A Killing Sky (16 page)

I was crossing Water Street in front of my office, beginning to get in a rhythm with my limp, when Tor Drummond's yellow Hummer rumbled to life from the curb. His security men, who'd been talking to the remaining FBI agent by the silver Taurus, jumped back into their dark Suburban. This was obviously no campaign stop. There wasn't a microphone or a reporter in sight.

Drummond turned on his flashers and pulled to a halt right in front of me. He opened the hatchlike door and stepped out.

“Hey, Pavlicek!” His cowboy boots and jeans were jet black. He wore a white turtleneck sweater and a camel-colored cashmere sport jacket.

“Hey, yourself.”

The boys riding shotgun in the second vehicle pulled up behind the Hummer and also turned on their flashers. Turnip and his friend, the same two I'd met before. They sat behind the glass, expressionless.

“Been waiting for you. I'd like to ask your advice about something, if you can spare a couple of minutes,” the congressman said.

I peered up and down the sidewalk. “I look like Lucy to you? Sorry, the advice booth's closed right now. Besides, I don't really have a couple of minutes to spare. Unless you're here to tell me where your missing daughter is.”

“Aw, c'mon, now, don't be like that. We may still be able to help each other.”

“Why? So you can try to set up me up for Cartwright's disappearance again? No, thank you.”

“I'm really sorry about that. Mel gets a little carried away sometimes. He's only trying to protect me.”

“Yeah. From whom?”

He held out his hands. “Just a couple of minutes. That's all I ask.”

“If you've got something to say that might help find your daughter, you're better off telling the FBI. And you can try siccing them on someone besides me while you're at it.”

“I'm here because I want to talk to you, Pavlicek. No one else. Don't you understand?”

I looked up to see a sharp-shinned hawk, smaller and quicker than a redtail, swoop from a tree around the corner of the library after a wren. It was rare to see sharpshins in the city, rare to see one at all unless you knew what to look for. Drummond saw me briefly staring and followed my line of vision. He might've seen the birds too.

“All right,” I said. I cocked my head in the direction of his goons in the trailer vehicle. “Lose the safety patrol and you can take me for a spin around the block.”

He crossed his arms and looked at me. Then he snickered and gestured toward his bodyguards. They neither questioned his intentions nor his actions. Immediately, the Suburban backed up and pulled around us, roaring off down the street. They turned right onto Second Street and disappeared.

“Okay, then?” he said.

I went around to the passenger side, found the handle, and pulled open the hatchlike door. I'd never ridden in a Hummer before. It felt like crawling into a cross between an Ml Abrams and something out of
Star Trek.
Tan-and-blue leather interior, giant silver gearshift, dials and controls. Computer monitor in the center of the dashboard to show us exactly where on the planet our little blip was located, using the global positioning system.

Drummond saw me staring. He patted the steering wheel. “Never ridden in one of these babies before? Here, let me show you how this works.” He pushed a button and tweaked some dials to pull up a street map of C-ville on the screen. Impressive.

“Personally, I prefer the Joe method.”

“Joe method?”

“Yeah. He's the guy at the gas station, knows where everything is, but no one ever stops to ask him directions.”

He turned the flashers off with a smirk, shifted into gear, and we moved away from the curb. I felt like one of the title characters in
Kelly's Heroes
expeditioning in my own tank down Water Street. I checked the side mirror just to make sure the FBI folks in the Taurus were following us—didn't think the congressman would try anything foolish with them around. They were. I also leaned into the seat and felt the comforting butt of the .357 beneath my jacket, just in case.

We reached the intersection of Ridge and Main, by the Lewis and Clark statue. He turned right down the hill. At the bottom we turned onto Preston Avenue.

“I saw you limping,” he said. “What'd you do, hurt yourself?”

“Seems pretty obvious, doesn't it?”

“What happened?”

“I'm in a risky profession.”

He grunted. “Saw that bird you were looking at, too. One of the detectives—Ferrier, was it?—told me you keep one like it yourself.”

“Not exactly. Different species.”

“A man of nature. You know my record on the environment is one of the strongest parts of my … “ He stopped himself in midsentence. “Never mind. I suppose whatever I say must sound like platitudes to a man like you.”

