I was preparing for Elise's deposition when Frank Wilder called me.
"Michael," he said to me, “I have the number for Elise's phone in case you don't. Should we compare what we have?"
He then read off the number he had, which was the same number I had. "All right," I told him. "As far as I'm concerned, I'm ready for the depo. Frank, I'm counting on you to be the key player in determining whether or not we have the real Elise on the other end of the phone. It's just too damned bad she refused to do it by Zoom. More than anything, I want to get a look at the voice on the other end of the line. I don't know how clever Jennifer may be, but it wouldn't surprise me to hear her trying to impersonate Elise. Most of all, I wish we had voice recognition technology, but Marcel has tried to obtain that service from Interpol, and they have refused because the case is not one they have ongoing, and they are facing an enormous backup in their lab. So, it's going to be up to you, Frank."
"Not to worry, Michael. I'd know that woman's voice anywhere. I think emulating a French person speaking English would be quite difficult under the best of circumstances. Yes, I'll be listening closely; you can count on that."
The next morning at six a.m., I had my court reporter seated in my small conference room, along with Marcel and myself, and I dialed Frank Wilder first, then dialed Elise's number to conference her in. I then centered the phone on the table between myself and the court reporter and waited for Elise to answer.
A female voice came on the phone almost immediately. She identified herself as Elise and asked Frank whether or not he had any last-minute instructions for her that they needed to discuss off-line. Frank told her there were not any, and she said, “Oh," in a voice that sounded like someone who didn't quite believe.
I then began the deposition. "Mrs. Ipswich, would you give us your full name, please?"
"My name is Elise Ipswich."
"Where do you live, Mrs. Ipswich?"
I live on rue Dumont in Paris, France."
"With whom do you live there?”
"I live with my daughter, Çidde, and no one else."
"How old is Çidde?"
"She is now six years old. She looks exactly like her father, I might add."
"Does anyone else live in your home with you?"
"No."
"Please tell us about your relationship with your mother."
"My relationship with my mother is very good. She loves me, and I love her very much."
"Have you been away from your home on rue Dumont the past month?"
"Yes, I have been living in the south of Spain while I recover from the death of my husband. My daughter has been with my mother during this period. I have been living like a hermit, unable to speak with anyone due to my grief. I'm sure you can understand."
"Yes, you must be very sad."
"I have a doctor here, and he has me on some strong vitamins and a sleep potion that I take at night. Without that, I'm unable to sleep. I toss and turn and think of Joseph and nothing else. Sometimes I can hear his voice calling to me. It makes me cry, and then I'm a wreck for the rest of the day."
"There has been some question on our end of the line whether we are talking to the real Elise Ipswich or not. Can you please give me Elise’s driver's license number?"
"I cannot. My purse was stolen on the train down while I was sleeping. I have written to the French government and tried to replace all of my identification cards, but they have not arrived so far. I'm sorry I cannot help you here."
"Mrs. Ipswich, where did you go to college?"
"I attended university here in Paris and obtained my advanced degree in economics from the London School of Economics in London."
"And where do you work?"
"I work at LVP Partners in Paris. I'm an associate account manager, and I will soon be promoted to a full-fledged account manager. I have almost four years on the job and have one more examination to take, and then I will be promoted, and my salary will double."
"You've filed a lawsuit against my client seeking temporary support and equitable distribution of Joseph Ipswich’s assets at the time of death. My question for you is, why have you filed this lawsuit when the court has already ruled on the same items?"
"Because I have not yet received that money. It got to the point where I was afraid that my lawyer, Mr. Wilder, was not working in my best interests. So I took matters into my own hands and filed a lawsuit again by myself. I have no regrets about doing this. I must receive the property my husband owned that I'm entitled to. My funds are limited, and right now, I'm living on my meager savings and a few personal items that I sold."
"How do we best know that you are, in fact, Elise Ipswich?"
"Perhaps you should ask Frank Wilder. He knows my voice as well as anybody I know, and he can tell you that this is Elise speaking. Do you have any other questions for me?"
"I'm going to halt this deposition at this point and re-schedule it for a later date. It will be taken up as the case progresses. Please keep us advised of your address and your telephone number if they should change."
"I do not have an address. I'm staying with some friends of mine from my college days. My phone number you already have, and that will not be changing. It is my only true connection with the world at this point."
"All right, thank you for your time today, Mrs. Ipswich. This concludes your deposition."
I then disconnected my call from "Elise" and said to Frank Wilder, “Well?"
"I don't know, Michael. It sounds somewhat like her, but I'm not convinced. I wish we could see the face, and it seems to me you fell down on not forcing her to make arrangements for us to have a Zoom call with her. I'm not going to conclude one without the other because I can't. Sorry, old man, but that's how we're going to have to leave it."
62
Michael
I needed to be alone that day to think things over at my lunch hour. I left my building and walked down Michigan Avenue to Reser's restaurant and took a booth at the back. I ordered the beef stew and a large iced tea.
