Favors and Lies (13 page)

—

Dan had made three calls to Lindsay and left three messages. By mid-afternoon he decided he had waited long enough for a reply.

He weaved through the afternoon traffic on Massachusetts Avenue, took a side street, and parallel parked with inches to spare off each bumper.

He exited the car and immediately his eyes fell on the crowd of college students engulfing the sidewalk thirty yards away. He subconsciously found himself picking up his pace, his eyes glued to the gathering. Before he could see the tears, he felt the somberness on Greek Row, the weight of tragedy sucking the life out of a block of houses usually full of verve. The hugs told him it was condolences. Ten yards from the edge of the Alpha Chi Omega property line he was certain someone was dead. His gut told him it was a blonde with an angel face.

Dan approached the sidewalk and scanned the faces in the yard. Dozens of girls in sorority solidarity, their Greek letters plastered across their chests. On the porch, he saw a face he recognized. He excused himself as he cut through the crowd around an influx of fraternity brothers from next door offering open arms and shoulders to cry on.

The girl on the porch recognized Dan as he climbed the short staircase to the sweeping brick front porch of the house.

“My name is Dan Lord. We met last week.”

“I remember,” the girl said. Her leg was on the chair, her knee pulled near her face as if to hide in plain sight.

Dan started to ask a question and his own instincts were intersected by the girl's.

“Lindsay was killed by a car on MacArthur Boulevard. Out for her daily run.”

Dan sat on the wall of the porch, processing his thoughts, the flood of possibilities. “When?”

“This morning. Usually she runs in the evening, but lately has been running before class.”

That is four. Four innocent dead people
, Dan said to himself. “I'm so sorry.”

The girl's eyes were red. Worn from tissues and rubs against her sleeve. “Me too.”

“Would you mind if I took a look around her room?”

“For what?”

“I'm not sure.”

“I guess,” the girl said, standing. Dan followed her into the house and up the stairs. They turned left at the landing and followed the hall to the last room on the right.

Dan took one look around the neat room and a quick glance out the window overlooking the back yard. “Any chance she had her cell phone with her?”

“I don't know. I assume she did. I guess the police would know.”

Dan poked around and looked at the dresser. His eyes were drawn like magnets to a picture of his nephew and Lindsay, still wedged in between the edge of the mirror over the dresser. “Mind if I take this?”

“I don't mind. Lindsay's parents may want it.”

“I'll make a copy and bring it back.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Dan opened the drawer on the left and felt embarrassed by the girl's lingerie. He removed a memory box from the small drawer and placed it on the desk. He looked at the girl he was with, she shrugged her shoulders, and Dan opened the box. A letter from his nephew to his girlfriend was on the top and Dan read the first two sentences before his eyes watered. Hoping the tears wouldn't roll down his cheek he folded the letter and placed it to the side. An old folded napkin with ratty edges stared up at him. He slowly opened the delicate paper and then mumbled, “Son of a bitch.”

“Something interesting?”

“Helpful, maybe.”

“Can I ask a question?”

“Anything you want?”

“You think she was killed?”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because she told me you thought Conner was killed. That he didn't overdose.”

“She told you that?”

“There aren't many secrets in this house. The walls aren't very thick.”

“Then to answer your question, yes, I don't think Conner overdosed.”

“And Lindsay?”

“Probably not.”

“I have a question for you. What is it exactly that you do for a living?”

“I make things right.”

“Is that what you're doing here?”

“You can bet your life on it.”

There was a long silence. “I hope I don't have to.”

—

Dan Lord sat in his car and stared at the tattered paper in his hand. His nephew's handwriting captured in a two-ply napkin from Scottie.

“All right, Conner.” Dan said aloud. “Lead me to them.”
Then God have mercy
.

He punched the buttons on his cell for the number marked emergency on the napkin. An automated voice reply whispered in his ear. “
This number is not in service
 . . .”

“Shit,” Dan said aloud, slamming his hand into the steering wheel. He hung up, dug around in his wallet for a business card, and then dialed another number.

“Detective Wallace,” the baritone voice answered, reverberating over the din of the Robbery and Homicide division.

“Hi Detective, this is Dan Lord.”

“Dan Lord,” the detective repeated mockingly.

“Sorry about the fingerprints.”

“You mean the lack of fingerprints.”

“All you had to do was ask.”

“You ready to come in and discuss Detective Nguyen's death? I assume you know he was also found under the promenade.”

“Are you telling me it's suspicious when a police officer dies down there, but not so much for a rich white kid?”

“I am saying there are fingerprints on the gun found on the scene of Nuygen's death and I would like to compare them to yours.”

