by Matthew Iden
“Speaking of food, swing by for dinner, you get a chance, okay? Bring Amanda.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Okey dokey, Marty. Tell me if you find anything about Gerson or Montero?”
“You know it.”
We gave each other a left-handed salute, then I took the stairs out of the parking garage, passing an MPDC forensics team. I nodded to a junior M.E. I knew from back in the day and she waved back, smiling. I hid a grin. They still remembered me. It gave me a spring in my step—which came in handy trying to make it to street level. I made it, slightly out of breath.
A buzz in my pocket stopped me as I came out of the Streir garage door and I fished out my phone. Voice mail, from an unknown number—no cell service in the garage, so the call hadn’t come through. I punched the right buttons and listened to the message, jamming my finger in my other ear to block out the noise of midafternoon DC traffic.
“Mr. Singer,” the message began. It was a girl’s voice, young and unsure. “This is Caitlin Carpenter. From Tartikoff and Brentwood. You bought me the, uh, cupcakes. I think I need to talk to you.”
I picked the DC Convention Center at Mount Vernon Square. I wanted Caitlin to feel like we were meeting in a public setting for her safety, but I didn’t want anyone from Tartikoff and Brentwood seeing her rendezvousing with a former MPDC detective who had last been seen expressing an interest in two employees who had, in turn, been murdered in dynamic fashion. So the Starbucks across the street and the lunch bistro I’d followed her to were out. The convention center was about as anonymous as one could get.
The place has always been a source of fascination for me. As big as it is, it feels even larger inside. Walking around the cavernous interior, you get the feeling that the architects who built it must know the secret to how those tiny clown cars at the circus work. It takes a map to get around the place. Soaring walls of glass rising a hundred feet expose whole sides of the building to the street. A constant bustle and hum fill the building, as though it’s a small city unto itself.
I’d asked Caitlin to meet me on the south side, facing New York Avenue, so I could look out across the street at the Carnegie Library and its tidy, parklike grounds so at odds with the concrete-and-granite superstructure I was in. At 1:45, fifteen minutes before we’d agreed to meet, I took a spot on one of the dozens of backless, padded seats that the convention center thoughtfully provided for guests, and waited.
There was a booksellers’ gathering in town and dozens of conventioneers milled about, murmuring about the changing face of the industry and the emergence of e-readers, mobile devices, and a bunch of things I didn’t understand—but would be told I couldn’t live without by next year. The faces were all shapes, sizes, ages. Dress ranged from formal to slackerwear, though everyone had a smartphone or other gewgaw that was more important to them than where they were going or, in some cases, the people they were with. They moved with surprising competence. I spent several amusing minutes watching endless streams of people set on a crash course for each other—eyes glued to tiny screens—avoid catastrophe without so much as blinking.
At 2:05, I spotted Caitlin and the brunette from the lunch bistro acting cool and casual near a plug-in terminal, a funky tower filled with electrical outlets and trays for charging and holding one’s personal gadgetry. They stole sidelong glances at me whenever they thought I wasn’t looking, then they’d confer. This went on for a few minutes while they summoned the courage to come over and talk. I sighed. How could I look less threatening? Unbuttoning my shirt and sprawling on the bench Playgirl style seemed ill advised. Deep knee bends or handstands would probably scare them off.
I settled for pulling out my phone like everyone else around me and acting like I was reading email. I was hoping it was a familiar enough gesture that it would instill trust. Some part of the message got through. The two of them walked across the intervening fifty feet and stopped in front of me.
“Mr. Singer?” Caitlin asked, ducking her head like she was going under a beam.
I raised my head and smiled. “That’s me. You’re Caitlin?”
She nodded and tucked a strand of hair behind one ear. She was wearing a filmy yellow dress with an uneven hem and a white sweater with a waist so high that it looked like it had shrunk in the wash. Her friend was dressed more conservatively, in tight gray slacks and a black knit short-sleeved sweater with a high, rolltop collar.
“This is Becky,” Caitlin said. “I know you meant for me to come alone, but…”
“But we don’t have a clue who you are,” Becky finished, her face stern.
I forced more wattage into the smile. “This isn’t a ransom drop,” I said. “But you’re right. You have no idea who I am or what I want. It was a smart move to bring a friend. I tried to pick a public place, so hopefully this is okay with you. If not, I’m happy to go wherever you like.”
“Who are you, first off?” Caitlin asked.
“And what do you want?” Becky seconded.
“I was a DC cop for about thirty years, working Homicide for almost twenty of it. Believe it or not, I was standing on the Metro platform when your boss Wendy Gerson was pushed in front of that train. Because of that, and my background, her family asked me to look into her death.”
“How do we know you’re a cop?”
“Was a cop.” I got out a card and handed it to her. “That’s old, but call DC Homicide and ask if one Marty Singer ever worked there. Ask them to describe me. Physically, I mean. Don’t ask for their opinions.”
They glanced at each other.
“Alternatively, you could hear me out, then decide later if you want to help me. You can always say no. The only thing you’ve got to lose is about half an hour.”
