Silent Mercy

by Linda Fairstein

  “How about the guys, Kris? You know all of them?”

  “I sure do. It’s not like I date any of them, if that’s where you’re going. Most of us in the troupe are pretty young. Hardly anybody over thirty-five. We work together, we live together. Spend a lot of time with each other. Some of them have grown up in this business, Mike. They’ll have kids who’ll be Ringling babies.”

  Kristin Sweeney stopped talking and pointed at me. “She’s looking at me like it’s all strange, what we do. It’s not. It’s really not.”

  “That’s not what I was thinking,” I said. “I apologize. Your life sounds really interesting to someone like me who sits at a desk a lot of the time.”

  I was actually thinking how lucky we were to get such a cooperative talker in the first room at which we stopped. And trying to remember the last time I’d spent a full day at my desk.

  “You ride this train from town to town?” Mike asked.

  “All over the country.”

  “Can you—do you—ever get off?” Mike asked. “Have you been into Manhattan on your own?”

  “Oh, sure. They run a shuttle bus for us, almost wherever we go, so we can get around. And there’s a flatbed freight train that travels behind us. It’s got some motorcycles and cars on it. Lots of guys use those for their socializing and such.”

  Everything suddenly went dark and I clutched the edge of the desk. Two seconds later, the lights went back on and I realized we had gone underground, into the vast tunnel system that fed an endless flow of trains below the Hudson River, across to Manhattan to be routed around Penn Station for the trip northeast. For a little while, we might arguably have a claim to proper jurisdiction.

  “So, let me ask you about a guy I’m looking to talk to, Kris,” Mike said.

  “Okay.”

  “He’s a performer. Maybe worked with the troupe a few months back. Maybe still does.”

  She sat up straighter and listened attentively.

  “He’s a tall guy, very thin. Has dark hair, keeps it long—sometimes tied back like a ponytail. Don’t know what kind of artist he is, but he moves real smooth and graceful.”

  Kristin Sweeney wasn’t smiling at Mike any longer. She had her right arm raised to the wall next to her before he finished his description, and was pounding on it with her fist as he spoke.

  “He’s got bad skin, some kind of blisters—”

  “I don’t know a guy like that, but why do you want to talk to him anyway?” She was quick to answer, and there was almost a snarl in her voice. “About those girls? About?”

  The door opened and a hulking six-foot-six-inch man put a foot forward in the room. He had the torso of a comic-book strongman.

  “Nico,” Kris said. “Thanks for coming in. These guys are cops.”

  If someone had posted a Doric column in the doorway, it would have been easier to work my way around it and out of the room.

  “Nico Radka. Pleased to meet you.”

  So he was the Czech performer in the next room, whose surname had been on the whiteboard. To the rescue, as Kristin had hoped.

  “Mike Chapman. Alex—”

  “Nico, they’re all into asking questions about some missing girls and stuff. That’s why I was answering them at first. Now they want to know if we got a guy that looks such and such. Tall, ponytail, red face or something. Maybe you should find Mr. Delahawk. I don’t know anyone like that.” She was talking to Mike but staring at Nico Radka, as tense as if Mike had struck a nerve underneath a bad tooth.

  “Why don’t you step out with me, Mr. Mike?” Nico asked the question politely, almost as though he was giving us a choice.

  “We met Mr. Delahawk on the way in. He has no problem with helping us,” Mike said, foolishly assuming that we wouldn’t encounter the manager in our passage through the cars.

  “Very well then. We shall get him.” The young man’s accent was thick. So were his lateral deltoids.

  “What’s your gig, Nico?”

  “Tumbling. Acrobatic tumbling.” Nico turned sideways to wriggle his way down the narrow corridor of the train as it emerged from beneath the river and hurtled north on the tracks that ran parallel to the Jersey Palisades. “Come, please. Lock your door, Kristin. Is best you do.”

  We followed Nico down the length of the hallway, across a platform with protective railing on both sides that linked to the next car.

