“Emma doesn’t fit Campbell’s MO,” he said excitedly. “She’s not at all like the others. If he ever dared to do anything against her will, she would be the first one to press charges. Campbell has to know that. And there’s nothing in any computer about Emma, is there, Rendi?”
“Well, there were a few references to her in my computer, but nothing like the stuff about the other women.”
Justin walked into Abe’s office, where he had heard her and Abe in animated conversation.
“What’s going on? Are you okay?” he asked Abe.
“I don’t know, Justin. Rendi just told me something that makes us suspect Emma may be going out with Campbell tonight.”
“Oh, my God, are you sure?”
“No, because Emma doesn’t fit Campbell’s MO.”
“You’re probably right,” Rendi interrupted, “though you wouldn’t be the first father not to know everything about his daughter’s secret life.”
“Not something Campbell would be interested in,” Abe insisted. “She’d never keep anything like that from me.”
“That raises the second scary possibility,” Rendi went on.
“What second possibility?” Abe asked in panic.
“Okay. I don’t think this is likely, but it is possible. Maybe the death of Midge Lester was no accident. Maybe Campbell’s perverse need for sexual violence has escalated to the point where he needs to kill in order to achieve gratification. Remember what his former wife told me about how his need for violence had escalated even back then. Maybe now he needs to kill.”
“Emma doesn’t fit Campbell’s MO,” Abe repeated, finally sitting down. “I don’t care what you say, she’s not like those other women.”
“Abe, stop,” Rendi said. “You’re not thinking. If Campbell has now decided to kill the women he rapes, he doesn’t any longer need women who fit his old MO. They don’t have to be women with sordid pasts, because they’re not going to be alive to testify against him. Abe, Campbell may be planning to kill Emma.”
Upon hearing those words, Abe stood up and dialed Emma’s number in New York. The phone rang three times, and then a voice answered: “Hi, Emma and Zoe are out exploring this great city. Please leave a message at the beep.”
Abe dialed Campbell’s number: no answer. He called Zoe’s parents in New Rochelle. They were home, but they had no idea where Zoe was. She would be home for dinner after 6 P.M., they told him, and he could call her then. Abe asked for the name and number of the uncle’s boutique in SoHo, and they gave him the number.
Next, Abe called and reached Zoe’s uncle, who confirmed that Zoe and Emma had been in yesterday and that Emma had bought a red dress. Emma had a special date with a very important person, Zoe had confided to her uncle. She wouldn’t reveal his name.
While Abe was making the calls, Justin remembered what he had found out about the biblical names that Haskel had babbled during his last visit with Abe. “Now it makes sense,” Justin said. “I couldn’t make heads or tails of the story when I found it.”
“What is it?” Abe demanded.
“It’s a story about the evil king of Amalek, whom God had condemned to immediate death. King Saul delayed the king’s execution, despite God’s order not to be ‘too merciful.’ The delay allowed the evil king to sire a child. A descendant of that evil king’s child then endangered the life of the descendants of the man who had been merciful to him. It led the rabbis to conclude that ‘showing mercy to an undeserving person is as sinful as not showing compassion to a deserving person.’”
“Oh, my God. Haskel was trying to warn me that Campbell might go after Emma, and I wasn’t smart enough to figure it out.” Abe realized that it wasn’t the absence of any smarts—no one could be faulted for that. It was once again his defense lawyer’s blind spot—and that was entirely his own fault. He was to blame for the reality that Emma’s life was now in danger.
Abe decided to call the New York City police. He had an old friend from Dorchester who was president of the Shomrim Society, the Jewish policemen’s benevolent group in Manhattan. He reached David Rothman at headquarters, where he currently served as head of the hostage rescue unit. Suddenly all of Abe’s ethical qualms had gone up in a puff of smoke.
Abe had stopped being a lawyer. Now he was a father determined to save his little girl’s life. Maybe it was better for ten guilty men to go free than for one innocent to be wrongly convicted—but not if one of those guilty men was going after your own daughter! Abe was now willing to disobey any rule, violate any law, break any commandment, to stop his diabolical former client from hurting his daughter.
