by R. G. Belsky
“What’s going on with you anyway?” Janet asked me now.
“What do you mean?”
“You seem different lately.”
“Different how?”
“I don’t know, different. Quieter. More subdued. Not so many wisecracks as usual from you tonight.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but I am working on some new material.”
“It’s like you’re preoccupied with something. And now you hit me out of the blue with this motherhood stuff.”
“I simply asked you a question about being a mother, Janet. That’s all. Don’t make a big deal out of it.
Janet sighed and took a drink of her daiquiri. She knew me well enough to know that I wasn’t telling her everything. But she also knew me well enough to know not to push me for more at that moment. We’d been friends for a long time, me and Janet. It’s hard to fool people like that.
“Look, Clare, you’ve never lived successfully with anyone else in your life. You’ve been married three times, but none of them lasted long. You’ve always been totally preoccupied with your job to the exclusion of nearly everything else in your life. You’re kind of selfish, I suppose, never caring about anyone but you and your own life. As for a child, I’ve never seen you relate outwardly to children or show any apparent interest in ever raising one.”
“I get it. You think I’d make a lousy mother.”
“Not so fast. No one is truly qualified to be a mother, no one knows how it’s going to turn out. Not at the beginning anyway. I certainly didn’t with Karen and Kim. You learn about yourself along the way in motherhood. It just happens. That’s what would happen to you, if you ever take that step. You’re a good person, Clare. You’d make a good mother in the end, no matter what you think. If that’s what you ever decide you want to do. Did I answer your question?”
I finished my Corona and ordered another. Then I looked out at the boats passing by us on the East River. I thought about how nice it would be to be on one of them right now. Maybe sailing out of New York Harbor all the way up the New England coast. Cape Cod. Maine. Maybe all the way to Canada. Some place where I could forget about everything for a while. It was a nice dream. But that’s all it was, a dream. I’d probably get seasick out there.
I told Janet at some point about Marty Barlow. About the questions I had over his death. About the strange connection between Terri Hartwell and his son-in-law. About how he’d come to me for help on a story he was working on and I never got back to him. About how badly I felt about that.
“I remember you telling me about him,” Janet said. “He was important in helping you start your career.”
“Maybe the most important influence I ever had as a young journalist. I owed everything to him.”
“So it makes sense that his murder would shake you up so badly.”
“I suppose.”
“Maybe that’s why you’ve seemed so different, so preoccupied. It’s because of Marty Barlow’s death. It was such a shock—and you have so many regrets about that last meeting you had with him—that it’s on your mind all the time.”
Except it wasn’t Marty Barlow I was thinking about right now.
It was the conversation we’d just had about motherhood.
That was the most important thing on my mind—even more than Marty Barlow. You see, I’d been a mother once, a long time ago. I had a beautiful daughter. Then I lost her. Now I’d found her again. I even met her. So I have a daughter, but I don’t have a daughter. I realize that probably doesn’t make sense to anyone, but then, it doesn’t make much sense to me, either.
Which is why I couldn’t tell the truth about my daughter to anyone—even my best friend, Janet.
“You’re right, it’s Marty Barlow’s death,” I told Janet. “That’s what’s been bothering me so much.”
CHAPTER 4
ONE OF THE first rules of journalism Marty ever taught me was that every news story should answer the five Ws—who, what, where, when, and why. I knew the answers to the first four about Marty’s death—but not the “why”? What if it wasn’t a random mugging, as the police believed? That meant he was killed for another reason.
What was it? Well, Marty had come to me and said he was working on a story about Terri Hartwell. He said it had started out about building corruption and illegal payoffs, but might also involve murder.
Now I find out that Thomas Wincott, his son-in-law, is a major building owner in New York City.
And also, a key campaign money supporter of Hartwell’s upcoming bid to be mayor.
Was all that a coincidence?
I was still thinking about the best way to pursue all this the next day at the Channel 10 news meeting. We held two of them a day. One in the morning, then again in the afternoon a little before the 6 p.m. newscast. I ran both meetings, and they were my favorite part of the day. I got to forget about advertising campaigns, marketing ideas, ratings books, and all the other annoying parts of my job, and instead, concentrate on the one thing I care about the most—the news.
Basically, the meeting consisted of everyone talking about a lot of stories happening that day and then us—well, mostly me—narrowing it down to the handful that would make it on the air. There’s never a shortage of news stories to choose from, not in New York City. A lot of stuff is always happening here.
The big story today was about a call-girl ring that had been found operating a block away from police headquarters. One of the girls had come forward to claim they had “serviced” many police brass in return for being allowed to operate freely in downtown Manhattan. The police commissioner called a press conference to say he had known nothing about the rampant prostitution happening right next door to him. Which either made him a liar or a very stupid police commissioner. It was a helluva story that had exploded in the tabloid papers, on TV news, and all over the internet.
