“Um, it’s at secondacts-dot-com. I’m pretty sure it’s my mom’s? And, it’s about stuff that happened to her when she was young. But, um, I think—well, someone’s basically threatening to kill her. Can the police find out who it is?”
Chapter Twenty-Four
The city of New York is home to nearly nine million people. Within it sits the island of Manhattan, only twenty-three square miles of land, but with nearly two million residents, the most densely populated area in the United States. Two million people buzzing around on just twenty-three square miles of land bred a certain culture: efficiency in moving from point A to point B; no eye contact or small talk; no connection to the people one passed on the way. And along with that culture came a distinct feeling of anonymity.
But the sense of anonymity was not the same thing as actual privacy. Among the hundreds of people a busy Manhattanite buzzed past on a daily basis was the guy at the deli counter who poured the same large cup of coffee each morning, two sugars with nonfat milk; the pedicurist who feigned obliviousness to prolonged cell phone calls while she scraped away dead skin from her clients’ cracked feet; the clerk at Duane Reade who pretended not to notice when a husband purchased condoms six hours after his wife picked up her birth control pills.
The Manhattan economy was propped up by people whose very jobs depended on feeding the feeling of anonymity, even as they were entrusted with the most private secrets. And no one knew more about the lives of the seemingly anonymous than a New York City doorman.
The doorman stationed at the entry of the Langstons’ Upper East Side apartment building was the epitome of professionalism, with a neatly pressed navy blazer, perfect posture, and a prompt greeting. “Good afternoon. How may I help you?”
While she and Rogan displayed their shields, Ellie squinted at the name embroidered on the doorman’s jacket. “How are you doing today, Nelson?” The personal touch never hurt. “We’re here to see Mrs. Langston. We were here last night as well. It’s about a friend of Ramona: Julia Whitmire?”
If the name meant anything to Nelson, he certainly wasn’t showing it.
“Of course. Let me call up.” His expression was blank as he placed the call. “Good afternoon, ma’am. There are two detectives here to see you. . . . Detectives Hatcher and Rogan. . . . Yes, they are right here in the lobby now. . . . Very good.” He hung up the phone and extended a white-gloved hand toward the elevator. “To the twenty-first floor.”
“They seem like a nice family,” Ellie offered.
“Very,” he said with a nod. He might have meant exactly what he said. Or he might have meant the Langstons were devil-worshiping cat torturers. His face revealed nothing.
“Do you remember Ramona’s friend, Julia?”
“We have many visitors in a large building like this.”
“My understanding is Julia spent a lot of nights here. I’d think you’d get to know the kids’ friends pretty well.”
“Sometimes, yes. We have very nice families here.”
“Was Julia Whitmire ‘very nice’? Did she seem to still be on good terms with Ramona and her parents?”
“She visited regularly, I believe. Please, Mrs. Langston is expecting you.”
Once they were in the elevator, Rogan gave her an “atta girl” punch in the arm. “Good job interrogating the domestic help there, partner.”
Not all doormen were like Nelson. Some of them were refrigerator-size versions of Joan Rivers, happy to dish endlessly about the residents. It wasn’t her fault that, compared to those guys, Nelson was Fort Knox.
Adrienne Langston was standing just beyond the elevator doors when they opened.
She was dressed in yoga pants and a hoodie from the Pilates session that had given Ramona a chance to hack into her mother’s computer. Ramona had chosen to leave the apartment after speaking to Ellie on the phone, asking Ellie to be the one to tell Adrienne that her daughter had discovered the blog.
“I’m sorry you came all the way up here, Detectives. I’m afraid Ramona is still at school. I tried to convince her to stay home today, but she insisted she wanted to keep her normal routine. She should be home soon, but if it’s important, you can of course pull her from class if necessary. She’s at the Casden School.”
“I appreciate that, Mrs. Langston,” Ellie said. “We’re actually here to speak with you. It’s about a blog.”
