Duplicity - A True Story of Crime and Deceit

by Paul T. Goldman

  I wanted to hold him forever.

  I reluctantly let him go, and patted him on the butt. “Buddy, why don't you go hit the shower?” I said.

  Partly confused by the unexpected show of affection, and partly relieved that punishment had been avoided, Johnny skipped off to clean himself up.

  I turned back to the phone list before me, and started to carefully examine it. There were so many different numbers, but one number was repeated again and again, a mysterious number with a Miami prefix. Though Royce’s number had led me to a web page, Googling this one resulted in “number not found.”

  I couldn’t stop. I needed answers. I decided to call the number. After each ring, my breath got shorter, my heartbeat faster. I wondered who would answer. Another boyfriend, perhaps? After five rings, the following message played: “This is AT&T. If you have a mailbox on this system, please enter it now.”

  Once again, I was confused. Why did Audrey need another voice mailbox when she already had voice mail on her cell phone? It didn’t make sense, but there it was, again and again on the list. She called Royce and then collected her messages. Or, inversely, she retrieved her messages and then called Royce. What was going on? At that point, between my headache and needing to make Johnny and I dinner, I took a break.

  Later that night, I started to enter all the other numbers into Google. Only about one in ten actually resulted in a name and address, but that was enough. When finished, I looked at the list I had made. Most of these other numbers were to men. Lots of men. Hundreds of different men, with local as well as out-off-state, obviously cell phone numbers. And about a dozen different women. And several upscale hotels in Palm Beach.

  As I looked at the list, there was also a discernible pattern: calls to Royce, collect message, and then call either a man, a hotel, and a girl, or just a man. Then, there would be no phone activity for a couple of hours, after which the cycle would repeat. Day after day, night after night, 365 days a year. On two different occasions, calls to a dozen men in Chicago, then a call to American Airlines. Suddenly, staring at the pages of endless numbers, the answer became undeniably clear. My breath stopped and I watched the pages begin to shake, not fully aware that my own trembling hands were the cause. I was again struggling to swallow but my mouth was now completely dry, and a burning sensation was creeping up my throat. It couldn’t be true, but then, here was the proof, right in front of me.

  Audrey was a madam, and a hooker.

  “That fucking bitch,” I seethed as I stared down at the pile of papers.

  My mind raced. Royce wasn't her boyfriend. Royce was her pimp. My wife, my marriage, and everything that I thought I knew, was a lie.

  I was stupefied. I was shaking. And then I screamed.

  This couldn't be my life. This was something that happened in a bad movie to some delusional guy who merited the deception. This was something that happened to somebody else. This was not something that happened to me.

  Utterly and emotionally exhausted, I sat back into my chair and felt anger take its place. I pounded my computer desk hoping that some physical pain might replace the internal pain. It didn’t. How dare she do this to me? How dare she do this to my son? She pretended to love us both. She allowed Johnny to become attached to her. She allowed me to believe we were in love. For the first time in my life, I felt true, uncontrollable rage.

  Violent thoughts raced through my mind. Images of me hurting, even killing Audrey seemed real and reasonable. It would be justifiable homicide, I thought. No jury would ever convict me. I was a man without boundaries. I was unhinged. And then, suddenly I was calm. Using every bit of strength I had, I reached down inside and grabbed hold of the inner peace that twenty-five years of meditation had given me. It was the calm to my internal storm and, though it seemed entirely deserving, violence would not be my path.

  Having regained some control, something else occurred to me that made me truly fearful. If Audrey was a prostitute and her list of clients was as long as the phone logs suggested, then how might my own health and the health of my son be at risk? Images of lesion-riddled AIDS patients filled my mind and I did some quick math: ten tricks a week worked out to about five hundred tricks a year for a period of four years.

  Acknowledging the probability of a few regulars, the equation was staggering. Audrey has had sex with over a thousand men. Therefore, biologically, so have I.

  Totally overcome with revulsion and fear, I tasted a bitterness rising in my throat. I made my way to the bathroom where I vomited, and vomited some more. Even when there was nothing left, I kept vomiting.

  Finally, it all stopped. I got up off my knees, lowered the seat and cover, and sat on the toilet. After a few minutes, I realized I needed to manage my fear and remain calm because I had to function. I took deep breaths and tried to sort out the thoughts racing through my mind.

  I felt myself begin to give way to complete despair, and then I made a decision. I would not allow myself to drown in the bleak waters of depression. I would set forth to chart my own course and determine how this story would end. I would no longer play the role of the fool, nor would I allow someone else to dictate what might lay ahead for me or my son. I stood up and began what would be one of a series of showers, showers that would allow me to emotionally wash away the memories of Audrey, the feelings for Audrey, and the idea of who I thought Audrey was. I would no longer be a man who had something horrible done to him. I would now be a man who was proactively doing for himself. I would also get myself and my son to a doctor.

  And most importantly, I would bring down Audrey and her sleazy prostitution ring.

