found something.”
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“A Web site,” I said.
“A blog,” Jack continued. “Not active anymore, but get
this. It was deleted just three days after Paulina was
abducted. Coincidence, right?”
“Could be,” I said. “What makes you think it has
anything to do with this story?”
“The blog was deleted, but a few cached pages were
still available to see. Other Web sites had links to it.
That’s part of the reason I was able to find it.”
“And?”
“And the blog’s creator is a girl named Pamela
Ruffalo,” Jack said. “I know you haven’t had time to read
all of these pages I printed out yet, but I’ll save you the
detective work. Pam Ruffalo either was, or, more likely,
still is Abigail Cole’s girlfriend.”
“You’re kidding me. Her girlfriend posted pictures of
her on the blog?”
“No sir, Henry. Take a look for yourself.”
I picked the half a dozen pages up, began to shuffle
through them.
There were about fifteen blog entries on the pages.
They were dated starting about three months ago, and
continued up until the last few days when the account
was deleted.
The posts were fairly specific about their relationship.
According to the second entry, Pamela had met Abigail in
college during a job recruitment fair. They’d both been
online to hear more about an environmental consulting firm,
got to talking, and had dinner at a campus eatery that night.
Their first official date was that weekend. Weekend at
Bernie’s, which Pam had rented on Netflix. She marveled
at how they both had an appreciation for bad movies. And
since that first date had gone so well, Pam had ordered
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Showgirls, Battlefield Earth and Mother Dearest for her
new romantic interest.
As the relationship progressed, Pam began to post
pictures of the couple on the page. Some of the pictures
were innocuous. The couple out at a party. Watching a
field hockey game together. Sitting under a tree reading.
Some of the pictures, though, were far more intimate.
The first one that caught my attention was the two girls
lying in bed, sheets up to their chins, bare shoulders
visible. The photo must have been a self-portrait taken by
one of the two girls, as a finger smudge obscured part of
the right side of the shot.
In another photo, the girls were dressed up in bustiers
and garter belts. It looked like they were about to go to
some sort of party.
And in another shot, the two girls were snapped kissing passionately. I’d say one thing, they were kind of
cute together.
“These all came off the blog?” I said.
“Every one.”
“Were there any photos of Abigail Cole in a bikini? Or
on the beach at all?”
Jack squirmed. “Listen, I know she’s a good-looking
girl but I’m not about to…”
“No, that’s not why I’m asking. Paulina said when the
guy took her, he showed her a photo of her daughter
wearing a bikini on the beach. Paulina told me the photo
the guy used was private. She said Abigail never posted
it online, and she was clear about that. So where did the
photo come from?”
“I think I know,” Jack said. “But I need two things to
confirm it.”
“What are they?”
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“First off, I need you to find out one thing for me
online. I don’t have access to it, but either you do or
know someone who does.”
“What do I…”
“And the second thing,” Jack said, looking me dead in
the eyes, “is that I need to talk to Paulina Cole.”
31
hands in my pockets, watching people go about their day.
The sun was bright and there was just a wisp of breeze.
A tour group passed us by, clinking and clanking as
the binoculars and cameras jangled about their necks.
There were lots of tour groups always walking about this
area, and they would often look at me in my work clothes
like I was some sort of alien species. These people didn’t
seem to believe that anyone actually lived or worked in
Manhattan, that we all just bused in day after day and
wandered about starstruck, wondering when we might
run into Derek Jeter or Sarah Jessica Parker on the street.
I think they believed only celebrities and homeless people
lived in the city.
I watched the corner of Fifty-first Street, knowing
that’s the direction she’d be coming from. Paulina wasn’t
too keen on meeting me up by the Gazette, partly because
she didn’t like to move for anybody and partly because
when she left the paper she was thought of just about as
fondly as Mussolini.
“Parker?” Paulina Cole said. She had just rounded the
corner and was staring at me like I’d just thrown a pie at
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235
her from across a crowded room. She was wearing black
leather boots and a knee-length skirt. Her hair was recently done, and I hated to admit it but she looked pretty
good. “You’d better have a damn good reason for calling
me up to the Hard Rock Café.”
I’d heard Paulina refer to Rockefeller Center by that
moniker before. And she didn’t mean it as a compliment.
To her, this neighborhood was a tourist mecca, drastically
overpriced, and as close to real New York as the Hard
Rock was to being the real Arnold Schwarzenegger. “I
expense my cell phone bill and cab rides, and if you keep
calling me I’ll have some explaining to do when the
finance department reviews it.”
