by John Locke
He said, “Are you okay, Dani?”
“Of course not. It’s all my fault.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Ben’s dead because of me. I should have warned him about the message on my cell phone.”
“He wasn’t murdered, Dani.”
“ManChild got him, Pat. He killed Ben, hoping to find me.”
“According to the coroner, it didn’t go down that way.”
“ManChild killed him. And it’s my fault.”
“It’s time you told me where you are. We’ll need the address. We also need full details on the woman who’s with you.”
“I’m not ready to be found yet.”
He paused. “You need to rethink that. For now I’m willing to say you refused to divulge the information.”
“Okay.”
“What I really need is your permission to search the premises.”
I was loopy with grief and shock, but said, “You obviously searched the house when you found Ben’s body.”
“You know how this works, Dani. I need your official permission.”
“Then yes, conduct a full search. Tear the place apart. I’ll agree to anything that will help you catch ManChild.”
“We’ll videotape the search, and I’ll be there the whole time. Please keep this phone on, okay? I really need to be able to contact you.”
I thanked him and ended the call. Then removed the phone’s battery because if I didn’t, there’d be cops here within an hour.
The conversation with Pat was one of my few lucid moments on this miserable day.
I remember wanting to be alone, in a small place, like when Collin Tyler Hicks locked me in his basement nine years ago. Maybe that’s why I found myself curled up on the shower floor in Sophie’s guest bathroom, getting pelted by hot water. When the water turned cold, I got up and went somewhere else. An hour later I was back in the shower, using up some more of Sophie’s hot water.
I remember Sophie sobbing outside my bedroom door, asking if she could come in. I remember her saying over and over that the media was calling for me to turn myself in to the police because if I didn’t, they were going to put out a warrant for my arrest. They needed to know my whereabouts and any information I might have that could aid their investigation of Ben’s death.
I remember Sophie telling me over and over if I didn’t establish contact, the police were going to think I was involved. So I finally called them, and two officers showed up and waited respectfully for me to compose myself before driving me to the station.
On the way, I’m asked, “Was Ben on any prescription medications you know about?”
“No. He’s in perfect health…Was in perfect health,” I amend, and start crying.
“Any illicit drug use you’re aware of?”
“No, of course not.”
“Besides you and Ben, who else has keys to your house?”
It suddenly dawns on me I’m being interviewed by the police.
I’M IN A police car with two chatty police officers.
“Should I get a lawyer?” I ask.
“You’re not a suspect,” one of them says. “Your husband’s body was found by two officers of the Cincinnati police department. He doesn’t appear to have been murdered.”
The police have their own theory, but I’m convinced Ben was murdered by ManChild.
The other cop says, “There were no signs of an intruder. All the doors and windows were locked. Countless reporters and police were on the property at all times, and no one was seen entering or exiting the residence, except the few times Ben came out to talk to the press.”
“Then how did he die?”
“What we’re hearing, according to the coroner, is heart attack, or natural causes.”
“That’s crazy. Ben was only thirty-eight.”
They start to say something, but look at each other and decide they’ve already said more than their pay grade warrants.
Earlier, before the police arrived, Sophie called Paul Small. Paul called a defense attorney, Chris Fist, who agreed to represent me during the formal interview. After meeting Chris at the station, we go into an interrogation room and meet a detective named Marco Polo.
“I’m going to have to read that on your ID,” Chris says.
The detective says, “My ID will tell you I’m Marco Polomo. But—”
“All your life you’ve had the nickname.”
He nods. “You should’ve been there the first time I went to a public swimming pool. I was six. Thought everyone there was yelling at me. I kept hollering back, ‘What do you want?’”
After setting some ground rules, Polomo brings us up to speed on the current developments. He says the case belongs to Cincinnati, and he’s not privy to all the details. But Cincy’s granting unprecedented cooperation because I’m under the Nashville PD’s protective custody.
I say, “What have they found out about my husband’s death?”
“It’s too early to rule out suicide or foul play,” Polomo says, “since Ben was found in a fetal position clutching his chest. But there was no foaming of the mouth, or vomit, or other outward or obvious signs of poisoning. They’ve done a toxicology report and are waiting on the results. According to his doctor, Ben wasn’t taking prescription drugs, and Cincy PD found none at the premises, nor any evidence of illicit drug use.”
“Ben was healthy as a horse,” I say. “Someone killed him. And I think it’s someone I know.”
I then proceed to tell him everything I know about Roy, except for the part about how Roy and Carter Teague paid me five thousand dollars to take my clothes off at the Brundage Hotel.
“You have the cell phone with you?”