He had that right.

“So,” he said, “I understand you're keeping Karen and Cassidy's whereabouts a secret.”

“Who says I even know where they are?”

He smiled. “I thought you were hired by Cassidy.”

I said nothing.

“You think this evidence they've got against Jed Haynes is conclusive enough? I told you before what I thought of the young man.”

“I think it's more likely someone's trying to make everyone think Haynes has either killed your daughter or is keeping her somewhere.”

He twisted his lips into an odd shape. “Interesting theory. I hope you don't think I'd have anything to do with something like that.”

“Your chief of staff's trying to frame
me,
isn't he?”

“Ummm. Guess you've got a point there,” he said.

I shook my head and leaned back onto the leather headrest. The Hummer kept moving toward Barracks Road. “Doesn't it bother you, Drummond, that your own daughter and your ex-wife don't trust you?”

His turn to say nothing. But he seemed to grip the wheel a little tighter.

“Look,” he said after a few moments, “you seem to be the kind of man I can do business with.”

“Oh, yeah? What kind of man is that?”

“Independent. Tough and smart. I've employed a number of private investigators over the years, but most were disappointing.”

“Disappointing how?”

“They weren't willing to take risks.”

“You trying to hire me, Congressman?”

“Maybe. After all, I'm just as interested in finding out what's happened to Cartwright as Karen or Cassidy is.”

“Maybe even more interested.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“What's Cartwright got on you that's got you so worked up?”

He shrugged. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I'm talking about Second Millennium. I'm talking about George and Norma Paitley.”

“Oh, yes, I've heard you've been down bothering Roberta Joseph and her daughter.”

“You told me you'd never heard of the Paitleys.”

“That's right.”

“Really? How come I turned a photo of you standing arm and arm with them over to the cops then?”

There was a slight, barely detectable hesitation to his answer. “Good God, man. You know how many people I've had my picture taken with over the past fifteen years?”

“I've also had a chat with Diane Lemminger.”

His face lost a little color when I said that. He stared, expressionless, through the windshield.

“You're the one who sent me to her, told me Cartwright had been talking to her, remember? She said she's working on a story about you.”

“Good God, my friend, I hope you don't believe anything she's got to say these days. No one takes that show seriously. Like I told you before, she's gone and become a harlot to the highest bidder with a camera.”

“Some might say the same about politicians.”

He shook his head. “I suppose it serves me right. I mean, for what I—for what Diane and I—did together. She'll probably take whatever she thinks she's got to the tabloids before she's through.”

Drummond bad learned to affect true humility and honesty so well, talking with him was like getting lost in a house of mirrors.

“Funny, because she's here right now in Charlottesville.”

“Here? What for?”

“I don't know. I was hoping you might be able to tell me.”

“I haven't a clue. Probably trying to dig up more dirt on me.”

“Maybe just visiting old friends,” I suggested.

“You really think I may have had my own daughter kidnapped or killed, don't you?” he said.

“You sure act like it.”

“Is that what Cassidy thinks too?”

“When she decides to talk to you again, you'll have to ask her.”

He nodded. The sky was beginning to clear overhead as we waited in a line of cars headed down the hill toward the light at the big intersection with Emmet Street. The trees were infused with a shadow of spring green where the budding tips of new leaves grew fatter every day.

“You spent much time around hospitals, Pavlicek?” he asked.

“Some.”

“You know I trained as a physician, don't you?”

“Are you saying doctors aren't capable of murder?”

“Not at all. I'm only trying to get you to appreciate that there is often a finer line between life and death than most of the general public realize or want to even think about. Doctors must think about and deal with that line almost every day.”

“How do you deal with it up in Washington?”

He didn't answer. Which was about the most honest thing I'd heard him say.

We were looping around onto the 250 Bypass, heading back in the general direction from which we'd come. We drove in silence at the posted speed limit toward my office. Almost every driver we passed turned and gave the Hummer a look. Drummond appeared oblivious. I checked the side mirror for our FBI tail again. Still there.

“Someone broke into my house out in Ivy last night. Have you heard about it?” he said.

I shrugged. “Too bad. Anything taken?”

