A Killing Sky (12 page)

I drove back out toward Richmond's West End. I thought about everything I'd learned so far, about what Diane Lemminger had said, and decided I wasn't about to leave Richmond until I tried to find out more about Second Millennium. The E-mails and the TV reporter's upcoming exposé had to have some link to Cartwright Drummond's disappearance.

Roberta and Averil Joseph worked at Physicians’ Specialty Hospital. In the afternoon sun, the facility seemed to glow with the power and authority of modern medicine, all contained in a futuristic brick-and-glass structure that had once been an architect's dream. I parked in the visitors lot and entered the lobby.

Since it was the peak of visiting hours, the elderly volunteer behind the reception desk was occupied with at least three different groups of people who'd come to see their relatives or friends. I swept by this entourage without even looking at the desk. I didn't know exactly where I was going, but it wasn't hard to give the impression that I did.

Around a corner, a set of double doors brought me into a long hallway. About halfway down this corridor was a sign that read
CAFETERIA,
with an arrow pointing to the right down another hall.

Should I start with Averil? I didn't want to be seen as unscrupulous, attempting to talk to her without her mother present, so my head voted for finding her mom. But I hadn't eaten anything since the doughnuts that morning, and my stomach voted in favor of the cafeteria. The stomach won. At least I could always claim a legitimate reason for my visit. You know, gourmet Pavlicek, driving five miles out of his way just for a taste of hospital food.

After one wrong turn I managed to locate the cafeteria, a spacious affair with salmon-colored walls and tall windows facing the parking lot. A few dozen customers were eating dinner: families with children, a man and a woman in tailored business suits, an elderly couple who seemed to be stooping in prayer over their meal. The food was served assembly-line style, as you might expect. I found a tray, picked up a salad and a drink, and began to work my way down the line in search of an entrée, only to come face-to-face with Averil Joseph.

She was helping to serve pork chops, mashed potatoes, steamed broccoli, and some sort of rice and bean casserole. Another worker stood next to her, a fifty-something woman with gray hair and a flat face. She and Averil seemed to be operating in tandem.

Averil showed no sign of recognition as I slid my tray in front of her and asked for the pork chops. She dutifully took the plate I handed her and scooped a couple of pieces of meat neatly onto the side, then handed it to her coworker. Averil wore an oversized green apron and a thin paper cap with elastic around the edges. I picked up the plate with the rest of my food from the other woman and moved on down the line, keeping a close watch on Averil out of the corner of my eye.

She seemed to try not to be too obvious about it, but by the time I reached the desserts, she had cupped her hand over the side of her companion's head and was whispering something in the older woman's ear. Apparently Averil could communicate, at least in some fashion, when she needed to. Since there was no one behind me in line, the other woman had no food to serve at the moment. She disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Averil standing at her post in the serving line alone.

I paid the cashier, then stepped back along the counter.

“Averil. Remember me?”

The girl stared straight ahead as if she hadn't heard me.

“My name is Pavlicek. I just visited your house this morning. Remember?”

Her face turned to me then, but not in the way you would expect. She didn't look me in the eye, or even acknowledge that I had spoken her name. Instead she stared at my jacket and the jesses still attached there.

I took them off and gave them to her. “Here. Remember these?”

She turned the leather straps over in her hand as if they were a magic amulet.

“Do you send E-mail a lot, Averil?”

She said nothing, but for the briefest moment she smiled.

“Just what do you think you are doing?” Roberta Joseph's voice came from behind me. Her department must have been closer to the cafeteria than I thought.

I turned to see the nurse in hospital scrubs covered by a half-length, multicolored coat, standing next to the gray-haired cafeteria worker. She had her hands on her hips. Her hair was neatly tucked beneath a surgical cap, and her face looked grim.

“I was speaking with your daughter,” I said.

“I thought I told you this morning we didn't know anything more about your questions,” she said.

“I know, I know. But Averil here seems to have developed a sudden interest in E-mails.”

