by Ellen Butler
“What are you doing this afternoon?”
I’d cleaned the apartment yesterday afternoon, and since I’d originally planned to spend the weekend with Mike, his abrupt departure left me at a loose end. There was always work but . . . bright sunlight slashed across my living room floor. A robin landed on the balcony railing and began to sing. This morning, the weatherman predicted a mild day in the upper sixties. It appeared spring had finally arrived.
“Karina?”
“I think I’m going to get a mani-pedi today. Why?”
“Uh . . . well . . . I was wondering if you wanted to drive down to Potomac Mills to go shopping?”
Potomac Mills is an outlet mall in Virginia, just off I-95, in one of the worst traffic spots of the north/south corridor. Even on Sunday, you could spend half an hour or more sitting in crawling traffic. However, it wasn’t the traffic concerns that had me stumped. The fact that Rodrigo would call me out of the blue to go shopping seemed odd. I didn’t feel like we had a shopping together sort of relationship. We were work colleagues. Shopping was an activity I did with girlfriends, or my sister.
“You want to go shopping? With me?”
“There’s an IKEA down there. I need some storage bins, and I want to look at their bookcases.”
“Oh, furniture. Actually, I’m interested to see what kind of closet organizers they’ve got. What time were you planning to go down?”
“Whenever you’re available. Alfonse already left for work. He has to prep for the Sunday brunch buffet.”
“I can go anytime.” I knew Rodrigo lived in the city with Alfonse. “Do you want me to meet you somewhere closer to the highway?”
“You’re in Alexandria, near the GW Parkway, right?”
“Yes, my apartment complex is just off the Parkway.”
“Text me the address. I’ll pick you up, and we can take the Parkway south to avoid 95 traffic.”
“Okay. Text me when you get into the parking lot. I’ll come down.”
Thirty minutes later, Rodrigo and I motored south along the George Washington Parkway past the wildlife preserve and Belle Haven Park in his Subaru Forrester. He’d opened the sunroof and the radio blasted out a turbulent Bach concerto. Beyond the initial greetings when I got in the car, we didn’t speak. I enjoyed watching the beautiful scenery of fluffy pink cherry blossoms and blooming white Bradford pears while Rodrigo seemed intent on the music and the road ahead. The concerto came to an end as the entrance to Mount Vernon flashed past, and he turned the music down.
“Did you talk to your FBI friend?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. He said he’d look into it. See if there were any red flags.”
Rodrigo gave a grunt. “Anything else?”
I didn’t feel the need to tell him about my promise to Mike to keep my nose out of the investigation. “No. Why? Should there be?”
“I wondered if he’d tell you anything about the case.”
“The FBI doesn’t—”
“—comment on ongoing investigations,” Rodrigo finished for me. “I get it.” He turned the music back up and we didn’t speak again until he took an unexpected left.
“Hello . . . I don’t think this is the right way. You have to stay on Route 1 until we hit the Prince William Parkway. It’s about another mile down the road.”
“We’re taking a detour.” He slowed as we drove through a neighborhood filled with small, boxlike brick houses that, I guessed, were built in the forties or fifties. Judging by the variety of work trucks, panel vans with attached ladders, and late model cars, it looked like a working-class neighborhood. Many houses had quirky additions jutting out the side. Some were rundown, while others had been completely renovated with second floor additions and new vinyl siding. The new houses stood out among their smaller counterparts. I’d never been in this area before.
“What kind of detour?” I asked as I ogled a red brick rambler with a short white picket fence. Its miniscule front yard was filled with gnomes, Japanese pagodas, tiki torches, and spinning decorations with no rhyme or reason to the layout. It was as if someone had hit a fire sale at the local nursery, bought everything they could fit into the pickup truck, then simply tossed it out the back end, allowing the pieces to remain wherever they landed. “If it’s supposed to be scenic, so far, I’m not impressed.”
“Just a little further.”
We continued past the housing communities into a warehouse district, but it wasn’t until I saw the Tolvers Trucking sign and the railroad crossing in the distance that I clued in to our destination.