“I assume you checked my alibi?”

“I checked. Nine witnesses. All of them said you were there.”

“Then I guess you don't have enough evidence to bring me in for questioning. Otherwise, we wouldn't be having this conversation over the phone.”

“Just dotting my i's and crossing my t's. Don't want to have any procedural inconsistencies. Can't have you slipping free on a technicality.”

“You're wasting time, Detective.”

“Maybe. And then maybe I'm talking to a serial killer who is leaving a trail of bodies behind. Someone who likes playing cat and mouse with the police. You wouldn't be the first.”

“Follow the evidence, Detective Wallace.”

“Count on it.”

“Speaking of a trail of bodies . . . a student from American University was struck by a vehicle this morning on MacArthur Boulevard. Hit and run. The girl didn't survive.”

Wallace sighed and considered whether to answer. “What do you care?”

“There might be a connection to Detective Nguyen's murder.”

Wallace paused then spoke. “Accident reconstruction was out there earlier. They found the car already.”

“They found the car?”

“Yep. The vehicle was dumped at the end of the road, just off Nebraska where the old railroad trestle crosses over the canal and the bike path.”

“Not exactly off the beaten path.”

“You know the area?”

“I've mountain biked through there a couple of times. The parking lot is at the end of the service road, but it's only, what, fifty yards from the nearest house?”

“Sounds about right. Haven't been down there in a while myself. Maybe two years.”

“What else can you tell me?”

“I shouldn't be telling you anything.”

“Lighten up, Detective. I'm on your side.”

“No, you are on your side.”

“Then trust me. Our sides are after the same thing.”

“The only thing I'm interested in is finding Detective Nguyen's killer.”

“I think the same person is behind both our losses. What else can you tell me about the stolen car and the hit-and-run?”

“The vehicle was reported missing
after
we found it. Stolen off Georgia Avenue near Catholic University. Total time from theft to abandonment was less than two hours. Probably some kids who stole a car, hit the girl, and then panicked.”

“I doubt it.”

“Why do I get the feeling you are going to complicate things?”

“I have a guess. Was the car incinerated?”

Detective Wallace shut his eyes and rubbed his thumb across his brow. “Burned almost to the frame.” The detective paused. “How would you know that?”

“Because that's what I would've done.”

“Professionals?” Detective Wallace asked.

Dan was already gone.

—

Sue Fine stood from her desk as soon as she heard the door chime. She exited the small office off the hall as Dan threw his jacket on an empty client chair in front of his desk.

“Anything you need help with?” Sue asked.

“Did anyone call?”

“Two calls. One from a woman with a slight accent who wouldn't leave her name. The other from a male who also wouldn't leave his name, but did oddly enough say he had some information for you. He said to bring your checkbook. He said that would be enough for you to figure it out.”

“Thank you,” Dan said, settling in behind his computer screen.

Sue stood on the other side of the desk, waiting.

“Yes?” Dan asked.

“You know, it's not really my place, or in my character, to disparage my boss, but answering two phone calls a day is not my idea of a good day on the job. I know you're working on something and I think I can help. If you let me.”

“Probably not a good idea on this one. I don't pay you enough for what I am doing.”

“What exactly are you doing?”

“Chasing ghosts.”

“Your specialty, if you ask me. You are a ghost chasing ghosts.”

Dan leaned back in his chair. “Did you make any progress on the George Becker case?”

“Followed him on Tuesday. After work, he spent two hours driving in Route 66 traffic to Warrenton. Then he spent an hour and a half watching a Thanksgiving play at a local elementary school. After the play, Mr. Becker spent a few minutes with Pocahontas and her mother and then left. I'm doing a rundown on the students at the school to see if I can find out who Pocahontas is.”

“The girl is his daughter,” Dan said definitively. “Did you get pictures?”

“Good ones. There was no sneaking around. Everyone in the audience had cameras.”

“Illegitimate kid. That should be good enough. One of the more common cases.”

“Good enough for what?”

“Good enough to get paid by the person who wanted to know. Anything else?”

Sue paused.

“Yes?” Dan asked.

“How about we make a deal?”

“A deal?”

“A test, really. If you're impressed, you let me help you chase ghosts.”

Dan glanced at his computer screen as an email pinged in his inbox. “I'm intrigued.”

“I'll start with you.”

“Me?”

“Sure. Let me see what I can find out about you. If you're not moved by my research, I will go back to manning the endless phone calls.”

Dan ignored the warning signs rumbling through his stomach. “OK. I'll sign up for the experiment.”

“Good. You want to learn what I found out so far?”