“Someone’s already posted a video that went viral with a GIF of the police commissioner with hands over his eyes, ears, and mouth, saying, ‘Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil,’” Maggie Lang, my assignment editor and top deputy, said.
“I’ll bet he’s hoping there’s a ‘happy ending’ to this,” quipped Brett Wolff, one of the Channel 10 co-anchors. “One way or another …”
“Yep, he’s going to have to ‘beat off’ the critics over this scandal,” chimed in Dani Blaine, the other co-anchor.
“Oh, my God, this is all so ‘whore-iffic,’” someone said with a laugh.
“Okay,” I told everyone, “we’ll go big with it all at the top of the newscast. Excerpts from the commissioner’s press conference. Clips of the interview with the call girl. Reaction from city leaders. Flashbacks to other big sex scandals. But no jokes. No bad puns on this. Let’s play it straight. The story is funny enough on its own without any of that.”
The rest of the news was the usual stuff. A train derailment that had snarled morning traffic, even though no one was badly hurt. A confrontation between the Board of Education and the teachers’ union over a possible school strike. Some crime stories. There was an early summer heat wave headed for the city. And the Yankees were eyeing a trade for another big slugger to add to their lineup. I looked through all of the options, ran through the order we’d put them on air, and added a few comments about other stuff we should be following.
At the end of the meeting, I finally brought up the thing that had been on my mind.
“I’d like to find out more about Terri Hartwell, our district attorney and potential future mayor,” I said. “Also, a man named Thomas Wincott, who owns a lot of real estate around town. I want to know about the relationship—or any connection—the two of them have together. Let’s check it out—public records, sources, whatever you can find.”
“Why?” Maggie asked, as I knew she would.
“I have this thirst for knowledge, Maggie.”
“Seriously, why do you suddenly care about Terri Hartwell and this Wincott guy?”
“I think there might be a
story there.”
“What kind of story?”
“I’m not sure yet. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
After the meeting was over, I had another big issue to deal with. Brett Wolff and Dani Blaine, our co-anchors. They both wanted to talk to me in my office privately. I wasn’t sure why, but I figured the conversation would not go well. I was right.
“Brett and I want to be totally transparent—completely up front with everyone—about our personal relationship,” Dani said once we closed the door.
“You have a personal relationship?” I asked.
“I’m in love with Brett,” she said.
“And I’m in love with Dani,” Brett said.
They smiled at each other, reached over, and held hands. It was a very touching moment. Except for one thing. They’d been having this on-again, off-again personal relationship in the office for quite a while now. I was having trouble keeping up with it all.
“Didn’t you want to file a sexual harassment charge against Brett the last time we talked about this, Dani?” I asked. “And, Brett, you accused Dani of stalking and harassing you.”
“That was before,” they both said, almost in unison.
“Before what?”
“Before Brett left his wife for me,” Dani said.
“You left your wife?” I asked Brett.
“Yes, I plan to tell my wife I’m leaving her for Dani.”
Okay, I thought to myself. This might work out well for us at the station. Sure, there’d be a lot of sensational publicity about the sexual relationship between these two on-air news stars. But publicity is good for ratings. Everyone’s going to want to tune in to see them interacting together on the air. I remembered when the co-anchors on MSNBC’s morning show, Joe Scarborough and Mika Brzezinski, had formally announced they were a couple. Hell, you couldn’t buy that kind of free publicity. But then, even before I could get too excited about all this, it began to fall apart.
“What do you mean you’re planning to tell your wife that you’re leaving her?” Dani asked Brett.
“I told you that I would,” he said.
“No, you said that you had told your wife.”
“Don’t make a big thing about the wording.”
“Have you told her yet?”
“I’m going to, Dani. I have to wait for the right moment.”
“And when would that be? Sometime before we get married, I hope? Or am I going to look over in bed on our wedding night and see her sleeping there with us?”
It very quickly turned into a screaming match between the two of them.
I put my fingers in my ears and waited until they finally stopped.
“Just let me know the sleeping arrangements as soon as you figure them out,” I said.
The information I got back about Terri Hartwell was pretty much what I expected.
She was forty-six years old, married to a pharmaceutical executive, and had two children—a boy, fourteen, and a girl, twelve. She’d started out her career as a consumer lawyer, representing customers against big corporations employing questionable business practices. That had gotten her a lot of media attention. She was attractive, personable, and smart—so she soon began making appearances on TV news shows as a guest commentator.
At some point, she got herself a talk radio show, which she did as a part-time gig in addition to her work as a consumer attorney. But pretty soon the radio show became a full-time job. Hartwell was outspoken, opinionated, and—most importantly of all—extremely popular with the listeners. Her ratings soared until she became one of the most popular New York political voices around.
A few years ago, she decided to go into politics by running for—and winning—the district attorney’s job. Since then, she’d put a lot of people in jail. Many of them violent street felons, but also white-collar criminals, big mob bosses, and other powerful forces in the city who had never been touched by law enforcement in the past. She sure seemed like someone who was on the right side of the war against corruption. But was she really? Or had Marty found out something about her that might torpedo her rising political career?
