Dying to Call You (3 page)

For nearly an hour, she labored through voice mail, answering machines, “he’s not home” and “don’t call me at dinner” without one bite. Not even a nibble. She was getting discouraged.

She looked at the information on the next prospect: “Age 40.

Occupation: Financier. Annual income: More than five hundred thousand. College educated. Smokes Dunhills. Drives a Land Rover and a vintage Porsche 911. Owns a Cigarette boat. No pets. Uses MCI long-distance service. Drinks martinis made with Silver Spur vodka more than three times a week.”

There was one other comment, this one by a survey recruiter: “Good talker in focus groups but has a bad temper on phone. Can be mean.”

Mean or not, he had the right demographics for this survey. Helen took a deep breath, dialed and said, “May I please speak to Mr. Henry Asporth?”

“This is Hank.” The man had a rich voice to go with all that money.

“Hi, this is Helen and I’m with the—”

“What? Sweetie, wait a minute.” Sweetie. Helen ground her teeth. She’d rather he was mean than call her sweetie.

Asporth had put the phone down. Helen would wait thirty seconds before she hung up on him. An old anti-telemarketer trick was to put down the phone and never come back.

Helen heard someone say, “Hey! Wait a minute.” A woman. She sounded young. She seemed surprised and a little scared. Then Helen heard a man and a woman arguing, but it sounded far away. It probably was. A house like Hank’s was measured in acres, not square feet.

“What do you mean, ‘What am I doing in here?’ ” The woman’s voice was higher and clearer than the man’s.

The man’s voice was a low, angry rumble, but Helen couldn’t pick up any words.

The woman sounded defiant, but there was a taunting, teasing quality to her voice. She seemed to have the upper hand. “You want it? Well, then you better give me what I want. Otherwise, you’ll never get your hands on it. You’ll be sorry. I can put you away for a long time. You’ve been a very bad boy, Hank. You’re just lucky I like bad boys. I’ve waited long enough. I want an answer, and I want it tonight.”

Helen heard the man’s voice again, low and angry, but still impossible to decipher. Even without the words, Helen felt its cutting edge.

“I’m not lying,” the woman insisted, her voice rising.

Then the woman’s voice changed. Now she was afraid.

“What are you doing here? Get away from me. No!” More voices, talking over each other. The man, angry. The woman, sounding more frightened. Her high, light voice was easier to understand. His was a low rumble. And was that a third person? Helen couldn’t tell. They were too far away.

Helen heard a loud clunking noise, like something heavy was overturned. Then the woman said something that didn’t make sense. It sounded like, “It’s the coffee—” Her words were stretched into a short, explosive scream.

But there was no misunderstanding her next frantic words: “What are you doing? No! No! Hank!” Her scream was cut off.

Helen had never heard anything as terrifying as the next sound. It was an awful guttural choking noise. It sounded like someone was fighting for air. Helen had her hand protectively on her own throat, as if the strangler might grab her through the phone.

“Hello?” Helen said, her voice a frightened croak.

Dead air. Then a click.

Someone had hung up the phone.

Chapter 2

“Oh, my God,” Helen yelled to the other survey takers.

“Someone’s being killed. I heard it. He’s killing her right now. What do I do?”

“Call 911,” said her supervisor, Nellie. “Now.” She put down her phone and came over to stand by Helen. The big blonde’s presence was solid and reassuring. Nellie was one of those people who became calmer in a crisis. Berletta, the other woman working in the survey room, stopped calling but said nothing. She was there if Helen needed her.

Helen’s fingers moved slowly, as if she was dialing under water.

“Wait. Nellie, what if I’m wrong? What if he really didn’t kill her? What if I didn’t hear what I think I heard? What if I’m sending the police to an innocent man?”

“Then the cops will leave, no harm done. But ask yourself this: What if you really did hear someone killing a woman, and you did nothing? Could you sleep at night?”

“No, of course not. It’s just that...”

“Helen, what was your first thought when you heard those sounds?” Nellie said. “Your first thought—not your second.”

“A woman was being killed.”

“Then listen to your instincts. Make the call.”

Helen’s fingers felt cold and unwieldy, a dead woman’s fingers. Her brain was racing: Nellie believed her, but what if the cops didn’t? What if—?

