Tony arrived with two plates. One held an assortment of olives, and the other, the flatbread and hummus.
Brecht eyed me suspiciously. “Are you two in collusion?”
“Tony knows how to keep his best customer happy,” I said.
“Well, Sam paid for everything,” Tony said. “I just supplied the data.”
Brecht chuckled. “And we all know data is everything.”
Tony set the food between our glasses and then stepped back. “You wouldn’t need a petabyte to store your dining data. More like a kilobyte. Between us and the Laughing Seed, I doubt if you eat anywhere else.”
Thanks to Nakayla’s background information, I knew how huge a number a petabyte was and could join in the joke.
“Well, enjoy,” Tony said and disappeared around a bookshelf.
“He’s a smart kid,” Brecht said.
“He seems interested in your work.”
“He’s active in environmental issues. We’ve had a few conversations about climate change.”
“What’s your data show?”
Brecht shrugged. “I just keep the information safe. I don’t interpret it. That’s for the meteorologists and climatologists.”
“What’s the difference?”
He dropped a black olive in his mouth, chewed for a second, and then swallowed. He pointed to the plate. “Help yourself.”
“No, thanks. I’ve got dinner plans later tonight. The difference?” I prompted.
“A meteorologist and a climatologist both deal with the weather, but the difference is in the time perspectives. A meteorologist is making predictions over the short term. You know, how’s the weather going to be for your vacation at your beach house next week. A climatologist is studying patterns over decades, centuries, even millennia. You know, will the rising seas submerge your beach house in twenty years.”
“So then as a citizen, not a scientist, do you believe in climate change?”
He ran his right hand down the front of his Hawaiian shirt. “I’m in what are supposed to be the cool mountains wearing clothing more suitable for the tropics. Outside, the temperature’s in the nineties, and the lack of rain has turned the ridges into tinderboxes. As a citizen, I believe we’re killing the planet. My work today is not about space exploration, it’s about human preservation.”
“More important than your work with the NSA?”
His magnified eyes gave me a hard stare. “You know I can’t talk about that. Let’s just say we may be cooking the planet, but if it’s any consolation, we didn’t blow it up. The converted tracking station played its role in its time.”
“And its new role? You’re helping with that?”
The defensive cast of his face softened. “All old things are new again. Our climate and other NOAA data are going into PARI, a secure backup site. Joseph Gordowski and I are working together again.”
“He’s not full-time I understand.”
“No, strictly a volunteer. But he’s eager to help. He wants to be involved as much as he can.” He raised his glass. “He knows PARI better than I do. It’s nice to have one more act with him before the curtain comes down. Nice that we can both be useful.”
I decided it was time to focus our conversation on whatever might have brought the curtain down on Frank DeMille and Loretta Johnson.
“Theo, I’m working for Frank’s sister, and you can imagine that even after all these years, the discovery of Frank’s remains and the circumstances of his death are hitting her very hard.”
“No, I can’t imagine. I find it hard to deal with it, and he wasn’t my brother.”
“Since you heard the news, you must have thought about that night and what happened.”
“Yes, I’ve thought about it, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The tracking station had passed the baton, and Frank told me to program the next cycle before we left. He would check it and make sure the radio telescopes would slew to the correct position to begin their tracking again.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“I assumed he was headed to the break room or men’s room. Or sometimes he liked to take a walk around the grounds, even at night. He called them his thinking walks.”
I remembered Nancy Gilmore said the same thing about her brother’s thinking walks. “So he didn’t seem agitated or preoccupied?”
“No more than usual. He wasn’t the chattiest person in the complex. He kept his personal life to himself. I didn’t know he and Loretta were dating.”
“Do you think that could have caused any problems?”
Brecht shook his head. “If it did, I didn’t notice. They’d been very discreet. I did hear her family wasn’t happy about it.”
“Who told you that?”
“I think it was Joseph Gordowski. He evidently had a run-in with one of her brothers. Then a week before Frank disappeared, I saw her brother snooping around one of the maintenance sheds.”
“What was he looking for?” I asked.
“He said he’d come by to ask Loretta about a family matter. Long way to walk to ask a question.”
“How did you know he was Loretta’s brother?”
Brecht’s jaw tightened as he relived the encounter. “Because I asked him who the hell he was. We were supposed to be a secure site, but the forest made our borders so porous, it wasn’t until the Department of Defense took over that we had any meaningful security. They spread the word to stay out and posted signs that threatened long prison terms for trespassing.”
“Which brother did you see?”
“Hell, I don’t know. I described him to Gordowski, and he said it sounded like the same man who’d come looking for Frank. But then I learned Loretta’s brothers were twins, and I never got a first name.”
“And the brother you saw, did he ask for Frank?”
“No, claimed he was there to see Loretta.”
“Near a maintenance shed.”
“Yeah. That didn’t feel right, and I asked why he hadn’t gone to the office. He said he was curious about what we did. And he swore he wasn’t touching anything.”
“How did it end?”
