finally set down the pancakes in front of me.
“So what do the police do when their prime suspect is dead? They can’t exactly try him,” Billie said.
“I don’t think Susan Rorke and I were the only women Bennett deceived. I think I’ve heard from a third.”
“Reportyourex.com?”
“Lovefraud.com. She said she wanted to meet me in person but she didn’t show up.”
“There are many reasons why she might not have shown up.”
“She pretended to be Susan Rorke. Maybe she didn’t know Susan Rorke was dead.”
“Maybe she did.”
When the check came, Billie reached for it even though she had only ordered coffee.
In the car heading back to the city, I said, “He used a different name with her. He called himself Peter. But it was him. I showed the detective a picture and he confirmed it.”
“So who is the third woman?”
“Maybe she’s the tenth.”
“Maybe the dogs did you a favor.”
“Nothing I didn’t already think.”
“I mean, he pushed her out a window.”
“He was never violent with me. But how could I not know?”
“The dogs knew.”
• • •
I asked Billie to drop me off on Delancey Street so I could walk across the Williamsburg Bridge. I needed to do something physical and mindless. The view was of downtown Manhattan, with the two stately bridges—the Manhattan and the Brooklyn—spanning the lower East River. The Brooklyn Bridge was the first to be built—the longest suspension bridge of its time, and one of the most beautiful. The Manhattan was third, a gridwork of metal struts. In between came the Williamsburg, said to be the ugliest design on the river. But it’s not what you see when you’re walking across it. The view trumps the noise of trucks, cars, and subways flanking the hardy pedestrians and cyclists. Even Edward Hopper painted a view titled From Williamsburg Bridge. The walkway ends in the Hasidic neighborhood where women still wear wigs and the men grow side-curls and beards. Even in the heat of summer, come the Sabbath, the men wear the large fur hats known as shtreimel. Within the space of ten blocks, you hear conversations in Yiddish, then Spanish, then Chinese, then Italian. It’s part of why I moved here.
I climbed the five flights to my apartment and found a phone message from the Boston detective. It wasn’t yet five so I called him right away.
“Ms. Prager, I have a few questions for you in the investigation of Susan Rorke’s murder. Is this a good time to talk?”
“As good as any.”
“I’d like to ask you about the weekend she was killed when you met the man you knew as Bennett in Maine.”
“What can I tell you?”
“You said he drove from Montreal to Old Orchard Beach. What time did he arrive?”
“He arrived an hour after I did, around four, but I don’t know if he drove from Montreal.”
“Did you notice anything unusual about his behavior or appearance?”
“He was his usual self, but later I saw a large bruise on his shin. He said he got it moving one of his bands’ equipment, but that was a lie. He didn’t represent any bands.”
“And when did you find out that he lied about his job?”
“And everything else. A few weeks after he died. Have you had any luck finding out who he is?”
“We have a protocol to follow in a murder investigation. Have you been contacted again by the woman posing as Susan Rorke?”
“No, but who was she ? That’s my question for you. And how did she know about Bennett and Susan and me?”
“We’re trying to find out.”
“What have you found out? Do you know who Bennett was?”
“I’ll tell you when I know.”
“But you think he’s guilty?”
“Only a judge and jury can find him guilty,” the detective said, “and the dead can’t be tried.”
T hat night I went to the Turkey’s Nest on Bedford, picked up a guy, and went home with him. This wasn’t a plan, it’s just what I did. The Turkey’s Nest has the least hip jukebox in Williamsburg and caters to the
“So what do the police do when their prime suspect is dead? They can’t exactly try him,” Billie said.
“I don’t think Susan Rorke and I were the only women Bennett deceived. I think I’ve heard from a third.”
“Reportyourex.com?”
“Lovefraud.com. She said she wanted to meet me in person but she didn’t show up.”
“There are many reasons why she might not have shown up.”
“She pretended to be Susan Rorke. Maybe she didn’t know Susan Rorke was dead.”
“Maybe she did.”
When the check came, Billie reached for it even though she had only ordered coffee.
In the car heading back to the city, I said, “He used a different name with her. He called himself Peter. But it was him. I showed the detective a picture and he confirmed it.”
“So who is the third woman?”
“Maybe she’s the tenth.”
“Maybe the dogs did you a favor.”
“Nothing I didn’t already think.”
“I mean, he pushed her out a window.”
“He was never violent with me. But how could I not know?”
“The dogs knew.”
• • •
I asked Billie to drop me off on Delancey Street so I could walk across the Williamsburg Bridge. I needed to do something physical and mindless. The view was of downtown Manhattan, with the two stately bridges—the Manhattan and the Brooklyn—spanning the lower East River. The Brooklyn Bridge was the first to be built—the longest suspension bridge of its time, and one of the most beautiful. The Manhattan was third, a gridwork of metal struts. In between came the Williamsburg, said to be the ugliest design on the river. But it’s not what you see when you’re walking across it. The view trumps the noise of trucks, cars, and subways flanking the hardy pedestrians and cyclists. Even Edward Hopper painted a view titled From Williamsburg Bridge. The walkway ends in the Hasidic neighborhood where women still wear wigs and the men grow side-curls and beards. Even in the heat of summer, come the Sabbath, the men wear the large fur hats known as shtreimel. Within the space of ten blocks, you hear conversations in Yiddish, then Spanish, then Chinese, then Italian. It’s part of why I moved here.
I climbed the five flights to my apartment and found a phone message from the Boston detective. It wasn’t yet five so I called him right away.
“Ms. Prager, I have a few questions for you in the investigation of Susan Rorke’s murder. Is this a good time to talk?”
“As good as any.”
“I’d like to ask you about the weekend she was killed when you met the man you knew as Bennett in Maine.”
“What can I tell you?”
“You said he drove from Montreal to Old Orchard Beach. What time did he arrive?”
“He arrived an hour after I did, around four, but I don’t know if he drove from Montreal.”
“Did you notice anything unusual about his behavior or appearance?”
“He was his usual self, but later I saw a large bruise on his shin. He said he got it moving one of his bands’ equipment, but that was a lie. He didn’t represent any bands.”
“And when did you find out that he lied about his job?”
“And everything else. A few weeks after he died. Have you had any luck finding out who he is?”
“We have a protocol to follow in a murder investigation. Have you been contacted again by the woman posing as Susan Rorke?”
“No, but who was she ? That’s my question for you. And how did she know about Bennett and Susan and me?”
“We’re trying to find out.”
“What have you found out? Do you know who Bennett was?”
“I’ll tell you when I know.”
“But you think he’s guilty?”
“Only a judge and jury can find him guilty,” the detective said, “and the dead can’t be tried.”
T hat night I went to the Turkey’s Nest on Bedford, picked up a guy, and went home with him. This wasn’t a plan, it’s just what I did. The Turkey’s Nest has the least hip jukebox in Williamsburg and caters to the
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