“Getting a little ahead of yourself?”

“Being proactive.”

“Impress me. It better be good.”

“Let me get my folder.”

Shit, a folder
?

Sue returned a minute later and assumed her standing position in front of Dan's desk.

“You were born in 1974. The day Nixon resigned from office.”

“The first politician I ran out of town.”

“You weren't here. You were born in Chile to American parents. Your father was a geologist. Worked for some big oil companies. Traveled all around the world. Your mother taught English as a Second Language. She taught out of US embassies as your father dragged you around the planet. Africa, Asia, Central Asia, South America.”

Sue paused and pointed to a picture of Dan's mother on the wall. In the photo she was surrounded by fifty school-aged children, her face the lone Caucasian in a sea of African smiles and headdresses.

“Your mother's family made money in aluminum and industrial packaging. Patented several processes used in canning. Very well-known in certain industrial circles. Still a very lucrative business.”

“My mother didn't care about money.”

“Based on tax records, your father made good money.”

“Oil companies pay good money to people who can tell them where to drill.”

“You had an older brother named David. He was four years older than you. Died five years ago from cancer. Your sister-in-law and nephew both recently passed away. Your sister-in-law's death was reported as a suicide. The toxicology report is still outstanding on your nephew.”

Dan nodded.

“You have spotty school records here in the US. Your freshman and half of your senior year of high school were here in DC, well, Virginia, at Washington and Lee. No record of your sophomore or junior years until I found a reference in your college application. You graduated from UVA in three years with a 3.6 GPA. Interestingly enough, you had As in every class except those in which you failed. All As. Three Fs.”

“Some classes just weren't worth sitting through.”

“After college you vanished from the system again. Probably overseas taking pictures,” Sue said, glancing around again at the photographs on the wall.

Dan didn't move.

“Then you reappeared. Attended law school, also at UVA. You passed the bar, then disappeared again. Five years of nothing. Completely blank history. Then you resurfaced and passed the Foreign Service Exam, both the written and the oral. But you chose not to pursue that field. Your application indicated you speak four languages other than English.”

“I can get by in a few others.”

“You have been self-employed for the last few years, but you've worked a variety of odd jobs as well. You drove a delivery truck for six months.”

Dan rocked back in his chair. “You can learn a lot about a location, a city, its population, by doing deliveries.”

“You have a clean record. Your fingerprints are not in any standard criminal database.”

“Did you dust my office?”

“I had to have something to do,” Sue said smiling. “I also obtained your tax returns for the last several years. And that is where things got interesting.”

Dan tried to conceal being perturbed. “Go on.”

“Well, I know you own this place. And the place downstairs. In fact, you own this half of the block, under a real estate trust. You bought the buildings in 2001, before the housing boom, which was before the housing bust. Based on the purchase price, it must have been a dive.”

“It needed work.”

“The art gallery downstairs pays you rent, but something less than what you could really charge. Almost at a discount. I can imagine there is a reason for that.”

“Using imagination now?”

“If I didn't know better, I would say that you chose this place primarily for its location. Street front. All brick façade. No windows on three sides. A well-controlled stairwell. A walled-off alley in the back.”

“Yes,” Dan offered, stumbling a little.

“I still haven't figured out exactly where you live. I mean, this office is listed as your official address. It does have a shower and a kitchen, and it is zoned for both residential and commercial, but that doesn't answer where you put your head down at night.”

“I don't sleep.”

“Maybe not.”

“And you got all this information how?”

“FBI. Local law enforcement. IRS. County real estate documents. Interpol. I have access to all of these through the cold case program at Marymount University. They can't expect us to solve old cases without access to the information. As for the rent you charge, I asked Lucia downstairs.”

“I should have known.”

“Anything else I need to know about you?”

“No.”

“Good. Oh, and by the way, I also figured out who called the other day. The woman named Cindy. You took the call when I was here for my interview. I ran a check on the local county court systems for divorce filings on that day. Only two came up with the name Cindy. Cindy Lei, a manicurist in Prince Georges County, and a Cindy McMichael in the district. McMichael is married to Judge Terrance J. McMichael. I am guessing . . .”

“I guess if I don't give you work, you are going to keep digging around in my past. That, I could do without.”

“Just tell me when to stop.”

Dan sighed. “You study forensics and criminal justice, correct?”

“Yes.”

“What do you know about death?”

—

“I'm so excited to be meeting one of your close associates,” Sue said, pulling out a notebook.

Dan turned the car down the long driveway. “Temper your enthusiasm. This guy is a little unusual. He may throw us
both
off the property.”

“Everyone has whacky friends.”

