by B. V. Lawson
“Yet he stuck around. And neither partner-in-crime has betrayed the other. Odom’s probably so cocksure, he doesn’t think ratting out Truitt is necessary. But Truitt on the other hand—his motives are less clear. It’s like he’s protecting Odom.”
“Well, Drayco, do what you have to. Humor Truitt, play along, join him in a little song and dance. One good break is all we need.”
Drayco was no stranger to pressure. In fact, he thrived on it, since adrenaline spurts did wonders for sharpening the brain like a pencil point. For all his bluster, Baskin was much the same, one of the reasons the duo got along so well despite the Midnight Cowboy references whenever the two stood side-by-side.
Baskin’s perfect record might be at stake, but Drayco knew that wasn’t what kept Benny up at night. It was the constant fear an innocent person might be convicted, and Baskin hadn’t been able to stop it. Like Baskin’s uncle Daniel, in jail eighteen years for the rape of a teenage girl until DNA evidence later cleared him. And now, too, like Manuel Parrack?
Drayco was tired of sitting around waiting to play by Truitt’s rules. He flipped through his mental file of Truitt hideouts, and trusting his gut instinct, headed toward the most likely of the lot, down East Capitol Street far from the trendier Southeast Waterfront. “Urban blight” didn’t begin to describe the rows of rundown and abandoned buildings with bars on the windows in this area, where the principal decor consisted of nailed plywood.
He pulled up in front of what used to be a laundromat, although the chipped pink paint now read LA…D…MAT. The windows were cracked in places and covered inside with green and blue polka-dot sheets and hanging beads that would have felt at home in the hippie days of the ’60s.
The building belonged to a middle-aged divorcee who’d succumbed to Truitt’s mysterious charm and let Truitt hang out there after she closed the laundromat. His source also told him Janet Archbold, a friend with Truitt’s laundry lady, lived in the townhouse next door where she had a manicure side business.
The woman who answered the door wasn’t what he was expecting. Hazel eyes contrasted with long black hair surrounding a face that would have been at home in the desert Southwest. Although she wouldn’t win any beauty contests, not a bad thing in Drayco’s opinion, she reminded him of a dancer friend of his, all arms and legs and grace.
She sized him up. “I don’t think you’re here to get your nails done. You’re too well-dressed for this neighborhood, and—” she looked over his shoulder to the curb, “you’re driving an unmarked car that screams ordinary so loud, it has to belong to a cop. How am I doing?”
Drayco looked down at his nails, then held out his hands. “I’m told I look good in maroon, and that Camry is leased. And I’m not a cop.”
She smiled. “Private?”
“I investigate things, yes.”
“Did my ex-husband send you? Because if he did, tell him he’s barking up the wrong piñon tree. I’m not living with anyone and I didn’t get secretly remarried in Vegas.”
“Piñon tree? You must be from northern Arizona.”
“Originally.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not here on behalf of your ex-husband. I want to talk to you about your neighbor.”
“If you mean Gina from the laundromat, I haven’t seen her since it closed.”
“Have you seen a man coming and going?”
She hesitated. “A skinny fellow with a black-and-white ponytail? Yeah. He keeps to himself, and I like it that way.”
“Why?”
“Most people give off vibes, you know? I don’t believe in auras or that touchy-feely crap, but I do know the Cairn terrier down the street growls at that man every time it sees him. With everybody else, the dog’s a lovepig.”
“I hope my vibes aren’t bothering you.”
She shook her head. “You don’t hear me growling, do you? Still, you want something other than maroon nail polish.”
Just as she had sized him up, Drayco scanned her face and body language, looking for signs as to how far she’d trust him. “I’d like to get inside that laundromat. Neighbors often leave house keys with each other in case of emergencies, so I’m hoping Gina left one with you.”
“This pony-tailed man. Not one of the good guys, I take it?”
“Not one of the worst, but bad enough.”
She stood there for a few moments, biting her lip. Then she turned on her heel and disappeared into a back room, her high heels clicking on the wooden floor. He was beginning to get concerned she’d bailed on him after five minutes had passed, but the sounds of clicking heralded her return. She grabbed his hand and pressed a large gold key into his palm.