“Nice to talk to you, too, Paulina,” I said. “Thanks
for coming.”
“Don’t thank me. I came because you said you had
more information about my daughter.”
“Yeah…you might want to sit down.”
“What, you think whatever you have to tell me is going
to make me suddenly pass out in your arms or something?
Get over yourself, Henry. Nothing surprises me anymore.”
“Well, I don’t want to tell you what to do. But there is
news.”
“Did you find the man?” Paulina said. She said it like
she’d expected us to do so all along. There was no appreciation in her voice. Whatever, that wasn’t quite her style.
“No. But we know where the photo came from. The
one of your daughter at the beach.”
“How did you find it? Where did it come from?”
“Well, I’ll let the person who figured it out tell you all
about it. Hey, Jack.”
Paulina whipped around to see Jack O’Donnell standing right behind her. He had a massive smile on his face,
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and he was standing close enough to her that he could
almost tickle her nose with his beard.
“Hey, Cole,” Jack said. “Long time. How’s the exhusband and your kid?”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
The surprise in Paulina’s voice proved that Jack
O’Donnell was the last person she expected—and
wanted—to see.
The reporter stood there, looking like she wanted to
kill Jack, kill me, then tear our bodies to pieces.
Instead she merely said, “You’ve got to be fucking
kidding me.”
“I am neither kidding nor fucking you,” Jack said.
“But I am going to help you.”
Paulina’s face contorted, as she sneered at Jack. I stood
there wondering if this was a good idea. But Jack insisted
that this meeting take place. He said it wasn’t a vendetta,
and it wasn’t because he needed to get even with the
woman who nearly ruined his career. He said it was
because it was the right thing to do.
“What the hell do you want, you dried-up old mummy?”
I wondered if Jack still felt like it was the right thing
to do.
“You know the old saying, people only call you names
if they really care about you? Well, between your sweet
nothings and that big kiss of an article you wrote about
me, I’m willing to bet most New York psychiatrists would
testify that you’re head over heels in love with me.”
“What the hell is this, O’Donnell? Parker, you’d better have a reason for this that goes well beyond morbid
curiosity.”
“Jack asked me to set this up,” I said. I didn’t have to
worry about throwing Jack under the bus here; he told me
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237
he wanted it fully known that this was his decision. “But
I knew you’d want to hear what he has to say.”
“I only want to hear one of two things come out of your
mouth,” Paulina said. “One, that you know who threatened my daughter. Or two, you’re leaving this business
and wanted to thank me for showing this city what a
washed-up, drunk old hack you really are.”
I saw Jack flinch at that, but he stood his ground. Paulina
was staring daggers into Jack’s eyes, but he didn’t waver.
“I can’t say either of those,” Jack said.
“Then why the hell am I here? Serves me right for
trusting you, Parker.”
“You trusted me for a reason,” I said. “Now hear him
out.”
Paulina looked at Jack, shook her head. “I’m surprised
you had the balls to poke your head out from whatever
rock you’ve been under the last few months.”
“Balls have never been my problem,” Jack said. “It’s
knowing when to think with my head instead of my balls
that’s gotten me into trouble.”
Had Jack been thirty years younger, I could see these
two having the best enemy sex in history.
“Seems like that’s a problem a lot of male journalists
have. Even Henry here. Right, Parker? No reporter’s had
his life threatened more times in a few years than your
protégé, Jack. These balls? How would you feel if one day
Henry gets too close to the fire and gets burned to a crisp?”
“Shut the hell up,” I said. Paulina smiled.
“There are those balls I talked about,” she said. “You’re
a reporter, Henry, not a soldier. You’re not supposed to
have emotion or take sides. And you’re not supposed to
come this close to getting yourself killed on every story
you report.”
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“I do what I need to in order to get to the truth,” I said.
“You don’t seem to care much about the truth in the
story I wrote about Jack,” she said. “You might hate me
for it, but every word in that was true. And you don’t
judge him the way you’re judging me right now.”
“You see, that’s where you and I aren’t alike,” I said.
“I don’t look at life as one big story to report. There’s a
big difference between blood and ink. It’s a shame you
never learned that.”
“Enough of this crap,” Jack said. “Do you want to
hear what we found or not?”
“Fine,” Paulina said, folding her arms across her chest.
