A Killing Sky (5 page)

“This is crazy, Frank.” Marcia paced back and forth in her living room. “Just what, exactly, did you hope to accomplish by bringing her here?”

Cassidy was taking a shower upstairs. It had been easy enough to gather up some of her and Cartwright's things, mostly still in their suitcases, toss them into the back of the pickup, and drive her into town. I pulled over twice and checked my rearview mirror the whole way to make sure the turnip and the robot hadn't tried to follow us.

“She just needs a safe place to stay for tonight, maybe longer.”

“A safe place to stay? What in the world is going on? First, she calls to tell me she needs to find someone to help her find out some information regarding her sister. You show up and tell me it's something serious, but you won't tell me what it is. You don't even want me calling her mother, who's my friend. The next thing I know, you're rushing her in here like she's some sort of fugitive or something.”

“Wright's missing.” Cassidy's voice came from the top of the stairs. Apparently the water from the shower hadn't been loud enough. Still dressed, she came partway down the steps.

“She's what? Are you sure?” Marcia asked.

“No one's seen her since midnight last night,” I said.

“I was just coming back down to get my shampoo,” Cassidy said.

Marcia looked horrified. “But there's been nothing on the news. And the police—”

“It hasn't hit the news,” I said. “And the cops don't know yet either. We're trying to keep it quiet, until we figure this thing out.”

Marcia gave me the same kind of worried look she might have given had it been her own child. “Do you think she's been kidnapped? Is she in some kind of danger?”

“Too early to tell.”

“I told him not to let anybody know, Marcia. Not even you,” Cassidy said.

“Why not?” she asked. “What about your mother?”

Cassidy looked at me.

“It gets complicated,” I said. “Why don't I leave Cassidy to fill you in on whatever she wants to tell you? Every minute I sit here talking is another minute the trail grows cold.”

Marcia looked back and forth between the two of us, settling her gaze on Cassidy. “Go ahead, then.” She dismissed me with a wave of her hand.

I took it as a sign that meant I was to remove my Cro-Magnon brain from the premises, so I did.

My cell phone rang as I was backing out of the driveway. I fished it out of my pocket and answered.

“Well?”

It was Nicole. Psychic.

“Well, what?”

“Any more developments on the big case? I came over here to your place and let myself in to use the computer. Didn't want to use one at the university. I've got that folder ready for you.”

“Thank you very much. I've got something else for you.”

“You do?’

“Has Jake called, by any chance?”

“No. Why?”

“He's getting some information for me.”

“What else do you have for me?”

“A laptop computer. Got some files on it we can't seem to open. Also need to find a password to get into somebody's E-mail.”

“Cool.”

“I thought Jake might be able to help you.”

“Where are you? What's going on?”

“Can't get into that right now, sweetheart.”

“C'mon, Dad. Don't hold out on me. I'm the one who gave you some great advance surveillance of the Drummond place.” Technically, she was correct.

“I love you, Nicky. And because I love you, I'm not going to get into any more of this right now.”

“But—”

“No buts.”

She let out an audible sigh.

“How was your late class this afternoon?” I asked.

“It was the most boring class I've ever been to. Charlemagne.”

“Charlemagne was actually quite a fascinating fellow.”

“Yeah? Well, maybe you can come take my class next time.”

That'd be the day. I'd last about fifteen minutes with one of those profs.

“Dad?” she said.

“Yeah?”

“When are you going to bring me the laptop?”

“Later.”

“All right. I'm meeting Jerry at seven-thirty to play racquetball.”

“Jerry?”

“Just a friend, Daddy.”

“Uh-huh. Shouldn't you be studying about Charlemagne?”

“It's just a history class. I wouldn't even be taking the stupid course if it wasn't a requirement.”

“ ‘Don't know much about his-to-ry. Don't know much bi-ol-o-gy …’ ”

“I hate it when you sing the oldies,” she said.

Potential Olympian Jed Haynes, it appeared, preferred the Spartan lifestyle. His house was a sixties-style ranch wedged between apartment buildings off Fourteenth Street. Brown paint peeling over the doorway, broken shutters askew at the front window, a trio of empty Coors Light cans decorating the muddy microchip of a front lawn. There were a couple of cars in the driveway and the lights were all on inside, so I parked along the curb, went up to the door, and knocked.

A girl with long blond hair answered.

“Yes?” She wore bell-bottom jeans with bright panels sewn into the legs, the kind a lot of us used to wear years ago. A blue nose ring pierced one of her nostrils. Her halter top left her midriff bare.

“This where Jed Haynes lives?” I asked.

“Yeah, but he's not here.”