There wasn’t nearly as much about Wincott, but some of it was intriguing. His company owned a number of commercial and residential buildings in the city, and he had become extremely wealthy as a landlord. Along the way though, there’d been a controversy. He was one of several business real estate owners accused in the past of using strong-arm tactics to force out longtime residents in order to get higher rents. There were also questions about whether he’d received preferential treatment in his dealings with city officials, unions, and political leaders for his buildings. No one specifically mentioned payoffs, but that was the implication. And many of his commercial tenants had unsavory underworld reputations, which had put them in trouble with the law before. All in all, it seemed like Thomas Wincott—like many rich real estate people in New York City—sure had things to hide.
I’d left Marty’s laptop computer in a drawer of my desk, but I hadn’t had time to check through it yet. I opened the computer now and began reading through Marty’s files. Marty had been interested in a lot of stories. Neighborhood crime. Community board rezoning. Political corruption. Police malfeasance. He’d even managed to get the city to fix a broken traffic light where schoolkids crossed.
There was a link to Marty’s website where he had written news stories about a lot of these things. I read through some of the stories. They were crisp, well written, and hard hitting. Whether or not he was suffering from dementia, Marty hadn’t lost any of his journalistic skills. There was also a link to another website, but I couldn’t access that one. It was password protected. And there was no option to try to set up a password of my own. The subject line for the file simply said: “The Wanderer.” I wondered what that was all about.
But the most recent file did seem relevant. It was a list of building addresses. Eight locations scattered throughout Manhattan. Marty had added notes along with each building—detailing various illegal activities like prostitution, gambling, drug dealing, extortion, and rent gouging that he apparently believed were happening at these spots. I looked up all the addresses of the buildings online, but couldn’t find out anything about who owned them. Except I knew his son-in-law, Thomas Wincott, did own a lot of real estate in the city.
I searched through the rest of the stuff I could find on Marty’s computer. Much of it was more of the same kinds of things he’d been writing about since moving to New York—schools, government corruption, zoning laws. But then I found something different. A recent story he’d saved. Not a story he’d worked on—or even about New York. It was from a newspaper in Indiana, the Fort Wayne Journal Gazette, and it had been published a few months earlier. I read it:
30 YEARS LATER, THE MURDER OF BECKY BLUSO REMAINS A BAFFLING MYSTERY TO POLICE
By Eileen Nagle
Journal Gazette Crime Reporter
On a warm summer day in 1990, a pretty high school cheerleader, Becky Bluso, was found brutally stabbed to death in the bedroom of her own home in the quiet town of Eckersville, Indiana.
Today police are no closer than they were back then to solving the baffling crime.
“We’ve had leads, we’ve had new evidence emerge, we’ve had some suspects show up on the radar,” Eckersville Police Chief Jeff Parkman told the Journal Gazette. “But none of it has panned out. We’re not giving up though.
“I realize it happened a long time ago, but this is a crime that still doesn’t make sense. A teenaged girl is horribly murdered in her bedroom in the middle of the day in a quiet, crime-free neighborhood. I want to find out who killed her and why and how.
“Somebody out there knows something. We need them to come forward and help us with information. We need to find out who stole this young girl’s life away from her before she even had a chance to live it. If anyone knows anything about the murder of Becky Bluso after all these years, please come forward now and contact us in the Eckersville Poli
ce Department.”
The article then went on with details on the long-ago crime itself. It was all interesting enough. But I had no idea why Marty would care about a murder that happened six hundred miles away after all these years.
There was nothing I could find on his computer about Terri Hartwell or the DA’s office or Thomas Wincott. Maybe Marty was afraid his son-in-law would look at the computer. Maybe that information was in the password-protected file. Or maybe he just ran out of time.
In the end, the only thing that seemed important here was the list of eight building addresses.
Did these eight buildings belong to Thomas Wincott?
Was Marty investigating his own son-in-law’s business?
From what I knew about Thomas Wincott—and the relationship between the two of them—there would have been something especially satisfying for Marty in that.
CHAPTER 5
I’m a reporter at heart. Always have been, always will be. So, instead of waiting until the next day and assigning someone to check out the buildings on Marty’s list, I decided to do it myself that night after I left work. I talked to tenants and business owners and other people at each spot. Many of them remembered Marty being there. An elderly man writing down notes. Asking a lot of questions about the buildings and the businesses.
The first spot I went to was a tenement on the Lower East Side. The building was very run down, but all the ones around it were new and fancy. It was a part of the city where a lot of expensive co-ops had been built for wealthy New Yorkers in recent years. The people who lived there told me a young child had died not long ago after falling down an elevator shaft. The elevator had been broken for months. But no one ever responded to their pleas to fix it—even though it was considered dangerous. The boy’s death hadn’t changed that. Everyone believed the owners of the building were trying to force them all out in order to raze the place and build expensive new apartments.
