Marcy might be roaring angry or deeply sad at the news of what her husband had done. I didn’t know if there would be tears, screams, silence, or some combination of all of them. Once there, I readied the conference room by placing two chairs next to the upholstered love seat, setting a box of tissues on the side table and heating water for tea. I put the myriad of papers that led to our uncovering Hank’s real identity into order and made a set of copies for Marcy. Then I sat at my desk, centering myself for what would be one of the toughest things in my PI career.
Marcy arrived first and I ushered her into the conference room. “I have water boiling, if you’d like some tea.” She nodded.
As I prepared a cup in the outer office, Bobbie popped inside. I nodded toward the conference room and said, “Hi, Bobbie. Marcy’s already here. Would you like some tea, too?”
“No, thanks.” He hung up his coat, squared his shoulders and walked over to greet Marcy.
I locked the outer door and entered the small room, setting Marcy’s teacup on the table next to the love seat. Tension vibrated between the three of us. I picked up the paperwork and sat facing her.
“Bobbie and I did some undercover snooping at the nursing facility where Jim Beltran died. Remember I told you about the aide who disappeared that night?”
She nodded.
“His name is Karl Jorgensen.” I handed her a copy of the ID picture. “I’ll just flat out say it, Marcy. Jorgensen was another of Hank’s aliases.”
“What?” Her voice rose in shock. “How could he be Jim Beltran and Jorgensen?”
“He couldn’t. We believe that Hank posed as Beltran at the shelter, then got work at the nursing home as Jorgensen. He had a friendly relationship with a homeless man, Willie Parsons, and eventually found a way to get Willie into the facility, posing as Beltran. Willie was truly sick from end stage liver failure. When he died, the nursing home notified Hank’s lawyer of Beltran’s death, per the admission papers. That started the process of getting the Henry Wagner obit published.”
Marcy’s face had a look of stunned incomprehension. I stopped talking and waited for her to process what I told her. After a long silence, she stammered, “S-s-so Hank’s not dead?”
“That’s right. We think he’s still using the Jorgensen persona. He doesn’t know we made the connection.”
“Well, damn,” she whispered.
“We’re pretty astounded, too.”
Setting my cellphone on the table, I told her about the Marriott scheme and said, “I’d like to play the recording to see if you recognize the voice. Do you think you can handle hearing it?”
She considered for less than a second before saying, “Yes. I need to know.”
The voices of Glen and the man we assumed to be Karl Jorgensen were pretty clear, considering that Karl’s came from a phone’s speaker. “No. And I haven’t been near Milwaukee or stayed at a Marriott, and my name isn’t Jefferson,” he said.
Marcy gave a slight intake of breath. “Play it again, please.” After the second hearing, she nodded. “That’s Hank alright. Did you notice how he said the word ‘near’? ‘Ni-ya.’ I always kidded him about that, about how he said his r’s, or didn’t say them, in this case. He told me his mom had family in New England, and he learned it as a kid, but I always thought he sounded more like a guy from Jersey.”
Or Philly, I thought.
Marcy’s hand shook a bit as she gestured to the phone. “So he’s alive. He’s really alive.” She used a tissue to wipe away the silent tears that ran down her cheeks.
I knew this was tearing her up inside, but I couldn’t figure out a way to make what followed any easier. Give me the words, please, I silently prayed. “Marcy, there’s something else.” I gave her a copy of the newspaper article about Tommaso Severson.
Her hands began to shake as she discovered the reality of the man she married. “He was … Mafia?” Marcy whispered.
Bobbie leaned forward and put a steady hand on her upper back. “It appears he was connected, in his past,” he said. “That explains all the subterfuge, the different identities, the fake obit. He wanted to disappear again.”
“Did something happen with the mob to make him run from me and the kids?”
“It’s possible,” Bobbie said, “but only Hank can explain that, I’m afraid.”
She sipped her tea and sat in silence for several minutes, looking through the paperwork. Finally, she nodded and turned to me. “So what now?”
I handed her the printout from Bart Matthews. “Using a fake name doesn’t negate your marriage, but since it was instituted under fraudulent circumstances, you’re within your rights to ask for an annulment. Or you could file for divorce, which will be simpler and quicker. That leaves you free to pursue another marriage down the road.”
“I don’t want another marriage,” she keened. “I want Hank. Can you find him?”
You want Hank? The man who ran out on you? The guy with the secret life that he never shared with you? Bozo didn’t even treat me that badly. However, human emotion stands outside of logic. I might not understand Marcy’s feelings, but I had no right to judge them. “I don’t know if I can locate him, Marcy. We have some leads, but a lot will depend on whether he decides to run again. He’s quite good at disappearing.”
“I want you to try,” she said, her voice earnest. “At the very least, I want to talk to him, to have him tell me what happened and why he left. To have him tell me if he still loves me and the kids. Then I’ll know what to do.”
“Are you sure? The closer you get to Hank, the worse the consequences might be,” I said.
“Such as?”
“The South Philly Mob is probably still very interested in silencing Tommaso Severson. As long as he’s at
