Mortal Friends (21 page)

“You mind if I don’t ask you in for a drink? I’m about to collapse.”

“Don’t mind at all. Need to get some shut-eye myself. Like to see you again, though. I’m invited to a cocktail shindig at the Otanni Embassy this Friday. Wanna come?”

“Sure. Great. Whatever.”

“Pick you up at six.”

He walked me to my door. Just as I was about to unlock it, he said, “Like to kiss you good night, if I may.”

I was too drunk and too tired to make an excuse. I just lifted my head and closed my eyes. He was an unexpectedly good kisser. I was amazed. I actually enjoyed it. But that could have been the wine.

T
he phone rang around eight thirty the next morning. I had such a hangover, it sounded like a fire alarm. It was Gunner.

“Turn on Channel Four right now,” he ordered and hung up.

I paid no attention. I rolled over and went back to sleep. The phone rang again. This time it was Violet, screaming into the receiver.

“They got him! They got him! Channel Four! Quickly! They’re doing a recap!”

I switched on the television to the Channel Four news. A man with a blanket over his head was being escorted to a police car by about a dozen officers in flak jackets. Jenna Jakes, the local anchor, was on the scene, mike in hand, talking to the camera: “Early this morning, police took into custody a man they suspect is the
Beltway Basher…
blah, blah, blah…”

I had never recovered from a hangover so fast in my life. I was glued to the set, trying to see if it was Bob Poll under that blanket. They panned back to a long shot, where I thought I saw the Rolls parked on the street. But the shot cut away after a split second, so I couldn’t be sure. My chest was thumping so hard.

Violet screamed: “
The Rolls, the Rolls, did you see the Rolls? Did you see it?
”

“I think so. Did you?”

“Yes! I saw it!
It’s Bob! It’s Bob!
”

Jenna Jakes came back on camera and said, “Martin Wayne Wardell has been charged in the murders of Bianca Symonds and Amber Corey. But authorities believe he’s responsible for at least four
other murders in the District, murders committed by the man they call the Beltway Basher…”

“It’s not Bob,” I said, deflating.

“No…I guess that wasn’t the Rolls,” Violet said.

“At least they finally got the guy.”

Later on that day, I found out that it
was
the Rolls. Martin Wayne Wardell turned out to be none other than the avuncular, cookie-loving chauffeur:
Maxwell!

Close, but no Bob Poll.

The news had a profound effect on me. I was relieved, but I was also pretty creeped out that he turned out to be someone I’d been alone in a car with umpteen times. He could easily have driven into Rock Creek Park and bludgeoned me to death if he’d wanted to.

I could still see those eyes watching me in the rearview mirror—especially at night, when they were two faint gleams in the darkness. I used to think they were gentle, disinterested eyes, windows to a gentle, disinterested brain. But now I knew they were busy little eyes, sharp little eyes, hating little eyes—peepholes on a hideous world of homicidal madness. They were dark corner eyes, eyes on the hunt, eyes with a plan, eyes fueled by super-octane pain and fear. Serial killer eyes.

Being that close to someone so evil is something you can’t really fathom until it happens to you. Violet made me read Ann Rule’s book
The Stranger Beside Me
, where Rule describes being holed up for nights on end in a suicide prevention clinic, taking calls on the hotline with her friend and colleague, one Theodore Robert Bundy. Rule couldn’t believe it when she finally found out who Ted Bundy really was. Or
what
he really was. How would you like to discover you’d spent many a midnight hour alone with a guy who kept women’s heads as trophies? Like Gunner said, “You don’t recognize evil if it looks like you.”

The corollary to that is you don’t recognize evil if it’s in familiar surroundings. I know now you can be
this close
to evil and not see it until it’s too late. I was so focused on Bob Poll, I wasn’t paying attention to anything else.

Violet told me I was lucky I was a blonde. She said that Wardell was an “organized” serial killer, as opposed to a “disorganized” one. Violet knew so much about these fiends.

“The organized ones are the really scary ones because they’re very
smart and they’re very cagey and they know how to blend into your world without you suspecting it,” she said.

She also told me they were “as finicky about their victims as gourmets are about food…. If a guy likes brunettes, he’s gonna hunt brunettes. He probably got one look at Amber, saw she was his type, and bingo! Rosina was lucky she was out of town.”

