspaperman. A hungry newspaperman. A desperate one. A newspaperman who would do anything to get a story. The kind of guy who was willing to cut corners, take chances, and break rules. Well, meet Joe Dougherty. He’ll do all that for you—and fall in love with you too. No problem. All you have to do is hop in bed with him a few times, whisper some sweet nothings in his ear—and he’ll do anything to make sure you’re innocent of murder. Even make up a phony story. Why not? He’s good at it. He’s done it before. Is that how you picked me for the job? Did somebody tell you about me? Or did you just keep looking until you found the ultimate patsy?”

  “It wasn’t exactly like that,” she said.

  “Okay, but I’m pretty close. Right?”

  “Yes,” she said softly. “Pretty close.”

  She started to cry.

  “So don’t you want me to tell you?” I said to her.

  “Tell me what?”

  But she knew what I was talking about.

  “What the real witness saw that night,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  I thought about everything Elizabeth Martin had told me. How she saw the killer after the murders of Franze and her sister. How the killer was wearing a black ski mask and body outfit that masked his or her identity. How Elizabeth Martin saw Lisa outside the house when she looked out a window—while Elizabeth was desperately trying to decide whether to run outside or keep hiding from the killer. How she watched as Lisa, still looking upset from the argument with Franze, start walking back toward the front door, then thought better of it—and left for good. Lisa had been telling the truth about that part of it. Elizabeth Martin was convinced that Lisa had nothing to do with the murders.

  Of course, I still didn’t know who killed Franze and Whitney Martin.

  I didn’t know any more about the other deaths on the hit list Galvin had left for me.

  And I didn’t know if Ackerman was right when he suspected that Lisa might have something to do with the mysterious deaths of her mother and her brother.

  But now I knew one thing for sure—she didn’t kill William Franze and Whitney Martin.

  I’d finally done something right on this story.

  “Joe, what did the witness tell you about me?” Lisa asked anxiously.

  “Are you sure you really want to know?”

  “Yes!”

  “Fuck you,” I said. “Go read it in the newspaper like everybody else.”

  Then I hung up on her.

  That wasn’t true, of course. I could never print this story. I’d already printed that Lisa was innocent once before. The difference this time was that it was true. But it gave me real satisfaction to end it with her like that. I felt good when I slammed the phone down in her ear.

  I told myself that was the last time I would ever talk to Lisa Montero.

  I told myself she was out of my life forever now.

  I told myself a lot of things.

  Most of them were wrong.

  Part 6

  Let’s Play Dead

  Chapter 55

  “So where are we on this story?” Andy wanted to know.

  “Back to square one,” I said.

  “Oh, that’s terrific,” Jack Rollins snorted. “After all this time—not to mention all the money we’ve paid you—that’s the best you can tell us? You’re back to square one?”

  “It’s a very confusing story,” I said calmly. “Everyone else seems to be about ten steps behind square one. So the way I see it—I’ve really made some progress.”

  “Maybe you’d make more progress if you’d look in some new places.”

/>   “Such as?”

  “Well, I don’t think you’re going to find too many answers in Lisa Montero’s bedroom.”

  There was a long silence in the room.

  Rollins, of course, was a bit behind the story. As usual. He didn’t know that Lisa and I were history. And I sure wasn’t going to tell him.

  “Gee, maybe you can help me brush up on my journalistic techniques, Jack,” I said. “I mean you’ve made such a success out of your career. There’s not a restaurant in town you haven’t made a personal investigation of. Nose to the grindstone. Back to the wheel. You’re a real pro, Jack. A newspaperman’s newspaperman.”

  There was no Spencer Blackwood this time to referee the argument. Just me, Rollins, Andy, and Bonnie. Andy and Bonnie didn’t look like they wanted to get involved either. So no one said anything for a long time.

  “I think we’re missing something important about this story,” I finally volunteered.

  “That’s brilliant,” Rollins said.

  “What do you mean, Joe?” Andy asked.

  “We’ve been all over the story, backward and forward. But we still don’t have a real clue about what’s going on here. So maybe we’re going in the wrong direction. Maybe we need to back off and start over again. Maybe we need some new ideas on how . . .”

  “Maybe we need a different reporter on it,” Rollins said.

  “Go to hell,” I told him.

  “I think Jack’s right,” Andy said suddenly.

  I looked at him with surprise.

  “Look,” Andy said, “you and Bonnie split this up when we started. You concentrated on the William Franze murders and Bonnie did the footwork on all the other victims. The six new cases on Galvin’s list, plus the new ones—Dodson and the Hiller woman. Why not switch? Bonnie works on Franze and the call girl and we see what she comes up with—you go back over everything she did again.”

  Now it was Bonnie’s turn to get upset.

  “Are you saying I don’t know how to cover an assignment?” she asked Andy.