“You’re taking us to the scene of the accident, aren’t you? Why?”
“It’s on the way,” he said with nonchalance.
But I knew better. “Rodrigo—” My voice held a warning note. “What are we doing here?” The entire reason he called me to go shopping became as clear as my mom’s Waterford crystal glasses.
“Call it morbid curiosity. Don’t you want to see where it happened?”
I had seen it. On Twitter. However, since we were here, it couldn’t hurt. Rodrigo slowed the car to a creep as we approached the tracks. The railroad crossing signal remained silent, its red and white gate up. A yellow, diamond-shaped road sign warned NO TRAIN HORN. To my dismay, he continued in creep-mode across the two sets of parallel tracks, slowing as much as he could without actually coming to a stop.
We glanced left, then right. There was no blind curve or trees to block the view. The tracks came and went over the road straight as a balance beam.
Finley’s car had been hit by a southbound train. Small bits of metal remnants and glass glinted along the sides of the tracks and a lonely yellow streamer of police tape wiggled in the breeze. The rear tires bumped over the second set of tracks and I released the breath I’d been holding. We came to a T intersection where Rodrigo brought the car to a complete stop, and then we stared at each other.
“How did they not see that train coming?” Rodrigo asked the question that I’d been thinking as we’d turtled over the crossing.
“It was dark. The crossing arms never came down, and that sign back there said the train doesn’t blow its horn here. Probably something the neighborhood banded together to put a stop to. I mean, look at that house,” —I pointed over my shoulder to the left— “it’s practically on top of the tracks.”
As a matter of fact, an entire row of homes backed up to the tracks. I couldn’t imagine having trains in my backyard. Set back from the railroad, on our right, rose a fancy neighborhood of mini-mansion style homes, with two and three car garages, perfectly manicured front lawns, and swimming pools, built around the early 2000s, if I had to guess. In juxtaposition, to our left stood older homes, ramblers, and cape cod styles, developed over decades, not dissimilar from the neighborhood we’d passed through on our way here. One of the houses looked like something directly out of The Brady Bunch show.
I continued, “I’m guessing wrong place, wrong time. Maybe Finley’s driver had been drinking or was distracted by his phone.”
“How do you know the crossing arms never came down?”
My mouth dropped open and I stared at Rodrigo. “How did I? They said it on the news.” Didn’t they? Mike told me. Had they not released that information to the public?
“Hm. I didn’t remember hearing about that. Which way?”
“Left,” I said at the same time as Rodrigo said, “Right?”
“I think there’s a marina down that way.” I pointed to the left. “Let’s check it out first, then we’ll come back here to Richie Richville.”
Rodrigo swung the wheel to the left. This part of the neighborhood had been organized in a grid pattern with square blocks. The first street on our right had Rodrigo slamming on the brakes.
“Holy shit.” He rotated the wheel. Straight ahead of us, at the end of the block, stood an enormous three-car garage waterfront home. Judging by its exterior, I would guess the house was more than 4000 square feet. I couldn’t tell from the front, but I su
rmised it had a dock and probably a fancy boat off the back.
“How much do you think that’s worth?” Rodrigo asked.
“A million two?”
“It’s got to be worth more than that. I say two point three.” He turned left and cruised the strip of waterfront homes.
A few more looked built within the past decade while others were older and more modest in size. We worked our way out of the neighborhood, back to the main road, and it wasn’t much further until we arrived at our destination. A modest sign identified the Tyme-n-Tyde Marina. The chain-link gates were open, and we followed a red pickup truck inside. Two enormous, yellow-beige warehouse-type structures blocked the view to the Potomac River. A couple of large boats were up on stands and the parking lot was almost full.
“Should I park?”
“Sure. It’s a nice day, let’s check it out.” I was unsure what we were looking for, but I enjoyed enviously staring at other people’s boats as much as the next guy.