  No matter what.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  In Pursuit of the Truth

  After the initial shock of Audrey’s true identity had dissipated, I allowed myself some time to pick up the pieces of my shattered self. I had to accept the fact that our whole relationship had been a complete lie. Realizing that it wouldn’t work was one thing, but to now know it never worked was entirely different. I could have easily gotten lost in the devastation of it, but I wouldn't let that happen to me, nor to my son.

  Refocusing my energy, I prepared a mental checklist by which I would not only put myself on the road to emotional recovery, but also make sure that Audrey’s crimes would not go unpunished.

  As promised, my first priority was getting myself and my son to a doctor as soon as possible. Well aware that there were almost as many contractible STDs as there were prostitutes, my fear was very real. Fortunately, a series of tests considered standard by our family physician provided some immediate reassurance, though the constant, uninvited images of Audrey with slews of different men still left me wanting to somehow detoxify my body.

  Next on the mental checklist was a thorough investigation of Audrey’s phone records, which seemed that much more interesting now that I was examining them with new knowledge and perspective. The calls to Royce seemed endless, as did the calls to her voice mailbox, but many of the numbers remained a mystery as Google provided no results. Resolute in my determination, I continued to sort through the logs, knowing there had to be more to uncover. And there was. I began with the Chicago numbers and noticed that a dozen calls had been made to numbers in Chicago the last week in April, and the last week of May. Expanding my investigative approach, I compared the dates of those calls to her debit card statements and found that charges were made to American Airlines and several local Chicago stores during both periods. It looked like Audrey was engaged in “illegal interstate commerce,” something the FBI might want to hear about. Knowing that I needed to be thorough if I was ever to use my findings for retribution or legal leverage, I decided to once again call Bob Thompson and, again, he seemed not at all surprised to hear from me.

  “Chicago? April 2007? I seem to remember Audrey telling me she was taking a trip there at around that time to attend a friend’s wedding. Yes, now that I think about it, it was at the end of April,” he paused, and I could practically hear his mind tryin
g to recall exact dates. “Yes, that was in April, but as for May... well, I don’t remember any trip at the end of May.”

  “I see,” was my only response before I quickly thanked Bob for his information and hung up the phone. I knew he was curious to know what I might have uncovered, but I needed to keep going. I felt I was hot on a trail, and didn't want anything to derail my pursuit.

  Returning to the debit card statements, now cluttered with scribbles from my own thoughts, I doubted that Audrey had attended any wedding. Her statement reflected no hotel or dining expenses, which led me to believe those were taken care of by somebody else, someone who might have something to gain from her visit. Not willing to accept any possible dead ends, I picked up the phone and began to dial the six Chicago numbers from the phone logs. I didn’t hesitate, I didn’t stutter, and I didn’t make any attempt to conceal the purpose of my calls.

  “Hello, my name is Paul Goldman and I am the husband of Audrey Munson.” I watched my reflection in my computer monitor and spoke confidently into the phone. “Your name came up on a phone log as someone she called in April of 2007. Can you please explain to me your relationship with my wife?” The receiver’s response proved as direct as my inquiry.

  Click. They hung up.

  My expression remained unchanged as I dialed the next Chicago number. I rose from my chair and began to pace the room. “Hello, my name is Paul Goldman and I am the husband of Audrey Munson. Your name came up on a phone log as someone she called in April of 2007. Can you please explain to me your relationship with my wife?”

  Click. They hung up. The responses continued, which did little to frustrate my determination and only further fueled my suspicions. By the fourth call, I was surprised to actually get a vocal response.

  “I’m sorry she’s your wife.” Click. Hung up. I was sorry too, but that didn’t impede my efforts. With another call, I received another response.

  “Oh yeah, I met Audrey in Florida, at a bar in Palm Beach. Then we met in Chicago, but we’re just friends,” the man’s voice explained. I knew he was lying. “Can’t tell you anymore. Bye.” And another person left me with a dial tone.

  Like always, the last place you go provides exactly what you were looking for. Kind of.

  “Hi, this is Deborah. What can I help you with?” I was surprised to hear a woman’s voice on the other end, and I was also surprised to hear that she was perfectly willing to provide me with information that may be useful. Again, I delivered my spiel, though this time, my tone reflected a touch of hope.

  “Oh. Well, I met Audrey by chance at a restaurant,” she shared while I stopped pacing and sat back down in my chair, eager and expectant. “We had lunch together and exchanged phone numbers.” Not wanting to lose what I considered to be a credible lead, I pushed Deborah for more.

  “Oh, really? What did she tell you was her reason for visiting Chicago?”

  “She didn’t tell me,” she said, sounding both casual and disinterested. There was something familiar about the way she spoke, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I wanted to know more.

  “I’m not sure I understand. You’re perfect strangers who share lunch and phone numbers, and it never occurs to you to ask her why she’s even in town?” My eagerness had affected my previously stoic delivery. I was pressing her now, and as a result, her response was what I should have expected.

  Click.