“On one condition,” she said.
“And that is?”
“I go with you. It’s my neighbor and friend and although you have a nice face, I don’t know you. Besides, it will look less suspicious if we’re together.”
Still uncertain whether Drayco had been set up, he started to tell her no, but she yanked the key back. “I mean it. That’s the only way.”
“I could break and enter.”
“But would any evidence hold up in court? My way, I’m legally inviting you to join me. All nice and aboveboard.”
She did have lovely sable-colored eyes, and when she batted those long eyelashes at him, he knew he was going to give in. He was a sucker for bright, intelligent eyes. As they walked to the laundromat, he asked, “So what’s a nice Native American girl who likes Thai cooking, Celtic folk music, Mehndi tattoos and gardening doing in a ratty D.C. neighborhood?”
She cocked an eyebrow at him. “You put me to shame. You got all that in a few minutes?”
“You have a box from a Thai spice company on your table, there’s a picture behind the door of you holding a Celtic harp, and surprisingly for a manicurist, you aren’t wearing nail polish, probably due to the harp-playing, but it allows dirt under your nails to show. As for the Mendhi, although I don’t see a tattoo design on you,” Janet blushed, and Drayco tried not to let his imagination run wild as to where she might have painted the design, “I saw henna powder tucked inside a bookcase. A woman of international tastes.”
“I guess that’s what drew me to D.C. in the first place, the multicultural feel. That and my ex-husband’s job. It was great until he ran off with his secretary. His male secretary.”
Having kept the key anyway, she was the one to unlock the front door to the laundromat, basically a long rectangular box with a small bathroom and one lonely futon covered in psychedelic fabric. In place of the former washers and dryers were gaping holes in the floor. The most striking feature, if you could call it that, were the hundreds of pictures covering the walls—graphic war montages, bloody crime scenes and detailed articles, hung in rows.
They walked around looking at the frames, and Drayco started feeling guilty for bringing Janet along, after all. He couldn’t remember a more disturbing collection of materials. They were in chronological order, dating from the Vietnam War through Charles Manson to the Symbionese Liberation Army, the Gulf War and the present.
The newest additions were clippings from The Washington Post about the figurine heist and the murder of the Artserve guard. One of the clippings mentioned the questioning on the witness stand of Odom, with that paragraph highlighted in yellow. If Drayco had ever questioned the link between Truitt and Odom, which he hadn’t, this was a sign he and Baskin were on the right track.
But the picture that interested Drayco the most was a snapshot of three men in G.I. uniforms, arms around each other’s shoulders as they smiled for the camera. Drayco had seen enough photos of the younger Truitt to recognize him as one of the men in the snapshot, but the man to Truitt’s right also looked familiar. And he was pretty sure the third man was someone else he knew well.
“Do you have a copy machine?” he asked his companion.
“One of those combo jobs that prints, scans, and fixes you supper. Would that do?”
“Yeah. I’d like to m
ake a copy of this one.” He removed it from the wall and laid it on the futon. Then he ducked into the bathroom, barely big enough to fit one person in addition to the toilet and sink. There was a deep windowsill which held a cardboard box with a wig, fake beard and mustache, spirit gum, bald skull caps and several containers of theatrical makeup. He was disappointed not to spy the ZZ-Top getup, although that was probably buried in a landfill by now.
The sink had a leak with a small puddle underneath, although it wasn’t dripping, nor were there beads of water on the pipes. Drayco turned on the hot water faucet. Nothing. But when he turned on the cold water, the leaky valve started dripping again, adding to the puddle. Truitt was here recently.
The pair made their way back to Janet’s building, where she printed him a copy of the photo, then they both returned to the laundromat long enough to re-hang the original. She’d offered to do it herself later, but he didn’t want her over there alone in case Truitt returned.
“That’s very sweet of you,” she’d said, when he explained his reasoning. “But I can take care of myself.”
He smiled at that. “No doubt, but it does a male ego proud to play the knight in shining armor. You helped me get my quota this week.”
