A Killing Sky (8 page)

“What about Cassidy?”

“What about her?”

“Does she display this ‘unhealthy obsession,’ as you call it, too?”

“Not to the same degree,” he said.

“But enough for her to want to hire her own private investigator.”

“Touché.”

I said nothing.

“Listen, all I'm trying to tell you is that Cartwright has always been the dominant twin, the one to question everything, the one to take the chances.”

Chances. Could she have been taking some kind of risk the other night?

“What kinds of chances has your daughter been taking lately?”

“For one thing, she's been talking to Diane Lemminger.”

My mind flashed through snippets of TV reports and newspaper columns. “Wasn't she the staffer with whom you… ?”

He leaned back a little more in his chair and nodded.

The scandal broke when Lemminger and Drummond had been photographed together in a restaurant, then later entering a hotel. Twenty years the congressman's junior, Lemminger looked like someone's dream of a Hollywood screen test. A true believer in the cause. She had lasted through three or four election cycles, until it became obvious that her relationship with her boss was more than just work-related. Later, there were even rumors of a pregnancy. Some had suspected Drummond of pressuring her into a quiet abortion, although none of his political enemies had ever come up with any proof.

“How does Cartwright know Diane Lemminger?” I asked.

Drummond shrugged. “Everyone around here knew Diane. The kids knew her. Even Karen knew her. Diane is, uh… quite something, to say the least.”

“I'll bet. What would make your daughter go talk with her, the woman who broke up your family?”

“I'm not sure, exactly.”

“What really happened between you and Lemminger?”

“Diane was never pregnant… not by me, at least, if that's what you're suggesting. A
lot
of lies have been spread around.”

“But you had sex with her.”

“Well … we were together.”

“Which means you had sex with her.”

“We were together. What more do you want me to say?”

Look away from the TelePrompTer? Read my lips? “And this went on for quite some time,” I said.

“A period of time, yes… but Diane and I tried to keep things discreet. I'm not proud of this, Pavlicek. I lost Karen over it, the kids. I lost—” He seemed unable to formulate the words.

“When was the last time you saw Diane Lemminger?”

“It's been a couple of years now at least.”

“How can I reach her?”

“I think she lives in Virginia Beach.”

“How do you know Cartwright has been talking to her?”

“Cartwright told me in an E-mail.”

“Odd that she would tell you if she really suspected you of withholding information from her.”

He shook his head and shrugged.

“Suppose someone, a stranger maybe, were feeding Cartwright certain information. Information she thought was leading her to discovering something about your past. Accurate or not, would that've been a strong enough motive for her to take a chance on meeting this stranger?”

The congressman didn't answer. He turned his chair toward the window and looked outside. Sunlight struck the back of his head at an odd angle, the effect of which was to make his dark hair appear brown. When he finally spoke, his voice dropped considerably.

“I don't know,” he said. “How can I know? Her sister told me she was going to meet with this swimmer Haynes, and now you and the police tell me the kid says he never saw her and you think he's telling the truth.”

I decided to switch gears. “Who are you sleeping with these days, Congressman?”

He waved the question away. “Look, my friend, this is too much. This is my personal life. Even a politician is entitled to some privacy.”

“Your daughters may not think so.”

“I know that, goddamn it. That's why I'm… that's why I'm … “

“What?”

“That's why I'm telling you all this now. Just like you, I want to know if Cartwright mistrusted me enough to put herself in danger.”

“Danger from what, Congressman? From whom?”

“I told you … I don't know,” he said.

“There's something you're not telling me.”

His face grew strangely passive. “I've been more than honest with you, Pavlicek. I'm giving you the truth.”

“Okay. Then you won't mind answering some more questions. Ever heard of a couple named George and Norma Paitley?”

He glanced out the window for an instant. “Paitley? No, I don't think so. Why?”

“Their names have come up in the course of my investigation. You sure?”

He looked me square in the eye. “I'm sure,” he said.

“Where were all your staff night before last when your daughter disappeared?”

“You'll have to ask them.”

“You were on the phone with someone that night. About one in the morning. The call originated from Cartwright's cell phone. Then you called the same number back.”

“How do you know that?”

“Who were you talking to?”

“You've got no right to spy on me like this.”

“No more right than you have to spy on your daughters.”

We stared at one another. His smile was long gone. “I'll go to the right people with this, Pavlicek. I'll get an injunction if I have to.”

I shrugged.

“You want more?” His eyes grew cold, indifferent. “I can see to it you won't even be able to get a job as a crossing guard in this state.”

I stood up to leave. “It's been interesting,” I said. “Thank you for your time.”

“Now wait just one minute. I've told you some private things here.”

“And they'll stay private, until I get together the evidence I need to nail you and whoever else is involved in your daughter's disappearance.” I started to leave.

His chief of staff, Dworkin, suddenly appeared at the door. Maybe he'd been secretly summoned by his boss or maybe he'd been listening the whole time. “Problem, sir?” He stood blocking the doorway.

