by R. G. Belsky
“My husband left me,” she said, as we sat in her living room in Tenafly, New Jersey—a suburb about fifteen miles outside of Manhattan. “He said he couldn’t trust me anymore. Because I had him followed. When he found out what I’d done, he just packed his things and left. If only I’d never gone to that Ross woman. Then I’d still have him here with me. But that’s not even the worst part. The worst part is that I may have put him in danger from that crazy woman. I lay awake at night worrying about that. Worried that she might come after him next because of what I did.”
I went through the same questions with Janet Creighton. Not expecting much. Except this time it turned out a bit differently. That happened at the end of the conversation, when I asked her how she’d hired Melissa Ross. Had she discovered her on the Internet like some of the others? Or seen the ad for her unique private investigative services somewhere?
“Oh no, I didn’t do any of that,” Janet Creighton said.
“So how did you find out about Melissa Ross’s agency?” I asked.
“In my women’s empowerment class.”
Her women’s empowerment class. Karen Faris had mentioned a women’s empowerment class too. When I asked her how she found out about Melissa Ross’s private investigator agency and her specialty in catching cheating husbands, she’d said, “At my women’s group.”
Janet Creighton said her class had been held at a college in Manhattan.
On my way back into the city, I called Karen Faris’s number on my cell phone.
“Yes, they were held at that college,” she said. “We went in the evening, two nights a week. It was an eight-week course, no credit—just an adult education kind of thing.”
“It was officially run by the school?”
“Sort of. They make space available for these types of adult education courses. So they sign off on the curriculum, etc.—but it’s not officially a part of the college, I believe.”
“Does a college professor lead it?”
“I believe Kate is affiliated with the school in some way.”
“Kate?”
“Dr. Kate Lyon. She’s a psychotherapist in Manhattan. Specializes in work with women who’ve been abused in some way. A wonderful woman, she taught me so much. I think she’s a visiting professor there. Or maybe it’s an adjunct professor. Some sort of title like that.”
“Who in the class told you about Melissa Ross and the service she ran?”
“God, I don’t remember. It just came up in a conversation there one day. When I heard about what she did for women who suspected that their husbands were being unfaithful, well . . . she seemed like someone who might be able to help me.”
“Was Victoria Issacs by any chance in the same class?” I asked.
“Who?”
“Victoria Issacs. The wife of the first victim.”
“No, I don’t believe so.”
“Tim Hammacher’s wife, Deborah?”
“I saw her on TV the other day. But I didn’t recognize her. No, she wasn’t there either.”
“Do you remember who any of the other women in your class were?”
“Not really.”
“If you could even just recall a few of the names, it would be very helpful.”
“We didn’t use names in the class. It was all anonymous. Dr. Lyon said it was better that way. It allowed us to express our real feelings even if we didn’t feel comfortable letting the others know exactly who we were. That’s why everyone only used their first names. There was Janet, Lisa, Carol . . . that’s all. And I’m not sure all of the women even used their real first names.”
Janet Creighton had told me the same thing.
“So the only person who knows all of the names in the class would be Dr. Lyon?” I asked.
“Yes, I suppose so. Dr. Lyon would know.”
* * *
When I got back to my desk at the office, I clicked on my computer and looked up whatever information there was about Dr. Kate Lyon. I found a medical website that said she had an office on Central Park West. There was a contact telephone number too. And a picture of Dr. Lyon. She was a dark-haired, middle-aged woman. Pretty ordinary looking. I wondered if she’d had some kind of bad experience that turned her into a man hater too, just like Melissa Ross. On the other hand, maybe she just wanted to help women. I called her number.
“I’m a doctor,” Dr. Lyon said after I explained to her what I was looking for. “I can’t reveal information about my patients.”
“They’re not patients. They’re in a class. That’s not really the same thing.”
“Actually, it is. In this case, they were attending the class as a form of treatment or therapy for themselves. I was a teacher, but I was also a doctor—a trained medical professional—talking to a group of women about their problems. So the doctor-patient confidentiality issue is very much in play here.”
“The information I’m seeking is very important, Dr. Lyon.”
“So are my principles as a professional medical person.”
“Can you tell me anything at all about the class?”
“As long as it doesn’t refer specifically to any of the women who were in it.”
“Okay, let’s talk about who wasn’t there. If I give you a name, and that woman wasn’t in your class, you can tell me that?”
“Of course,” she laughed. “The doctor-patient confidentiality only applies to actual patients. I’ll be happy to try and help you in any other way I can without violating that oath.”
“Was Victoria Issacs in the class?” I asked.
“No, no one by that name.”
“Deborah Hammacher?”
“No.”
“Melissa Ross.”
She laughed again. “I do read newspapers and watch television,” she said. “I know who these women are. And no, Melissa Ross was not a part of my class.”
“I’ve been told by two of the women who did attend your class that they heard about Melissa Ross’s investigative services—and then hired her to follow their husbands—from others in the class.”
“That’s very possible. Some of the women were very angry, very desperate about their situation. They might well have been attracted to someone who offered the type of services that this Melissa Ross did.”