  This one seemed to be divided into two suites, obviously larger than the cubicles in which Kristin and Nico lived.

  “So you know this guy I was talking to Kristin about?” Mike asked.

  “Which guy?” Nico’s head went from side to side as he walked toward the rear of the car but continued to turn back to Mike, whether to answer questions or make certain we were staying in line behind him.

  “One of your buddies. Tall and lean, ponytail—”

  “Why you want to know who we know? Somebody does something wrong?” His muscled arms braced against the window as the train rocked along the tracks.

  We hadn’t been so lucky with our first contact after all. Kristin and Nico had joined forces to circle the wagons around their extended family the moment she figured our interest had shifted from finding missing women to fingering one of the men in their troupe.

  “We’re looking for people, that’s all. We think one of your friends may have known them.”

  The first whiteboard we passed bore the names RAMON AND RAMON under the hand-drawn images of two stars. I heard Mike ask Nico who they were.

  “Illusionists, Mr. Mike. Best in the world.”

  Good enough to occupy half a train car. The other label at the far end said THE FLYING ZUKOVS. Again, someone had added a sketch, this time of a stick figure hanging from a trapeze.

  Nico opened the door to pass into the next wagon. On the platform, which was like a small open vestibule, a man sat in a folding beach chair, looking at the scenic vista as we raced along the Hudson River.

  We entered another dormitory-style car, and I scanned the names of the eight occupants as we hurried past.

  Another platform and there was the brass nameplate, a more permanent fixture than in the other cars: FONTAINE DELAHAWK.

  Nico faced the door and rang the buzzer.

  Mike saw a chance to get around him, grabbed my hand, and pulled me in the direction of the next twenty-odd cars in the long train as we heard the deep voice of Delahawk ask who was at the door.

  I looked over my shoulder as I ran behind Mike. Nico appeared to be stunned as he waited for Delahawk to open up for him. We were already through the rear of the car—a solo apartment—and into the next one.

  Here the names were also illustrated by an amateur artist. The four suites seemed to hold the all-important costume designer and three performers who worked with animals.

  “Keep running, Coop,” Mike said as he led the charge forward. “Let’s get as deep into the company—as many cars back as we can—before Delahawk lumbers along. We just need to talk to somebody. Anybody who’ll point us in the right direction, or tell us we’re off base.”

  I paused to catch my breath. “We can’t be too far wrong, Mike. Kristin only called for Nico, only knocked on the wall to summon him, when you described our suspect. She was eating out of your hand till that very moment.”

  We were on the move again, working our way back through the train. Three cars later, Mike stopped to adjust to the darkness as we entered another subterranean tunnel. We were crossing under the narrow strip of water that would take us east and out of Manhattan, into the Bronx, for the trip to New England.

  I was leaning against the window and skimming the eight names on the whiteboard that faced me. One of them was familiar, not just because it was more American than the foreign surnames. I repeated it to myself silently, then said it aloud. “Bellin.”

  “What?”

  “That name. Bellin.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Daniel Gersh,” I said. “You told me to call his mother this morning.”


  “So?” Mike was ready to move ahead. He pushed off from the wall.

  “That’s her name now. Bellin. His stepfather is Lanny Bellin.”

  Mike made an abrupt about-face and stepped in front of me to open the door to the suite of cubicles.

  “It’s the fourth name on the list,” I said to him.

  He counted three doors and banged his knuckles once on the fourth one, twisting the handle at the same time. I was at his shoulder, peering in.

  Reclining on the single bed, listening to his iPod and looking almost as surprised as I did, was Naomi’s brother, Daniel Gersh.

  FORTY-TWO

  “THE elusive Daniel Gersh,” Mike said. “Aka Bellin.”

  Gersh backed himself up into the corner of the bed and removed the earphones. “What do you want?”

  “I know you told us you were going to take acting classes in the fall, but somehow I didn’t figure you for clown school.”