The waitress returned right away with the iced tea. I spread my Chicago Tribune on the table and began reading the front page. As usual, the news was soul-crushing, so I went to the sports page and began reading. I was engrossed in a story about the Chicago Bears when I heard a female voice say my name. I looked up, and there stood Jennifer Ipswich. She was smiling down at me and pointing at the chair across from me with a look of May I? on her face.
"Jennifer," I said with surprise. "What in the world are you doing here?”
She sat down in the chair and reached across the table. She put her right hand on my left hand. I immediately jerked away and pulled back from the table. "What the hell?" I exclaimed. I kept my voice low, not wanting to disturb other diners.
She smiled and said, “You know I want to be with you. We could walk down to the Sheraton and spend two hours together right now, and no one would ever know. Are you up to it?"
"Of course not! What in the world is wrong with you? You are not the same person I met last summer at the swimming pool. I cannot believe how you can change in the blink of an eye like this. For your information, I'm going to file to withdraw from your appeal and cut all ties with you. I've had it with your bullshit, and your crazy, and I'm not doing it anymore. Now, please get up and leave the restaurant. Leave me the hell alone, or I'm going to call the police. Which will it be?"
She pursed her lips and shook her head. Then she ignored what I had just said. "I hear you took Elise's deposition this morning. How did that go?"
"How did you know that? Nobody from my office told you a thing. Where are you getting your information? From Elise herself?"
"Yes, from Elise herself. We have become very close since she has gone to live in Spain, and we are together bemoaning our husband's loss. It's only natural that we would since we have both lost the same thing. I'm getting close to Elise, and I'm thinking of inviting her to come to Chicago and spend some time with me. I think it would be good fo
r both of us. She could bring her daughter, and they could meet my children and get to know one another. What would you think of that, Michael?"
"It doesn't matter what I think. On top of that, I don't give a damn one way or the other. I want you to leave me alone and leave this restaurant right now. If you don't, I'm going to dial the police and get someone over here."
At that moment, she reached for my hand again, but I pulled away and began tapping 911 into my cell phone.
She purred while she watched me with my phone. "Michael, Verona is not that good for you. I know she's a nice woman, and I know you care for her very much. But the things I've heard about her—not good, Michael. As your best friend at this time, let me encourage you to get together with me and talk this over. I've seen how you look at me, and I know you want me. So please don't be shy."
“The police are on their way. I would recommend you seriously consider leaving before you wind up in handcuffs."
She stood from the table, slipped her arm through her purse, and adjusted it on her shoulder. She said, eyes wide, “Well? Are you coming, or am I going alone?"
"Get the hell out of my sight. Now!"
With that, she turned and scurried off, and the last I saw of her, she was at the front door, at which point she turned and blew me a kiss. It was all I could do not to get sick. The waitress arrived with my beef stew a few minutes later. I began eating but then had a strong urge to call Verona and tell her how much I loved her.
As I walked back to the office after my meal, that's exactly what I did. Verona could hear the neediness in my voice and was there for me. As we spoke, I began to realize she might not be safe. If Jennifer had done something with Elise, she would certainly not hesitate to do something with another person she saw as a roadblock to what she wanted. I made a note to myself to call a security service as soon as I got back to the office and arrange for security for my wife and children.
Back at the office, I did just that, then I called Marcel in and sent him out to my home in Evanston to await the security people and get them lined up for my family's protection. He was off in a flash, and I turned my mind back to my law practice. Every so often, I would look up and shudder. She was growing quite fantastical in her illusions. Lord only knew what she might try. Suddenly, I could stand it no longer and left the office, telling my people that I would be back tomorrow and for them to tell no one where I was.
Especially Jennifer.
63
Michael
Desperate people require desperate measures. It was time for us to act, time for us to get to the bottom of Elise's disappearance. Marcel got on the phone and contacted Visa and MasterCard. Within an hour, he had access to Jennifer's accounts. How again? I didn’t ask. In particular, we were looking for charges she had made in Paris. It only made sense that she had gone to Paris and made Elise disappear from there. That was our best working guess.
Sure enough, Marcel came into my office, beaming. "Look at this," he said with great enthusiasm. He spread before me a series of charges from the account of Jennifer Ipswich. They were from Paris, and they began at the Ritz Hotel and the Bar Hemingway.
"All right," I said to the best investigator I'd ever known, "what comes next?"
"Next," he said, "yours truly is off to Paris. I'll report back within the next twenty-four hours after touchdown."
"Have a safe trip."
64
Marcel
Marcel touched down three days later at Charles de Gaulle in Paris and took a taxi straight to the Ritz Hotel. He checked in, checked his room as was his habit, and went downstairs to look around. He found that the Hemingway bar didn't open until noon, so he returned to his room for a quick nap. He set the wake-up call for 11:30 and was immediately asleep.
At 11:45, he was up and dressed and riding the elevator down to the lobby. He stood outside the Bar Hemingway, and when the help inside saw him, early as he was, they let him in any way. "Would you like a table, the Hemingway booth, or would you like to sit at the bar, sir?"
"I'd like to sit at the bar, please."
