by R. G. Belsky
They said Marty had talked to a lot of people there about the boy’s death and the unsafe condition of the abandoned elevator, promising he would get action by the city to help them.
The next place I went to was in Chelsea. This one housed a thriving pizza parlor with long lines and cars double-parked on the street outside. Neighbors said that the reason it was so popular was because it was run by the mob—who had forced all of the small pizza places in the area out of business to reduce competition. Complaints about the double-parked cars on the streets went unheeded, too, they said. The authorities were looking the other way and letting the mob pizza business run without interference.
Another building housed what was supposed to be a plumbing contractor business. Except the company never actually seemed to do any plumbing. Instead, people in the neighborhood said it was a front for an illegal gambling operation where big-money bets were placed on horse races, football games, boxing matches, and all sorts of other events.
The last spot I went to—a warehouse-type building on East 23rd—had a kinky house of prostitution, masquerading as a massage and therapy center, located on the ground floor. Except it wasn’t offering sex. At least not in the traditional way. This was a sex dungeon that provided bondage, spanking, and other such activities for their clients.
“We get lots of old guys here,” said Rebecca Crawley, the woman who ran the place. “Men who still want to live out their fantasies like this with young girls even though they’re pretty well up in years. So, we provide them with … well, our unique services … for relaxation and enjoyment.”
I wondered for a second if Marty had turned into a dirty old man in his senior years. I should have known better. With Marty, it was always about business. The business of getting a story.
“He wasn’t interested in any of that,” Crawley said. “He wanted to ask me questions about how long we’d been here, if we had any troubles with the landlord or city officials or the police. Said he was a journalist covering stories in the neighborhood. Truth is, he was kind of endearing. So intense and so determined with his questions. I don’t know if I helped him much. But I liked him.”
“When was he here?” I asked.
“The first time was several weeks ago.”
“First time?”
“Yes. Then he showed up again. The second time was not that long ago … last Monday night, I think.”
That was the same night Marty was murdered.
“Do you remember anything unusual about that last night he was here?”
“As a matter of fact, he did seem strange. The first time he was very businesslike, as I said. I mean, we specialize in all kinds of kinky stuff here. There’re guys who want to be spanked, tied up, or dressed like French maids or babies and the like. In addition, there’s all sorts of bondage and torture devices lying around here. None of that bothered him. He asked his questions and left. But the second time he seemed … well, rattled or upset. Like something was wrong.”
“What do you think was wrong?”
“I have no idea.”
There were two men waiting for me when I came out of the building. One of them was a building security guard. The other one was dressed in street clothes. He was a big guy; he seemed to be the one in charge.
“What were you doing in there?” he asked in a gravelly voice, pointing to the place I’d just left.
I froze in my tracks. I didn’t like this. It was late, it was dark, and I was alone, confronted by two strange men. Sure, I was scared. Damn scared. But I didn’t want to let these two know that. I tried to cover up my fear with bravado and said, “Just looking for a way to augment my income with a little wholesome work in the sex industry.”
“Aren’t you kind of old to work in a place like this?”
“I’d probably look a lot better to you once I was dressed in leather and spike-heeled boots.”
“C’mon, all those women are barely twenty-one up there.”
“Haven’t you heard? Forty is the new twenty.”
Nobody laughed. Nobody even smiled.
“You’ve been asking questions there and at a bunch of other buildings around town,” the big guy with the gravelly voice said. “Why?”
I decided to forgo the bravado and get the hell out of there. I started to try to walk away. The security guy grabbed my arm and stopped me. I saw now he was carrying a gun in a holster on his side. He had one hand on my arm and his other hand on the gun. He looked at the big guy and waited for his next order. This was escalating quickly. I decided there was no reason not to tell them the truth at this point—or at least part of the truth.
“My name is Clare Carlson, and I’m a journalist for Channel 10 News. That’s why I’ve been asking questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Did you ever hear of a man named Martin Barlow?”
“Who’s Martin Harlow?”
“It’s Barlow.”
“Okay, whatever …”
“Martin Barlow was murdered a few nights ago. He visited this building beforehand. I’m trying to find out if that might be connected in any way to his death. So I’m simply exercising my First Amendment rights as a reporter to acquire information. I’m sure you understand.”
The security man looked over again at the big guy. The big guy shrugged. Then they both glared at me.
I was pretty sure they didn’t understand.
“Look,” the big guy said to me, “no one here knows anything about this Martin … what was his name again?”
“Barlow.”
It didn’t seem like that hard a name to remember.
“No one knows anything about him here. Or any murder. Or anything else. So the best idea is for you to get out of here now and never come back. That would be a very wise course of action.”
“I was thinking the same thing myself.”
“There’s no story here for you.”
“None whatsoever,” I agreed.
I went back to the Channel 10 offices and thought about what had happened. I still didn’t know exactly what Marty was working on before he died, but I’d sure upset somebody when I went to those buildings asking questions. What did they have to do with Marty’s death?
