A Killing Sky (4 page)

The university's new aquatic and fitness center is an impressive glass-and-brick affair on Alderman Road next to the even more impressive football stadium. (I wonder if Thomas Jefferson would've liked football.) Parking outside the building in one of the few spots open to visitors is a virtual impossibility, although that never stops a determined few from hovering like vultures in hopes of grabbing any opening. If a riot of undetermined location ever breaks out on the university's grounds, this would be one of the first places I'd tell them to look.

I settled for a spot on a shady side street a few blocks down Alderman and walked to the swim center from there. I'd almost called Cassidy Drummond after taking Armistead back to her mews and feeding her and dropping Nicole back at her dorm, but I decided to wait until I'd talked with Jed Haynes. Whatever Congressman Drummond was up to with the turnip, I needed to talk to the swimmer first.

Groups of students, individuals, and pairs moved around this area, some as joggers or cyclists, all keeping a wary eye on the sporadic stream of traffic. I entered the lobby behind a long-legged young woman wearing tights and a sweatshirt, carrying a backpack.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Do you happen to know if the swim team is practicing here right now?”

She paused and gave me the once-over. I was still wearing my hunting garb. She must have decided I was okay, though, because she said, “I think so, unless their practice is already over.”

“Thanks,” I said.

She turned and disappeared quickly into the depths of the building.

I pulled out my wallet and rifled through a stack of laminated cards. Since Marcia's father was affiliated with the university, she had managed to finagle a card that allowed me to use the athletic facilities. I had been down here a few times before to work out on the vast complex of fitness and weight machines that overlooked the pool, although all things being equal, I still preferred my free weights at home. The student checking IDs at the entrance off the main lobby waved me through the turnstile without so much as a second glance. Lucky for me, camouflage had never stopped being a fashion statement.

The entrance to the pool deck was on the lower level, between the men's and women's locker rooms. Two male swimmers came through the doors, laughing about something.

“Excuse me, fellas. I'm looking for a member of the swim team—Jed Haynes?”

“Jed?” one of them answered. He looked me over. “He just finished practice. He's probably in the locker room. Locker number's thirty-seven, I think.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey, you a reporter?” the other swimmer asked. “I hear Jedi's up for all-American.”

“Jedi?”

“Yeah. That's what all you guys call him, isn't it? The Jedi knight. Dude's more like Darth Vader.” They both laughed again.

“What's his event?”

“Freestyle.”

I pulled a pen and piece of paper from one of my pockets and made a show of writing it down. “Thanks,” I said.

“Hey, you sure you're a reporter?”

I smiled and pushed through the door into the locker room.

It was a big place with several rows of metal lockers. A wall of warmth washed over me, saturated with dampness and chlorine. I followed the numbers around to find a lanky young man pulling jeans on next to locker thirty-seven.

“Jed Haynes?”

“Yeah?” He slipped a T-shirt and sweater over his head. There was an overly self-assured air about the voice. His eyes blazed into mine, intense. I saw what Cassidy Drummond had been talking about. He seemed to sense right away I was no reporter. I didn't think he looked like Brad Pitt. More like a leering version of Tom Cruise.

“You have a minute to talk?”

“What about?”

“Like to ask you a few questions about Cartwright Drummond,” I said, offering him one of my cards.

He took it and stared at the information. Then he turned it over to examine the back as if the card wasn't real.

“Christ—I don't believe this.” He shook his head and rolled his eyes.

I said nothing.

“Not here,” he said. “C'mon.”

He extracted a small duffel bag from the locker, closed and locked the door, then slung the bag over his shoulder. I followed him out of the locker room, back up the stairs, and out past the turnstile to the main lobby. There was a snack bar off the lobby with vending machines, a few tables and chairs and such. No one else seemed to be using it at the moment, so we went in and sat down.

The soon-to-be all-American slumped in his chair and glared. “What's the bitch been saying about me now?”

“That remains to be seen.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“You and Cartwright have been dating, haven't you?”

“Yeah—we're supposed to be, anyway.”

“Were you with her last night?”

“No, man. I've been trying to get her to call me all day. She's supposed to be back from Japan, but the little cunt all of a sudden acts like she's too good for me or something.”

Someone needed a lesson in manners.