No response.
“A blog called ‘Second Acts’? I think the full name is ‘Second Acts: Confessions of a Former Victim and Current Survivor.’ ”
Ellie considered herself a pretty decent poker player. She was good enough that, some months, she brought home more money from Atlantic City than from the NYPD. She did not, however, want to play cards with Adrienne Langston, who was up there in Nelson the doorman’s league of unreadable mugs.
“Do you know of a website by that name?” Rogan nudged.
“What is this relating to, Detectives?”
“It’s just a simple question, Mrs. Langston.” Rogan had used his sweet voice when they were here the previous night, but now he’d upped the ante to what Ellie called his military tone.
“And I asked you one in turn.”
Most people shared a natural tendency to acquiesce to authority. They accompanied police to the station without an official arrest. They answered questions from detectives despite Miranda warnings advising them of their right to remain silent. They consented to searches without warrants. In Ellie’s experience, only two categories of Americans departed from this trend. The first were the hardcore recidivists who could look a cop in the eye and say, “Fuck you, bacon. I want my lawyer.” The second were rich people. And while Adrienne Langston might not be Whitmire wealthy, she was rich enough to think she was owed an explanation.
“We assure you,” Ellie said, “that our questions about the blog are related to the death of Julia Whitmire. I think your question is intended to protect your privacy.”
“I value privacy a great deal.” Adrienne was adjusting the floral arrangement on the foyer’s center table, even though every last stem was meticulously placed.
“Is that why the blog was supposed to be anonymous?” Ellie asked.
“It’s sort of a contradiction, isn’t it?” Adrienne said. “A person claiming to want privacy, while placing every last personal detail on the Internet for every prying eye to see?”
“My father died under horrible circumstances when I was little. All my life I wanted the details of his death to remain private. But two years ago, I found myself in the media spotlight, sharing all of these stories I never wanted to talk about. I did it to help my mother get access to my dad’s pension—it’s a long story—but I have to admit that the process of unloading all of that onto a curious public was strangely healing. If I could have done it anonymously, as with a blog—well, I can see the appeal of that.”
Ellie truly did value privacy. She hated every second of those ridiculous interviews. But, despite what she said to Adrienne, she did not understand people who blogged, Facebooked, and Tweetered (or whatever) their every irrelevant moment. She did not enjoy hauling out her own drama, even for the sake of getting a witness to trust her. Luckily, the trumped-up common ground did the trick.
Adrienne invited them into the living room, gesturing toward an oversize floral-print sofa. Ellie felt herself sink into the plush down cushions.
“I suppose there’s no point in denying the blog is mine,” Adrienne said, claiming a spot on the rocking chair next to them, then tucking one foot beneath her. “You are the police, after all. All these years, I thought I’d put my childhood behind me.”
“So why did you decide to write about this now?” Ellie asked.
She wrinkled her face in confusion as she considered the question, obviously not for the first time. “Who really knows why we do any of the things we do. But my best guess? I look at Ramona. She’s the same age now as I was when I finally told my mother I was being raped.” She used the word without any hesita
tion or discomfort. “I remember, at the time, forcing myself to understand why my mother didn’t want to believe me when I went to her. She didn’t want to be alone again. My dad left before I was born. She was poor. She was forty years old but looked sixty. Men weren’t exactly pounding on her door.”
“But you were her daughter.” Ellie felt strange talking to this woman about something so personal, when she’d already read the details on her blog.
“Exactly. And when I was a teenager, I really did try not to hate her. I made all kinds of excuses. And it wasn’t hard, you know, because boys were my first consideration, too, at the time. And I wanted to love my mother. But now?”
“You’re not a teenager anymore,” Rogan said.