The maître d’ took him to the bar and told him he would have to wait until noon to order. He said that was fine and began looking around. At noon sharp, the bartender approached Marcel and asked him what he would like. Marcel motioned the bartender closer and told him he would like a look at the bar's video from 22 December. The bartender explained that would be available in the security office, which was the second door beyond the front desk. It was an unmarked door, and Marcel should rap five times with his knuckles. Marcel plunked down a €5, thanked the man, and headed for the security office.
The door to the security office was opened after Marcel knocked. "Sir?" said a young man that Marcel guessed was in his early thirties. He was wearing gold-rimmed spectacles and a white shirt with a vest.
"My name is Marcel Rainsford, and I'm from Chicago. I'm a licensed private investigator and a one-time employee of Interpol. I need some help with some video footage in a case that I'm working up that potentially involves a murder. The murder suspect and her victim were at the Bar Hemingway on 22 December. The time was 7:05 p.m. I need to see the bar’s CCTV video for that time and thirty minutes before, until the two subjects leave the bar. Is this possible?"
“Do you have any identification, sir?"
"Marcel pulled out his private investigator’s license and also his ID from Interpol, stamped Retired across the face. The young man studied the ID, studied Marcel's face, and handed both items back. "Please come in. Let's see what we can find."
When they played the video, the two women were easily spotted. Marcel watched the video for thirty minutes while the women talked back and forth, shook hands at one point, and then he watched as Elise got up from the table, shrugged into her winter coat, and left the bar.
"I need to see the video from just outside the hotel in the taxi area at seven-thirty-five p.m. Same day."
"One moment, sir. Allow me to insert the date and time in the exterior video system, and we’ll have you going."
Sure enough, here came Elise walking outside the Bar Hemingway. She asked the red-coated attendant a question. When the man spoke back, his white breath hung in the air. He motioned one of the waiting taxis to pull forward. Marcel, holding a closeup keypad they had given him, clicked twice, and the license plate doubled in size. Now he was able to make out the license plate of the taxi. He went back and forth three times, each time writing up the next digit on the plate until he had the full number.
"All right," he said to the young man in the vest. “I’m done here, at least for now. I thank you very much."
Marcel then went outside and hailed a taxi. He told the driver in French that he needed to be taken to 1 Place du Châtelet. The driver looked at him in the rearview mirror and said, “That's where I pick up my cab. I can have you there in about eight minutes. Hang on, sir."
The name of the business was Paris Taxi. Marcel's driver pulled into the drive-through, and Marcel climbed out and paid the driver in euros. He then went inside and located the security office. "I need two GPS coordinates for one of your taxis on the night of 22 December. Here is the number of the taxi's license plate. At 7:35 p.m., your driver picked up a woman from the Ritz Hotel and took her for a ride. I need to know the address where she was taken. Can you help me?"
The security officer looked him over. He was a mid-fifties gentleman wearing khaki pants, a black shirt with a red tie, and a winter coat, waist length. He said in French, "May I ask what this is for?"
Marcel reached into his pocket and pulled out a $100 bill. "It's for this," he said with a smile.
"Yes, sir," the man said. "Give me five minutes, and I will have your address."
Marcel waited, checking his watch impatiently until the man returned.
"The address where your lady was taken was 11009 rue Dumont. She rode in our taxi number four-two-three-two. Will there be anything else, sir?"
"No, and thank you. Oh, yes, I need a taxi to
take me to Nord Taxi."
Marcel was taken to Nord Taxi. His reason for going was twofold. First, he had seen Jennifer Ipswich follow Elise Ipswich out of the Ritz Hotel and take the next taxi in line after Elise's cab. Second, he was guessing they went to the same destination. At Nord taxi, he repeated the same exercise as he had at Paris taxi. He learned that Number 8897 also went to 11009 rue Dumont, waited two hours, and then returned the fare to the Ritz Hotel.
Marcel then caught a ride back to the Ritz Hotel. He went back upstairs to his room, called down for a pot of coffee, and sat himself down at a small table beside a window looking out on the street. He assessed where he was. First, he had Jennifer and Elise together in the bar until 7:35 p.m. They then left the bar in separate taxis and went to Elise's home address. He guessed that Elise was unaware she was being followed. Elise then went inside her home, and Jennifer was dropped at that same address. She presumably followed. Marcel could only guess, but he thought his guesstimate was pretty accurate. He could visualize Jennifer knocking on Elise's door and being allowed inside. That was on 22 December.
Enough guessing. He went downstairs and took a taxi to her house, and climbed out. “Wait here, please.” It was an out-of-the-way lane, and he figured another cab wouldn’t be along anytime soon.
He stopped outside her door and pulled on his rubber gloves, then reached down and put paper surgical booties on over his shoes. Then he let himself inside with his picks.
Nothing out of the ordinary. The hum of electrical appliances running. Rain outside beginning to patter on the windows.
Into the bathroom. Blood stains in the tub as if it had been unsuccessfully rinsed out. He crossed the hallway into the bedroom, stopping just outside the door. It was the little girl’s room. He entered and checked beneath the bed and in the closet, even knowing he would find it in the next room.
Girl, Under Oath (Michael Gresham Series) Page 20