Whatever. I felt I’d dodged a date with death.

I was dying to know what Bob thought.

The press went berserk. It was a national story because it involved a serial killer in the nation’s capital, who worked for a socially prominent Washingtonian with deep connections in Congress and the White House. Several reporters wanted to interview me, but I kept my mouth shut—not just about Amber, but about the time I’d dated Bob. There were others who didn’t. In fact, the only amusing thing that came out of all this was that several women of, shall we say, interesting character blabbed to the press about being alone in that car with Maxwell—revealing, of course, that Bob had taken them out.

Bob was even more into the “high-life, low-life” syndrome than anyone had ever imagined. A gorgeous blonde who identified herself as an “exotic dancer,” but who actually worked for a tony D.C. escort service, wrote an article entitled “My Night with a Serial Killer.” It wasn’t clear until the end if she meant Bob or Maxwell.

“Melody must have loved that one,” Violet said.

Gunner and I went for a walk later that week—not in the cemetery but in Montrose Park. I congratulated him on solving the case.

“It’s nice to feel safe here again,” I said.

“Your tip about the green mink blanket. That was the big break,” he said.

As we strolled down the path into the woods, Gunner told me they had found a green mink hair on Amber. On the basis of my recollection, they got a warrant to search the car and found the blanket. The hairs matched. There was blood in the trunk of the Rolls. They searched Bob’s house and Maxwell’s house. They found blood from
two of the girls in Maxwell’s house. They had their man.

“The fiber evidence was key,” Gunner said. “Juries love forensics.”

“So you’re sure he’s the Beltway Basher?”

“Pretty sure,” Gunner said.

“Did he confess?”

“Nope. Not even to the ones we got him cold on. Not yet. He’s a scary guy.”

I looked at him askance. “That’s an understatement.”

“He’s got this permanent smirk on his face, like he’s got secrets we’re never gonna find out.”

We talked a lot about the crimes. Martin Wayne Wardell was from Phoenix, not Seattle, like “Maxwell” had told me. He had a record. He’d served six months in the Central Arizona Correctional Facility on an assault and attempted rape charge against a waitress in 1997. When he got out, he moved to Virginia, changed his name to Maxwell Martin, and somehow got a chauffeur’s license and a new social security number. Just goes to show you how easy it is to become someone else. He met Bob at King Arthur’s, and Bob hired him as a combination chauffeur and bodyguard. In retrospect it seemed like an unlikely pairing.

The theory was that Wardell had followed Amber after meeting her in my shop. The night of her party, he pretended to run into her after it was over, maybe offered her a ride home in the Rolls, then somehow lured her to his house and assaulted her there. He wrapped her up in garbage bags, put her in the trunk, and dumped her in Rock Creek Park.

“I just can’t imagine what her last moments must have been like,” I said to Gunner. “Thank God you got him…. I think about being in the back of that car…. Of course, Violet said I’m not a brunette, so he wouldn’t have been interested. But do you think I was ever in any real danger?”

“You never know with these guys. But I think your friend Violet’s right. Wardell hunted thin young brunettes. When he saw Amber Corey, he didn’t see a lovely young lady. He saw prey.”

“I bought cookies for this man, for Christ’s sakes! How can I ever trust anyone again?”

“It’s hard. If these guys looked like what they are, they’d never get near you. The whole point is, they’re chameleons. They appear to be
whatever you want them to be. You see him as a nice, kind chauffeur? Nice, kind chauffeur he is. That’s how they lure you in.”

“Amber never had a chance, did she?”

“Probably not.”

We walked along in silence. Something was eating at him. I realized we were heading for the very spot where Miss Montrose was killed.

“Where are we going, Gunner?”

“I just want to see something, that’s all.”

We finally reached the spot. The crime scene tape was gone now. Thin rays of sunlight pierced the budding spring foliage. The little meadow looked the picture of bucolic innocence, but I still got a chill knowing what had happened there. Gunner gazed out over the scene.

“Bob Poll ever call you?” he asked me.

“Nope. I would have told you.”

“So you haven’t spoken to him since he got married, huh?”