“I walked him up to the office and took him to Loretta. I could tell she wasn’t glad to see him. I left them because I didn’t want to get in the middle of some family squabble.”
I thought for a moment about the implications of what Brecht was saying. Either one of Loretta’s brothers had made two unauthorized hikes into the tracking station, or the twins had made one hike each. We had no way of determining which scenario was true. Loretta would know, but she was inconveniently dead.
“Just a few more questions, Theo.”
“Take as long as you need, as long as my wine holds out.”
“Loretta had written a song that we think holds some significance. On the surface, it was a new version of an old folk song, but the verses appear to be both a lament for and a tribute to Frank. She talks about a man who slew the stars.”
Brecht nodded. “The Slew Meister. We all called Frank that.”
“One of the verses describes a man with a spade and earth-covered knees. We’re not sure what that means. Do you?”
“Hmm.” Brecht picked up his glass by the stem and swirled the dark red liquid like it could somehow reveal the answer. “Well, off the top of my head, my only theory is maybe she’s identifying one of her brothers. Maybe the man I saw had seen a shovel in the shed. Loretta was there that night, and it was late. Frank and she could have gone for a romantic walk and were observed. As soon as they parted company, her enraged brother or brothers could have confronted him. He was killed and buried in the woods. Dirt on the knees could have come from digging the grave.” Brecht took another swallow and set down the glass. “Then when she sang the song that night, the murderer or murderers knew she remembered and now associated the dirty clothin
g with the crime.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “All that’s possible.”
He steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “It’s only a theory.”
“It’s a theory that has to be taken seriously,” I said.
Brecht sighed. “But someone in her own family? Surely, there’s another explanation.”
“Can you write a computer program to find it for me?”
“No. But Frank could have.”
I left the computer scientist to his thoughts and stopped at the bar and paid Tony to take Brecht another glass of pinot noir. He’d earned it.
I walked through downtown Asheville to the police station where I’d left my car before Newly and I had driven out to the Cases. I’m not a praying man, but as I started the engine, I said a thank you to whomever steers the stars. For Nakayla and me, life would go on. For our investigation, I was afraid we’d hit a dead end.
Chapter 19
I was halfway down Biltmore Avenue to my apartment when my cell phone rang. I suspected it was Nakayla checking to see if I’d still be there by seven, but the screen displayed the number I recognized as Theo Brecht’s.
“Theo?” I answered.
“Yes. Thanks for the second glass of pinot.”
“You’re welcome. We’ll have to do it again sometime.”
“Listen, I thought of something after you left. That verse of Loretta’s song referencing earth-coated knees. It kept bouncing around in my head, and I think I might have been too quick to tie it to her brothers.”
I sensed Brecht was about to tell me something significant, and I didn’t want to hear it while trying to navigate the twisting road up to my apartment. I pulled into the parking lot of Lenny’s sub shop and put the CR-V in park.
“OK. What’s your new thought?”
Brecht cleared his throat and lowered his voice. I pictured him still sitting in his nook at the Battery Park Book Exchange.
“There was someone whose clothes were dirty that night,” he said. “Obviously, I didn’t think much of it at the time. I had no reason to. I mean who would have thought Frank had just been killed and buried?”
“I understand. So who are we talking about?”
“Now I don’t want to get him in trouble with a false charge, but Randall Johnson came in looking for Frank a couple of hours after he left. I was still waiting for Frank to check out the computer program I’d updated.”
“And Randall was dirty?”
“Yes. There were stains on the knees of the jumpsuit he always wore. The reason I remember is I fussed at him for coming into the computer room that way. Dust and dirt are the archenemies of electronic equipment, and he should have known better. It was one of the few times I got mad at a colleague, but I guess I was irritated because Frank hadn’t returned and I wanted to go home.”
“Did you ask him why he was dirty?”
“No. I mean he was a maintenance guy. He could have been working on something in a crawlspace. I just didn’t want him around the computers.”
“I understand. We’ll be discreet. Like you said, he could have been working on something in a crawlspace.”
Brecht was silent except for the whispery rasp of his breathing.
When he didn’t speak, I said, “I’m glad you called me, Theo. I’ll certainly pass it along to the police, and they’ll want to speak directly to you.”
“But, Sam, there’s one other thing. While I was reading Randall the riot act, Loretta came in. She too had stayed to wait for Frank. She heard why I was arguing with Randall. She could have made that connection as well, only right before she sang her song. And if Randall had come to Jack of the Wood to hear his wife perform, well, he would have known exactly what the verse meant.”
From what Newly had told me, other than Loretta’s brothers and nephews, no one else with any connection to her had turned up in the pub. But that didn’t mean Randall and Loretta hadn’t planned to meet. He could have walked in from the alley and stood in the shadows, just one more person listening to the music. Or he didn’t hear her song at all and she simply confronted him with the scene Brecht had just described. My priority was to get the information to Newly before he started questioning Johnson.
“Thanks, Theo,” I said, anxious to terminate the call. “Please don’t say anything to anyone until the police contact you.”