“Any time you need to get your quota, give me a call. And if you ever do decide to get your nails done, I’m your gal.”
Although he’d known some men on Capitol Hill who’d had manicures, and one or two in the FBI (although they’d never own up), he wasn’t the type. Still, the thought of the very appealing Janet lavishing care on his hands for the better part of an hour didn’t seem such a horrible idea.
“I may hold you to that,” he replied, before heading back to the car. He’d barely had time to fold his long legs into the car when the cell phone went off again. Baskin or Truitt? When he looked at his watch, he had a pretty good idea of who it would be.
“Greetings, Scott. How are we coming along with my little game?”
“Albert Einstein sends his regards.”
Truitt chuckled. “Now you’re into the spirit of the game. Have you figured out how to win?”
“Depends upon whether the game is rigged. So far, you’ve given me a game board with no pieces.”
“Ah, but they do exist. You have to keep looking.”
“I’m more interested in why we’re playing this game to begin with.”
“If you play the game right, you’ll find out. As a matter of fact, I’m counting on it.”
Truitt hung up again, and Drayco sighed to himself. “Very well, Truitt. On with the show.”
Since the clues were coming at one-hour intervals, it was time to check e-mail again. And there it was, quatrain number three.
By surging into World War One,
And waiting ’til the battle’s done,
He helped the Allies to squeak by,
And formed the Treaty of Versailles.
So much for the physics theory. Or as far as Drayco could recall, President Woodrow Wilson didn’t have a science degree. There weren’t many Wilson monuments in D.C., though that would fit Truitt’s pattern. One possibility was Woodrow Wilson High School, but if he were Truitt, he wouldn’t have picked that site—too many curious kids with their cell phone cameras. Bury it there, and you’d end up on YouTube the next morning. Likewise, the Wilson Bridge with thousands of cars, bad choice. But there was the Wilson House Museum.
He found parking as fast as he could and raced toward the museum, wondering how to inconspicuously look for holes in the yard. He didn’t have time to take the docent-led tour, but was in luck—a group of twenty or so tourists were heading back to the gardens.
Making his way through the adjoining yard, he joined the group, lagging a little behind. It wasn’t a large yard, and he found what he was looking for easily. Behind a retaining wall, under the boughs of a tree, lay the cylindrical hole. It was newly dug, empty of water.
Drayco smiled disarmingly at his new tour mates as they glanced over at him in confusion, saying to them with a wink, “Great tour, huh?” He followed them back through the house and out the front. By the time he reached his car it was noon, and he knew he should call Baskin again, but what did he have to impart? “Well, Benny, I have some nice holes to show you and I’ll throw in a few bad poems for good measure.”
Just yesterday, he’d observed the normally über-confident attorney grinding his jaw back and forth, the only way to tell he was nervous. “This is one hell of a case, Drayco. I can handle the pressure, but Odom Senior’s a real piece of work. He’s playing nice publicly but let it be known through certain channels if his son’s arrested, he’ll make those associated with the case pay—witnesses, me, you.”
“You’ve been threatened before. So have I. Comes with the territory.”
“But my daughter just gave me a new grandson. Odom’s got a lot of connections and I don’t know how far he’d go.” Baskin sighed. “Right now, doesn’t look like his hit list will be necessary.”
Drayco tried to reassure him they’d come up with something. Of course, he didn’t have Truitt’s wild-verse-chase in mind. Grateful for the protein-crammed omelet he’d allowed himself this morning, he stopped briefly at Murky’s for a large cup of black coffee, which would have to suffice as lunch.
Ten minutes later and he was outside the courtroom as the spectators started streaming out. The prosecutor, Taynter, breezed by Drayco without so much as a glance. Drayco poked his head in the doorway and moved back to prevent being steamrolled by a grim-faced dynamo, black clouds hovering over his head. Drayco held out an arm to stop him. “Here you go, Benny.”
Baskin took the proffered cup of coffee and shot Drayco the look of a drowning man thrown a life ring. “Okay, so you bought yourself a few brownie points, kid.”