  “I’m not—”

  “A real Pagliacci, huh? A homicidal clown. Great act to take on the road, Daniel.”

  There was a crackling noise overhead and I could see a small speaker in the ceiling, next to a recessed light fixture.

  “Ladies and gentlemen.” There was a cough as the person cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentleman, good evening. This is Fontaine. I need your attention for a moment.”

  “You’re out of your mind, Detective. You got this all wrong,” Daniel said.

  “It would appear that two officers of the New York Police Department have joined us for the next leg of our trip. This is no cause for alarm. None at all. I’d ask that you all stay in your rooms for the next hour or so. We will of course keep the Pie Car open later into the evening. Do not—I repeat—”

  “Make it right for me,” Mike said. “Tell me what you’re doing here. Tell me about your friend and what cubicle he’s holed up in, Daniel.”

  “Do not have any conversation with these officers,” Delahawk continued. “I suggest you keep your doors locked and do not have any conversation with them, nor answer any of their questions.”

  “What are my rights?” Daniel asked, looking at me for an answer. “I’ve got rights, don’t I?”

  “The closest you come to that on this friggin’ train is having my right fist in your face,” Mike said, stepping toward the cowering man, ready to pull him off the bed onto his feet.

  “It’s my sister who’s dead, Detective.”

  “And there’s another woman missing now, you dumb bastard. A woman who was with Naomi at Christmastime, when you worked that play. She was at the same performance that Naomi attended.”

  “Nico and Giorgio will be passing through the train,” Delahawk droned on. “Do not open your door to anyone except either of them. And use your intercom to call my room if you see these police officers. One is a man, the other a woman. They are not dangerous, of course. They are police officers. But there will be no conversation with them unless I am present. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.”

  “What are you doing here, Daniel?” Mike asked.

  “You heard him. I work for Mr. Delahawk. I can’t talk to you.”

  Daniel kept looking over at the desk. I could see a switch and a mouthpiece. He had given away the location of the intercom. I squeezed past Mike and seated myself.

  “If anyone sings, Daniel, it’s gonna be Ms. Cooper. And nobody’ll like that. You talk to me instead. What do you know?”

  The kid knew he had his back against the wall. “Nothing. I only came on here yesterday.”

  He had gotten off the bus from Philadelphia just hours before Ursula Hewitt was killed.

  “Here?” Mike asked. “On this train?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s your talent? You had a pretty good vanishing act going when you skipped out on us.”

  “I’m a stagehand. I told you that.”

  “Tell me again and lose the attitude this time. Ringling Brothers isn’t the Chelsea Square Workshop. They don’t hire scabs. You got a union card?”

  “I do. Temporary.”

  “Funny about that. My boss was having someone check Local One today. I think I’d have had a phone call if they’d confirmed that was true. Lying to me is a bad way to start.”

  “I’m not lying,” Daniel said, reaching toward the desk for his wallet.

  Mike grabbed his hand. “You scope it out, Coop. This kid’s a natural paper shredder, remember?”

  I opened Daniel’s wallet and pulled out his credit cards and identification papers, which were wadded together in a side compartment. The driver’s license with his photo were in the name Daniel Gersh, but the union card—like two of the credit cards that probably linked to his stepfather’s account—said Daniel Bellin.

  I handed the Local One temporary ID card to Mike. “You scammed me on that one, Daniel. Now tell me what brings you to the big top, okay? Don’t waste any more of my time. If we’d had your help from the get-go, two other women might still be alive. I’m praying for one.”

  “Don’t try and guilt me, Detective.”

  “What’s the guilt factor? Did you introduce Naomi to her killer?”

  Daniel Gersh didn’t answer.

  “I know you didn’t do that on purpose,” I said. “Talk to us about it. We can all save a life if you move on this now.”

  “Does that make me an accessory or anything?”

  “Just the fact that you may have introduced the two to each other? No, Daniel. This isn’t about you. We’re working against the clock,” I said.

