The Bubble Gum Thief (38 page)

“Fair enough.” Booker reached into his suit jacket and pulled out his business card. “Just in case you change your mind,” he said, handing it to Dagny.

“How did everyone know I was here?”

“I suspect that the hotel clerk noticed your name on the registry, made some calls, made some money.”

“And that’s how you found me?”

“No, no—not me. We’re CNN, Ms. Gray. We’re not like the vultures. Assistant Director Fabee said we’d find you here.”

“How kind of him,” she said.

Booker nodded and started to walk away, but turned back. “Look...use a fake name. Wear a hat. You’re the pretty woman at the center of the biggest story in the country. You’ve got to be careful.”

“Alright.” It was good advice.

“And you look like a mess, by the way. Your hair is going every which way, and you’ve got pillow lines running across your face. Right now those vultures have some really atrocious pictures of you. Now, they don’t
want
to run those pictures. They want pictures of you looking pretty—because that’s what sells. You might not care right now, but these pictures are going to be on the Internet for fifty years, and you might care later. Clean yourself up, take a shower, put on some nice clothes, and then step out on your balcony for some fresh air. They’ll be waiting in the parking lot below for the retakes. Then call the bellhop and promise him twenty bucks if he drives your car around to the service entrance, and sneak out of here.” He started back down the hallway.

It sounded like a good plan. Dagny called out to him. “Thanks, Harold.” He smiled, then went on his way.

Dagny showered and dressed, then spent twenty anxious minutes drying her hair, wondering if vanity would doom her, if she’d eventually find Draker twenty minutes too late to prevent his next act of violence, if people would die because she wanted to look pretty in some photographs. When she walked out onto the balcony, the cacophony of shutter-clicks was overwhelming. After three minutes of glamour shots, Dagny called the bellhop,
picked up her car at the hotel’s service entrance, and headed off for Chula Vista.

In the tumult of a chase, every decision is a nightmare. Little decisions, like sleeping in until six or spending twenty minutes drying hair. Big decisions, like spending—perhaps wasting—a day talking to a family about its murdered dog. It seemed unlikely that the Luberses held the key to the case. But then again, Draker chose them, didn’t he? Chula Vista was a long haul to shoot a dog for no reason.

Officer Perez was waiting on the Luberses’ lawn when Dagny pulled up. He was handsome and trim and younger than Dagny. She remembered a time when she was always the youngest person in the room, and then she remembered that it was a long time ago.

He smiled as she approached.

“It’s nice to meet you, Eduardo.”

“Dagny Gra-a-ay,” he said, drawing out her last name. “I feel like we’re old friends,” he said, slightly embarrassed when it came out. “I mean, it’s been a long month, hasn’t it?”

“You have
no
idea.”

“I’ve seen you on the news. There are a million questions I’d love to ask, but I know you’re busy, so I won’t.”

“You can just wait for the movie.”

“The what?”

“Long story.”

The Luberses lived in a cul-de-sac kind of neighborhood, with thick, lustrous lawns and sidewalks large enough for a Big Wheel to comfortably pass a stroller. It was a quiet morning. There were no cars on the streets. No paparazzi snapping photographs. No federal agents trampling lawns. No Hollywood lackeys slowing her down.

“So they remember something about Draker?”

“Yep.”

“Did you tell anyone about it?”

“Just you. I guess I probably should’ve called that guy running it all. What’s his name? Fabee? But I thought I’d call you instead.”

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t like that Fabee guy. A few weeks ago, he called and chewed me out for FedExing the bullet from Tucker to you. Said it violated protocol, chain of custody. What do I know about protocol for federal murder cases? I work in property crimes for the Chula Vista Police Department.”

“Dog killing is a property crime?”

Perez shrugged.

“Michael Vick should have lived here,” Dagny said, causing Perez to laugh a little.

“I’ve got a buddy who’s a feeb on Fabee’s team. Apparently, Fabee’s not very happy that you and your partner were able to ID Draker before any of his guys could. And I kinda think that’s great. So as far as I’m concerned, you’re my official contact on the case.”