“911. Do you need police, fire or medical?”

“Police.” Helen had trouble getting out that one word. The others came in a gasping rush, as if she’d been running for miles. “I just called a house. I heard a woman being hurt. No, killed. I heard her die. They were having a fight and she was screaming and he killed her.” At least I think so. Helen silently smothered her doubts.

The 911 operator said, “Where is help needed?”

Helen found her businesslike tone soothing. Just the facts, ma’am. We can deal with this, no matter how bad it seems.

Helen read the address on her computer screen. “It’s 1751

Seamont. On the Intracoastal Waterway. Hurry, but I think it’s too late.”

“What city?”

“Brideport,” Helen said.

“What was the phone number of the person you were calling?”

Helen read it from the computer screen.

“What is your name and telephone number?”

“Helen Hawthorne.” She gave the Girdner number.

“Where are you calling from?” The litany of questions was comforting. The 911 operator’s voice was soothing as poppy syrup.

“Girdner Surveys,” Helen said. “It’s near Broward Boulevard and U.S. 1. I’m a telemarketer there. I was calling the Asporth house when I heard someone murder this woman.”

“And the name of the person you were calling?”

“Henry Asporth. He answered the phone. He said his name was Hank. Then he put the phone down and I heard him arguing with a woman. She sounded young, but I don’t know who she was. She screamed, but it was cut off. I think he strangled her or broke her neck. He killed her. I heard it.”

“For my own clarification, you did not hear shots,” the operator said. “You heard the male subject strangle the female?”

“Yes,” Helen said. “I didn’t hear a gun. I think he killed her with his bare hands. It was horrible. Then he hung up the phone.”

“How much time has gone by since you hung up?”

“I don’t know,” Helen said. “A couple of minutes. Maybe five at the most. Nellie—she’s my supervisor—she told me to call. It hasn’t been real long. And I didn’t hang up the phone. He did.”

“Did he sound like an older male or a younger male?”

“Old. No, young. But not too young. He was grown up.”

“Did it sound like there was another male present?”

“I didn’t hear another man. Just Hank Asporth and the woman he strangled.” And maybe another woman, Helen thought. But before she could say it, the operator said, “What makes you think that he strangled her?”

“I heard him! It was this awful choking noise.”

“Was she choking on food?” the 911 operator said.

“No, it wasn’t choking like that. She was fighting, trying to stay alive, and then she made this terrible sound.”

“What sound?”

Helen couldn’t describe the sound and she couldn’t forget it.

“A dying sound,” Helen said. “She was murdered and I heard it.”

All her doubts went away. At least for the moment. After Helen repeated everything Hank had said again, the 911 operator told her the police and paramedics had been dispatched and that the police would contact her later. Helen put down the receiver. It felt like it weighed twenty pounds in her hand.

“Are you OK?” Nellie asked.

“I’m fine,” Helen said.

“You don’t look fine,” Berletta said. “Not unless you’re wearing flour for makeup. Let me get you some water.”

Penelope had strict rules about telemarketers being seen but not heard. “You can’t go out now,” Helen said. “There are clients here. If you’re caught roaming the halls, you’ll be fired.”

“If they want to fire me for acting like a human being, shame on them,” Berletta said.

Helen started to get up, but Nellie pushed her down. “Sit.

You look like particular hell. I’ll lie for Berletta if I have to.”

“It’s too big a risk,” Helen said. “Berletta needs this job.”

Berletta had a ten-year-old daughter with cerebral palsy.

Her free days were spent fighting with the insurance companies for disallowed medicine and treatments. Her evenings were spent at Girdner, trying to pay off medical bills that had climbed to six figures.

“Don’t worry, I’m packing protection,” Berletta said. She picked up a clipboard. “This is a trick my husband learned in the army. If you walk around with a clipboard, nobody questions you.”

Helen laughed. The laugh turned into a shrill giggle that she had trouble stopping.

“Do you want to go home?” Nellie said to Helen. “I’ll write you an excuse.”

“I’m fine,” Helen said. She could feel tears clogging her throat, but she fought them back.

“How about some chocolate therapy?” Nellie said. “Sugar and caffeine are good for shock. The almonds will give you protein.” She pulled out a gold-wrapped chocolate bar.