I retrieve the cell and battery, but Chris Fist tells me to put them back in my purse.
Detective Polomo frowns. “We’d really like to hear that prank call,” he says.
“You’d also love full access to her cell phone, wouldn’t you?”
“We can order cell phone records.”
“I’m sure you already have them. But there’s a lot of personal information on the actual phone you don’t need to see unless you’re planning to arrest my client.”
“Will you play just the prank call so we can get it on tape? We’re on the same side here, counselor.”
Chris and I go out to his car and listen to the prank call Roy made. Chris asks me about Sophie, Ben, and Roy, and says, “There’s more to this Roy connection than you’re telling me, and I hope you’re not hiding something that’s going to come back and bite you in the butt.”
“There’s nothing else,” I say.
“If that’s true, I suppose we can play the tape for them.”
We go back inside and they record the prank call.
“I believe this is the man who killed my husband,” I say.
Polomo says, “Well, as I say, they think it’s highly unlikely. I expect your first hunch was correct. This is the man your husband hired to break the news to the press. He threatened you earlier, he’s threatening you now. There are a lot of sicko’s out there, Ms. Ripper, and this guy obviously gets off on threatening women.”
He pauses.
Chris says, “Anything else?”
Polomo says, “The home search your client authorized uncovered some unusual items.”
He suddenly has my full attention.
“What sorts of items?”
“They won’t say. But what could they mean by that?”
I say, “My computer might have some odd searches. I’ve subscribed to some sites that are known to be—”
Chris interrupts, saying, “I’m instructing my client not to answer any further questions at this time.”
Polomo frowns and says, “She can speak freely. She’s not a suspect. Ben Davis died of natural causes, not murder. And even if it turns out he was murdered, Sophie Alexander has provided your client with an air-tight alibi. Not to mention the whole world knows what she looks like. She couldn’t h
ave been anywhere near the house without being spotted.”
“Detective Polomo,” Chris says. “How many clients have gone to jail after being assured they weren’t suspects?”
Polomo frowns.
Chris says, “You mentioned Ms. Ripper is under police protection. What does that include?”
“We’re willing to put a uniform inside Sophie’s house and two more on her property.”
“It won’t do any good,” I say. “If Roy could get past all those reporters at my house, he can get past three cops at Sophie’s.”
“When it comes to security, there’s a big difference between reporters and cops,” Polomo says, and he’s right. Because the next morning Sophie and I are still alive, despite the fact there are more than two hundred reporters and photographers camped outside her house.
Oh, and Uncle Sal called. Yup. He called Sophie the minute the news broke that I was staying with his niece. He wanted to know the connection. She said she was in love with me!
While all this took place, Sophie pulled me into the farthest corner away from our guards and put Sal on speaker, so I could hear him say, “Aw, shit!”
Sophie said, “What, you don’t approve of my lifestyle?”
Sal said, “Don’t go all—whatcha call—Ellen on me. There’s other stuff going on. Jeez.”
“What other stuff?”
“Look, I wanna help, but your place is swarming with cops.”
“I’ll be all right.”
“This is causing problems.”
“I don’t understand how Dani’s being here affects you in the slightest possible way.”
“Look, I gotta go. You sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“I’ll be in touch,” he says.
Sophie hangs up.
“He sounds like a charmer,” I say.
She sighs. “It’d be so much easier if he worked in a deli.”
WEDNESDAY
WITH THE CERTAIN knowledge I’m in Sophie’s house, the neighborhood has been overrun. In response, the police have beefed up security around the house, and stationed a number of plainclothes cops among the crowd. The FBI has gotten in on the action, as well. Their reasoning? ManChild is an unsolved kidnapping case, and I’ve been threatened. Apparently that’s reason enough to set up a mini command center in Sophie’s kitchen.
Though I’m convinced the real ManChild isn’t after me, word has gotten out about the taped message, and the city’s in a panic over it. My best protection against ManChild appears to be the paparazzi and reporters desperately hoping to capture his image on film. Thousands of minutes of footage are taken and analyzed, and the police and FBI seem powerless to keep the reporters and photographers at bay.
Outside of Nashville, I’m the big attraction. According to news reports, twelve thousand reporters and photographers are expected to descend upon the city in the next twenty-four hours. The police have begun barricading the streets. Homeowners living within four blocks of Sophie’s house are being forced to show ID in order to enter or exit their own neighborhoods. The FBI has discussed taking Sophie and me into protective custody at an undisclosed location.