It was nice to know they were annoying Fabee.

Martha Lubers led them inside, over and around piles of toys and children’s books. She looked to be in her early thirties. Another younger person with an actual life. One more person to envy.

“I’m so sorry for the mess,” Martha said. “We actually cleaned up. You wouldn’t want to see it on a normal day.”

“No problem,” Dagny replied, taking a seat on the living-room couch.

Fred Lubers walked in and greeted them. He was a big, burly man, and his handshake was firm. “I saw you on the news,” he said to Dagny.

“I’ve been getting that a lot lately.”

“You’re even prettier in person,” Martha chimed in.

Any resentment Dagny felt toward the younger married woman evaporated. “Thank you very much. Officer Perez tells me that you two think that Tucker had a connection to Mr. Draker.”

“Just Fred,” Martha said. “I wasn’t there.”

“It’s not really Tucker,” Fred explained. “See, Tucker is really Tucker Two, but along the way, the Two got dropped. Tucker One was the dog I had when I was a kid.”

“Where’d you grow up?” Dagny asked.

“In Washington, DC.”

“What happened with Tucker One?”

Lubers lowered his head. “He died.”

“No, I mean, with Noel Draker? What’s the connection?”

“Oh, right,” Lubers said, looking up. “I was walking Tucker—Tucker One that is—down the street in DC one day. This must have been twenty years ago. I was fifteen or sixteen. And Tucker was kind of a rambunctious dog, not at all like Tucker Two, who was a sweetheart—”

“He really was,” Martha added.

“But Tucker One had never bit anyone before. He’d bark a lot, and sometimes jump up at a person. Excitable was all. But one day this fellow comes walking down the street with a lady friend—a cute woman with frizzy blonde hair—and they’re holding hands and laughing, and something about him I guess Tucker didn’t like. So as we’re walking by, Tucker turns real fast and chomps on this guy’s left hand. He’s holding the lady’s hand with his right, but his left hand was swinging free and easy. It wasn’t a bad bite, but it pierced the skin and there was some bleeding. I yelled, ‘Bad Tucker,’ but it was too late—it had already happened. So the guy demanded my name and address, and the next day he came by with a medical bill and insisted that my father pay it.”

“Did your father pay?” Dagny asked.

“No, he refused. He told the guy that Tucker’d been provoked.” Lubers shook his head. “The guy hadn’t provoked Tucker. I just told my dad that because I didn’t want Tucker to get into trouble.”

“The dog-bitten man...did he ever say his name?”

“Not that I remember. But they’ve been talking about this Bubble Gum Thief a lot, and they’ve been showing a lot of pictures of Noel Draker on the news, and especially the old ones, and I’m certain it’s the same guy. Which is crazy, I know, because he didn’t even seem that mad back then, even when my father refused to pay the bill. He just kinda nodded and went away. So for him to come out here, all these years later, and kill Tucker Two, who did nothing wrong, nothing at all...it just doesn’t make sense.”

“The woman Draker was with...could it have been Candice Whitman?” Dagny asked. It was just a hunch.

“The TV lady. No. It didn’t look like her.”

“I assume you never saw or heard from Draker after this incident?” Dagny asked.

“No, nothing.” A dog barked from the backyard. “Tucker Three,” Fred explained.

Dagny walked over to the back window and saw a German shepherd puppy frolicking in the grass. Maybe they were calling him Tucker Three for now, but in a couple of years, he’d be just Tucker. If only every loss were so easily replaced.

April 28—Nashville, Tennessee

The numbers four, three, and zero cast a bright-red light upon the room. Dagny shoved a spare pillow in front of the alarm clock. It was too early to get out of bed, and she was too tired to try. She was about to drift back asleep when Brent Davis rolled over and gently caressed her cheek, then kissed her softly on the lips. Last night’s wine was still on his breath, and probably hers, too.

“You should have picked me as your partner,” he said. “We could’ve been doing this every night.”