But was there anything he could do?
Chapter Thirty-nine
Abe quickly told Rothman the whole story. Rothman was aware of the Midge Lester murder, and he couldn’t believe Campbell was the murderer. “Hey, I’m a Knicks fan. No way. Joe Campbell’s not a rapist. You showed that at his trial. And he’s certainly not a killer. No way.”
“I can prove it,” Abe insisted, and he explained Campbell’s computer MO.
“Holy shit,” Rothman said. “Holy, holy shit. Any leads? Where are they going?”
“To a fancy restaurant. Maybe a show. And then probably to a big hotel. He wouldn’t take her back to his place or to hers. He probably has a hotel room already under someone else’s name, and he’s concocted some cover story as to why he wants to take her there. More romantic or something.”
“Not much of a lead. There are a thousand fancy restaurants, hundreds of shows, and dozens of big hotels. I could never convince the brass to watch them all—especially on the basis of what you’ve got. It’s all circumstantial. You don’t know for sure she’s even out with Campbell.”
“It’s him, Dave. I know it. It’s my daughter. I can feel it.”
“How quickly can you be in New York?”
Abe looked at his watch: it was 1:45 P.M. “I can get the two-thirty shuttle and be at police headquarters by four, four-fifteen at the latest.”
“That gives us maybe five or six hours to stop this motherfucker,” Rothman said. “I’ll do what I can to get the troops out while you’re in transit. I can’t promise much. Nelson Mandela’s in town, and a lot of cops are tied up in that. Bring whatever documents you have. We may need to try for a warrant. And fax a recent photo of Emma.”
Abe grabbed his files, instructing Justin to stay behind and man the phones in case Emma called. He also told Justin to try to break into Joe Campbell’s computer files. “Maybe there’s a clue in there somewhere to where he’s taking Emma.”
“Let’s give him a little bit of his own medicine—and hope it works,” Justin said as he flipped on his modem.
Rendi had already called a cab. Now she and Abe ran down the stairs and ordered the driver to speed to the Delta shuttle.
During the flight to La Guardia, Abe was on the phone, calling the Barnard security people and begging them to search Emma’s room for any clues as to where she might be planning to spend the night of her eighteenth birthday. He thought back to her birth, remembering it as though it were yesterday. Hannah had been calm and in control. Abe had been a nervous wreck. He had wanted a boy, Hannah a girl. They hadn’t known what it was going to be until Emma had emerged into Abe’s waiting arms. When he’d announced it was a girl, he’d been thrilled. He’d never even remembered that he had wanted a boy, until Hannah had reminded him several years later.
Abe looked at his watch as the plane touched down: it was 3:45. How much time until Campbell got her alone in the hotel room?
It was nearly five o’clock when Abe finally worked his way through the Midtown Tunnel traffic, onto the FDR Drive, and over to the downtown brick building that was headquarters to the New York City Police Department. In the cab, Rendi had a brainstorm. Why not notify all the local TV and radio stations and have them show both Campbell’s and Emma’s faces? That way they would surely be identified by restaurant patrons, hotel desk clerks, and others. Campbell was one of the most recog
nizable figures in New York. Rendi’s plan made sense.
When they arrived, Abe pleaded with Rothman to implement Rendi’s plan. Burt Riley, the police department’s lawyer, wouldn’t hear of it.
“We don’t even have probable cause here. We’ve got a guy who was acquitted by a jury. A lawyer who now says he believes his own client is guilty, even though he made his name telling everyone in the world he believed the man was innocent. A nervous father who is understandably concerned about his daughter’s taste in men, though he doesn’t even know for sure who she’s out with tonight. And so far no crime.”
“I don’t give a shit about the technicalities,” Abe shot back. “We’re talking about my daughter’s life here.”
“I’ve always said that a conservative is a liberal whose kid just got mugged,” Riley said, shaking his head.