“But you can’t—or, more precisely, you won’t—tell me any of these women’s names.”
“I’m really sorry, Mr. Malloy.”
CHAPTER 28
I KEPT waiting for the next phone call or email from Melissa Ross.
At work, when a message landed in my inbox or when my phone rang, I wondered if it was her. But it didn’t happen that way. The phone call, when it finally came, was to me at home.
The ringing woke me up at 2 a.m. I assumed it was the office calling about some big breaking news story.
Until I answered it.
“Hello, Gil,” a woman’s voice said. I’d only heard it once before, but I knew immediately who she was.
“Hello, Melissa,” I said quietly, and still half-asleep.
“I’ve got another dumb blonde joke for you. There’s a blonde and a redhead watching the six o’clock news. It shows a man on the Brooklyn Bridge threatening to jump. The redhead bets the blonde fifty dollars that the man will jump. Which he does. But the redhead tells the blonde she’s not going to take the fifty dollars because she cheated on the bet. She’d already watched the bridge drama play out on the five o’clock news. ‘So did I,’ the blonde tells her, ‘but I didn’t think he’d jump again.’ ”
She laughed loudly into the phone. I didn’t laugh or say anything.
“You don’t sound happy to hear from me, Gil. That’s a bit disappointing. After the wonderful relationship we’ve had . . .”
“We don’t have a relationship.”
“Sure we do. Tim Hammacher. Houston. You and I seem to travel in the same circle of people. You know what I’m talking about, right?”
“Tim Hammacher was a decent man,” I said. “He loved his wife,
and he loved his kids. And now they’re going to live the rest of their lives without him because of you!”
“Maybe he shouldn’t have tried to put his dick into me then, huh?”
“Why are you doing this, Melissa?”
She laughed again.
“How did you get my number?” I asked.
“Oh, please! I’m a private investigator, remember? I just figured the authorities would be listening in on your work phone now to try to catch me. I decided to switch things up a bit.”
“So is there another body?” I asked her. “Is that why you called?”
“Do I need a reason to call you?”
“Yes.”
“Actually, the reason I called was because I wanted to say goodbye to you.”
“Goodbye?”
“Yes, you’ll get an email in a few minutes with more.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Goodbye, Gil Malloy.”
Suddenly the line went dead.
Then I heard a ping on my email. A new message in my inbox. The subject line said: “Yes, Blondes Really Do Have More Fun: I Know I Did!”
I opened it up and read:
It is time for Melissa Ross to disappear. I know that now. It’s been a helluva ride. But I really do need to move on.
Of course, wherever I go, I don’t expect the men to be any different. Men are all the same, wherever they are. I stopped at a McDonald’s in Pennsylvania today where I caught a young guy at a nearby table sneaking glances at me. He wore a football jersey that said he was a varsity letterman. He was with a pretty young girl wearing a cheerleaders’ jacket from the same school. The football hero and his All-American cheerleader girlfriend. Mr. Touchdown and Chrissie Cheerleader, I decided to name them. The perfect young couple.
Except Mr. Touchdown seemed more interested in me. He just couldn’t keep his eyes off of me. Like I said, men are all the same. There was a motel next to the McDonald’s. I thought about slipping him a note inviting him to meet me there later, after he’d dumped his cheerleader girlfriend somewhere. Then the young football stud and I could have a fun-filled night together. Of course, I’d be the one having the fun, not him.
But I decided not to. I have more important things to do. More important than luring another horny guy into a motel right now. Just for the fun of it though, I stopped by their table as I was leaving.
“Thanks for the invite,” I told the football player, “but I don’t sleep with guys who try to pick me up in McDonald’s. Guess you’ll have to make do with your little cheerleader friend here after all. I appreciate the offer though.” Then I walked out, laughing to myself about how Mr. Touchdown was going to explain that to Chrissie Cheerleader.
Let me leave you with one more blonde joke:
There’s a legend about a bar that had a very special mirror in the ladies’ room. If a woman stands in front of the mirror and she tells the truth, she’ll be granted a wish. But if she tells a lie the mirror goes POOF—and she disappears forever.
A redhead stands before the mirror and says: “I think I’m the most beautiful woman in the world.” POOF—she disappears.
A brunette stands before the mirror and says: “I think I’m the sexiest woman alive.” POOF—she disappears.
Then a beautiful blonde stands before the mirror and says: “I think . . . ” POOF—she disappears forever.
It’s time for me to do that too.
Time for Melissa Ross to just disappear forever.
“So what do we make of all this?” Marilyn Staley asked.
“It sounds like Melissa Ross has stopped killing for some reason,” Stacy said.
“We don’t know that,” I pointed out.
“Well, at least she’s left New York City.”
“We don’t know that either.”
“But she said in the email . . .”
“Stacy, this is a woman who has brutally murdered three men for no real reason. She enjoys killing. Not a nice woman at all. So I don’t think honesty—as in telling the truth in her communications with us—is really high on her list of priorities.”