Roberta Joseph's eyes narrowed. Then she turned to the older woman. “Can you excuse us, Lena? Thanks for coming to get me.” The woman shot me a look that could've melted lead and disappeared again into the kitchen.

“There's a private dining room over this way,” Roberta said. “We can talk there.” She turned to her daughter. “Averil, you okay?”

The girl nodded.

Her mother took her by the hand, leading us toward a far corner of the cafeteria. The elderly couple seated in the corner stared, but most of the other diners ignored the three of us.

We came to a closed door on which was a sign that read
CONFERENCE ROOM.
Most likely it was used by various departments within the hospital for meetings, at lunchtime and otherwise. At this particular moment, however, it stood vacant. We went in, Roberta closed the door behind us, and we all took chairs around a long table.

Averil had begun to grin again.

“Before we go any further, I want to know just exactly who you are working for,” her mother said.

“Cassidy Drummond,” I said.

She stared at me and said nothing, but she swallowed. Hard.

“Look, I know Drummond's behind your little foundation, all right?”

“How do you know that?”

“I have sources at the bank,” I lied. Truth was, I didn't even remember what bank Second Millennium used, although that information was probably buried somewhere in the reams of background material Toronto and Nicole had printed out

She must have bought it. Her shoulders slumped, and the fight seemed to drain out of her. “This is not good,” she said. “Tor's not going to be happy.”

“Why not? Because I've exposed his philanthropy? What's the harm in that?”

She shook her head. “You don't understand. You've opened a real can of worms.”

“Okay. Tell me about it.”

“I can't. I shouldn't even be sitting here talking to you.”

“Look, Ms. Joseph. You know Cartwright Drummond is missing, right?”

“Of course.” She pushed a stray wisp of hair off her face.

“I've got copies of two messages sent from your foundation's E-mail address to Cartwright the night she disappeared, one of which looks like an invitation for Cartwright to come meet someone, someone she knew. Did you send those E-mails?”

“No. I did not.”

“Do you know who sent them?”

“I do not.”

“You said your daughter has access to your account.”

“Yes, but that's ridiculous—” Roberta turned to face her daughter, who was seated next to her, and took both of the girl's hands in her own. “Averil,” she said, “do you remember someone named Cartwright Drummond?”

The girl stared blankly at a spot across the room.

“Look at me, Averil.”

The girl obeyed and focused on her mother.

“Have you ever heard of Cartwright Drummond?”

It took maybe three or four seconds, but eventually Averil gave a slight but distinct nod. She remained expressionless.

“Have you sent mail with the computer to Cartwright Drummond?”

We waited, but Averil gave no indication that she even understood her mother's words.

“Your daughter ever write poetry, Ms. Joseph?” I asked.

“Write poetry? No, not that I know of. She did attend a speech class at her developmental learning center last year. I think they may read poetry to the classes sometimes. In fact, I remember them saying they thought it might help stimulate language development in the students.”

“Can you get the address and the name of the teacher for me?”

“I suppose. Maybe this is all just some mistake. If Averil sent some random E-mails, I'm sure she meant no harm.”

“If you don't mind my asking, where's Averil's father?”

She folded her hands on the table and stared at me. “He's not in the picture. We never married. I've raised Averil on my own.”

Suddenly, quite deliberately, her daughter reached over and placed a hand on top of her mother's. The nurse smiled.

“Averil understands quite a bit, it seems,” I said.

“She understands my gestures and my emotions.”

“Back to the foundation. Are you sure you're the only person who ever uses that E-mail box?”

“Yes.”

“Would you be willing to supply me with the foundation's address list?”

“I can't do that,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Because the list contains many of the names of the foundation's beneficiaries, and we like to keep that information confidential. You wouldn't believe how many requests we get in that we have to turn down.”

“I'm running out of time here. The police now have the E-mails too. It's just a matter of time before they subpoena all your records. I'm trying to find Cartwright Drummond.”