Getting protective personnel into the house is a major production, but bringing in food is such a terrifying prospect, Sophie and I refuse to eat anything that isn’t already in her pantry, which makes for some really crappy meals. We don’t sleep much, what with the reporters screaming at us day and night, and news helicopters flying overhead. On TV, the biggest names in show business are jockeying to attend Ben’s funeral, hoping to be photographed with the grieving widow, a display of opportunism that particularly turns my stomach.
Due to security issues, and continued questioning by the Nashville police and FBI, I’m unable to make the arrangements for Ben’s funeral in Cincinnati Friday, except in the most general way, so his father and mother travel from Florida to Cincinnati to coordinate the details for me.
THURSDAY
AS THE FUNERAL draws near there are tears and more tears, and I feel horrible for having been such a rotten wife to Ben. Though the police and FBI are firmly against it, Sophie and I are determined to attend Ben’s funeral tomorrow.
Sophie is contacted by country music star Betty Tilden, who recorded two of Sophie’s songs. She offers the use of her private jet in return for accompanying us to Cincinnati for the funeral and having the opportunity to meet and travel with me. The police think flying into a private airport is the safest way for us to get there, so I accept Betty’s generous offer. Betty asks if there’s anything special we’d like her to have the caterers put on the plane, and Sophie tells her anything she brings would be a blessing, since we’ve eaten nearly all the food in her pantry.
FRIDAY
THE FIRST PUBLIC pictures taken of me since the news broke show Sophie and me surrounded by police, with coats over our heads. They take us to a private aviation company where Betty’s jet is standing by, complete with two security guards. We take off and arrive in Cincinnati forty-five minutes later. Sophie, Betty, me, and the two guards exit the jet, walk twenty feet, and climb into the stretch limousine Betty ordered, and head to the funeral home in total silence.
The funeral is crushingly awful, especially the part where Ben’s mother publicly spits in my face and screams, “My son is dead because of you!” She’s right, of course, so I just stand there with her spit on my face until Sophie forces me into the ladies’ room. After cleaning me up, she retouches my makeup. I don’t care how I look. I’m numb with guilt and sadness.
We exit the ladies’ room and find Pat Aub standing just outside the door. He says hi, introduces himself to Sophie, and says he’s here for us, and he’s not alone. Dozens of local policemen and women have volunteered their time to ensure the funeral service remains uninterrupted by the media. I thank him and ask him to thank the others for me. His gaze lingers.
“You’re okay?” he says.
“No.”
He nods. “Dani, when all this is over, if you ever feel like—”
“I know, Pat. We’ll see.”
He leans over and kisses my cheek, then turns and walks back down the hall to guard the side door.
“He’s cute,” Sophie whispers.
“You think?”
She leans into my ear and whispers, “Wouldn’t it be funny if Pat turned out to be ManChild?”
“No.”
Ben’s ex, Erica, attempts to talk to me, but there’s not much she can say. Her son—Ben’s son—doesn’t seem very upset, but of course, some could say the same about me, since I’m not publicly sobbing or gnashing my teeth. I probably would, but three days of crying, no sleep, and constant questioning by the police, has taken its toll.
Somehow we get through it, Sophie and me, and when we leave, a line of police are holding back a throng of enthusiastic onlookers. Many are holding signs and shouting words of encouragement.
Not everyone is sympathetic. One sign reads, DANI: NOW THAT YOU’RE SINGLE, WILL YOU MARRY ME?
No, asshole, I won’t.
We ride back to the private airstrip with our new best friend, Betty Tilden, who feels comfortable enough to negotiate an album of songs to be written by Sophie. I’m appalled, but keep it to myself, realizing that for others, the funeral represented little more than a few moments to pause and reflect, and life has already gone on. Amazingly, Betty asks if I’d consider singing backup on some of the tracks. That’s an easy no, but I don’t want to ruin things for Sophie, so I tell her I’ll think about it.
When we climb into Betty’s jet I’m shocked to see two huge boxes of groceries secured to the couch! She’d ordered ahead. While we were at the funeral, Betty had her pilots fetch the boxes to ensure Sophie and I would be well-provisioned upon our return. She turned out to be pretty thoughtful after all.
SATURDAY
LIKE GAYLE KING and Oprah, Sophie Alexander has become famous for being my friend. Her phone rings constantly as TV stations and newspapers across the country a
ttempt to go through her to get to me. She contacts her agent, Charlie Yang, and I agree to let him represent me if he’ll handle all inquiries. Within hours of Charlie’s press release announcing our new working relationship, Sophie’s phone goes quiet, and everyone who wants me calls him. Even the publishing houses contact Charlie to ask if I’ll approve Ben’s book for publication. I’m a nightmare client for Charlie, because I refuse to discuss any offers until Janie finishes our book.