“That's probably true,” I said, standing up to lean against the table. “But let's put it aside for the moment. Did you know she left the Drummond house late last night on her way to see you?”

“She what?” It took a moment for him to realize he'd been insulted. “Listen, asshole, I don't know what you think you're—”

He didn't quite get to finish his sentence. Instead, he grimaced in pain. It might have had something to do with the fact that the heel of my left hiking boot was pressing firmly down on the toe of one of his soft sneakers. He tried to push it off, but couldn't. He looked around for help, but it was obvious he didn't want to make a scene, especially in his current position.

“I'll sue you, you ba—”

“Ah-ah.” I held up my hand and he got the message. “I'm not from the police, Jed, so I don't have to be nice. I'm usually a lot more easygoing than this. But I need information, and you need to tone down the language a bit. You understand?”

He scowled but nodded.

I took my boot away, sat back down, and watched him rub his sneaker. “Don't worry. It'll just be a bruise. I didn't even give you full pressure.”

He seemed to be working very hard to stifle an impulse to speak.

“As I was saying—Cartwright Drummond left her house last night on her way to see you. Did she arrive at your place?”

He shook his head.

“You're
sure
about that?”

“Yes,” he said through gritted teeth. “I told her sister that.”

“Where were you last night after midnight?”

“I was at the house. Myself and a couple of the guys were playing foosball, then we watched Letterman. Then I went to bed.”

“Your roommates can confirm this?”

“Sure—ask ‘em. Ask anybody you like.”

He was thinking through his situation. Maybe thinking about throwing me a punch. Maybe even thinking—really thinking—for the first time about Cartwright Drummond.

“Where is she?” he asked.

“Cartwright?”

“Yes.”

“That seems to be our problem.”

We both ruminated about this for a few moments.

His countenance darkened. “If anything's happened to her, I'll kill whoever did it,” he said. Passive-aggressive on steroids, perhaps.

“You're leaping to an awfully big conclusion, aren't you?”

He grunted and glared. “I mean it,” he said.

I could have told him then that the object of his obsession had been about to abandon him and that he was going to have to learn to accept that, but I didn't. “Well, that's just wonderful, Jed. But remember, those who try to kill often end up getting killed themselves.”

He didn't care. He was maybe twenty, twenty-one. He was bulletproof—except, at the moment, when it came to his toe.

“What happens now?” he wanted to know.

“Now I keep looking.”

“You calling in the cops?”

“Potentially. I'm still hoping she'll turn up. You know anyplace else she might go? Other friends, maybe?”

He shook his head.

“Really get to know a girl when you date her, huh, Jed?”

“Well, what do you expect? Cartwright's usually hanging with her sister, if anybody. And they've both been out of the country.”

“Where are you headed right now?”

“Me? Probably pick up some dinner at the Tree House and head over to Alderman to work for a couple of hours.” The Tree House was a snack bar, and Alderman was the main university library.

“What's your major?”

“Biology.”

“Premed?”

“Nah. My uncle's a surgeon and he tells me, the way health care's going, to forget it.”

“What will you do when you graduate?”

“Maybe research. Maybe something else. I don't know. I wanna keep swimming as long as I can.”

“Olympics?”

“Maybe. Coach says I got a shot.”

“Know anything about history?”

“History? Not much, why?”

“Ever hear of some folks named George and Norma Paitley? They were an elderly couple, died together almost twenty years ago. Car accident up in D.C.”

His face showed not the slightest sign of recognition. “No. I never heard of them. What do they have to do with Wright?”

“That's what I aim to find out.” He still held my card in his hand. I reached over and tapped it. “You think of anything else, you give me a call right away. You understand?”

He crossed his legs, looked at his toe as if it were no longer a part of his body, and began rubbing it again. He nodded.

“Oh, and let's just keep this conversation confidential. Be easier for me to try to find her that way.”

“All right. But you find her, you tell her I want to talk with her.”

“I'll do that,” I said.

He was still rubbing his toe when I left.

I whistled between my teeth. Up close, Tor Drummond's rented mini-estate looked solid enough to withstand an earthquake, maybe even an atomic blast. Someone had also spent a fortune on landscape architecture and planting beds. I wheeled my truck in through the open gate. Crushed brownstone snap-crackle-popped beneath my tires. The limo was no longer in sight, of course. The place looked deserted.

