by R. G. Belsky
“Ergo,” I said, “I’d like to find out what Ms. Hartwell knows about all this. When can I see her?”
“What do you mean?”
Another question answered with a question.
“Ergo is a term that means ‘therefore,’ Mr. Enright. Or ‘consequently,’ ‘thus,’ ‘accordingly’ …”
“I know what ergo means,” he said impatiently. “Is this coming from that crazy old guy? He came here a while back ranting on about corrupt building owners and a lot of this same stuff. He had no proof, no hard evidence. To be honest, he looked like he was a nut job. I told Terri about it, but we never found anything that backed up his claims. Is he still pushing all this nonsense? Is he the one behind all this?”
“Uh, no … not anymore … he’s dead.”
“Dead?”
“Yes, he was killed recently.”
“How?”
Clearly, he was not a regular viewer of the Channel 10 News or he would know all this from the story I did on air.
“Murdered on a Manhattan street. Police are calling it a robbery. I’m not so sure. I think his death might have been connected to this information about corruption at these buildings. I think it possibly could all be related, but I don’t know how yet.”
Enright looked startled. I could tell I’d thrown him for a bit of a loop, knocked him off his usual game.
“You think Barlow might have been murdered to keep him quiet about something he knew?”
“Yes.”
“Have you talked to the police?”
“I have.”
“And what is their response?”
“They are dubious.”
“Well, so am I.”
He looked down at the list of buildings one more time.
“I don’t know anything more to tell you about these buildings,” he said finally. “But our office will be in touch if that changes.”
“I’d like to talk to Ms. Hartwell about them myself,” I repeated.
“I said I’d handle it. If she decides to talk to you at any point in the future, I will be in touch. But you will not talk to her directly. Like I told you in the beginning, I’m the gatekeeper. I’m the door you need to go through to have any contact with Terri Hartwell. Don’t forget that. Okay?”
“No, that’s not good enough,” I said.
“Now wait a minute—”
“You wait a minute, Enright. I want to talk to Terri Hartwell about this. Not just you. Now get me in to see her.”
He stood up. He was pretty imposing when he did that. Maybe about 6 foot 3, and he looked to be in good physical condition. Probably worked out every day at the health club. Yep, Chad Enright was a helluva impressive-looking guy. And, if you didn’t believe that, all you had to do was ask him.
“I think we’re done here,” he said. “You can see your way out.”
“I don’t think we’re done at all …”
“Do you want me to call security and have them escort you out of the building?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Then goodbye, Ms. Carlson.”
I left. But instead of going down on the elevator, I wandered around the floor. I’d seen a sign in the lobby indicating that I was on the same floor as Terri Hartwell’s office. I thought there might be more security, but there wasn’t. I found her door, knocked on it loudly, and yelled her name.
The door opened, and Terri Hartwell was standing there.
“I’m Clare Carlson from Channel 10 News, Ms. Hartwell. I’d like to talk to you.”
Before she could answer, I heard a commotion behind me. It was Chad Enright who had heard us and come running out of his office. He looked furious. He was screaming at me and calling for someone to call security.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Hartwell,” Enright said. “I’ll make sure she doesn’t cause you any more trouble. I told her she couldn’t see you. She’s …”
“I know who she is, Chad.”
“How?”
“She just told me.”
“But she can’t simply walk in here and talk to you. There are procedures we need to follow …”
“Oh, give it a rest, Chad,” Hartwell said, then turned back to me. “Come on inside and tell me why you’re here.”
I followed Terri Hartwell into her office.
Before I did though, I turned around and flashed a big grin at Chad Enright.
He looked furious.
He started to say something to me, then stopped and stormed off down the hall toward his own office.
I had a feeling I wasn’t okay with him anymore.
CHAPTER 11
TERRI HARTWELL LOOKED even better in person than I remembered from her pictures or during media appearances. I was kind of a fan of hers. I used to listen to her radio show regularly when it was on. I loved the way she yelled at people who argued with her and shouted down the idiots. Okay, sometimes she went a bit too far. But I liked that, too. Now she was using that same forceful personality in the DA’s office. She was definitely a hot commodity at the moment.
I knew Hartwell was in her mid-forties, about the same age as me. But she sure could have passed for younger. She had long red hair, piercing blue eyes, a flawless-looking, yet expression-filled face and she was wearing a classy business outfit that showed off the trim figure of a fashion model. Her voice was strong and loud, but not shrill. The most impressive thing about her though was her magnetic personality, which I felt from the first moment I walked into her office. It seemed to fill the room.
“Wow, that was some scene out there!” Hartwell laughed. “I’ve never seen anyone take on Chad the way you did. He’s pretty intimidating. But I guess you’re pretty intimidating yourself. You’re a tough lady, right? I can relate to that because I’m a tough lady, too. We’re a couple of tough ladies.”