I checked the city building records and still couldn’t find a direct connection between Wincott and any of the eight buildings, which surprised me. But then I hadn’t figured out who actually owned them. All of the buildings were listed as being managed by a company called Big M Realty Corp. The only address I could find for them was a post office box where the rent checks were mailed. No one I talked to knew anything about Big M Realty Corp. or who they were or where they were located. Or, if they did, they weren’t telling me.
I had no idea how any of the facts I’d uncovered fit together. But that’s what I did as a journalist. I gathered facts and followed those facts wherever they led me. I’d done that on every story I’d ever worked on. Marty taught me how to do that a long time ago. It was the least I could do now for Marty on his own story.
CHAPTER 6
“I HAVE AN announcement to make about myself,” I said at the morning news meeting.
“You’re getting married again?” one editor said.
I sighed.
“No, I’m not getting married.”
“Are you getting divorced again then?” another editor asked.
“How can she get divorced before she gets married?”
“Well, her marriages are so short maybe she decided to skip that in-between step and go right to the divorce.”
Everyone laughed. My marital status—or lack of it, at the moment—was a constant source of amusement in the newsroom.
“I’m going back on the air to personally cover a story,” I told them.
“My God, that sounds like a bigger disaster than any of your marriages,” someone said.
More laughter.
“What’s the story?” asked Maggie, always the pragmatist.
“The murder of an elderly
man named Martin Barlow on the streets of New York a few nights ago. The police think it was a random robbery that went bad. But Barlow was an old friend of mine, and so I want to look into it further. I think there’s more to this story than a simple robbery. A lot more.”
“Like what?” one of the people in the room said.
“I’m not sure yet.”
I believed there was a big story here—though I wasn’t sure what it was yet. I also believed that going public with what I did know might break more information open. And I knew, too, that Jack Faron—who I’m pretty sure wouldn’t have allowed me to do this—was away at a business meeting on the West Coast. These factors were not necessarily listed in their order of importance.
When the meeting was over, Maggie asked if she could talk to me alone. We went into my office.
“You disapprove of me going on air myself to do this story?” I asked.
“Not at all.”
“Really?”
“Why would I disapprove?”
“I don’t know … this kinda seems like a disapproval situation. How come you’re on board with it?”
“Do you remember Dora Gayle?”
I sure did remember Dora Gayle. The previous year, a homeless woman was found dead in a seemingly meaningless murder that no one else in the media was interested in covering. But Maggie convinced me that we should do it. “You never know where a story is going to lead—any story no matter how insignificant it appears at first” was her quote to me at the time. Well, actually, it was my quote. One I’d used in the newsroom many times. But Maggie threw it back at me to convince me to cover the Dora Gayle murder, which turned out to be a sensational story involving a number of prominent New Yorkers before it was over.
“There’s only one problem with you doing this, Clare.”
“Okay, what’s your problem?”
“It’s not my problem. It’s your problem. Jack Faron.”
She was right. I knew Faron would go ballistic when he found out I was doing this without telling him. But I had a plan to handle that. Well, sort of a plan. I’d break the story wide open before Faron got back. He’d find out I pulled off this big exclusive, he’d praise me for my initiative and give me a big raise. Or maybe not.
I explained this game plan to Maggie. She looked dubious.
“Faron’s going to find out before he gets back here, Clare.”
“Who’s going to tell him?”
“You’re going on the air with it tonight, remember?”
“Oh, right.”
I had to admit it wasn’t a perfect plan.
I told Maggie to cancel all my appointments for the rest of the day so I could concentrate on getting the Martin Barlow story ready to put on the air for the 6 p.m. newscast.
“Including Gary Weddle?” she asked.
“Who’s Gary Weddle?”
“Uh, that big media consultant. Faron arranged a meeting for you with him this afternoon.”
The station had hired a media consulting firm to analyze our newscasts and come up with ideas for improving ratings. This was supposed to be my first meeting with the hotshot media guy that would be handling it all. Faron had told me it was a top priority before he left for LA.
“Call Weddle and tell him I can’t make it today. Say there’s a big breaking news story or whatever else halfway believable reason you can come up with.”
“Jack Faron’s not going to be happy with you,” she said.
“He rarely is.”
That night I went on the air with what I knew about Marty Barlow and his death. Well, not all of it. I couldn’t confirm a lot of things about illegal activities at the individual buildings or any possible involvement by Terri Hartwell or Thomas Wincott. Not yet anyway. But I talked in general about Marty’s investigation before he died into corrupt housing practices in New York City. About the holes in the police version that Marty’s murder was just a random robbery. About the possibility that his murder could have been related to what he was working on as a reporter. And, I talked about my long, personal relationship with him, too, and what a terrific journalist he’d been for his entire life. That may not have been totally professional, but it was pretty damn poignant—if I do say so myself.