I was about halfway up the driveway when a dark blue Chevy Suburban shot over the rise beside the house and approached me in a hurry from the opposite direction. The drive was steep and it had the uphill advantage. The vehicle pulled to a stop, blocking my way, and two suits got out, the first a muscular type who could have been a robotic clone of Al Gore and the second none other than my friend Mr. Turnip, who hopped out from behind the wheel. Unlike our earlier encounter, however, neither the turnip nor his partner appeared to be armed.

Since I had the gun this time, I decided I could afford to turn on the charm. I rolled my window down and spoke to the other driver. “Fancy running into you again.”

“I'm sorry, sir. You're on private property. You'll have to turn around.” Turnip's voice—he obviously now had one—boomed as if he were wearing a built-in megaphone. He gave no acknowledgment or indication of our earlier meeting.

“I'm here to see Miss Drummond,” I said.

“Which Miss Drummond would that be?” He knew darn well which Miss Drummond.

“Cassidy Drummond.” I opened my door and stepped out of the truck, handing him my card. “She'll be expecting me.”

He looked at it, as if he needed to, and grunted. Then he spun around without a word, walked back and climbed into the Suburban to talk on a cell phone, leaving the robot and me to stare at one another.

I zipped up my Virginia Cavaliers parka. “A little chilly today,” I said.

The robot said nothing. I wondered if he were programmed to talk.

After a minute the turnip got out of their vehicle and came back to where we stood. “Got any ID?”

I gave him a smirk. Some game we were playing here. I produced my license from my wallet.

“He's carrying,” the robot said. Atlas speaks.

The turnip searched my eyes for a moment. “Mind leaving your piece with us?” Suddenly the professional. Polite.

I shrugged, unzipped my parka, and handed him my .357, figuring if they'd been going to have some sniper shoot me down, there on the driveway, they would have done it already.

“We'll back up and turn around. You can follow us up to the house.”

We climbed back into our respective rigs. They executed a fast three-point turn—not an easy feat with that much truck—and I followed them. We passed under the limbs of one of the walnut trees, just beginning to bud. Rows of blooming daffodils and crocuses ringing a stone foundation came into view. Then the back of the house, every bit as impressive as the front. On the patio, standing with her arms crossed, was Cassidy Drummond. She looked none too pleased.

The security types motioned me into a spot along the driveway before disappearing in their Suburban around a corner of what looked like the main barn. I pulled into the space and let the truck idle for a few moments before shifting into park, watching Cassidy in the side mirror.

“Nice welcoming committee,” I said as I climbed out. I nodded in the direction of the goons.

“What are you doing here? I thought we agreed our arrangement would be confidential. You said you would call.”

I signaled for her to lead me inside. No telling if the lion and the tin man were still within earshot.

She ushered me inside onto the richly tiled floor of an enormous kitchen. Sub-Zero refrigerator/freezer built into the wall. Top-of-the-line appliances, made for entertaining a small army. A huge rack of gleaming pots and pans hung overhead. Everything about the room was big, from the center island, complete with integrated entertainment center, to the massive Shaker table in its own eat-in alcove.

She closed the double patio door and turned to me with her arms crossed again. “Well?” she said.

“No one else is in the house right now?”

“No. My father left for the airport a while ago. His staff either went back to Washington or headed for his campaign office in Richmond. The only problem is, by showing up here like this, you've just alerted my father to the fact that you're working for me.”

“I've got news for you, Ms. Drummond. He already knows.”

“What?”

I explained to her about my encounter with the turnip, leaving out my little nickname for the man. Her eyes grew wide.

“Oh, my gosh,” she said. “Oh, my gosh.”

She sat down at the big table and motioned to me to sit across from her. The last time I'd seen a kitchen chair so large was in a giant's castle at an amusement park.

“I told you,” she said. “Dad might be involved.”

“Let's not go jumping to any conclusions just yet.”

“Would you like some coffee?”

“If it's decaf,” I said. “Already had my stimulant for the day.”

She got up and went over to a gleaming metal urn, poured two mugs, came back, and set one in front of me.

“How long have Ike and Spike out there been working for your father?”

“I don't know, a couple of years maybe.”