She looked at her watch. “I'm sorry, but I really do have to get back to work.” She let go of her daughter's hand, pushed away from the table, and stood and started toward the door. Like a dutiful puppy, Averil followed.

“What if it were
your
daughter who was missing, Ms. Joseph?”

She hesitated for just a moment, then turned to face me. “Please stay away from me and my daughter, Mr. Pavlicek. I hope we won't have to repeat this line of questioning.”

“I strive to avoid redundancy,” I said.

Roberta Joseph took her daughter by the hand again, spun around, and the two of them were gone.

I
called
Ferrier
this time. From my cell phone on the way back to Charlottesville.

“Oh,” he said. “Isn't this the private dick who hung up on me earlier today?”

“Sorry about that, Bill. I was, uh, in the middle of an interview.”

“I'll bet.”

“Listen—those E-mails I sent you? They came from a foundation in Richmond. I've been looking into it, and you guys need to get some people on this right away. I—”

“Save it, Frank.”

“What?”

“I said save it. We're shut down.”

“What are you talking about?”

“There are a lot of folks in crisp dark suits walking around our office right now. They're taking over the investigation. They're also convinced this is a kidnapping and they're pretty convinced they know who did it.”

“FBI?”

“Uh-huh,” he said. “And they're sure looking forward to talking to you.”

The hospital security video was less than clear. Shadow clouded a big chunk of the screen, because the camera lens was positioned so as to pick out license plate numbers of vehicles entering and exiting. It was difficult to say, for example, who for certain had been driving a particular vehicle, but there was absolutely no doubt that at 1:16
A.M.
on the night Cartwright Drummond disappeared, her rented Nissan Maxima with the D.C. plates had entered the hospital parking garage. And right behind her another vehicle had entered, a black Jeep Cherokee, bearing California plates and registered in the name of Jed Haynes.

“I guess if it walks like a duck—” Ferrier shrugged.

The FBI agent in charge of the case went to switch off the tape. I figured she was in her mid-thirties, although she looked older, with a touch of gray in her hair, small wrinkles around the edges of her eyes, no makeup. She also looked like she could bench-press more than a lot of guys I knew. Her name, she said, was Agent Christine Packard.

Outside, the night air was sweetened by the smell of sumac and sassafras. Much warmer than the night before. But here next to Ferrier and Upwood's desk in the detectives’ room at Charlottesville police headquarters, we might as well have been inside a concrete bunker on the moon.

“That's not all,” Packard said. “We obtained a search warrant to go over Haynes's Jeep, and we've got particles of her blood dried into a plastic doorknob, more on a piece of rubber under the dash. And as you know, Haynes's alibi gets a little fuzzy after one a.m.”

“So for some reason Cartwright Drummond drove to the hospital parking garage that night and Haynes followed her in his Jeep,” I said.

“That's the way we see it.”

It was only a two-minute drive from the house off Fourteenth Street to the parking garage at the medical center, so it sounded plausible.

“But Tor Drummond's other daughter says Cartwright left the house out in Ivy just after midnight. It doesn't take an hour or more to get to Haynes's house from there, especially at that time of night, with hardly any traffic. I'd say twenty minutes tops. What was she doing for almost an hour?” I was thinking about the E-mail message—
meet me. twelve-thirty a.m.

“Who knows?” She tapped a thick green file folder she was holding on her leg. “Maybe she stopped for gas. Maybe she had a hankering for some Milk Duds or a Slurpee.”

“If she did, there would be a receipt, or someone would've seen her.”

“We're checking.”

The case was far from airtight, but I had to admit it looked bad for Haynes.

“How about inside the girl's car?” I asked. “You have any evidence there that you can tie to the swimmer?”

“Not yet. We figure he cut her in the Jeep, then drove her someplace in the Nissan, which was when she spilled the little bit of blood there.”

“You think she's still alive, then?”

“Absent a body, we're still going on that assumption.”

“You pick up Haynes yet?”