“Let's stick with ‘acquaintance' on this one. Tobias doesn't have any friends. Literally. It's a long story.”

“I've moved past excited right into intrigued.”

“Here are the rules. Better yet, let's just go ahead and call them standard operating procedures for any and all future endeavors. You, as my employee, are my responsibility. If at any time I determine it's in your best interest to vacate, then you vacate. No questions asked.” Dan handed the car keys to Sue. “If I tell you to leave, you leave. I don't care where you go. Get in the car and drive. Don't worry about me.”

Sue looked down at the key ring.

“Be alert,” Dan said, getting out of the car. As they approached the front porch, he announced himself to the house, loud enough to be heard down the driveway.

The old porch squeaked under the weight of his foot, and before Dan knocked, Tobias yanked the interior wood door open. Sue jumped. The dark silhouette of Tobias came into focus through the still-locked screen door. Dan noted the partial concealment of an object in Tobias's left hand.

“Who's your friend, Dan?”

“Employee,” Dan corrected. Dan motioned towards Sue with a nod of the head and an upturned palm. “This is Sue Fine. Sue, this is Tobias.”

“And why is she here?”

“Nice to meet you,” Sue said through the screen. “I think we spoke on the phone earlier.”

“Dan, you know how I feel about visitors.”

“You'll like her. I promise. Besides, she is handling my accounting and is in charge of paying you.”

Tobias raised a piece of bread to his lips, took a bite and began to chew.

“Can we come in?” Dan asked. “Please.”

Tobias pushed the door open and the hinges protested in a metal-on-metal screech.

“Did you warn her?” Tobias asked, struggling with the emotion of having two guests at the same time.

“Warn me about what?” Sue asked.

Dan hemmed as the movement of the three stalled in the open foyer. “Tobias has an issue with people.”

“What kind of issue?” Sue asked.

“An inordinate number of people he knows have died. He believes it's a curse.”

Sue looked at Tobias and tried not to laugh.

Tobias picked up on her reaction. “Go ahead, laugh at the devil. Consider this your warning. If something happens to you, it will not be on my conscience.”

“Understood,” Sue answered, biting her lip.

Tobias looked at Dan. “Another cousin called over the weekend. Was dead by Tuesday. Carbon monoxide poisoning.”

“So that's 214?”

“Good memory.”

“Two hundred fourteen people?” Sue asked.

“Indeed, 214. Everyone I know, everyone I get close to, well . . . It started when I lost my brothers in a car accident, my mom to cancer, and my father to a heart attack.”

“Those are three of the top killers in the US,” Sue replied. “Hardly unusual.”

“Where did you find her?” Tobias asked.

“She's a forensics student. Death is her thing.”

“Ahh. A shared interest. Well, Ms. Forensics, shall we have a civil discussion over tea?”

“That would be great,” Sue responded.

Dan followed the two into the kitchen and sat at the large wooden table in the corner as Tobias and Sue danced through a routine that would make a CDC specialist proud.

“The number four cause of death is pneumonia,” Sue cited.

Tobias responded. “Not in the US. In the US, lower respiratory disease is number four. Pneumonia has its own place at number seven. Stroke rounds out the top five.”

“Not in 2010. There was an anomaly that year.”

“Stick to the data from the most recent year.”

“Diabetes, suicides, and septicemia are also in the top ten.”

“Malaria, if you go worldwide.”

“Mosquitoes, if you limit it to deaths caused by insects.”

“Spiders, if you include arachnids.”

“Jellyfish, if you move to marine animals.”

“Invertebrates.”

“Still an animal.”

The verbal jousting lasted until the tea kettle mercifully served as the bell to end the round.

“I do like her,” Tobias announced as he topped off Dan's cup.

“She's all right. Nothing to write home about.”

“She knows her death.”

“I would imagine that is quite a compliment in some circles. Probably would give an undertaker a hard-on.”

“You're just jealous,” Sue added. She raised her cup which Tobias quickly toasted with the edge of his own.

“Tobias, let me ask this question while you are in such a cheery mood, and while our death specialist is here. Did you ever think that most people just don't bother counting all the people they know who have died. Maybe you are only unusual in that you count?” Dan asked.

“I considered it. I even developed some code to run those scenarios.”

“And . . .”

“The likelihood of someone my age knowing 214 people who have died is one in seven million.”

“Based on?”

“Based on my demographic. White, non-military personnel living in an urban area with a murder rate of five per hundred thousand. I took into account the incidence of disease, as well.”

“Impressive, statistically speaking,” Sue chimed. “Did you consider the likelihood of disease within a subset of family genes?”