“He always have this much security around?”

“Ever since the Diane Lemminger scandal.” Lemminger was the staffer with whom Drummond had been carrying on an affair. “I thought it was mostly just to keep the media away.”

“How come they didn't go with him to the airport or accompany him on his trip?”

“Oh, he has Mel for that.”

“Mel?”

“Mel Dworkin. He's been Dad's chief aide for years. Helps run his campaigns. He's also a bodyguard. Knows martial arts. I think he sometimes even carries a gun.”

“Sounds like a handy guy to have around.”

“Cartwright hates him. She calls him ‘Blow-Dry’ ‘cause his hair always looks so perfect.”

“Still haven't heard from your sister?”

“No.” She began chewing on one of her nails.

“I had a chat with Jed Haynes.”

“You did?” Her eyes grew wide again, as if she were surprised I'd actually done what she'd hired me to do. “What'd he say?”

“Claims he hasn't heard a word from your sister. I'm going to check out his place and talk to his roommates to be sure, but it seems like he's telling the truth.”

“Oh, my gosh,” she said again. “You think something else happened to her? She was taken by some weirdo or something?”

“It's a possibility. It's also possible she decided, for some reason, to disappear on her own.”

“Why?”

“I was hoping you might be able to help answer that.”

“Did Jed know anything about those articles I found in her bags?”

“I don't think so.”

“Have you been able to find out anything more?”

“Not yet. Like I told you, that's going to take some time.”

We sat in silence for a moment. I looked at my watch. It was almost six o'clock. In six hours Cartwright Drummond could be officially listed as missing.

“I have to tell you, Ms. Drummond, I really had expected to find your sister with Jed Haynes. I'm not sure what's going on with your father and these goons outside, though I plan to find out. As far as the articles you found in your sister's suitcase, they might be related. Then again, they might not. The way this thing is headed, I'm afraid you're going to end up needing to deal with your parents and the police.”

She shook her head. She stopped biting her nail and bit her lip instead. “Keep looking,” she said.

“You sure?”

“Yes. I want you to keep looking, no matter what else happens.”

“What about going to your mother?” Marcia's anger percolated in the back of my mind.

“Not yet—maybe later.”

I tried to search her face for some hidden meaning, but there was none. “All right. I can go talk to the roommates, see if they back up Jed's story. Then I can start making sweeps of the area, looking for the rental car. I've also got somebody doing some background work on your sister's phone and those articles.”

“I've found something else I want to show you,” she said.

We stood and I followed her from the kitchen into a mudroom and storage area. There were two large closets filled with coats and shelves brimming with outdoor gear and various paraphernalia. Right in the middle were a pair of colorful, oversized duffel bags and some smaller satchels. A long bench stood against the opposite wall.

“I've been so worried about Wright that I haven't even finished my own unpacking today.” She bent over one of the smaller bags. “Remember I told you about those E-mails? Here it is. She carried it on the airplane.” She lifted out a dark gray laptop.

“Are there some on here?”

“Yes. At least I think so. We both use AOL. She always saves important ones as files.”

“You want to try to read them now?”

“I already did. That's what's so weird.”

“What?”

“There are files listed in her box, but they won't open. And she must've changed her password. I can't get into her E-mail.”

“You two know each other's passwords?”

“Yes. We've never kept secrets from each other.”

“Until now.”

She nodded. “Do you think you could—I don't know—break into it somehow?”

Sounded like something right up Toronto's alley. If it wouldn't be corrupting her too much, maybe I could get Nicole to help too. “I think I might be able to manage something.”

I took the machine and the power cord from her.

“Please call me if you find something,” she said.

“Roger that. But you'd better start thinking about what you're going to tell your mother.”

“Okay.”

She walked me back through the kitchen. I took one last look around. Never knew when or under what circumstances I might have to come back.

Outside, the daylight was beginning to fade into the clouded combination of pastels that precede a gray dusk. For a brief moment, the dying sun cast a crimson glow on the hillside and the patio behind the house. No sign of the security men.

“What about your safety and these supposed security types?” I asked.

“You think I should leave, find someplace else to stay?”

“Your father's not here anymore. I think that would be wise.”

“Where should I go? Our new apartment's not ready yet.”

“I've got an idea,” I said.