He parked on a grass spot next to the red pickup. A grizzled guy in flip-flops, ballcap, and ratty khaki pants gave a friendly wave, then heaved a cooler out of the back of the truck. I stepped out of the Subaru and figured I fit in with my white T-shirt, denim capris, and red Chuck Taylor sneakers.
“Could you do me a solid and shut the tailgate for me?” the stranger asked.
“No problem.” I gave it a shove and slammed it closed.
“Thanks, poppet.” He trotted away with his full cooler.
Rodrigo glanced at me and mouthed the word poppet? I bit my lip to keep from laughing. My coworker’s style harkened to preppy-chic in his red skinny pants, black and red striped polo, and leather loafers with no socks. We followed our Jimmy Buffett lookalike at a leisurely pace. The rev of an engine had me stopping short, and I threw out an arm to halt Rodrigo. An enormous forklift carrying a cabin cruiser wheeled past us. The driver positioned the boat over a slip, then lowered the arm into the water with a gentle splash. Two guys standing on the dock grabbed the bow and stern lines, pulled the boat forward out of the forklift prongs, the arm raised, and the driver backed up. Once out of the way, the dock guys tied the lines to the cleats, then hurried to a neighboring dock to help an incoming boat. Jimmy Buffett yelled something to the forklift operator, and the big red machine maneuvered back into the dark opening from whence it came.
“It’s a boatel.” I took off my glasses to see better into the cavernous warehouse. Boats racked side-by-side four levels high. The marina, or cove was a better term, housed a bunch of docks for dropping and removing the boats by the forklifts. Across the cove, half a dozen large boats, tied to conjoining docks, bobbed gently in the water. I guessed they ranged from thirty to forty feet. Big, but they were nothing compared to some of the yachts and ships I’d seen at the Alexandria marina—some with their own dinghies or jet-skis attached to the stern. In a side area out of the water, two boats were up on stands, being washed down.
“Can I help you, folks?”
Rodrigo and I turned to find the voice.
“Up here,” it replied.
It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimness of the mechanics’ garage. A sandy-haired man in jeans and a grease-stained T-shirt stood above us in a bright yellow bowrider with its engine lid up.
“Hi. We’ve never been here before. I saw the sign for your marina and we decided to swing in.”
“You looking for a place to slip your boat?” he asked.
“Uh . . .”
I cut Rodrigo off before he could say anything, “Well, I’m not sure. What’s the largest boat you can put into the boatel?”
“Twenty-six feet. With an eight-foot beam.”
“Uh-huh.” I had no idea what he meant by beam. “What about those docks across the way?” I pointed.
“The largest we can put over there is forty, but they’re booked for the season.”
“So, you don’t really dock the big ones, fifty-, sixty-footers here?”
He shook his head. “Nah, our channel isn’t deep or wide enough to handle something like that. You’d get hung up.” He pointed to his right where a Navy blue, striped bowrider filled with young kids slowly made its way through the narrow inlet. “You might want to try the Belmont Bay or Hoffmaster’s on the Occoquan if you need to slip something that large.”
The giant forklift wheeled out another good-sized, black-and-white cabin cruiser. Rodrigo and I watched the process in fascination as Gone Fishin’ dropped into the water. Once the vehicle backed out of the way, Jimmy Buffett loped down the dock with his cooler and climbed aboard.
I returned my attention to the mechanic. “How late at night do you run the forklifts?”
“In the spring and fall, until six. During the summer, until eight.”
I nodded.
“What happens if you come in later than that?” Rodrigo asked.
“You have to dock it yourself. The boys will put it away in the morning.”
I glanced around. This little marina was doing a booming business, but instinct was telling me this wasn’t where Finley came on Thursday night. Not only because it’d been both rainy and windy that night, also because none of the boats in front of me looked swanky enough to host a secret card game for Capitol Hill congressmen.
“Thanks for your help.”
“Anytime.” The mechanic ducked back into the engine.
“What are you thinking?” Rodrigo asked as we sauntered back to the car.
“I don’t think the card game was held here.”
“No? Too pedestrian? I don’t know, one of those forty-footers looked big enough to hold the game.” He glanced back over his shoulder.