I could tell this was a practiced look, sternness crossed
with just a hint of pouty sexuality. She was used to pressing just hard enough to elicit a reaction, but not hard
enough to drive people away. Jack had information she
needed, but she wouldn’t stay quiet without letting him
know what she thought. And it was then that I realized
Paulina didn’t write that article just to get publicity, she
did it because she truly loathed Jack.
“Does a girl named Pamela Ruffalo ring a bell?” Jack
said.
Paulina didn’t give any indication that she recognized
the name. “No. Who the hell is that?”
“She’s a student at Smith College,” Jack said. “A
junior, I believe, according to her Facebook page.”
As Jack spoke, I could see the blank look on Paulina’s
face changing. She recognized the name from somewhere.
“What does Pam have to do with any of this?” she said
in an argumentative tone, hoping Jack would answer her
in a way that would vindicate Pam. Not only did Paulina
know Pam Ruffalo, but for some reason whatever Jack
was going to say was going to hit her—hard.
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239
“A few months ago, Pam Ruffalo began posting to a
personal blog. She talked about a lot of things on the site,
one of which was her relationship with her new girlfriend. A girl named Abigail Cole.”
Paulina watched, and I could have sworn she didn’t
blink for a minute straight.
“Keep talking,” she said.
“She posted a lot of photos on the site. But she never
posted any photos like the one you described the blond
man having that night.”
“So if she didn’t post those photos,” Paulina said, “why
do you think she was involved?”
“Pam shut the blog down, according to records, just a
few days after you were abducted. In the days leading up
to the cancellation, there was nothing to suggest that there
was anything wrong in her life. Did you ever tell your
daughter what happened to you?” Jack said.
I was surprised, looking at Jack, to see a hint of
sympathy in his face. He had no love for Paulina Cole as
a reporter, but considering her as a human and a mother
outweighed that.
“Yes,” she said. “A few days after it happened. I went
up to Smith and told her about it. Only to keep her safe.”
“Do you think it’s fair to assume,” Jack said, “that Abigail
told her girlfriend what you told her? That she told Pam?”
Paulina stood there, then wiped at her eyes which were
reddening. For some reason I felt ashamed watching this.
“It’s possible,” Paulina said. Jack nodded slowly.
“Henry was able to log on to Facebook and contact a
few of Abigail’s friends. Through them, he found the
photos you referred to, the beach shot
s. They were taken
by a girl named Samantha Isringhausen, who then uploaded them to her account.”
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“I called Samantha,” I said, “in her dorm room. When
I asked her about the photos, specifically the one of
Abigail in front of the hole, she told me that when Pam
saw it she immediately asked for the only copy. She loved
that picture so much that she never wanted it to be seen
by anyone other than her. Samantha agreed, and said after
sending the file to Pamela and uploading the rest, she
deleted them from her digital camera.”
“So the only person who had that photo,” Jack said,
“was your daughter’s girlfriend.”
“Wait,” Paulina said, tears starting to run freely now.
“Are you saying…”
“I’m saying that the man who attacked you that night,”
Jack said, “got the photo from Pamela Ruffalo, your
daughter’s girlfriend. She sold your daughter out.”
32
Paulina didn’t move. Her entire upper body trembled as
she looked from Jack to me and back again. Then she
stared at me long and hard, without taking her eyes away.
I couldn’t understand why at first, but then I realized that
she trusted me more than she trusted Jack.
Paulina was hoping I would tell her that none of this
was true.
Instead I walked up to Paulina, and I’ll be damned if
I know why I did this, but I took the woman’s hand in
mine and held it.
“It’s true,” I said. “We haven’t spoken to Pam or Abigail yet.”
“Why not?” she said.
Jack replied, “Because you’re Abigail’s mother. And
you’re a reporter, too. Because this part of the story needs
to be reported by you.”
“How can I…” Paulina said, trailing off. “My daughter, she’ll be…”
“She’ll hate you,” I said, “for a while. But eventually
she’ll know the truth. And she’ll respect you for it.”
Paulina laughed bitterly. “My daughter hasn’t respected me in a long time.”
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“Well, if she doesn’t respect you,” I said, “she’ll sure
as hell love you for it.”
“What about you two? What happens next?”
Jack said, “We’ll be waiting for your call. Your promise to Henry still stands. We did our part and will continue
to.”
Paulina nodded. Then she looked at her watch.
“I can be there in a few hours,” she said.
“So go,” I said.