The agent nodded. “Got him down the hall. We've already questioned him for close to two hours. He's sticking to his story for the time being.”

“Look at it this way, Frank,” Ferrier said. “You did a good job of bird-dogging the kid for them.”

I said nothing.

“That's right,” Packard said. “You talked to Haynes before anyone else did, didn't you, Pavlicek?”

“So?” I said.

“Seems kind of odd, don't you think? You're in early on the case, claiming to represent Cartwright Drummond's twin sister. Now, according to Detective Ferrier here, you claim your client doesn't want to be found. Oh, and the mother suddenly seems to be missing too.… You make a deal, did you, with this Haynes kid? The two of you split the ransom?”

“What ransom? What are you talking about?”

“C'mon, Frank, let's drop the charade. You're caught.”

I looked at Ferrier, who was staring blankly at his hands. “You guys are in fantasyland—you know that?”

She pulled a plastic bag containing a piece of paper from the folder she was holding.

“So this little note you left demanding two million dollars in bearer bonds—that's a fantasy?”

“I don't know what you're talking about. Where did you get that?”

“I suppose you don't remember leaving it on the desk when you went to try to intimidate Congressman Drummond in his office.”

“Whatever it is, I didn't write it.”

“I suppose that's why your fingerprints are all over the paper.”

Stupid, I thought. Really stupid. I'd lost my temper and Dworkin had aced me.

“Pretty good scheme, though. Take a wealthy public figure like Drummond. His daughters are just back from out of the country. You and Haynes must've been planning this one for a while. And, hey, you've got to admit, Pavlicek, your public service track record hasn't exactly been star caliber. Was it more than just the money? Maybe revenge too?”

Another detective passed through the room, trailed by Haynes's roommates, both of them looking a lot more serious and respectful than the last time I'd seen them. Nobody noticed me. The detective led them down the hall, around a corner and out of sight.

“You talk to any of those jokers yet?” I said.

“We're just about to take their statements,” Packard said.

Ferrier stood up. “Look, Agent, I don't know what's going on here, but I've known Frank for a couple of years now, and as far as I'm concerned, he's clean. Looks to me like someone's trying to set him up to take the fall for this.”

“Your opinion is duly noted, Detective.”

A door slammed around the corner and footsteps approached the big room. Jed Haynes appeared, being led by another agent.

“Potty break,” the FBI guy snickered in our direction.

“Hey!” Haynes said, catching sight of me. “Ask this guy. He'll tell you. Pavlicek, you talked to me before these turkeys did and I told you the truth—I didn't do anything to Cartwright. I wouldn't. I—”

“Can it, pal.” The agent strong-armed Jed down the hall in the direction of the men's room.

I didn't have anything to lose at this point, so I called after them. “Hey, Haynes, you ever hear of someone—a swimmer, maybe—calling himself the secret amphibian?”

The young man turned with his escort. “The what?” he said.

“The secret amphibian.”

“Never heard of him.”

“You write poetry, Mr. Haynes?”

“Huh?”

“Poetry—you know, ‘admittedly an eloquence so soft,’ that sort of thing.”

“What do I stinking care about poetry?”

“I didn't think so,” I said.

They turned and continued along the hallway.

“What is that?” Agent Packard said. “Some kind of code between the two of you?”

“No, ma'am. Part of
my
investigation.”

She snickered.

“What about these E-mails and the newspaper articles and other stuff that Frank has come up with?” Ferrier said.

She dismissed the idea with a wave. “We'll follow up on them. Looks like some kind of a smoke screen, if you ask me.”

Ferrier sighed, shaking his head.

Willard Abercrombie just happened to trail by, his eyes flaming, his face capillary-rich with venom.

“You,” he said, pointing a finger at my face. “I always knew it.” Then he turned and fled.

“Am I under arrest or something?” I said.

Packard glared at me. “Give us the girl, Pavlicek. And tell us where her mother and sister are too. It'll go a heck of a lot easier for you if you do.”

“I want an attorney,” I said.