Drayco held out another hand, which held a paper bag. Baskin stared at it, his eyes lighting up. “Red velvet cupcake?”
Drayco nodded and Baskin snatched the bag from his hand. “And here I was thinking it was peanut M&Ms from the vending machine again.”
Baskin started shuffling down the hallway in his customary penguin walk, amazingly fast for someone of his stature, and waved for Drayco to follow. They ended up in an empty hearing room vacated for lunch, where Baskin plopped down into a chair and munched happily on the cupcake.
Drayco asked, “Do you still have a copy of the murdered guard’s photo in your briefcase?”
Baskin didn’t stop munching, but opened the case with his free hand and flipped out a print, which he slid over. Drayco pulled out the photocopy of the picture he’d gotten from the laundromat earlier and compared the two. Baskin licked his fingers and then put that same hand on Drayco’s shoulder. Drayco pointed to a man, a ringer for the deceased guard, then over to the man standing next him.
Baskin said, “Truitt? He’d be the right age, wouldn’t he?”
Drayco nodded. “Which means if Truitt’s our murderer, he recognized Underwood before he killed him.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere. Why do you not look happy?”
“I don’t believe in random coincidences. What if Truitt knew Underwood was going to be on this gig all along?”
“But the guard schedules change frequently to prevent security breaches.”
“An informant inside the art relocation company, perhaps.”
Baskin’s eyes turned to daggers. “Do NOT tell me you think my client is guilty, after all!”
Drayco grinned. Baiting Baskin was one of his favorite sports. “I don’t know Benny, maybe, maybe not.”
Baskin placed his hands on his hips and glared at Drayco, who gave in.
“I think your client’s on the up-and-up. But I’m not ready to absolve Material Artserve Enterprises completely. Is it okay if I take the photo?”
Slightly mollified, Baskin nodded. “You say Truitt’s been in touch with you. For real?”
“I guess he likes me.” Drayco looked at his watch. “It won’t be long before he calls again.”
�
�Where are you off to next?”
“To see my informant, Manny. I think he left out one crucial detail.”
Baskin wrinkled his brow. “That crook? Just be careful, kid. I’d hate to find a new investigator when I’ve got you broken in.”
“If I see Truitt, I’ll make sure he sends along a signed excuse for keeping me out of class today.”
Baskin waved toward the door. “Shoo. I’ve got some calls to make, and I don’t need a scruffy mongrel like you getting underfoot.”
Drayco pulled out his cell phone and dialed Manny’s number, fingers crossed in hopes he’d be available. Fortunately, Manny’s money-laundering business gave him flexible hours, so he agreed to meet Drayco in the usual place.
Drayco worked with many informants and criminals, most of them in back alleys, bars, and other venues straight out of a stock Hollywood set. But Manny Sapp’s favorite meeting spot was unusual. Not that Drayco minded. He liked the Greek revival building that housed the National Portrait Gallery, especially the glass-canopy courtyard with the water floor you could walk on.
Wednesdays at one o’clock in January meant very few visitors at the museum, although it wouldn’t have been hard to spot his target’s shiny bald pate. That, and the metal hook for an arm. Drayco made a beeline for their meeting place, Gilbert Stuart’s famous portrait of George Washington.
Sapp didn’t take his eyes off the painting. “Stuart here is one of the most prolific and beloved painters of this great country, with over one thousand portraits in his lifetime. Yet I’ll bet not one percent of Americans have any idea who he is, even though they see his work every day on the one-dollar bill.”
Drayco moved next to Sapp and gazed at the full-length painting. “You’re particularly fond of this one.”
“Washington was the first and greatest Commander in Chief. So, yeah, you might say I’ve got a soft spot.”
Drayco pulled the photocopy from the laundromat out of his pocket. “Since you’re so fond of pictures…”
Sapp didn’t take it from him, just glanced at it. “I’m surprised Truitt kept that.”
“Truitt looks a lot younger, whereas Underwood, our murdered guard,” Drayco pointed to the picture, “aged pretty well, up until his death.”