“Got it.”
I speed-dialed Newly.
“What’s up?” he answered. “Tuck and I are just leaving to visit Randall Johnson.”
“Then I’m glad I caught you. Theo Brecht remembered something very interesting.” I briefed him on the details.
When I’d finished, Newly said, “Well, it’s circumstantial, but Johnson’s got motive, means, and opportunity for both murders. He kills DeMille because he wants Loretta and then kills Loretta because she learned the truth.”
In the background, Efird said, “Sounds like a country song.”
“And he would now inherit Loretta’s house and the music pavilion,” I said.
“Definitely another motive,” Newly said. “We’ll need Brecht to verify his account in an official statement. Tuck and I’ll press Johnson as much as we can. Let’s compare notes in the morning.”
“Good luck.”
“Hey, you and Nakayla took the personal hit on this case. Here’s to a little good luck flowing your way.”
I didn’t argue and headed up the ridge to my apartment, hopeful that an investigation that appeared to be dead five minutes ago now had a very promising lead.
The historic Kenilworth Inn dated back to the early 1890s when it had been built as a luxury hotel. That building burned to the ground a few years after the turn of the century and was rebuilt in 1913 as a four-story Tudor that seemed more appropriate for Europe than Western North Carolina. Its incarnations included grand hotel, military hospital for World Wars One and Two, a mental hospital, and now over ninety unique apartments.
I lived in a one bedroom on the fourth floor. There was something calming in driving up to the inn, like I was perpetually on vacation. I guess the grounds and massive structure dispelled the stress of life outside this fantasy kingdom.
I parked in front and took a moment to savor the scene in the glow of sunset. A tall pole in the middle of the expansive lawn displayed the American flag snapping in the evening breeze. Golden light began to shine from windows as residents returned from work. Behind one of them, Nakayla waited.
Before I could turn the key in the lock, the door opened, and I was greeted with a kiss and a bark. Fortunately, they were not from the same source.
“I’m glad you didn’t get tied up.” Nakayla gave me a second kiss. Blue sat and cleaned the floor with his sweeping tail.
“Me too.” I looked beyond her to the dining area. The small table was set for two, a bottle of red wine breathed in the middle, two candles burned in silver candlesticks, and soft music played through my Bluetooth speakers. “Who did you have lined up in case I did get tied up?”
“Blue. He would have gotten your steak.”
I bent down and petted the hound. “Sorry, old fellow. But after your ordeal last night, I’ll save you a sliver.” I pointed to the candlesticks. “I don’t remember owning those.”
“Cory and Shirley rallied to make sure we had a decent meal. I asked them to stay, but they insisted we unwind in our own time.”
“You must have told them what a romantic guy I am.”
“Yeah. That’s why they knew they’d have to bring all the romantic stuff.”
“Then why don’t I pour the wine, and you can romantically tell me about your day.”
“All right, but try to control your passion when I reach the part about getting my duplicate driver’s license at the DMV.”
My stomach turned. I hadn’t even started replacing what had been burned up in my wallet.
&
nbsp; “I’ll do my best,” I said. “First, let me get a dry sock for my leg, and I’ll be right back.”
On a hot day like today, my whole body perspired, and the sock covering my stump became more irritant than cushion. I went to the dresser drawer where I kept a clean supply, retrieved one, and sat on the edge of the bed. Before I could drop my pants, my cell phone rang. I checked the screen. Newly. Not the call you want at the start of a romantic evening.
“Tell me my good luck just got better and Johnson confessed on the spot.”
“I don’t know about your luck, but Johnson’s ran out. He’s hanging at the end of a rope.” Newly exhaled a deep breath into the phone. “I thought maybe you might coincidentally happen by before I call the feds.”
I looked in the mirror over the dresser and saw Nakayla step into the doorway. She saw the expression on my face, and her smile faded.
“Thanks, Newly,” I said. “Give me the address. We’ll just happen to be there as soon as we can.”
We disconnected. I turned to Nakayla. “Randall Johnson’s dead. If we’re unwinding in our own time, then the clock just stopped.”
* * *
Randall Johnson’s home was on Sandy Hollar Road. He’d gone from Dusty to Sandy in the type of dirt and from Transylvania to Buncombe in his county of residence. The closer address meant Nakayla and I drove up to his small farmhouse a little before eight. Dusk rapidly robbed the daylight, and a deputy sheriff’s car sat idling in front of a small barn, headlights on for illumination.
An ambulance was parked behind the patrol car, and the EMTs leaned against its hood. Not a good sign when the first responders weren’t responding. Newly’s unmarked had been pulled up off the dirt driveway between two poplars. I suspected he’d moved his vehicle to clear access as soon as he and Efird made the discovery. I followed the example and pulled alongside the far tree.
“Looks like the barn’s the center of attention,” Nakayla said.
“Yes. Let’s see how Newly introduces us. The deputy might be exerting the county’s jurisdiction and insist we stand clear. I assume Sheriff Browder is on the way.”
Murder in Rat Alley Page 16