I looked back at Drummond, whose face had transformed. Now it appeared small and fearful and full of rage. His chief of staff wasn't all that big, but he looked plenty strong. Dworkin set his feet as I approached him and tried to push me back into the room. I took his momentum and grabbed him by his wrist, pulling him to the side and backhanding him across the mouth.

He fell backward. “Christ!” He took out a handkerchief and spit out some blood. “Here, asshole, take this.” He pulled a blank sheet of paper from a stack on a table next to him and held it out to me.

I jerked it from his hand. “What's this?”

“It's all that's going to be left of your life when I get through with you.”

I crumpled the paper in a ball and threw it back at him.

“You walk out that door now, Pavlicek, I'm not sure you know what you may be setting yourself up for,” Drummond hissed.

“That's just it, Congressman,” I said. “I'm not sure any of us ever do.”

That afternoon I drove up to Washington, D.C. It's a pretty drive from Charlottesville, if you don't mind leaving the Blue Ridge behind and getting sucked up into the southernmost tentacles of suburbia that run practically all the way from northern Virginia to Maine. I spent all my years on the force living and working smack-dab in the New York middle of that great swath of civilization, so the short trip north to D.C. always makes me a little nostalgic.

Toronto had come up with a hot lead for me on the old
Post
articles. Neither the newspaper nor the police were all that helpful—no one much wanted to be bothered with a two-decades-old dead case file. But a check of the tax records revealed that George and Norma Paitley had lived in McLean, on the westernmost side of the 1-495 Beltway, and that they had a son, still living in their old house, in fact. I'd sent him an E-mail the night before, claiming to represent a foreign bank. I wrote that I wanted to speak with him about some old offshore assets, possibly the property of his long-deceased parents. Perhaps with visions of the Caymans in his head, he'd responded that morning and agreed to meet me at the house after he got home from work.

South of Warrenton, development really starts to pick up. Traffic does too, as U.S. 29 merges into I-66 at Gainesville. From there, the last twenty-five miles into the nation's capital can take you two to three hours during the morning rush hour. But the opposite occurs, of course, in the afternoon, and as I drove along the interstate I was pitying the thousands of poor souls lined up in four lanes of bumper-to-bumper misery just across the median. The backup stretched all the way from Manassas to Vienna.

Half an hour later, I found the brown stucco Mediterranean with excessive plant growth climbing its walls, once the property of George and Norma Paitley, tucked on a side street in McLean. An old BMW was parked in the driveway. In front of it sat a brand-spanking-new Volkswagen Beetle.

I parked the truck behind the cars and went and rang the bell. The son didn't come to the door right away. Probably didn't want to seem too eager to collect on some more of Mommy and Daddy's old booty. I had to ring again.

When he finally did answer the bell, he turned out to be a tall, gangly man about my own age, with a full black beard and a head that was almost completely bald.

“Mr. Pavlicek?” he said.

“I am. Thanks for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice.”

“No problem. C'mon in.” He held the large oak door open for me.

I passed into an ornate front hall, outfitted with expensive old tapestry and Chinese jade. There was a coatrack off to the side and two pairs of men's hiking boots beside it, one appearing to be at least three sizes larger than the other.

“Can I get you something to drink? Iced tea? Saratoga water?”

“I'll take the Saratoga, thank you,” I said.

He disappeared into a little alcove and popped back out a few seconds later with the familiar blue bottle and a tumbler full of ice cubes. I took the glass and poured my water. He led me through a door, and we settled on overstuffed chairs in what looked like the library.

“Before we begin,” I said, “I should tell you I lied to you in the E-mail.”

He had been straightening a pillow at his back when he looked up at me with alarm. “You what?”

“I lied to you about the bank. I'm sorry, but I needed information in a hurry, and it seemed like the best way to get you to meet with me.”

He rubbed his beard, perhaps regretting he'd offered me the Saratoga. For the first time he seemed to take note of my size and the bulge created by the .357 in the shoulder holster beneath my jacket. “You're not planning to—”

“No, no. Not to worry. Just after information.”

“Huh. I suppose I should've known better than to get my hopes up. You know how much it costs us to heat this place?”

“What kind of work do you do, Mr. Paitley?”

“I'm a lobbyist for a human rights group here in Washington.”

“Bill, you okay down there?” Another man's voice carried down the hall from the upstairs.

“Fine. Everything's fine,” Bill hollered back.

That explained the two cars in the driveway and the second set of men's boots.

“Just what kind of information are you after, Mr. Pavlicek?”

I set the blue bottle down on a coffee table coaster in front of me. “Are you familiar with Torrin Drummond?”

“The congressman? Why, yes, of course. I heard something on the news about him this morning, in fact. Isn't one of his daughters missing or something?”

“That's right.”

“Are you working for the congressman? You could've just told me that in your E-mail.”

“No. Let's just say I represent other members of the family.”