“True. But I spotted four different cameras, and there may be more. Too many to provide the secrecy this clan seems to crave. Also, we had a thunderstorm Thursday night. Nobody wants to be rocking on the water in a thunderstorm.”
“The storm,” he said, ruefully snapping his fingers. “I’d completely forgotten about that. One more reason they may not have seen the train coming.”
“Yes.” It occurred to me we already had the answers to what happened. A tragic accident on a rainy night. Were we wasting our time driving around the area?
Back at our T intersection, Rodrigo stopped. “Should we check out Richie Richville?”
“Up to you.”
“I want to see some of those swanky homes.”
We weren’t disappointed. The houses wound around each other in circles and cul-de-sacs, all of them built with an eye toward having at least a tiny glimpse of the river. The backyards were surrounded with see-through, wrought iron fencing that allowed open sight lines to the water. About fifty percent of those yards housed swimming pools. Many of the homes further back from the water had second floor balconies. The homes directly on the waterfront were similar to the first one we’d gawked—four to five thousand square feet, plenty of garage space, and lots of decking to enjoy the view.
“Not too shabby.” Rodrigo pointed to an enormous waterfront home at the end of the court with an inground pool and private dock.
“They’re all enormous,” I sighed. “And every one of them could easily house an upscale poker game. There is no way we’ll be able to tell where Finley came from. Even Nick Ross said he didn’t know where Finley was headed that night. Nothing was on his official schedule.”
Rodrigo leisurely circled the cul-de-sac before bringing us to an abrupt standstill, his gaze glued to the rearview mirror.
“What’s up?”
“That’s Karen Ferngull’s car.”
I looked over my shoulder. “Which one, the black SUV in the driveway or the BMW sedan on the street?”
“White BMW.”
“You remember the license plate?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know it’s hers?”
“I just . . . know,” he said with the intensity of Dirty Harry.
I snorted. “There are a million white beamers in our area. Heck, I bet every one
of these homes has a BMW or Mercedes in the garage. How do you know it’s Karen’s?”
“That white BMW has D.C. plates.”
“Are you sure? I can’t tell. Back up.”
“I’m not going to back up.”
“Why not? And so what if they’ve got D.C. plates? You’ve got D.C. plates. I see D.C. plates in Alexandria all the time.”
“Trust me. I saw the D.C. plates. As a matter of fact—” He coasted the car around the corner, parking next to the curb, and turned the engine off. We had a good view through the branches of a magnolia tree of the BMW.
“What are you doing? Going to knock on the doors and ask if Karen Ferngull lives here? Can she come out to play?”
“It’s a stakeout,” Rodrigo informed me.
“A stakeout? Are you kidding? I thought we came down here to visit IKEA.”
“This may be a break in the case.”
I had a feeling this stakeout fell under Mike’s interpretation of snooping, and I doubt he’d be pleased. “Honestly, Rodrigo, I think the cops and FBI have it all under control. I doubt they need our help. Besides, look at this neighborhood. Someone’s going to notice us. How long do you think we can sit here before the cops show up?”
“Scooch down in your seat. Like this.”
“Yeah, because that’s not at all suspicious.” I stared at my carmate as he tried to fit his long legs under the steering wheel. “Oh, for heaven’s sakes. Look, that house across the street is for sale. Go get one of the flyers and we’ll pretend to be interested in it.”
“You’re right. That’s a brilliant idea.” He opened the door and kind of rolled out of the car to retrieve the flyer.
“What’s it listed at?”
“Seven eighty-one. Here.” He passed me the three-page brochure.
“Very nice.” I studied the materials while Rodrigo diligently kept an eye on the white BMW. “It’s got five bedrooms, four baths. Four thousand square feet. A huge kitchen, look.” I pointed to a photo. “I envy that kitchen. Except for the granite counters, not a fan of that color. Wait, check out the study, it’s got a fabulous view of the water. Am loving—”
“Holy shit. It’s her,” Rodrigo hissed and slunk down again.
