The Craigslist Murders - Brenda Cullerton [40]
“I was only eight years old,” she’d confided, spearing an olive with her toothpick. “And I sat in the back of a courtroom with my mother while a judge sentenced my father to five years in jail.”
“For what? Why?” Charlotte had whispered.
“For collaborating with the enemy,” Anna had fumed. “What collaborating? The Germans showed up and took over the house. My father was responsible for his own family and for every farmer on the estate.”
Tucking her green silk shirt tightly into her skirt, Anna’s words had become rushed. As if by hurrying them, she might distance herself from their meaning, their impact. “When my brother came back from the war, he lost a fortune at the casino in Venice,” she had said. “My father, the oldest brother, had to sign for him. For the honor of the family, you know? It was almost medieval then, the north, the Veneto. When my father died three years later in jail, I began to dream of going to America. And here I am,” she had added before ordering her third and last martini.
“Lucky for me,” Charlotte had replied, giving her a hug.
Anna’s jaw dropped.
“I’m drunk,” Charlotte had said with a smile. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”
As the doctor scurried across the room towards his office, Charlotte wondered why Anna’s losses hadn’t diminished her spirit or her wisdom. “There is nothing lonelier in life than suffering only one’s own losses,” her friend had murmured to her softly before they parted at the end of that evening. “You should keep that in mind, cara.” Quickly picking up her bag and retrieving her coat from the closet near the receptionist, Charlotte headed for the door.
“Miss Wolfe, Miss Wolfe,” the woman shouted after her. Charlotte had already disappeared.
24
Stooping down to pick up her newspapers in the elevator, she opened Friday morning’s Post. The story was the lead on page two.
MURDERED MANSION MAMA ROBBED!
Ben Volpone
One week after the brutal murder of Amy Webb, wife of Wall Street trader Richard Webb, a source close to the investigation reports that police are following up on a number of promising leads. “Although no arrest is imminent, we now know that the perpetrator removed a brown, leather Louis Vuitton vanity case from the premises and that the victim was killed by the same or similar weapon as that used in other female homicides in Manhattan.”
The police source didn’t know if the case contained other stolen articles. Meanwhile Mr. Webb, the police and the firm of Goldman Sachs have offered a reward of $50,000 for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the killer. Police ask anyone with information to call (800) 577-TIPS.
Amy Webb, a prominent socialite, was found dead in the dressing room of her home at 32 E. 65th Street. Active in many New York City charities, Webb was also an amateur equestrienne. The funeral service was private.
Charlotte chortled. Some way to be remembered: a socialite and an amateur equestrienne. Then she reread the headline and first paragraph, noting the discrepancy between the words “robbed” and “removed.”
She had to assume the police had now made the connection between Craigslist and the killer. But why were they withholding the information from the media? To avoid the possibility of copycats? Had they perhaps posted an ad themselves? Were they monitoring the site? Whatever the reason, Charlotte was still confident that she was safe.
It was remarkable, really, how easy it was to get away with murder. The first time: the woman with the Dom. She hadn’t planned it. She’d improvised. The memories of Charlotte’s missions were always fragmented, splintered into shards of sensation. The vision of the woman at the door, for instance. She was shrieking. “The fucking bastard. Thinks he’s cutting me off with $70,000 a month.” Dressed in skintight jeans, a skimpy wifebeater, and four-inch cork platform shoes, she looked like she