“Haven’t spoken to him, no. But I saw him from a distance that day, when he was staring at poor Amber through the shop window. That’s one of the reasons I thought maybe he was the one. And I got those phone calls where no one answered. Maybe it was Bob. I wonder what he thinks of all this.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’s appropriately shocked,” Gunner said with a hint of sarcasm. He was lost in thought, staring at the field.

“You know, for someone who’s just solved a major case, you don’t seem that happy,” I said.

“There’s an old samurai saying, ‘After victory, tighten the cords of your helmet.’”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“C’mon. Let’s head back.” He stooped down, plucked a tiny blue flower from the ground, and handed it to me. “Present for you.”

“Thanks.” I twirled the little bluebell around in my fingers. “Cherry blossoms’ll be out soon. Hope they last this year. Want to go with me when they bloom?”

“No, thanks. I’ve seen them enough times.” He walked on.

Gunner seemed weighed down by something. I figured his reaction had a lot to do with the nature of the job. The homicide police deal with such sadness and horror and wasted lives every day. Maybe after a while, it’s hard for them to get excited even if they do solve a
case, because they know it’s just one tiny chip off the iceberg of evil. But, as always with Gunner, I felt there was something else he wasn’t telling me. Something important.

I
come here for the chocolate fountain,” Grider said as we stood in the reception line, waiting to say hello to the Sahalas. Rashid Sahala was the ambassador of Otann, a small, progressive, oil-rich Arab state in the Gulf. However, it was his wife, Nouria, who had put the tiny country on the social map. Since their arrival in Washington seven years ago, Nouria Sahala had raised the profile of the embassy higher than the price of oil. She courted important people with enviable determination, yet remained fiercely loyal to her friends, especially when they were no longer in power. Owing to the changes in political fortunes, her larger parties had swelled to the size of football rallies in order to accommodate all the has-beens and the have-nows, as well as up-and-comers who showed promise, and her constant core of close pals.

I saw a lot of people I knew that evening. I waved to Peggy and Rolly Myers, to Molly Raft, an artist and famous Georgetown hostess, to Tessa Winston, whose husband John started the Kennedy Center Honors years ago, to Greta Dalton and her husband Lon, whose small, elegant dinners boasted an international guest list and were a required social stop for any new ambassador in town, to Justine and Lander Marx, who had a billion-dollar art collection in their elegant modern house, and to Nan Liddell, a well-known art dealer who often bought things for her clients in my shop. The dreaded Marge Horner accosted me and acted very friendly.

“Reven! I haven’t seen you in ages!” Marge said, immediately turning to Grider. “And Senator, how nice it is to see you too!”

Grider had that do-I-know-you look on his face, but he shook her hand and acted cordial.

“Who’s that again?” he asked me when Marge flounced out of sight.

“Someone you want to avoid,” I said.

I knew from Violet that Nouria wasn’t that fond of Marge, even though Marge was always offering to give her dinners and luncheons and teas. But Nouria was also a kind soul who understood how much social life meant to Marge, so she always included her in the large parties, but never at the small dinners.

Grider and I finally reached our host and hostess, who introduced us to the guests of honor—the Otanni foreign minister and his wife. Nouria made sure that a photographer captured Senator Grider shaking hands with her husband and the minister. Then she posed with all of them herself. She was very good at her job. She said a warm hello to me and pulled me into one of the pictures. Grider said to the photographer, “I’d like a copy of that one, please.”

Formalities over, Grider and I wandered into the main entertaining room, a large square space with delicately carved lattice walls. A circular fountain, covered with colorful floral mosaics sat in the center of the tiled floor, its tall spout dribbling water down into an azure pool. Rose petals floated on the water, giving off a sweet scent.

“So where’s the chocolate?” I said.

“Different fountain. Follow me.”

Grider led me across the room, where a group of guests were crowded around what looked like a pedestal with a basin on top. Protruding from the center of the basin was a spigot spewing out liquid chocolate. Waiters in long white coats stood at attention, holding silver trays filled with juicy fresh strawberries and sliced oranges on long wooden skewers. Grider plucked two skewered strawberries from a tray and held them under the cascading chocolate. In seconds, they were coated in sweet chocolate. He popped one into his mouth and handed me the other to try. The chocolate enhanced the flavor of the strawberry, and vice versa. It was a delicious treat.

“Best dessert in Washington,” he said.