He raised an eyebrow, then gave a shrug. “What is it you want from me?”

“Cartwright Drummond is the daughter who is missing. These were found in her suitcase when she got back from Japan.” I reached inside my jacket pocket, pulled out copies of the two old newspaper articles, and handed them across to him.

He scanned both of them quickly. “These are from the
Post.
About my parents’ accident.”

I nodded. “Doesn't sound much like an accident to me.”

He sighed. “I know. That's what the Metro police thought at first too, but after several months of investigation they concluded that the garbage truck must have been some wildcatter from out of town. Probably alcohol-related. Hit-and-run.”

“Even if that's true, it's still manslaughter. Wouldn't you like to find out who's responsible for your parents’ deaths?”

“Of course I would.”

“Why would Cartwright Drummond be carrying these articles around in her suitcase?”

“I have no idea.” He scratched his beard again. “Wait a minute—I just thought of something. Hang on a sec.”

He disappeared around a corner, and I heard him climbing the stairs to the second floor. I took another sip of my water.

A couple of minutes later he was back, carrying an old photo album. “I was right,” he said. “I thought I remembered seeing this a long time ago.”

He held the album open for me to look for myself. There on one of the pages was a color photo of an elderly couple standing arm in arm with a smiling, much younger Tor Drummond. They were under a large outdoor tent, obviously at some sort of event. Paitley took the album back and pulled the photo out of its sleeve.

“You know when that photo was taken?”

“There's a date on one of the other pictures on the same page, maybe from the same roll. It says August 1982,” he said.

“1982. The same year your parents died.”

He nodded.

“It was also the year of Drummond's first congressional campaign.”

“If you say so.”

“What did your parents have to do with Tor Drummond?”

“I don't know. Maybe they contributed money or something?”

“Can I keep the photo?”

He thought about it. “I'll tell you what. I've got a scanner on the computer in the kitchen. I'll just print you out a copy.”

“Okay.”

He disappeared again. On one of the bookshelves I noticed a small picture of him with his parents. This room, the entire house, had an old feeling about it, as if they were caught in some sort of time warp.

“Here you go.” He came back into the room carrying the copy, a laser-printed facsimile almost as good as the original.

“Thank you very much,” I said.

“Do you think my parents’ association with Drummond might've had something to do with their accident?”

“I don't know,” I said. “Maybe it did. Either way, it certainly looks like someone may have wanted Cartwright Drummond to think so.”

“The news said the police suspect foul play in the girl's disappearance.”

I nodded.

“If that's true, perhaps we'd all better be careful about this.”

“I think that would be very wise,” I said. “You know I've also got to ask you another question.”

“Okay.”

“About insurance.”

He chuckled. “Life insurance, right? Like I might've had mommy and daddy bumped off to collect a big payout? Of course, the police at the time wanted to know all about that too. Only one problem: my parents had no life insurance at the time of their deaths. They were both in their seventies. When they died, I was left with the house and, after expenses, a very modest estate, most of which has now dwindled away just trying to keep this place up.”

“So how could they have afforded to sink money into Drummond's campaign?”

“My parents were very kind, very generous people, Mr. Pavlicek. Besides the house and what they needed to live on, whatever money came their way, especially in their later years, was spread around to all sorts of charities and causes. I'm still on some of the mailing lists. Mom and Dad were even known to take in people who were in need.”

“You must've been proud of them.”

“Oh I was, but if you want to know the truth, before they died, I was beginning to think they were becoming suckers for every noble-sounding cause that came down the pike.”

“How about the car? The insurance company must've paid off on the loss.”

“Yes. The estate was paid a check for book value on their car.”

“Did the company do an investigation?”

“Right. If you can call it that. They sent a fat young man around with a cupboard one afternoon. He asked me a bunch of questions about my parents’ driving habits, then had me sign a form. That was about it.”

“You mentioned your parents taking people in. Were any living with them at the time of their disappearance?”

“No. The last was a young woman from South America or something.”

“I assume the police checked out all these people for any connection to your parents’ deaths.”

“Yes. They said they did.”

“You remember any of the names?”

He thought for a moment. “I'm sorry. It's been a long time,” he said. “Wait. Now that you mention it, I did have something odd happen regarding one of those people.”

“What was that?”

“It was about six months ago. A young man called here and said he was doing some background work regarding a missing relative. I thought he was an attorney or something, although he sounded very young.”

“What did he want?”

“He asked me about that woman, the one from South America I was just telling you about.”

“Did the caller give you his name?”

“I'm sure he did, but I don't remember it.”

“You remember anything else he might've said?”

“I'm sorry, I don't. I remember I was in the middle of working on a presentation when he called.”

He showed me back to the front door.

I handed him my card. “You think of that caller's name or anything else, Mr. Paitley, please get in touch with me right away, will you?”

“Sure thing.”

“Thank you for your time.”

“Of course.” He shook my hand. “I only wish what you said in your E-mail had been the truth.”