Kiss the Girls and Make Them Cry(91)

“Miss Kane?” a heavily accented voice asked.

“This is Gina Kane,” she replied, forcing herself to be civil.

“I am friend with Meg Williamson. I send you email about Paula Stephenson.”

Gina stopped in her tracks. She pressed the button to put the call on speaker, to allow her to hear better. She held the phone in front of her face.

“Thank you for calling me. I won’t ask your name. Are you ready to meet me?”

“Me temo que, I’m sorry, I’m afraid. If they find out—”

“It’s okay,” Gina said soothingly. “We don’t have to meet. Let’s just talk. I know Cathy Ryan, Paula Stephenson, and Meg Williamson were victims. I need more names. If several women come forward, we can stop them.”

“No tell these girls I talk to you.”

“I won’t. I promise. Please give me the names.”

Gina didn’t want to make her wait while she fished for a pen. She pressed the RECORD button on her iPhone and watched the red light go on. She listened as the caller slowly spoke seven first and last names.

“Ayer, they hurt another beautiful young girl,” the caller said, clearly on the verge of tears.

Gina recognized ayer as the Spanish word for “yesterday.” “I wish I knew what to call you.”

“Martina, mi madre’s name.”

“Okay, Martina. I will make this stop. I need to know who is hurting the girls.”

“Que un cerdo, what a pig. Brad Matthews.”

Gina felt herself reeling as she stared at the phone in disbelief. America’s most trusted anchorman, this generation’s Walter Cronkite, was a serial abuser. She was trying to process Martina’s revelation when she heard the sounds of running footsteps behind her. A hand brushed against hers and snatched away the phone. In the same motion the attacker put his shoulder into her back, sending her sprawling on the sidewalk. Gina gasped loudly as she used her arms to push herself up. “Stop!” she yelled. “Help!” All she could see was a tall figure in a hoodie and blue jeans sprinting away from her.



* * *



Rosalee heard the gasp and the screams. “Gina, Gina, are you okay?” About ten seconds later the call disconnected. Rosalee slowly settled down on the couch of her South Bronx apartment. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed. “The mal has taken another young girl,” she said to herself, “and it’s my fault.”





102





An officer in a patrol car volunteered to drive Gina back to her apartment. Someone had heard her cry for help and had called 911. The police had arrived within minutes. She had refused their offer to take her to an emergency room. They had taken her to the 20th Precinct on West 82nd Street to file a complaint. It was almost one o’clock in the morning by the time she was inside her door.

While waiting at the precinct, she had jotted down three of the victim names “Martina” had provided. She had racked her brain but couldn’t recall the others.

The police had told her the odds were very much against getting her cell phone back. Worst case, whoever stole it would download the information and sell it to a hacker. The more likely scenario was that everything on the phone would be erased. Hers was the most current generation of iPhone. It could be resold for $350 on the black market.

Although it would be a nuisance, she knew she could recover the Contacts from her phone. They were stored in the Cloud and could be retrieved. What she didn’t know was whether or not the recording of the conversation with “Martina” was somehow salvageable. She was pretty sure she would be able to recover the number the woman had used to call her. But there was no guarantee she would answer. Gina tapped on her computer. The Verizon store five blocks away opened at nine o’clock. She would be its first customer.





103





When Gina woke the next morning, her back felt stiff as a result of the shove. Her wrists were still sore from having used her hands to break her fall. Fortunately, the scrape marks on her palms and her right knee were not deep.

Her visit to the Verizon store accomplished half of what she had hoped. After providing her phone number and pin, she purchased a new phone. Fortunately her Contacts were stored in the Cloud. In a matter of minutes the sales assistant was able to download the information, and as if by magic, her emails and texts populated the new phone.

When she asked about retrieving the recorded conversation she had been having with Martina, the sales assistant was unsure. “I don’t know if things get stored in real time. I’ll ask the manager.”

The manager came over and introduced herself. She was a pretty black woman who Gina guessed was about forty. After introductions were made, the manager said, “I’ve been here for twelve years and I never had that question. Let me see. Your recorded conversation would have to have been backed up to be in the Cloud. That usually happens when the phone is charging and connected to WiFi. If your thief was really stupid and he charged your phone in a WiFi zone, you might be in luck. When you go home, check your Apple iCloud account. If it doesn’t show up in a day or two, I’m afraid it’s gone.”

The first thing she did after getting back to her apartment was to check her iCloud account. No recording. She then called her editor. When Charlie didn’t pick up, she left a message filling him in on her phone contact with “Martina” and the incident on the street. Next she dialed the number “Martina” had used to call her. An electronic voice began, “You have reached…” After waiting for it to finish, Gina left a detailed voice mail message explaining what had happened the previous evening and imploring “Martina” to contact her. She sent the same message in a text and then in an email. Ball in her court, Gina thought to herself, wondering if she would ever again hear from the frightened “Martina.”