“Maybe she’s going to kill herself,” Marilyn suggested.
“She doesn’t seem like the kind of woman who would do that,” I said.
“But that email did sound a bit like a suicide note,” Stacy said.
Marilyn sighed. “I think Gil is right. We can’t believe anything she says. She’s a woman who likes to play games. And right now you are the person she’s chosen to play her game with, Gil. There could be some kind of endgame to all this that hasn’t played out yet. You’re a man. She kills men. What better way to make a big splash than by killing the male reporter she’s been communicating with about the murders?”
“Well, that’s comforting,” I said.
“C’mon, you must realize that too.”
I thought about what Susan had said. I gave Marilyn and Stacy the same answer I had given her.
“I’ll be fine. I’m not going to go to a hotel room or get in a car with this woman. I know how to take care of myself. Believe me, you’re not going to get rid of Gil Malloy that easy.”
The one thing we agreed on was that we had another great story. We went big with it on the Web, on air, and in print.
It was a waiting game after that. Now that we’d received the next message from Melissa Ross, we were going to have to wait some more to see what—if anything—happened next.
Was she talking about leaving New York City and stopping the Blonde Ice killings altogether?
Was she telling us she was planning to murder men somewhere else instead?
Or what if she really was planning to just disappear—like other serial killers had done in the past—leaving us with lots of questions and few answers?
And so everyone waited. I hated waiting. Plus, there was a huge audience for this story, and Marilyn and Stacy were putting a lot of pressure on me to come up with some follow-up ideas and angles in the absence of real news.
Except I had no ideas.
I had no new angles.
Whenever I found myself at a dead end like this on a story, sooner or later I always turned to what I called the “go-back-to-the-beginning” approach. Maybe I could to try to make some headway like that.
“Just put aside everything you’ve learned so far and go back to the beginning of the investigation,” an old newspaperman told me once. “Start all over again. You might think you’ve covered every possible fact, every possible piece of evidence, every possible lead in the case. But you’ll be surprised at how much you missed when you do it all over again.”
Well, the beginning of this case was the Hotel Madison. The place where the first murder, the killing of Walter Issacs, Houston’s husband, took place.
I went back to the Madison to go through everything one more time. I talked to the employees on duty, went to the room where Issacs’s body had been found, walked through the entire timeline of everything I knew about what happened that night.
Issacs had had a drink in the hotel bar, where—according to witnesses—he met a stunning blonde woman. A woman who was later identified as Melissa Ross. Then the elevator security camera caught them passionately making out on the way up to his room. They went into his hotel room, where they apparently had sex—since the semen found on the sheets had definitely been identified as coming from Issacs. Ross murdered Issacs at some point after that, but stayed overnight in the room with the body. She then calmly ordered a room service breakfast, and answered the door when the waiter delivered it. A maid discovered the body when she finally entered two days later to clean the room.
I went through it all, looking for something I might have missed. It took me a while to figure out what that might be. But then it hit me.
The waiter!
The waiter had seen her. He had talked to her.
The police had interviewed the waiter that first day. He had told them his story, then gone home for the day without talking to anyone else at
the scene. He didn’t seem important at the time, but now he was important to me. Maybe he could tell me something else about Melissa Ross.
The waiter’s name was Luis Velez and he was off for a few days, the people at the hotel said. I got someone there to give me Velez’s phone number and home address, which was way at the far end of the Bronx. I tried the phone number, but got no answer. I kept trying it, without any success. I thought about going out to Velez’s address in the Bronx and knocking on the door, but I dismissed the idea. If Velez wasn’t home—and it didn’t seem like he was—the trip would just be a waste of time. So I left messages—on Velez’s phone and also at the hotel—that I wanted to talk to him.
I had no idea what to do next. I pondered this dilemma for a while and finally came up with a game plan.
When the going gets tough, the tough just give up and go home.
So that’s what I did.
* * *
I ordered a pizza from a place on my block and ate in front of the TV. I thought about trying to set a new personal pizza eating record. My high thus far was all eight slices, although admittedly it was a small pie and the pieces were pretty thin. Normally I can eat four to five slices without a problem. Anything more than that and I’m in uncharted gastronomical territory.
I drank some beer with the pizza and clicked around channels with the remote until I found a Columbo. I like Columbo, but I always thought he was a bit of a cheat as a detective. I mean he always understood exactly what was going on right from the very beginning. Not like me. If I was as aware as he, maybe I’d have time to come up with clever catchphrases like “just one more thing, sir.”
After a while, the beer and all the pizza started to make me sleepy. I knew I wasn’t going to make it until the end of Columbo. I just wanted to crawl into bed. Yep, I’ll crawl into bed with my woman and cuddle with her through the night. Oh, wait a minute . . . I don’t have a woman in my life. I have my ex-wife who now wants to be my “friend”; a former lover who is in Italy with her new husband; and a onetime prostitute who’s now a grieving widow. Of course, I could always call Peggy Kerwin. She’d come over and cuddle with me. And, as an added bonus, would be so boring that I’d probably have no trouble going right to sleep.
