Muñoz summoned a thick Spanish accent. It wasn’t hard. He’d listened to thick accents all his life. “I speak with Jackie Hartley?”
“Who’s calling please?”
“You are Mrs. Hartley?”
“What do you want?”
“I calling from Westchester Children Fund.”
Click.
Muñoz returned the phone to its cradle, pushed his chair out from his desk, and stood. She was home. He signed out a car, and five minutes later he was on the West Side Highway heading to Pelham Manor.
Jackie Freimor, now Jackie Hartley, lived in what looked like a hundred-year-old brick Tudor on Ely Avenue. He rang her front bell and stood under the glow of a bright porch light. The door opened, and the woman who answered looked startled to see his tall, dark figure. He held up his shield quickly and stated in perfect English, “Mrs. Hartley?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m with the NYPD. My name is Detective Muñoz.”
Her shoulders relaxed. “What can I do for you, Detective?”
“May I step inside?”
She let him into a spacious vestibule. A vintage cast-iron coat rack stood in the corner beside the door. It held a man’s worn parka, several hats, and a child’s blue snow jacket with clip-on mittens. Beyond the vestibule was a corridor that led to the back of the house. Three toy trucks were parked at the side of this corridor. A small child—a little boy, Muñoz guessed—lived in this home. To the right of Muñoz, a staircase ascended to a second floor, and to his left was an elegant living room. Would Mrs. Hartley invite him to sit in there, he wondered, as she locked the door behind them.
But she only faced him and crossed her arms. “What can I do for you, Detective?” she repeated.
“Three years ago, you lived on Twenty-Third Street in Manhattan, correct?”
“Yes,” she said in a cautious tone.
“And your name then was Jackie Freimor?”
“What are you getting at, Detective?”
“In March of that year, you attended a party at the Grand Hyatt.”
Her expression instantly hardened and she shook her head. “I have nothing to say about that.” She moved toward the door.
“You filed a complaint against a man named Thomas Merchant.”
“No comment,” she said.
“Which you dropped a day later. I’m curious about that.”
“People change their minds about things, Detective. Now you really have to go.”
“Or did he change your mind, Mrs. Hartley?”
She stared at him with eyes that looked simultaneously frightened and angry.
“Did he take out a checkbook and change your mind, Mrs. Hartley?”
“I can’t talk about this. I want you to leave my home.”
“Why can’t you talk about it?”
“Please, you have to go.”
Muñoz gazed into the expensively furnished living room, up the carpeted steps, and down the long hall. “He paid you enough money to take you all the way to Pelham, didn’t he?”
She gave no response.
“Does your husband know?” And now tears brimmed in her eyes. “No, of course he doesn’t. You weren’t married then. You were—”
“I was a naïve young woman just out of college, Detective. I let myself be talked into going somewhere I shouldn’t have gone. That’s it. Now please, you have to leave.”
“I’m sorry.” Muñoz shook his head. “But I can’t go without answers.” He looked at his watch. “What time does your husband get home, Mrs. Hartley?”
“Why are you doing this to me?”
“I need to know what happened at the Grand Hyatt.”
“I signed a contract, Detective. I—”
“You could have put him in jail.”
Hartley walked into the living room and sat on the couch. Her body folded into itself. She covered her face in her hands.
Muñoz followed her into the room. “You can talk to me now,” he said gently but firmly, “or you can still be telling me why you can’t talk to me when your husband gets home. Which is it going to be?”
She wiped at the tears on her face. “If Merchant finds out I violated—”
“He will not find out. I give you my word.”
She sighed what sounded like years’ worth of anxiety. A long moment of silence passed. Finally she cleared her throat and sniffled back her tears. “A friend of mine called me up that night and said she was in a suite at the Grand Hyatt and there were some bankers. She said I should come over and have a drink with them.”
Muñoz nodded. Keep talking, he thought. Keep talking.
“So I went over.” She looked up at him. “Don’t judge me, Detective. I was young.”
Muñoz sat beside her on the couch and put his hand on hers. “You don’t think I’ve done things I regret, Mrs. Hartley.” It wasn’t a lie.
“Most of them were older guys. In their forties. Probably married.” She laughed ruefully, a reminder that hindsight usually revealed your blind spots. “I wish I had turned right around and gone home. But then he came over to me—”
“Thomas Merchant?”
She nodded. “I didn’t know who he was until he introduced himself. He was holding a drink for me. Champagne. He was very charming, very attentive. He didn’t come on to me. He just asked me questions about myself as I sipped the champagne. And then I started to feel a little dizzy. I thought the champagne was going to my head. He offered to walk me to a chair. He led me into another room—to sit down, he said. There was a bed in that room, and the next thing I remember, I was waking up and my clothes were off and I knew someone had had sex with me.”
“What happened after you filed the complaint?”
“A lawyer called. She wanted to cut a deal.”
“What happened?”
Hartley looked at her watch. “My husband and son will be home any minute, Detective. If I tell you this, you have to get out of here and never come back.”
“I promise.”
“I got a lawyer. My girlfriend’s brother. We met with Merchant’s attorney. What a hard act she was. She asked how much it would take to make the problem go away. My lawyer asked for one million dollars. She laughed in our faces and countered with a hundred thousand. I felt like a piece of real estate. In the end, she bought my silence for five hundred thousand. She wrote the check right then and there, and I signed a confidentiality agreement and dropped the charges. I was young, Detective. I felt responsible for what had happened. I shouldn’t have been at that party in the first place. I suppose I felt as if I’d gotten what I deserved. Believe me, I’ve regretted the decision a thousand times, but what’s done is done. I met my husband six months later, and he doesn’t know about it and he never will. He thinks we bought this place with a nice inheritance from my deceased aunt.”
“And you don’t need to tell him otherwise,” assured Muñoz as car headlights flooded the living room picture window.
“Let me handle this,” said Muñoz.
A moment later, the front door opened and a child called out, “Mommy?”
Jackie Hartley shot up from the couch and smoothed her skirt. “In here, honey.”
Muñoz got to his feet as Jackie Hartley reach down to lift her young son into her arms. Then a bald man in a black wool coat entered the room. “What’s this?”
“Are you Mr. Hartley—Jack Hartley?” asked Muñoz.
“That’s right.” Hartley dropped his briefcase. “Who the hell are you?”
The man was like a vicious tomcat with his fur up, Muñoz thought. Muñoz pulled out his NYPD identification card and shield. “I’ve been waiting for you, Mr. Hartley.” He smiled. “Your wife assured me you’d be home very soon, and she was kind enough to let me wait.”
Hartley relaxed marginally. “Oh.”
“I just need a moment of your time.” Muñoz reached into his wallet slowly, figuring out what to say. He brought out his nephew’s high school graduation photo. “We’re looking for this man. He’s dangerous. We received a tip that he was employed by your company.”
Hartley looked at the photo and shook his head. “No. I’ve never seen this guy in my life.”
“You’re certain of that?” persisted Muñoz. “Just look at it one more time.”
“I don’t need to look at it one more time,” said Hartley.
Muñoz returned the photo to his wallet. “Then I’m sorry to have interrupted your evening.” He nodded at Jackie Hartley, turned his back to her, and left. As he pulled the car away from the curb, he called Codella. “Where are you?”
“In Merchant’s office. Waiting for him to show up.”
“Well, here’s a little something you’ll find interesting.”