“Oh, no.” A mocking voice came from inside. “It's another autograph hound trying to track down Jedi the Great.”

Over her shoulder I could see two males gripping handles, switching from offense to defense on either side of a foosball table.
Crack.
The ball slammed into one of the goals.

“Yea-a-ah!” The winner performed a touchdown-celebration kind of dance.

“That sucks!” his opponent exclaimed. “I was distracted. Two out of three.”

I showed my card to the girl. “I'd like to ask you folks some questions, if you can spare a minute or two.”

“Hey, guys,” she called over her shoulder. “This man's not after an autograph. He's a private investigator.”

That got the foosballers’ attention. They left their handles behind and came to back up the girl at the door. The taller one, a square-jawed kid with curly hair, spoke first.

“What's up, man?”

“Like to ask you all a few questions about Jed.”

“No shit? What'd he do now, run into some little old lady's car?”

“Not quite.”

“Let the man in, let the man in,” the shorter of the two said. “Let's get some real dirt on Jed.” He had dimpled cheeks and hair that was slick with some type of gel.

His buddy snickered. “All right, Mr. Investigator. C'mon in.”

The girl opened the door to let me pass. I entered a living room trashed with fast-food wrappers and old pizza boxes. The main furnishings were a lumpy couch and a recliner not unlike my own throne at home, except that this one had several rips and tears in the upholstery.

“You want to sit down?” the girl asked.

“That's okay. This won't take long.”

They all sat down. The girl and the kid with the gel in his hair took the couch while their friend slumped into a torn beanbag chair from which little balls of foam sprinkled onto the carpet.

“Who are you working for?” the guy on the couch wanted to know. He slipped his arm around the girl. They were obviously a couple.

“That's why my card says ‘private.’ Sorry.”

He didn't look happy.

“What's his name again, Kayla?”

“Pavlicek,” the girl said. “That's what it said on his card.”

“Maybe I can start by getting all your names,” I said.

“You still haven't told us what this is all about.” Gel-head puffed himself up from the couch a little, trying to play the alpha male thing with me. I wondered if he and Haynes took lessons from the same instructor.

“Yeah, man.” Square-jaw was backing him.

I saw no reason to embarrass either one of them when all I was after was information. “Pretty routine, really. I'm just trying to establish Jed Haynes's whereabouts last night.”

“What for?”

“Look, folks, I'm not here to cause you trouble, if it's not warranted. I'm just trying to keep a private problem from going to the police. You can either give me what I'm looking for, or I'll find out the information some other way. Jed says he was here with you guys last night. He telling the truth?”

Gel looked at the others and shrugged. “ ‘Course he was here, man. All night. We hung out, played some foos, watched TV.”

“What time did you all go to bed?”

“I don't know, man. Maybe one o'clock. It was after Letterman. You remember, hon?”

She giggled. “It was real late.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Jed was definitely here. All night.”

“He couldn't have sneaked out after the rest of you went to bed?”

“No way, man. I'm a light sleeper.”

“Uh-huh. You guys been roommates long?”

“Since the beginning of the year.”

“You guys know Cartwright Drummond?”

“Wright?” Square-jaw smiled. “You mean Jed's obsession.”

His roommate punched him in the arm. “Jed's not obsessed with her, man.”

“Yes, he is.”

“No, he's not. Besides, she's still overseas, isn't she? Japan or someplace.” Gel-head looked at me.

I shrugged. “Guess you'll have to ask Jed,” I said.

“What do you want to know about her for?”

“No particular reason.”

The four of us stared at one another for a second or two.

“That's all I needed to know for now,” I said. “Thank you very much.”

I turned to go, and they all got to their feet.

I paused on my way to the door. “I would like each of your names, though. In case I need to talk to any of you again.”

“I'll bet old Jedi stole a couple cases of beer from that restaurant down on the corner again,” Square-jaw said.

“Yeah, right,” the girl said.

“Your names?” I repeated.

They both looked at Gel-head. He shrugged. “Why not? Hersch,” he said. “My name's Penn Hersch.”

The girlfriend said her name was Kayla Vestervelt and the other roommate's name was Chad Lippman.

“Hey, Pavlicek,” Hersch said. “We gotta tell Jed you were here, you know.”

“Fine with me,” I said. “Thanks for your time.”

My cell phone rang again.

“O-ooo … a busy man.”

I pushed the button and answered.

“Frank, it's Jake.”

“I was wondering what became of you.”

“Information takes time, my man.”

“I'm just finishing up with some people. Let me get out to my truck.”