Hartwell offered me some coffee, which I took. Then she poured herself some, sat back down at her desk, and leaned back causally in her chair. There wasn’t a lot of pretense about her; she seemed very real. Terri Hartwell was sort of like the anti–Chad Enright. I pointed that out to her.
“You don’t like Chad, right?”
“I think his people skills need work.”
“Lots of people don’t like Chad.”
“Why do you keep him around?”
“That’s a good question. Chad is my guard dog. I guess that’s the best answer I can give you. It’s a bit like a bad cop, good cop routine. I’m the good cop. You hate Chad, then meet me and find me likable. It works pretty well, huh? It sure did with you. After meeting Chad, I’ll bet you find me a breath of fresh air.”
She laughed at that.
She was right though
I did like this woman.
“Let me say up front that if you’re here to ask about any future political aspirations I have—for the mayor’s office or anywhere else—I have absolutely no comment for you on the record. My on-the-record comment about this is ‘no-comment.’ Off the record? Of course I’m running for mayor. And I’m going to win. I’ll be in City Hall and living in Gracie Mansion by this time next year.”
“That’s all very interesting,” I said. “But it’s not why I came here to see you.”
I handed her the list of eight buildings and repeated the details of my conversation with Enright.
“Do any of these buildings—or these addresses—mean anything to you?”
She looked through the list, then handed it back to me. “No, should they?”
“I believe all of them are being run by a corrupt landlord company. A front for the Morelli crime family. A man named Marty Barlow came to your office to tell you about the corruption at these buildings a few weeks ago. Do you remember him?”
“No.”
“Do you know Thomas Wincott?” I asked.
“Doesn’t ring a bell either. Who is he?”
“Wincott is a real estate developer in Manhattan.”
“Okay.”
“He’s also trying to donate campaign funds to yo
ur mayoral campaign.”
“Lots of people want to jump into my campaign because they think I can win. But I don’t deal with the direct fund-raising from people like that. You’d have to talk to Chad about this person to see what he’s given—or at least pledged to give—for my campaign. I’m sure you’ll love talking to Chad again!”
I rolled my eyes, and she laughed.
“Look,” she said to me,” I’ll look into this business about the eight buildings and what you say is going on there. I’ll get back to you with whatever I find out. I promise that. I do appreciate you bringing this to my attention and—”
A phone on her desk rang, interrupting her. She picked it up.
“Russell Danziger?” she said. “Where is he?”
She nodded and hung up.
“I’m afraid I have to see someone else right now. Thanks again for coming to me with this.”
“Thank you,” I said to her.
But she was already going to the door to let this Russell Danziger in. He burst into the office with an angry look on his face and brushed past me—as I was making my way out—like I wasn’t even there. He was older than Enright, with short-cropped gray hair—but just as stylish. He was wearing a dark black suit, white shirt, and red tie, and everything was crisp, neat, and clean. I kept walking past him until I was out in the hall. Then I heard him slam the door of Terri Hartwell’s office behind me.
I wasn’t sure who Russell Danziger was.
But he sure must be important.
He didn’t even have to go through Chad Enright to see her.
I had some unanswered questions after I left Terri Hartwell’s office.
One of them—even though I wasn’t sure what it meant—was about the man who had barged into her office so authoritatively as I was leaving.
It didn’t take me long to find out about Russell Danziger when I googled him after going back to Channel 10. He wasn’t a political superstar well known to the public like Hartwell; he tended to fly under the media radar most of the time. Which was probably why I didn’t know him. But he was a real mover and shaker in the back rooms of New York politics.
Danziger had helped elect countless candidates to office in recent years. Some of them were smaller jobs, like councilmen or judges or state assemblymen. But he’d been involved, too, in congressional, senate, and gubernatorial campaigns, almost always on the side of the winner. He’d even worked with one of the presidential candidates in the New York State primary last time the White House was up for election. His candidate didn’t make it to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, but he did win the state primary. All in all, it was a helluva impressive record for Russell Danziger.
Danziger didn’t have an official title in any of the campaigns; he always seemed to be a shadowy figure in the background. But his influence was said to be enormous. And not only in political circles. His reach extended into big business, union organizing, and even—according to some reports—connections with mob leaders that helped him get things accomplished.
Even though Danziger didn’t do many interviews, he had said something interesting once to a reporter who’d confronted him about the rumors of his connections with possible illegal union activities and even involvement with mob bosses and other underworld figures. Amazingly enough, he didn’t deny it. He said, “This isn’t a Sunday school softball game we’re playing here,” Danziger said. “Politics is a tough, no-holds-barred game. That’s how it works. You can believe in standing on idealistic principles and integrity and all those things people claim they believe politics should be. But the only way to get things accomplished is by using every tool available. Making deals with politicians you don’t agree with sometimes. Making deals with unions who run so much of this city. And, yes, maybe even making deals with people you need who might be associated with organized crime. If you don’t do this, you won’t be a winner. And I’m a winner.”
I suspect that Danziger regretted being so candid with the reporter once he saw the rare quotes from him in print. But did that mean he—and by extension Hartwell—might have secret dealings with a mobster like Victor Morelli?