“Ah, the healing powers of Godiva,” Helen said. She ate the chocolate. Berletta returned unscathed with a bottle of water and a damp paper towel. Helen gulped the cold water, then wiped her face with the towel and took a deep breath.

“Enough,” she said. “I’m going back to work.”

“You’re one tough woman,” Nellie said.

“It’s all the abuse I take as a telemarketer.”

The hourly insults, sexual slurs and questions about her parentage had toughened her up. She could work. She would work. She had a quota to fill, or she’d never get survey duty again.

Helen didn’t want to think about what she had unleashed.

If the cops really did find a dead woman, they might look into Helen’s past. She’d changed her name, but she was still on the run. Any halfway smart cop could figure it out.

The cops would find no credit cards, no bank account, no phone in her name. They’d realize she was using a false name in about thirty seconds. She’d be on her way back to St. Louis. Helen wondered if she’d have to wear handcuffs the whole trip.

She went back to the computer, and called the next person, a thirty-two-year-old stockbroker named Ashley Lipston. “May I speak to Ms. Lipston?” Helen’s voice sounded like it came from a newly opened tomb.

“I can’t hear you. Speak up.”

“I’m doing a sturbay, I mean, a survey for Spilver Sur—”

Ms. Lipston slammed down the phone.

Helen stumbled through her next presentation, too. Then she started signing up Silver Spur martini drinkers, finding a strange relief in doing her job.

A shaky hour and a half later, two Brideport police officers came to Girdner Surveys. The night receptionist, who looked like Helen’s third-grade teacher, Sister Wilhelmina, brought them back to the phone room.

“These police officers are here to see you,” she said.

The receptionist gave Helen a disapproving look, as if she’d just earned six demerits. Helen wondered if any clients had seen the cops.

Nellie and Berletta put down their phones and frankly eavesdropped.

The two officers were as clean and new as their uniforms.

One was dark, compact and muscular—a farm boy with a nose like a new potato. The other was a blond woman with short, untidy hair. The shirttail of her uniform blouse was creeping out of her waistband and her collar was crooked.

Helen had an urge to straighten it.

“There was no murder, ma’am,” the boy officer said. “We wanted to set your mind at ease. What you heard was a movie. The guy was watching it when we got there.”

Hot shame flooded Helen. She remembered the woman’s teasing tone at first: “You’ve been a very bad boy, Hank.

You’re just lucky I like bad boys.” That did sound like a line from a movie.

She was a fool. A public fool. She would lose her job. All because she’d overreacted and called the police. But then she remembered that desperate, guttural choking noise. That was no movie sound effect. She’d heard a woman die. She was sure of it.... Almost sure.

“He killed a woman,” she said. “It wasn’t a movie. She said his name, Hank. Twice. Explain that.”

“You heard wrong.” Officer Untidy tucked in her shirttail.

“You said you couldn’t hear what the man said, just the woman.”

“I heard a woman being murdered.” It came out stronger than she felt.

“No, ma’am,” Officer Untidy said. She had a coffee stain on her shirt. “We found no sign of anyone else living there.

We found no women’s personal effects. No female clothes, shoes or makeup.”

“He’s very rich. Maybe you didn’t look hard enough, Helen said.

Berletta sat at her desk, frozen. Nellie gave a warning cough.

Good move, Helen thought. Insult the police. That will make them change their minds.

The boy cop, the muscular one, moved forward in a way that seemed threatening. But Helen realized every move this young tank made would seem that way. “Ma’am, I will put that remark down to stress, because of the situation. We didn’t take Mr. Asporth’s word for it. We had reasonable suspicion to search the house and the garage without a warrant.

The yard could be seen from public view, so we had cause to search that, too. Mr. Asporth also gave us permission.”

“How much time was there between my call and your response?” Helen interrupted.

“We responded in a timely manner,” he said, which was no answer at all.

“Inside the house we looked in the closets and under the beds. We checked his storage containers and his walk-in freezer. We even checked the bait freezer on his boat. A guy hid his wife in one of those a couple of years ago.”

When you were still in diapers, Helen thought. I’ve got sweaters older than these two. When did they graduate from the police academy—yesterday?