“Exactly. When you’re a kid, it’s like you don’t have enough experience to gauge how wrong your situation is. It’s not until you grow up that you can truly and honestly evaluate just how off something was when you were a child. I knew enough to understand that my mother’s boyfriend should not have come to me at night the way he did. But I would have also known it was wrong for him to borrow a CD without my permission. It was like I somehow convinced myself they were close to the same level of offense, so I was able to forgive my mother for not reacting more strongly. And, ultimately, I still forgive her, because I know that in some way, it was that same man who made her weak. But, wow, I see my Ramona. If any man ever touched her like that, I’d kill him.”
“And you never spoke to Ramona about the abuse?” Ellie asked.
Adrienne shook her head quietly. “That part of my life is over. I write about it as a way to rid myself of those events, but I don’t want my family to see me as that person. I need it to be separate. Wait, if this has something to do with Julia—does Ramona know about my writing?”
Ellie broke the news that the woman had started to piece together on her own. “She found your blog. She saw the threats, too. She called us because she’s afraid for you.”
“I guess I’ll need to talk to her about it now. And, of course, George.”
“You never told your husband?” Ellie had met George Langford and had filed him away mentally as Mister-Stick-Up-His-Ass, but she still couldn’t imagine marrying someone without telling him something so important. “Not that it’s my business.”
“You’re right. It’s not your business. What does any of this have to do with Julia?”
“Would you say that you knew Julia well?” Rogan asked, still with the military voice.
“Very. She and Ramona were practically joined at the hip since they were in the fifth grade. Slumber parties. Late-night cookie baking. They got their ears pierced together, way too early if you ask me, but that’s another story. Future maids of honor for each other would have been my guess. Ramona—well, I don’t know what she’s going to do without Julia.”
“And everything was okay between them?” Ellie asked.
“Two peas in a pod.”
“And what about Julia’s feelings toward you?”
Adrienne was clearly perplexed by the question. “Me? Oh, I don’t know. I liked Julia. Very much, actually. I felt bad for her. Her parents—well, you met them. You probably gathered that parenting was not their top priority. Sometimes I wished she would just stay with us instead of being downtown in that museum, all by herself. But her feelings about me? I’d like to think that she liked me. And respected me. And recognized that I cared about her. But my guess is that, like all children, she just saw me as the woman who happened to be around Ramona’s house every now and then.” She smiled sadly.
“When we were talking about your blog, you didn’t mention that someone had been posting threatening remarks in the comments.”
“Oh, those drive me crazy.” Adrienne waved a hand as if the remarks were nothing to worry about, but Ellie noticed she was rocking in her chair more aggressively. “I thought about deleting them, but then I figured, if some crazy person wants to attack me, I’ll let my readers see it for what it is. Speaking the ugly truth is a sacrifice. There are people who think survivors should all shut up and keep it to themselves. And that’s why it’s all the more important for survivors to have their voices be heard.”
“Don’t you wonder who’s posting the comments?”
“Of course I do. But I’ve read enough in the newspaper to know I really can’t do anything about it. Words are only words, right?”
Her impression of the law was accurate. If Adrienne had called the police about the threats on her blog, her call would have been transferred to ten different departments until someone finally explained to her that problems of jurisdiction, anonymity, freedom of speech, and antiquated penal laws all conspired to leave only one option: suck it up.
It was time to drop the other shoe. “We have uncovered evidence that Julia Whitmire posted one of those comments.”
Adrienne’s face was initially unchanged, but then the truth must have registered. She looked like she’d been slapped.
“I don’t understand. How can you know that? Julia’s dead.”
Ellie gave her the truncated, nontechnical version of the information they’d pulled from Julia’s laptop. She left out the part where they wouldn’t be a hundred percent certain until Max subpoenaed the Internet protocol addresses from the blog’s hosting site. She had called Max before leaving for the Upper East Side, and he was working on it at that very minute. But Ellie knew what she knew, even without the records. The timing revealed by Julia’s Internet history was good enough evidence for now.
“That doesn’t mean Julia wrote it,” Adrienne protested. “Anyone could have used her laptop.”