“Yeah, and a civil libertarian is a cop who’s been asked to take a urine test for drugs,” Abe replied. “That’s got nothing to do with whether you call the TV stations.”
“No way I’m gonna call with what you’ve got,” Riley said.
“Then I’ll call the TV stations myself,” Abe insisted.
“Don’t waste your time, Mr. Ringel,” Riley said. “No TV station is going to risk a libel suit by accusing one of our leading citizens—and one who was acquitted, to boot—of planning another rape or murder. It just won’t happen. Not without an arrest warrant, which we can’t get, at least not in time for the six o’clock news.”
“We’ve got to try, damn it!”
“Okay, if you want to waste another precious hour,” Rothman said with a sigh. “Look, I believe you. I think you’re on to something. And I’m willing to put my ass on the line for you by getting a dozen or so cops working this case—but discreetly. If we go public, we’ll get our ass kicked in. No judge is going to give a warrant on the basis of this crap.”
Abe knew that Riley and Rothman were right. He also knew that if he could get the story out, it would stop Campbell. Campbell would, of course, deny he had any evil intentions toward Emma, and Abe would be in the position of having blown the whistle on his former client for past crimes. But Abe couldn’t care less. All that consumed him was the need to help his daughter—at any price.
He called his friend Howey Green at the local CBS station and told him the story.
“Wow, what a great TV show that would make,” Howey said. “But we can’t go with it as news, Abe. Certainly not without checking with our lawyers first, and that always takes time. If it turns out to be true, we would be interested, of course, but not on the basis of what you’ve got.”
Panic was beginning to set in as Abe again checked his watch: it was 5:50, time to try Zoe’s parents again. Maybe she was home early.
No luck. Nor had the Barnard security cops had any more luck. They had searched Emma’s room and had come up empty. Nothing on her desk calendar except a heart, drawn by red felt pen next to September 1. Several people had seen Emma leave her room, dressed in a short red dress. She was going out for the day and wouldn’t be back till morning, she had told a friend in an adjoining room. She’d been whistling as she left, carrying a small pocketbook.
Rothman had secured ten cops—eight men and two women—to make the rounds of several of the city’s most popular large hotels. They had given up on the restaurants, because there were so many. If no one was spotted by ten P.M., a few of the police would drive around the theater district, looking at the crowds as they exited the shows. They were carrying the photograph of Emma and a newspaper picture of Campbell.
Abe decided that he would remain at police headquarters and continue to work the phone. Rendi ran down to a local bookstore and bought a restaurant guide, then started to call every fancy restaurant in the city. Pretending she was one of the paparazzi, she offered each maître d’ $1,000 for the tip if Campbell showed up.
At 6:45 Abe again called Zoe’s parents. She was still not home.
Finally, at 7:25 P.M., Abe reached Zoe. He asked her whether Emma was out with Joe Campbell.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Ringel. I can’t tell you that. You should ask Emma.”
“This is an emergency, Zoe. Emma doesn’t know that Campbell is a rapist. You must tell me.”
“Oh, my God!” Zoe shrieked. “Emma told me that Joe was innocent, that he was a real sweet guy.”
“I have evidence that he’s not so sweet. I couldn’t tell Emma. It never occurred to me that she would go out with him.”
“She’s gone out with him a few times already—in Boston. I guess you didn’t know that. She was afraid that if you found out, you’d object because he was your client and he’s so much older.”
“She’s right. There’s no time for that now. I take it you’re telling me that they’re out together.”
“Yeah, only you don’t have to worry about him raping her, Mr. Ringel.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know how to tell you this, Mr. Ringel. I guess I have to. Emma wants to spend the night with Joe. She’s all prepared. Birth control and all.”
“Zoe, you don’t understand. Joe Campbell is a real sicko. Emma’s life is in danger. Did she tell you which hotel they were going to?”
“Emma didn’t know. Joe told her it would be a surprise. A very romantic hotel. He had a room all reserved under a friend’s name—to avoid a lot of gawking.”
“Do you know whether they’re having dinner?”