“Nothing that I could see. Whoever it was broke into my desk, though, and went through my papers.”

“Guess you'd better shore up your security out there,” I said.

“Exactly what I'm thinking. Which is why I thought I might offer you and your friend I've heard about— what's his name?”

“Toronto.”

“Toronto, then—a chance to work for me regarding this whole affair. I can certainly pay you a lot more than you're probably getting now.”

“Not interested,” I said.

“You sure? You might want to think about it.”

“I've thought about it. Not interested.”

He looked perplexed, disappointed. We climbed the hill to Lewis and Clark again and took the left onto Water. Eased back downhill toward the big parking garage where the Suburban sat idling at the curb.

“Looks like your shock troops are ever vigilant,” I said.

“That they are. The price of freedom—isn't that what we say?”

“The price of freedom.”

He pulled to a stop in front of my building. I unbuckled, opened the door, and climbed out.

“I guess I was wrong about you,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“I'll have to add stupid to the list of qualities.”

“Yes, but I'm as loyal as your first puppy,” I said and closed the door.

Back in the office, the searchers had vacated the premises. Everything looked neat and tidy. Toronto sat at my workbench, staring into his laptop.

“How did it go?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Dudes didn't seem to find what they were hoping for. And then, for some reason, they decided it was time to leave.”

“Can't imagine why.”

“You think it's my deodorant?” he said.

“Bugs, cameras?”

“Already swept for them.”

I picked up the phone. “Think they've tapped this line?”

“That'd be my guess.”

I put the phone back in its cradle.

“Here,” he said, handing me one of the many cell phones he always seemed to have at his disposal. “Certified secure.”

I wanted to find out exactly when Diane Lemminger's exposé on Drummond was supposed to air, so I called the studio in Richmond and was surprised when they connected me with a man who said he was her agent.

“She's not here,” he said, between bites of some kind of food he was eating. “They've stopped taping, anyway. I guess you musta heard the news.”

“News?”

“Yeah-h-h … it sucks. Didn't you hear? Her show's been canned. You believe it? I'm telling you, there ain't no justice. Seemed like her numbers were on the rise too. Now I'm over here making sure we at least get paid what we're due.”

“Who canceled the show?’

“Who do ya think? Some honcho from New York supposedly calls last night out of the blue. I don't know, man. Shit happens.”

“Diane know about this?”

“Sure she does. Told her myself. Good thing too. She was hanging around my place last night, and she might not've taken it so well over the phone—you know what I mean? I tried to console her, but, hey, what can I say? Little sweetie wasn't in the mood. She took off like a bat out of hell.”

“Thanks for the info,” I said.

“Hey, wait a minute. What'd you say your name was again?”

“Pavlicek.”

“Right, Pavlicek. Hey, listen. You see Diane, you tell her from me this shit about her show being axed ain't got nothing to do with talent. Tell her to call me. A face and tits like hers're gonna end up on somebody else's screen in a heartbeat. I can practically guarantee it. This game's full of nothin’ but whores.”

After I hung up, Toronto and I compared notes. I decided I'd better pay a visit to Diane Lemminger, then shoot down to Richmond again with the copies of the checks we'd taken from Drummond's office to see if I could learn more.

“Oh, almost forgot,” Toronto said. “Nicky called.”

“Good. I was wondering what had become of her. What's she up to?”

“I don't know, but I'd see if I could get her back over here if I was you.”

“What do you mean?”

“She wanted to know if I could use my sources to find out more information on Jed Haynes. You know, stuff that isn't public.”

“Great. As if I don't have enough troubles,” I said.

I dialed Nicole's dorm room and left an angry message on her machine.

“What are you gonna do?” Toronto said. “I guess she figures she's just trying to help.”

“If she calls or comes by, you tell her I said to stay away from Jed Haynes. The FBI's all over that kid. Who knows what he's up to? Might even be dangerous. And if they catch her working a case without a private investigator's registration, it'll be a long time before she'll do any official investigating in this state.”

I left the office and headed out Fifth Street toward the interstate. Big clouds played hide-and-seek with the sun today. The air smelled of impending rain. The silver Taurus stayed back a discreet distance a few cars behind me.