Brent cupped his right hand under the naked small of her back and pulled her toward him. “We could make this work, you know. I could move to Alexandria, get a job in the DC field office. Start a family. Settle down.”

Dagny wrapped her hand around the back of his head and kissed his neck, then his lips.

“A little boy. A girl. Trick-or-treating on Halloween. Cupcakes for their school parties. Soccer games. We could do that,” he said, his hand tracing her body from her thigh up to her face, then sliding around behind her head and gently tugging at her hair.

“But I barely know you,” Dagny said.

The glowing green numbers on the alarm clock read 5:05. Dagny got out of bed, feeling guilty—feeling as though she’d cheated on Mike, even though it had only been a dream. She picked up the phone and dialed Brent’s room. “Leave in ten?”

They were sitting at a booth in the Pancake Pantry, sharing a stack of Smoky Mountain Buckwheat Cakes drenched in butter and honey. It was Dagny’s idea.

“So I have to ask, because it’s been bugging me...”

Dagny couldn’t look at his dark, smooth skin without thinking about her dream.

“What?”

“Why’d you pick Victor?”

She was glad it bothered him. “It was a close call, but I had to pick the best.”

He laughed, but it was a nervous laugh. “No, really.”

“You know why I picked him, Brent. I wanted to run the show.”

“And you don’t think I would have let you run the show?”

“You think you
are
the show.”

This made him smile.

“Sometimes, anyway,” she added, dabbing the corners of her lips with her napkin.

“Maybe you should get to know me before you jump to that kind of conclusion. Or maybe you should just get to know me.” He smiled again. Two of the five cakes remained. He slid the plate toward her. “Rest are yours.”

“Thanks.” She speared another bite.

“I have to admit, Dagny, that I had an ulterior motive when I asked you to meet me in Nashville.”

He was interested in her. She knew it. Didn’t he understand that she was still grieving? Didn’t he understand that she’d lost someone she loved? How could he possibly think that—

“I’d like to join your team. Work with you and Victor and the Professor.”

“Oh,” Dagny said. “Why? Life with the Fabulous isn’t so fabulous?”

“There’s nothing for me to do, really. After this, I’m supposed to report to a warehouse with a hundred other agents and flip through documents and spreadsheets that we’ve already reviewed five times. I’m not a flipping-through-documents kind of guy. And you’ve got to be able to use the help, right?”

May 1 was three days away. They needed all the help they could get. “Why would they waste you on document review?”

“Punishment.”

“For what?”

Brent leaned forward and gave Dagny a look that meant
You know
.

“I didn’t tell him that you told me about the Matisse,” she protested.

“I know, Dagny, but he figured it out.”

“How?”

He shrugged. “CPD denied it, maybe. I don’t know.”

“Why does he even care, Brent? Why does it matter?”

“I think you underestimate the threat you pose to him.”

“I’m no threat, Brent.”

“Of course you are. He’s got a thousand people on the case, Dagny. If you find Draker first, Fabee’s a laughingstock. His career is over.”

“But if he gets to Draker first...”

“Then he’s the next director and I’m stuck in the doghouse forever.”

“So that’s the real reason you’re so eager to join our team. You need our side to win.”

“You know, I had a nice little career going before a pretty girl made me tell her about a painting. You got me into this mess—you get me out of it.”

“You realize that the odds of us finding Draker first are one in a million.”

“Sometimes, when you’re down and out, you buy a lottery ticket. And Dagny Gray, you are my lottery ticket.”

All sixteen families welcomed Dagny and Brent into their homes with surprising graciousness. Despite their grief, they answered every question with elaborate detail and explanation, even though they’d endured the same inquisition several times already. Meals were offered and accepted. Tears fell, from the parents and siblings, of course, but also from Dagny, and even, more than once, from Brent. Altogether, Dagny and Brent spent thirteen hours with these families, probing into the painful and the uncomfortable, and yet they found no connection between any of the victims and Noel Draker.