The foosballers were both thinking it was some kind of big joke now, laughing and poking at each other as the girl went to the door and opened it. Chuckling herself, she avoided my gaze as I passed her on the way out.

I waited until she closed the door, then walked back down the sidewalk and climbed into the privacy of my cab. “Still there?”

“Just painting my nails. How'd you make out with the crows today?”

“Nothing.”

“Figures. It's hard enough scaring up a tail chase in wide-open country. Your vineyard owner might be better off trying to lure a wild resident redtail into setting up shop around his spread.” I could hear his yellow Lab, Hercules, whimpering about something in the background.

“You've got the dog with you?”

“Thought I'd bring him along for the trip.”

“You're still in town, then?”

“In the Jeep down across from your office. Sipping latte from some joint called the Mudhouse. Funky place.”

“What'd you find out for me?”

“You're not going to like it. I checked on that number you asked me about,” he said.

“Right. Were there any calls?”

“Something going on with these girls and their father, Frank?”

“Quite possibly.”

“After you told me about the turnip-face pulling his cannon on you, I figured you'd want to know about this right away.”

“Know what?”

“This is the missing daughter's phone, right?”

“Right.”

“She or someone else made only one call after the time you gave me. It was to a Charlottesville listing,” he said.

“What number?”

“Her father's unlisted cell phone.”

“Wonderful.”

“Not only that. She got a call back from him ten minutes later.”

“How do you know that?”

“Don't ask.”

“Interesting.” I explained to him about my spying the turnip while Nicole and I were hunting and my encounter with him out at the Drummond estate.

“Sounds like you've got a gnarly one on your hands.”

“Can you do me another favor?”

“What's that?”

“You have somebody at home who could watch the birds and the ranch for tonight?”

“I'd have to make a call, but yeah, sure.”

“I've got Cassidy Drummond stashed at Marcia's house. I'm pretty sure no one knows she's there. Would you mind heading over there, keeping an eye on things? You could crash on the couch or something.”

“No problem.”

“Just tell Marcia I sent you for extra insurance and not to worry.”

“You don't think she's gonna worry when she sees me show up?”

“Can't be helped, I guess.”

“That all?”

“If you can hang around tomorrow, maybe you could find out a little more about those old newspaper articles I was telling you about. I'm stalled a bit on that. And if you don't mind swinging by my apartment on the way over to Marcia's, Nicky's got a whole file of background information on the Drummonds. Plus, I've got Cartwright Drummond's laptop. Maybe you could help Nicky decipher some files for me.”

“What're you gonna be doing?” he asked.

I thought about that. “You ever see those kids’ books where you have to try to find the goofy-looking little guy somewhere in the background surrounded by a whole bunch of complicated and colorful scenes?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“I'll be looking for Waldo,” I said.

Waldo, however, must have moved his act to a different town. The rental car description Cassidy Drummond had provided—midnight-blue Nissan Maxima with D.C. plates—and the tag number I'd gotten from the company might as well have been phantoms, for all the good they were doing me. I had traced circles over an ever-expanding search pattern in the neighborhoods around Haynes's place on Fourteenth Street, sweeping out as far as Rugby Avenue. Nothing.

Moving on to the university lots, I cruised the areas around Alderman again, and up to University Hall. Then I switched tactics and headed across town on Barracks and Preston, perusing most of the streets near my office and those surrounding the downtown mall. I made fast runs through Belmont, around the Prospect Hill area, and Cherry Avenue. Not a sign.

I had yet to check out the Pantops area, and Park Street and Rio Road, not to mention the Georgetown Road area and the entire 29 North corridor. It was a long night, and shaping up to get a lot longer.

A half hour later I found myself parked along the curb on High Street, dialing Marcia's number on the cell.

“Jake just arrived,” she said when she answered.

“Good.”

“He told me you said not to worry.”

“That's right.”

“Making any progress?”

“Nada.”

“Cassidy's told me everything.”

“Okay.”

“I'm sorry for being so short with you earlier.”

“Forget it.” I was watching the streetlights burn with life, watching the houses along the street burn with life too, lights ablaze, televisions and computer screens all aglow.

“What do you do now? Will you go to the police?”

“Most likely.”

“I really am sorry, Frank. Now that I know—”

“I'm going to want you to tell me all that went on between you and Tor Drummond,” I said.

There was a pause. “All right,” she said softly.

“Can you put Cassidy on now?”

“Yes. Be careful, Frank.”

“Always.”

Another pause. “I—I don't want anything to happen to you.”

“Me either.”

Cassidy came on the line. “You haven't found anything?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I'm sorry.”

“I keep trying Wright's cell phone.”