Diane Lemminger's Corvette was still in the parking lot at the Holiday Inn. I edged into a space close to the front and strode in through the entrance. The lobby was quiet. Bebo Walter sat looking at a computer screen behind the desk.

“How about them Hoos?” I said. Bebo and I were both big fans of the university sports teams.

He looked up. “Hey, Pavlicek. How ya doin’?” He reached across the specially built low counter to shake hands.

“Man, don't you get any time off? Your boss must be a slave driver or something.”

“Yeah,” he chuckled. “Maybe I oughta put in for more overtime.”

The fact that Bebo managed the place didn't exactly bode well for such a proposition.

“Can't find good help. It's the stinking economy. Unemployment's too low around here.”

“Could be worse,” I said. “Could be no business.”

“I suppose. Your little pigeon is still in the coop, far as I know.”

“Good to hear. Anything else interesting?”

He glanced around, lowering his voice. “Yeah. This fella came and stood outside the front door about a half hour ago. He dials his cell phone and the switchboard lights up. I pick it up, and he asks to be put through to your lady with the Corvette's room. I put him through, he stands there talking for a minute, and then he comes inside and heads upstairs.”

I thought about it. “What did he look like?”

“Squat, muscle-bound guy.”

“Blow-dry hairdo?”

“Yeah, that's him. You know who he is?”

“Unfortunately. Anybody else show up?”

“Nope. Just the usual. Checkouts, that sort of thing.”

“Blow-Dry still upstairs?”

“Nope. Left about five minutes ago. You just missed him.”

“Thanks very much, Bebo.”

“You got it,” he said. “Anytime.”

The night before, he'd written Diane Lemminger's room number for me on one of those little yellow sticky notes. I took the elevator up to her floor. The room was about halfway down the corridor on the right.

“Who is it?” she called when I knocked.

I heard her shuffling around inside, obviously checking me out through the peephole.

She opened the door. “Well, well, well. I must've won some kind of popularity contest this morning.”

She was drunk, or at least she appeared to be. Her long hair draped haphazardly over the shoulders of her blouse. The skirt she wore looked as though she'd slept in it. The liner around her eyes was bright but a little jagged, as if it had been just recently applied with an unsteady hand. I smelled no booze, but she was certainly on something.

“Well, don't just stand there,” she said. “Come on in.”

The sheets on the king-sized bed were in disarray. An expensive suitcase lay open on the floor with clothes and other articles strewn about. Around the corner in the bathroom I could see a sunken whirlpool bath with the taps open and steam rising from the tub.

“You feeling okay?” I asked.

“Marvelous,” she said. “Just marvelous. So what? You want to ask me s'more questions?”

“Maybe you'd better sit down first.”

“Okay,” she said. “Okay.” She sat down on the edge of the bed.

“I heard what happened to your show.”

“Ya did, huh? Isn't that just dandy?”

“I'm sorry.”

“Yeah. “ Her eyes grew listless. “Me too.” Then they brightened. “So whatcha want to ask me, big Mr. Private Investigator? Go ahead. Ask away.”

“What were you doing out at Tor Drummond's place late last night?”

“Tor? Oh, yeah. Tor's lackey was just here. What a dick he is.”

“You were out at Tor's house, in Ivy, last night.”

“Right, right. I wanted to tell him … I wanted to tell him to go fuck himself.” She giggled.

“What about the exposé you were planning to do about him?”

“What about it?”

“You said it had something to do with the Second Millennium Foundation.”

“Sure. Second Millennium… Tor Drummond's nursery… He's a great man, you know. Donates a lot of money to all sorts of causes. Takes care of all those unfortunate kids… Second Millennnemm. … “ Her voice trailed off in a slur.

“What about Second Millennium? What were you planning to talk about in your story?”

She lay back on the bed and closed her eyes. Then she rolled onto her side, folding her legs up in a fetal position. “I don't know. I don't… I'm really not… feeling so good … “

“Maybe you need to see a doctor.” I moved beside her.

“I don't know. I—” She began to tremble.

“Miss Lemminger?”

She didn't answer.

“Miss Lemminger?”

Her breath was slow and labored. I felt her forehead. Ice cold.

I picked up the phone on the bedside table and dialed 911.