I knew there would be reprisals. And they came quickly. When I got back to my office after the newscast, I found a series of voicemail messages.
The first one was from my ex-husband Sam Markham. He was even angrier at me than the last time I’d talked to him. He accused me of attacking his integrity—and that of the entire police department—by implying they didn’t do a proper investigation of Martin Barlow’s murder. He questioned my ethics as a journalist. He also made several comments about my sexual performance in the past with him that weren’t … well, let’s say they weren’t complimentary. The word “bitch” was used several times in his phone diatribe.
The second angry call—which I expected—came from Thomas Wincott. He didn’t specifically mention my reference to Marty’s investigation of housing owners in New York City, but I’m pretty sure that’s what set him off. He said I should let his father-in-law rest in peace and not use his death as a cheap ratings ploy.
The next call was a surprise—and a disturbing one. The caller did not identify himself but left a message in a gravelly voice saying: “You were warned about this story, Carlson. This is your last warning.” That was it. I couldn’t say for sure that the caller was the same big guy I’d met outside one of the buildings Marty was investigating, but it seemed like a pretty good bet.
Then I heard from Gary Weddle, the hotshot media consultant I’d blown off that afternoon. He wasn’t happy, either. He said we had critical business to discuss and we had to reschedule immediately—and implied, without actually saying it—that I damn well better show up this time.
Finally, there was the message from Jack Faron in LA. “What the hell are you doing, Clare? You cancel the important meeting I set up for you with Gary Weddle without any notice or explanation. And you go on the air yourself, without my permission, to do a story that I specifically told you we shouldn’t be doing. When I leave the office, I put you in charge to deal with problems. But you’re not dealing with a problem there for me, you are the problem. Just do your job!”
Damn. I sure had gotten a lot of people mad at me today. Not that there was anything new about that. I’m very good at getting people mad at me. It’s a special talent of mine. But then, making people mad meant you were asking the right questions as a journalist. That you were opening the right doors. I sure hoped so. Because I’d just opened the first door on this story, and now there was no turning back.
CHAPTER 7
THE MARTY BARLOW story wasn’t the only worry on my mind though. Working on a big story usually made me forget about the other problems in my life. But even a big story like this couldn’t stop me from still thinking about the motherhood stuff I’d tried to talk to my friend Janet about the other night. Of course, I couldn’t tell Janet the truth about why I was asking her those questions about whether or not I’d make a good mother. I’d never told anyone the truth about that.
It’s really ironic, I suppose. I mean, I fight against lies every day of my life as a journalist. I expose lies to the viewers of Channel 10 News. I use the power of the media to force people to pay the price for their lies.
And yet, I am living this life of lies of my own right now.
So what does that say about me?
A long time ago, when I was young and wild—well, wilder than I am now—and in college, I had a baby. An unintended pregnancy, the outcome of a drunken one-night stand with a guy I never saw again. I gave up the baby for adoption as soon as she was born. It messed up my college experience, damaged irreparably my relationship with my parents, and convinced me to be more careful about my drinking. But, in reality, having a baby didn’t seem to be that momentous an event in my life. Not for a long time anyway.
But later—through a complicated set of circumstances, some
of which were my own doing—I tracked down the location of my child and met her and her adopted family. Her name was Lucy Devlin, and she was eleven years old then. She had no idea that I was her biological mother, and I never told anyone else either. Not even after Lucy disappeared off the streets of New York and became one of the most famous missing child cases ever. Instead, I covered the story as a journalist and even won a Pulitzer Prize for my work—without ever revealing my secret.
That all happened more than fifteen years ago.
I recently found out Lucy was alive somewhere. I compromised my journalistic integrity to cover up a damaging story about a powerful politician—who had played a role in Lucy’s disappearance—in an effort to find her. Eventually, I tracked Lucy to an address in Winchester, Virginia, and, after a lot of thought and trepidation, I finally went to see her.
Her name was Linda Nesbitt now, and she was twenty-seven years old. She had a husband and an eight-year-old daughter of her own. My granddaughter. I found this all out as I sat drinking coffee with her in her living room. After all this time, I’d finally found her. A real mother and daughter moment at last, huh?
Except for one thing.
She still didn’t know I was her biological mother.
I’d introduced myself to her as just Clare Carlson, the journalist who’d won a Pulitzer Prize covering her long-ago disappearance. I told her I was looking for closure to the story, not about the true emotional closure that I was seeking. I also told her that I would not reveal her secret past—I gave her my solemn promise as a journalist on this—to anyone else until she agreed to go that public route.
Why did I do it this way?
I guess it’s because I’ve always felt more comfortable dealing with my emotions as a journalist, instead of as an actual person. As a journalist, I can be objective and separate myself from the emotions of the story. Which is what I did with Lucy Devlin, now Linda Nesbitt. I tried to convince myself she was just another story.