Then there were the questions I had about what Terri Hartwell told me—or, in some cases, hadn’t told me—during our abbreviated conversation in her office.
First off, she said she didn’t know Thomas Wincott. But Wincott clearly knew her. I’d heard him talking about making a big contribution to her mayoral campaign. And, because he’d told me he was trying to gain political influence if she got elected mayor, I had to assume the contribution represented a significant amount of money.
Would Hartwell not be aware of a potential political contribution of that size? Possible, but seemed unlikely to me. I found a list of guests/contributors at a big political fund-raising event a few months earlier. Both Hartwell and Wincott were listed as attending. It was a long list, and maybe she didn’t meet everyone there that night. But it did show they moved in the same political circles.
Did Terri Hartwell really not know Wincott?
Did she forget his name?
Or was she lying to me for some reason about Thomas Wincott?
The eight buildings on the list from Marty—the ones owned by Morelli’s company—continued to be a problem for me, too.
Hartwell said she didn’t recognize any of them. But several stories appeared in newspapers or aired on TV news about a crack-down by the city on buildings housing criminal activities like prostitution and gambling—which involved numerous law enforcement agencies, including the district attorney’s office.
Wouldn’t these buildings be part of this investigation?
Also, I had trouble getting past the question of why she didn’t know about Marty raising questions about building corruption in the city. Enright said he had told her about Marty’s visit, but they didn’t find any evidence to back up his claims. It only took me one visit to figure out about all the bad stuff going on at those eight locations. So why didn’t Hartwell and her office know about it?
Was she lying again?
If she was lying, there might be a perfectly reasonable explanation of why she would lie. It didn’t necessarily mean there was any significance to it in terms of Marty’s death—or anything else. And maybe she didn’t even realize it was a lie. Maybe she thought she was … well, just shading the truth when she talked to me about all this. Not really lying.
Yep, there are all sorts of lies.
Big ones.
Little ones.
And a lot in between that.
But, in the end, they are all still lies.
No matter how much we try to rationalize them.
No one knew that better than me.
CHAPTER 12
“CAN WE TALK about the day you disappeared?” I asked Linda Nesbitt, who a long time ago, used to be Lucy Devlin.
“What is there to talk about?”
“All of it. Did you get on the school bus with the other kids that day? Did you make it to the school? When exactly was it that they took you? What happened after that? Anything and everything.”
“I told you … I can’t remember.”
“Can’t or won’t.”
She shrugged. “Maybe a bit of both. I’ve read up on this kind of stuff recently. Especially since I started talking to you and you started asking me all these questions. They say a person sometimes buries a traumatic incident like this in their subconscious so they don’t have to confront the reality of it. Maybe that’s what I’ve done. Or maybe it’s because I was only eleven years old when it happened. That’s a long time ago. Even the things I do remember as a child from back then aren’t necessarily accurate—they’ve gotten distorted in my memory over the years. How much do you remember about the time you were eleven?”
We were sitting in the living room of Linda Nesbitt’s house in Winchester, Virginia.
I can’t even begin to describe how bizarre it all seemed to be sitting in my grown-up daughter’s home with her and listening to all this.
> Pretending the whole time I was nothing more than an objective journalist.
When in reality, I was overwhelmed by my feelings of guilt and regret and sadness over everything that had happened between Lucy and me since I walked away from her so casually on that long-ago day.
Linda Nesbitt had light brown hair, like me. She had brown eyes, like me. She had a face that resembled mine when I was her age, or at least I thought it did. Even the way she talked reminded me of a young Clare Carlson. I could see myself in her. And why not? I was her biological mother. Even though no else knew that, including Linda Nesbitt.
Nearly three decades after giving birth to her—and years after meeting her for the first time, just before she became one of the most famous missing-child cases ever—I’d tracked her down under this different name and to this house in Virginia where she had a husband and a daughter of her own.
But here I was still using my desperate cover story of being there as a journalist—the journalist who won a Pulitzer Prize reporting on the story of her disappearance a long time ago—and not revealing I was her biological mother. I kept telling her I was there because I needed some kind of closure as a reporter; I said I needed answers for her story. That was why I wanted her to talk to me about her past as Lucy Devlin, I told her. Nothing more than that.
I wanted to blurt out the truth to her.
I wanted to tell her about everything I’d done.
I wanted to tell her how much I loved her.
But I didn’t do any of those things.
Instead, I just kept taking notes like a journalist working on a story—not the mother she’d never known.
Because being a journalist was what I was good at.
“Let’s move on to something else besides the actual day of the kidnapping,” I said. “What about before you disappeared? Do you remember anything in New York City?”
“Some things. Mostly fragments. I remember growing up there when I was still Lucy Devlin. I remember my bedroom. I remember the video games I played in that room. I remember a dog next door that I loved to pet. I remember a few of my friends at school. I remember having some good times back then until it all … well, until it wasn’t so good.”
