Favors and Lies Page 14

  He followed the outside wall of the train tracks down the street for two blocks until it disappeared into a tunnel under a newly reclaimed piece of real estate a block from the Mandarin Oriental. Detective Wallace looked up at the silhouette of the hotel as he moved towards it, an isolated oasis on the wrong side of the tracks. But when you have enough money to stay at the Mandarin, you have enough money to hire a driver to chauffer you to the brighter side of town.

  Entering the hotel, Wallace, dressed in black slacks and a black sweater, flashed his badge at the receptionist and motioned for him to move to the unoccupied end of the check-in counter.

  “How can I help you, Officer?” the perfectly groomed white male employee asked.

  “My name is Detective Wallace. I’m investigating recent criminal activity by the railroad tracks.”

  “You mean the murders?”

  “Who said anything about murder?”

  The receptionist lowered his voice a notch. “We hear things.”

  “I know the tracks run under the street out front and under the Promenade a couple of blocks down, but do you have access to the tracks themselves, from the building?”

  The receptionist looked around and dropped his voice even further. “Second floor of the basement. Near the laundry facilities. Just past the employee locker room. There is an access door directly to the tracks.”

  Detective Wallace looked down at the receptionist’s fingers. The yellow stain between his pointer and middle fingers hinted at a reason for the intel provided. “The unofficial smoking lounge for employees?”

  The receptionist glanced sheepishly at his hands.

  Wallace smiled. “Been smoking for thirty years, myself. On and off. Last week, I broke down and gave electric cigarettes a whirl.”

  “How did you like them?” the receptionist asked. “I was considering them.”

  “They work. Just not like the real thing.”

  “Nothing ever is,” the receptionist replied with exasperation.

  “Can you show me the basement?”

  “Follow me.”

  The receptionist led Wallace across the crescent-shaped marble foyer, under the crystal chandelier, and down a flight of burgundy carpeted stairs. They followed a short hall to the right, took another flight of stairs down, and pushed through a large set of double doors. They passed through the cramped laundry facility and the plethora of Latina maids folding a never-ending supply of linens. The stench of bleach invaded Wallace’s nose. Another short passage led to the back door.

  “Here you go,” the receptionist said, opening the steel fire door and inviting Wallace to an area of trampled ground that was level with the train tracks. Wallace looked at the impromptu smokers’ lounge. Large plywood planks served as the floor. A group of folding chairs nicked from a conference room huddled to one side. A heavy bulb above the door illuminated the space. A hundred yards to the left, sunlight seemed to flicker with temptation. To the right, light danced intermittently as the tracks disappeared and reappeared as they went under the Promenade.

  “Paradise,” the receptionist interrupted.

  “You ever walk down here?”

  “Uh, scary,” the receptionist answered with rising intonation. “No way.”

  “You ever see anyone who shouldn’t be down here?”

  “Hard to say. We have three hundred employees. We do try to keep the door shut and locked so the homeless don’t wander in. Found a few dozen sheets running out the door one afternoon. Looked like a bunch of ghosts.”

  “Security cameras.”

  “Yep,” the receptionist said, pointing upward.

  “I may be back to look at the footage.”

  “Where are you going?

  “For a stroll.”

  “Well, be careful. It isn’t Disneyland down here.”

  Detective Wallace unholstered his gun and checked the chamber. Then he reached in his pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it. He inhaled deeply, blew the smoke into the air, and responded. “Don’t worry. No one is going to mistake me for Mickey fucking Mouse.”

  —

  The area under the Promenade had seen more action in the last week than in the previous decade. The homeless camp was gone, trampled clay ground the only indication of a previous permanent settlement. The discovery of Conner Lord and Detective Nguyen in this location had led to a cleanup of the area. All of the debris was taken as possible evidence, garbage bags of discarded crap that were still being filtered through, piece by piece. If anything was overlooked in the removal of Conner Lord’s body, it would not be overlooked in Detective Nguyen’s subsequent death. The police knew how to take care of their own.

  Wallace looked up at the rusting joints of the promenade infrastructure and a tear dropped from his right eye and trickled down his face. Someone is going to pay. And I don’t care what I have to do. There are no more rules.

  —

  Dr. Lewis, the medical examiner, was finished with Nguyen’s body. Detective Wallace walked in without any warning or announcement.

  “Talk to me, Doctor.”

  “Detective Wallace. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. Nick was a good guy. One of my favorite officers.”

  “One of mine, too.”

  “You missed the analysis. I gave the captain and two other detectives the run down this morning. On top of the updates from yesterday.”

  “You mind giving me the rundown?”

  “The captain asked if I would inform him of any additional inquiries.”

  “I am officially not working the case.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “Problem with that?”

  “No, Detective.”

  “Then let’s get to it.”

  “You want to see the body?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s not pretty.”

  “I think I can handle it.”

  The ME led Wallace to the wall and pulled on the stainless-steel handle. Detective Nguyen’s body rolled out for display, inch by inch.

  “Gunshot wound to the chest and the head.”

  “What caliber?”

  “A .45. Hollow point.”

  “That rules out most gang bangers. The nine millimeter is the preferred caliber for most criminals in this city. Usually gives them more shots, which they need because they don’t spend time on the range. And the bullets are cheaper.”

  “Yes, Detective. Most gunshot wounds I see are nine millimeter.”

  “Which came first, the shot to the head or to the chest?”

  “The shots were virtually simultaneous. Within a second of each other at most. Very accurate. Chest first. Head second. Both perfect shots, if you can excuse the expression being used under these circumstances.”

  “Double tapped. Professional. Someone with military training. Maybe law enforcement.”

  “I can only speak to the wounds. Either shot would have been fatal.”

  “Other evidence?”

  “The detective’s personal belongings are back at the station, I believe, but they were carefully categorized by yours truly. I went through everything three times. With the naked eye, the aided eye, and under high-resolution microscope. All documented. All photographed.”

  “And?”

  “Detective Nguyen was always well dressed, and the night of his death was no different, from a fashion perspective. He was wearing dark gray wool slacks bought within the past year, a new clothing line from Nordstrom’s. The shirt was from Joseph A. Banks Clothier, as was his tie. His socks were from Target. Same brand I usually buy. He had on ECCO straight-lace shoes. Pretty comfortable, a little on the expensive side.”

  “Detectives splurge on shoes. We need something with traction and support. And they have to look reasonable with most clothes.”

  “As you know, his gun, badge, and
detective notebook were not with the body. His car keys and his wallet were on his person when he was found.”

  “Not a robbery.”

  “Didn’t even take his watch.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He had a fair amount of grayish clay on his shoes, as well as some on the back of his clothing.”

  Wallace looked down at his own shoes. “Something like that?”

  The Medical Examiner bent at the waist and stared intently at Wallace’s black shoes. “That would be consistent with the clay found on his shoes and person.”

  “Not surprising.”

  “We are putting the toxicology through as we speak. Primary indication is that alcohol was not a factor. But I don’t recall Nguyen as a drinker.”

  “On occasion.”

  “You would know better than I.”

  Detective Wallace pulled out a business card and handed it to Dr. Lewis, a man he had spoken with hundreds of times. “Call me on my cell if you find anything that could be helpful.”

  “There was something else I thought about after your captain left.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You know we had another body earlier from the same location. A college student.”

  “What about it?”

  “I am just curious. Two bodies found in the same location. One has clay on his shoes. The other doesn’t. And then we have you. The tie-breaker.”

  Detective Wallace looked down again at his feet. “I will make a note of it.”

  “Just thought I would mention it.”

  Chapter 17

  —

  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.”