“True, the author wasn’t necessarily Julia, but not just anyone would have access to her computer. It stands to reason that Julia had something to do with that original post, and someone else has continued making similar threats since she died. Maybe a friend of hers?”
“I know where you’re going with this. Absolutely not. Ramona would never. We’re very close. You just said she was the one to call you, for goodness’ sake.”
Once they obtained the IP addresses linked to the other posts, they’d know for certain whether Ramona could have been involved, but Ellie shared Adrienne’s assumption that the girl wouldn’t have called them if she’d been the one responsible.
“You said yourself that Julia and Ramona were extremely close. We’ve seen cases where teenagers lash out at their friends’ parents, without the victims’ own kids even knowing about it. You’re Ramona’s stepmother, if I’m not mistaken?” Ellie was on a roll now, so Rogan was letting her lead the questioning uninterrupted.
Adrienne’s eyes drifted upward and she shook her head in frustration. “Unbelievable. I’ve raised that girl since she was seven years old. She calls me Mom.”
“So you’ve legally adopted her?”
“No. It was never—it wasn’t necessary. It isn’t necessary. She’s my daughter. We have a good relationship. She wouldn’t do something like that. We are very open with each other.”
“And yet you had a secret in your past. And you had a blog. And she even learned about that blog and that secret. But neither of you spoke to the other about what you knew.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“And yet you don’t want to believe that Julia would have posted those comments, either, but we’re telling you—she did.”
She took a deep breath before answering. “Julia was a wonderful and generous girl, but she was also reckless. She had a darkness within her.”
“Dark enough to post such horrible threats on your website?”
“I don’t know what to think. In a way, it would be nice to know that whoever is writing those comments isn’t actually dangerous. But I have a really hard time believing Julia would do this.”
“You don’t seem all that troubled by either prospect. We’ve seen the comments posted on your site.” He should have choked you harder. That was from Monday morning. Then Monday afternoon: You were a good lay. Wonder what you’re like now.
Is that ass still tight? I might have to find out. Monday evening: I will show you damage. This morning: I’m still here. I touch myself when I read your words. I’m thinking about you. Ellie had worked her share of stalker cases but couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for a rape survivor to find those words waiting for her when she turned on her computer.
“I’ve spent a long time getting past the things that happened to me when I was younger. Writing about it has been the best form of healing, after all of these years. I put it all out on the table—maybe not with Ramona, because, however misguided this may seem, I want to preserve her innocence. But on a page, in words, I’m laying it all out there. And I’ve resolved not to let some idiot with a keyboard and the shelter of the Internet get to me. All I can tell you is that I would bet my life that my daughter had nothing to do with those vile comments. And I’m nearly as sure that empty threats on my silly website have absolutely no relation to whatever happened to Julia Whitmire. You can’t seriously think I did something to her? I was at a fundraising dinner for breast cancer research out in Sag Harbor that night, if you need to check on my whereabouts.”
“I wasn’t accusing you of anything, Mrs. Langston. And I’m sorry if it sounded like I was questioning your relationship with Ramona. But for now, we’re treating Julia’s death as a homicide. And when we find out that a homicide victim was holding on to a secret, that secret often sends us down the road to a killer.”
“It makes me very sad to say this, Detective, but my guess is that you’ll find that Julia Langston was carrying around more than one secret.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Nelson the doorman had just finished putting an elderly woman and her pocketbook-size dachshund into a cab.
“You were right, Nelson. The Langstons seem like a very nice family.”
He smiled politely. “Have a nice day, ma’am.”
“Ramona seems to get along with Mrs. Langston?” Unless Julia Whitmire had a reason of her own to threaten Adrienne, the most obvious explanation was that she was doing it on Ramona’s behalf, and that someone else was now continuing the pattern. “I’m sure at that age it must be typical for a teenaged girl to fight with her parents.”
Never Tell Page 13