“I know.” I'd tried it again too. Cartwright Drummond's cell phone number now answered with an ominous recording—”The subscriber you have dialed is unavailable or has traveled beyond the coverage area”—which meant either the phone had been turned off or the battery had died.

“Isn't there something else you can do?” Her voice sounded shaky.

“Keep looking.”

“Okay.”

“But I have to be honest. I'm not optimistic at this point. You're probably not going to be able to keep a lid on this thing.”

There was silence. Then after several seconds: “I know, I know—” She began to cry softly.

I let her cry for a little bit. “I'm very sorry,” I said finally. Seemed like I was getting good at saying that. “Listen. Time's getting critical. There are a couple of cops I know I can trust.”

“No, please. Not yet. Please just keep looking.”

I thought it over. “I'll keep looking,” I said, “but don't get your hopes up.”

“I'm afraid,” she said. “You think … do you think Wright's been?” She couldn't form the words.

“We shouldn't go jumping to conclusions just yet.”

“I've had this awful feeling ever since we talked earlier. I even had to go into the bathroom a little while ago to throw up. If Cartwright doesn't … we promised each other we'd always be there … “

I said nothing. Being a private investigator may sound glamorous to some. The truth is, a lot of the time it seems only incrementally different from picking up trash for a living. Right now the garbage detail looked pretty good.

“You believe in prayer, Mr. Pavlicek?”

“Sure,” I said.

“I'm praying that God won't take Cartwright from me.”

A cold wind swirled the trees along the street. A hunter's moon became visible for a brief moment through a break in the clouds.

“Me too,” I said.

We hung up and I went on with my vigil.

C'mon, Frank. Charlottesville is not New York or L.A.—not even Atlanta or Washington, D.C. Shouldn't be that hard to find a missing auto. If it's still in town, that is.

I checked out the areas around Park Street and Locust Avenue, then shot down the 250 Bypass to River Road. It was well after ten by now. Traffic was light. I looped back up on High Street to Martha Jefferson Hospital, cruising through the surrounding streets and lots. I was finishing up a check of the hospital's parking garage when it occurred to me I'd forgotten the two parking garages at the larger university medical center across town. I drove back down High Street to Preston, cut across to West Main, and began trolling in the direction of University Corner.

This was a transitional part of town, one that city planners envisioned would one day serve as an attractive bridge between the college and downtown. The vision had been at least partially realized. Between the shells of older structures and vacant lots with their sparkles of broken glass, there were a couple of new hotels and a thriving, if eclectic, strip of eateries. The city had recently upgraded the bridge that crossed the railroad with attractive lighting, and the railroad station itself had undergone a major renovation—one of the buildings now housed a trendy restaurant.

A minute or so later the medical center popped into view on my left. I entered the first garage and started my search.

Ten minutes later, still nothing. Five levels of vehicles, one older Maxima, but nothing remotely resembling the Drummonds’ rental car. Maybe Cartwright Drummond had left the state. Maybe her father was having her followed, like her sister, and for some reason she'd decided to go underground in a Third World country. I moved on to the primary-care-center garage.

I was cruising along the second level, momentarily distracted by a minivan backing out of a space, when a flash of dark blue up ahead on the left caught my attention. Another Maxima. In the amber light it gleamed almost black. I took in a deep breath as I came abreast of the vehicle. D.C. plates.

Checked the tag number. Bingo.

I sat there letting the truck idle for a moment, hardly believing my luck. Maybe there was a simple explanation to this whole affair after all. The vehicle appeared to be clean and unoccupied, just the way Cassidy and Cartwright had probably rented it. I scanned up and down the row of cars. Nothing unusual. Except for the van, the garage was quiet at this time of night—hospital visiting hours were over. Many of the spaces now sat empty. I reached across and grabbed my four-cell and, just in case, my .357 out of the glove box. Strapped on the weapon and stepped from the truck.

Nothing but the sound of my own engine, the cold and the sweet smell of my own exhaust, and the haze of steam blowing from some kind of vents on the roof of the hospital across the street. I slipped on a pair of leather gloves and carefully approached the rental car. In no way did it seem out of order—the inside was empty and the doors were all locked. I considered trying to break in, took a look around, and decided I better not. My flashlight beam swept across the seats, over the steering wheel and the dash down to the floor.

There. Something reflected the light a little, dark and wet on the carpet. It took a moment for my mind to register what my eyes had seen, and in that second I inadvertently angled the beam up toward the rearview mirror and an even more unmistakable image.

I'm a man rarely given to profanity.

“Sweet Jesus,” I whispered.

Bloody fingerprints.