  Slowly sitting back in my chair, I sighed knowing that I had pushed too hard. Deborah knew a lot more than she was letting on, and the familiar tone of her voice was now apparent: she was a con artist, just like Audrey. I was certain that their relationship was business and that, perhaps, Deborah either worked with or for Audrey.

  I awoke the next morning with renewed energy and focus. Believing that the phone calls to Chicago had actually answered some questions, I was again determined to continue my investigation. I hurried down the stairs to get an early start on breakfast for me and Johnny before getting back to work. Someone else, however, had already gotten an earlier start. The phone rang.

  “Good morning, Paul. I hope this isn’t too early for you.” It was Joe Munson, Audrey’s first husband, and I doubted he was calling to be social. I turned on the stove top, the click of the burner signaled the gas before a flame ignited.

  “Not at all,” I responded, looking for the cooking spray as I stepped over one of Johnny’s errant cars.

  “Good. Listen, I got a call from Audrey late last night,” he said before pausing, measuring my reaction. I wondered if she called before or after she serviced some john. “She told me you were calling all her friends and telling them that she's a prostitute. Is this true, Paul?” My first inclination was to laugh as I found some unexpected joy in knowing that I had ruffled Audrey’s feathers a bit. Then it occurred to me that I had never even used the word prostitute in my rehearsed spiel, or even suggested her role as one. Audrey must have drawn that conclusion, a conclusion that only further affirmed my suspicions.

  “No, Joe, that’s actually not true,” I answered honesty. “I did make some calls last night to six people whom Audrey had called before making her trips to Chicago in April and May of 2007, but at no point did I use the word “prostitute” or make any reference to prostitution,” I explained, cradling the phone on my shoulder as I cracked the eggs above the frying pan, resulting in a smoldering sizzle.

  “Oh, I see.” I could tell he wasn’t sure what his role was supposed to be, or how he wanted to proceed. Saving him, I filled him in on some of the details of my investigation and even asked for his input. He had little to give, and despite my disappointment, I could tell he was a cautious man. We ended the phone call with a promise to stay in touch and I sat down at my little glass top breakfast table with a plate of eggs, a cup of coffee, and more phone records. I knew I had about an hour before Johnny would wake up and demand my full attention and so I was determined to take advantage of my caffeine-fueled clarity by entering some of my findings into my computer. These findings would be the first of many in what would prove to be a very long paper trail in Audrey’s honor.

  Thirteen calls to thirteen different out-of-state numbers.

  Regular calls to eight different women, who may or may not be working as her girls.

  Random calls to a vast array of upscale hotels, mostly located in Florida.

  Calls to men. Each man was called twice. After the first call, one of the eight women was called before the man was called again. And that was the last call to the man in the entire phone log. Working hypothesis: Call the trick to determine interest and time, contact girl for schedule, and then return a call to the trick to confirm.

  Voice mailbox calls seemed to taper off by July, 2008. By November, many calls were made to a new number, which Google showed belonging to a rented house in New Smyrna Beach.

  Of all my findings, the last seemed confusing. Eager to share my thoughts with the only person I could, I called Bob Thompson.

  “Hi, Paul. What’s up?” he asked in a hoarse voice as he cleared his voice. I had forgotten it was still early for many people.

  “Hi, Bob. I’m sorry to bother you so early, but I was hoping to run some things by you that you may or may not find interesting.”

  “Go ahead,” he replied, making no attempt to suppress his yawn.

  “Well, I’m still looking at Audrey’s phone records and I found a number belonging to a rental house in New Smyrna Beach just two and a half hours north of here. I know this may seem like a stretch, but Audrey called it constantly and the rental ad says the house has two bedrooms, five beds, linens included, and a fully stocked fridge.” I paused before presenting my theory. “Could this be a sex house?”

  “Wow. I’m not sure,” he remarked, not at all sounding convinced. Perhaps I was reading into everything too much. “But, you know, my private eye, Miles, is up in Orlando right now and he’s returning on Saturday morning. I could always call him and ask him to stop by on his way home, see if Friday night’s guests, including
Audrey, might still be there.” He too was curious and determined.

  “That sounds great, thanks. Let me know what he finds.” I hung up the phone feeling enthused by both my productivity and the knowledge that Bob might be a like-minded partner in my investigation.

  * * *

  Saturday afternoon found me glancing at the phone, eager to hear what Bob’s P.I. may have found. I practically dove over the couch when the phone finally rang around one o’clock.

  “Paul, it’s Bob.” My heart was racing although I was trying to appear casual.

  “Oh, Bob. What’s up?”

  “It’s not a sex house,” Bob responded flatly, dashing my hopes. “The owner’s niece and her twelve year old daughter are living there, but Miles traced the owner of the house and came up with something very interesting.”

  “Really, what?” I asked, abandoning all attempts to sound casual as the promise of another discovery sent a thrill through me.

  “Well, the owner’s name is Tony Sawgrass and, according to Miles, he’s about seventy years old, has an investment business and a real estate development business, and, are you ready for this, has a reputation for getting his clients hookers!” My mouth dropped open.