  And against the knock on the door by Nico.

  “His name is Ted. At least, that’s what I thought when I got here last night.”

  “You came looking for him?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Because you knew he killed Naomi?”

  Daniel looked at me with the earnest expression of youthful trust. “I didn’t believe it at first. I’m still not sure that I do.”

  “Why not?”

  “When I met him—it was in December—and he came to the show I was working on. The same night Naomi came.”

  “Double-Crossed,” Mike said.

  Daniel nodded. “Ted—at least that’s what he told me his name was—got totally freaked out during the show. One of the other guys and I had to take him outside to cool him down. Get him away from the lady who wrote the show.”

  “The priest?” I said. “Ursula Hewitt.”

  “Exactly. I don’t remember her name, but Ted was crazed that she—that any woman—claimed to be a priest.”

  “How did he even know about the play?”

  “Through his church,” Daniel said. “What’s your name again?”

  “Alexandra Cooper. Did he tell you anything about his church? The name of it, or where it is?”

  “Nah. I’m not into that. I didn’t really care. But he was only in New York for a week or two. Some special thing he had to do here. I think he said he came from Atlanta.”

  “When did he meet Naomi?”

  “There at the theater, that same night. She heard the argument Ted had with the lady-priest. Just her kind of thing, you know? So when I walked him out onto the street, she came out after me. Or after him, I guess. I—uh, I didn’t know she was going to do that.”

  “Of course not. Did Naomi leave with Ted?”

  Daniel Gersh pulled back his arms, his palms facing out. “Whoa. I have no idea about that. I went back into the playhouse to close up, to do my job, and I left the two of them talking. Her usual feminist crap. That’d be just like Naomi, thinking she could change his point of view about something like his religion.”

  “She never told you whether she went for a drink with him?”

  “They may have gone for coffee or something, but she … well, she was … I don’t have to tell you guys, do I? She was already involved.”

  “With your stepfather?” I asked.

  “Yeah. I guess he’s a bigger jerk than I ever thought he was.”

 
“But you must have figured, when we met you at Naomi’s apartment on Wednesday, that Ted could have been her killer.”

  Daniel looked taken aback by that idea. “Hardly. That’s not what I thought at all. I mean, the guy was so going on and on about how religious he was, I never figured him to be capable of hurting anyone.”

  “Daniel,” I said, “you’ve got to be straight with us. You were in Naomi’s apartment the morning after she was killed, ripping up pieces of paper, tearing pages out of her diary so no one would see them.”

  “So what?”

  “One of them had the words ‘circus train’ on it. You must have known about Ted. You must have realized that Naomi had made a plan to see him.”

  “She didn’t make any plan with him back in December. He was only here for a few days then.”

  “Forget it, Coop,” Mike said, his right hand propped against the door and the left one combing through his hair. “He just can’t be honest with us. He’s in this up to his neck.”

  “No, I’m not!” Daniel shouted.

  “Keep your voice down, kid. Start talking sense. Talk fast.”

  “Yeah, I was ripping pages out of her diary. You think I wanted my mother to read about the affair Naomi had with my stepfather in the newspapers? The other notes were about me, not my sister.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When I was talking to this guy Ted that night in December, out on the street after the play, he was telling me I was crazy to work at a dump like the playhouse. I already knew that.”

  Daniel squirmed in his corner on the bed. “He told me he could get me a better job, without any of the feminist bullshit—sorry, Ms. Cooper—when he came back to town in March. He said he’d call me if I gave him my number. Turned out to be two weeks ago, just like he said.”

  “You believed him?” I asked.

  “Why wouldn’t I? I wasn’t getting a hell of a lot of job offers where I was. Naomi’s the one who wrote down his name, who wrote down the part about the circus train that night. But she did it for me, only she kept the paper and e-mailed the information to me. It wouldn’t surprise me if she got in touch with him this time around. You never know. She was always trying to make people see things her way.”