“Yeah, at some small Italian restaurant in midtown. She told me the name, but I can’t remember.”
“Are they going to a show?”
“Yeah, a matinee.”
“Thanks, Zoe. Let me give you my number in case you think of anything else, or in case Emma happens to call. If she does, please tell her to get away from Campbell and not to go to his room.”
“She’s not going to call me until she’s alone.”
“Just in case. My associate Rendi is going to call you and read the names of all the Italian restaurants in midtown. See if that jogs your memory.”
Abe immediately dialed his old friend Alex O’Donnell, Campbell’s agent. He remembered that Alex had mentioned the pseudonym Campbell sometimes used when he checked into hotels.
No answer. Alex’s secretary told him that her boss was on a plane going to Europe.
“Does he have a sky page?” Abe asked her.
“Yes, but I don’t know whether it will work halfway across the Atlantic.”
“Try, please.”
Abe racked his brain and finally remembered that Campbell had used a name that was somehow related to his nickname, the White Knight. But he still couldn’t remember the precise name Campbell had used to register in the Boston hotel.
However, he did remember the name of the Boston hotel: the Four Seasons. He called Justin and told him to call over to the hotel and find out the name Campbell had used to register there. In the meantime, Rendi had gotten Zoe to narrow down the list of restaurants to half a dozen. She called each of them. No Campbell. It was now 8:45.
The phone rang.
“Bad news and good news, Abe,” said Justin. “Bad is that I can’t break into Campbell’s files. I’ve tried everything. He’s probably randomized his password. Good news is I found out what name he uses to register in hotels: ‘Mitch White.’”
Abe and Rendi quickly started to call all the large hotels on the list provided by the police. New York Palace: no luck. Park Lane: no luck. Regency, Waldorf-Astoria: no luck. Emma’s life was quickly ticking away, and she didn’t even suspect it.
In desperation, Abe turned to Rendi. “Please, do whatever you have to do. Whatever they taught you in the Mossad. No limits. We’ve got to stop him.”
Even before he’d completed the last sentence, Rendi was out the door, a look on her face that Abe had never seen before.
Chapter Forty
BROOKLYN—FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 1
Peter Luger’s Steak House is tucked under a bridge in Brooklyn, right over the East River from Manhat
tan. It is one of Brooklyn’s major attractions for sophisticated Manhattan residents and a steak lover’s paradise. Joe Campbell loved beef. Although he had made reservations at Gianini’s in Midtown, after the show was over he’d decided that he was in the mood for a steak. So off they went in a taxi over the Brooklyn Bridge.
The restaurant seemed like an oasis in the middle of an asphalt desert, steaming with poverty, drugs, and homelessness. Normally Emma would be consumed by the disparity of wealth inside and outside the restaurant. However, this was her day, a time to think only of the pleasures that awaited her. It was her first real date with Joe Campbell, not an afterthought of one of her father’s meetings. Joe had called her and asked her if he could be her “first date” in New York. Somehow he also knew that it was her birthday. Her father must have mentioned it once, Emma thought.
“I can’t believe how good you look,” her new roommate, Zoe, had said as Emma was dressing for her date. While shopping at Zoe’s uncle’s boutique in SoHo, they had picked out a frothy short red chiffon dress, cut below the bust. High-heeled pumps completed the outfit. Emma was used to wearing Dr. Martens and Birkenstock sandals, so she had to practice walking on the heels for a while before getting dressed. She couldn’t believe that her study dates with Jon had been enough to satisfy her all this time.
Emma’s secret was too terrific not to share with someone. So Zoe knew of her plans, but she was sworn to secrecy. No one would learn from Zoe’s lips where Emma was spending the evening. Emma had made one promise before she’d left: “I’ll call you as soon as I’m alone, no matter what time. Wish me good luck.”
Now she was alone with Joe Campbell—well, alone among hundreds of diners. Soon she would really be all alone with him.
“You really look sexy, Emma. I knew you would when you started dressing like a woman.”
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