Grider helped himself to another chocolate-covered strawberry, then looked around the room.

“’Scuse me a second. There’s someone I need to talk to,” he said and abruptly walked away.

I stayed by the fountain to experiment on my own. I was running an orange slice under the chocolate waterfall when another skewer playfully nudged mine aside.

“Ah-ah, no chocolate barging.” I laughed, turning around.

The man holding the dueling skewer was Bob Poll. I felt a jolt of something—I’m not sure if it was embarrassment, shock, nostalgia, or what exactly. But whatever it was, I just stood there like an idiot, staring at him, holding the dripping orange slice over the fountain.

“Long time, no see, Reven,” he said. “Come on over here and talk to me a sec.”

I’m not quite sure why I followed him over to a corner. I told myself it was because I was interested to hear what he had to say about all the events that had transpired since we last met. But it was more than that. I still felt a tug of attraction.

“So how are you, beautiful?”

Beautiful?
How long had this guy been married?

“Fine thanks, Bob. How are you? How’s married life?” I asked him breezily.

“Unfortunately, it’s just how I remembered it,” he said with a smirk.

“Do I dare even bring up the subject of Maxwell?”

Bob shook his head. “What a shock, huh?”

“Was it?” I said pointedly.

“Damn right. The guy had great references. He worked for the Dumonts, for Chrissakes. I’ve been dealing nonstop with the cops and the press…. Nightmare. It’s been pretty tough on Mel, too. Not exactly the perfect way to start out.”

“I can imagine,” I said, recalling the tell-all articles written by Bob’s ex-girlfriends.

“Listen, uh, I was very sorry about your, uh…that girl who worked for you.”

“Amber.”

“Amber, right.”

“You saw her, you know.”

“I did?”

“Yes. That day Maxwell came to drop off the cookie tin. You looked at her through the shop window. She thought you were cute.”

“I don’t remember. I was looking for you.”

“I was there. You could have come in.”

Bob lowered his voice. “Listen, I, uh…I know I should have called you, Rev.”

“About Maxwell?”

“No, well, yes…but I mean before that. I should have called and told you I was getting married. I feel bad about that.”

“Just out of curiosity…why didn’t you? Were you afraid I’d throw a hissy fit?”

“Let’s just say my bride had some jealousy issues.”

“
Really?
But you were seeing Melody the whole time we were going out, weren’t you?” I knew this from Gunner.

He cocked his head to one side. “Who told you that?”

“Oh, you know Washington. So many little birds with such big mouths.”

“I don’t know who told you that, but it’s not true,” he said unconvincingly. “So is this thing with you and Grider serious?”

I stepped back and looked him up and down. “You know what, Bob? It’s none of your fucking business.”

With that, I turned on my heel and walked off. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Melody making a beeline for Bob. She didn't look pleased. I turned away. Grider was in a corner, talking to a man I vaguely recognized. They both stood with their arms crossed, tilting slighting toward one another like giant bookends. Grider caught sight of me and waved me over.

“Reven Lynch, Sam Pomador.”

We shook hands. “Ms. Lynch,” Pomador said with a smile, exposing a set of tombstone teeth.

Pomador patted Grider on the back and said, “Glad we had this conversation, Zack. I’ll be seeing you. Nice to meet you, Ms. Lynch.” He walked off.

“Who’s that?”

“You really don’t know who anyone is, do ya? Sam Pomador’s one of the longest-serving senators in history. He’s the Senate’s pro tempore emeritus and a senior member of some very important committees. He also happens to be chummy with your pal, Ms. Rinehart. He’s on her board.”

“I thought he looked familiar. There’s a picture of him in her office. Tell me something, what horse died so Senator Pomador could have his teeth?”

Grider roared with laughter. He sounded like a clanking engine.

“He wants me to go on her board,” he said at last.

“Will you?”

“I don’t go on boards. It’s not in the public interest.”

“Violet introduced Senator Pomador to Cynthia, you know. And then he got a lot of influential people to go on her board.”

“I’m not surprised. Sam’s a persuasive man…. Well, I’ve had my look-see. Let’s go get some dinner. You like fish?”

Grant and Cynthia were arriving just as we were leaving. They were part of a large crowd. They pretended not to see us, and we pretended not to see them.