Becky, still suspicious, said, “Why did you retire?”
“Personal reasons,” I said. When they looked skeptical, I said, “Cancer.” That stopped the questions. To lighten the mood, I continued, “I’m six foot three, have a cat named Pierre, and like long walks in the woods. I’m a Capricorn, my favorite color is blue, and prefer sitting down to standing. Would you ladies care to have a seat?”
More sideways glances, a lifted eyebrow, a decision. The three of us took a corner where the padded benches came together. We were close enough that our knees almost touched.
“You said you’re looking into Ms. Gerson’s murder for the family?” Caitlin asked.
“That’s right.”
“How do you think we can help?”
“I know you were Wendy’s assistant, so it makes sense to talk to you. I spoke to Alex Montero the other day, but he wasn’t interested in giving me much information, which is why I resorted to the cupcake trick. Sorry. And now that he’s dead, I guess we should talk about him, too.”
“Why do you care about him?” Becky asked.
“Two murders at the same law firm, a supervisor and his supervisee, two weeks apart? That’s too weird to be unrelated,” I said. “And while I might’ve been hired to look into Wendy’s death, the cop in me wouldn’t mind nabbing whoever killed him, too.”
“Why would we know anything that could help?” Caitlin asked.
“Like I said, I talked to Alex Montero the day before he was killed, hoping he could clue me in on anything about Wendy Gerson, but he was tight as a clam on the subject,” I said. “I know through my sources that a memo went out very soon thereafter telling employees not to talk about her murder with anyone outside the firm”—the two girls exchanged glances—“so I imagine Montero’s murder has shaken the place up?”
They nodded. Caitlin, looking worried, said, “The day that memo came out, Mr. Montero asked me to come to his office. Mr. Brentwood was there and a few other higher-ups.”
“What’d they want?”
“They said as Ms. Gerson’s assistant, the memo applied especially to me and that I should come to them directly if someone should try to talk to me.”
“Trying to head me off
,” I said. “Why did you decide to meet with me, then?”
She gave me a wan smile. “The same guy who told me to keep my mouth shut was found shot to death in our parking garage. If they can’t protect him, what are they going to do for me?”
“Good point.”
“And the way they talked to me,” she continued. “They weren’t concerned for me, they were threatening me. Don’t talk or else, was the message. And I didn’t appreciate it.”
I gave her a new look, impressed. “There’s a tiny chance that the two killings aren’t connected, but I wouldn’t bet on it. So, if they’re connected, then it’s safe to assume something odd is going down at Tartikoff and Brentwood. And since you two work inside, you might be in a position to tell me what that something is.”
“And then get shot or pushed in front of a train?” Becky said. “No thanks.”
“Whatever got Gerson and Montero killed, it’s got to do with how close they are to something, how involved they were with something shady. No offense, but you two are probably pretty far down on the totem pole over at good ol’ T and B?”
“You can say that again,” Caitlin said, glum.
“Did you work directly with Wendy on cases?”
Caitlin shrugged. “I filed and typed and did a lot of crap work for her.”
I glanced at Becky. She shrugged, too. “I didn’t work with her. I’m in another department.”
“Did you have direct contact with clients, Caitlin? Ever call them, or use your name on emails, or go to meetings with Wendy?”
She shook her head. “No way. Strictly grunt work. Out of sight. My cube wasn’t even on the same floor as her office.”
“Then I doubt either one of you are targets. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to take a couple of precautions,” I said. “But if things get too hot, we’ll stop.”
“If Caitlin is so low in the pecking order, how is she any help to you?” Becky asked.
“I just need a lead. I don’t need you to do anything that would get you fired or hurt. I want a string I can pull on and run down. And it could be something really innocuous.”
“Like what?”
“I’d be interested in a list of the real estate deals they were both working on, for instance. Where were they located? Who was involved? That kind of thing.”
“Ms. Gerson was working on a dozen deals at the same time,” Caitlin said. “How do I know which one to look for?”
“If both murders are related to work and related to each other, and since both Gerson and Montero were killed within weeks of each other, we can assume it was a deal or a job or something at Tartikoff and Brentwood that concluded recently or was close to it.”
They nodded.
“So the natural place to start would be to look at what motions are needed to start a big real estate deal. Or finish one. What’s the paperwork, what are the permit applications, who would they have to contact at City Hall? Follow me?”
They nodded again.
“Is that something you can dig into for me? Strictly stuff you can get your hands on during a normal workday. No stealing documents or corporate espionage or anything.”
They looked at each other, then Caitlin shrugged and said, “Like I said, I don’t like being pushed around. Not to mention the work is shitty and we’re both leaving at the end of the year, anyway.”
Becky nodded. “Yeah, this crap isn’t for me. I want to go back to art school.”
“Thanks. Remember, though, no heroics, okay? If you see the end of something interesting, just hand it off to me and I’ll tug on it. Don’t stick your neck out for me.”
“You don’t have to worry about that, dude,” Becky said. I had apparently not won her over completely.
“Operations locked down Ms. Gerson’s email right after she was killed, but I’ve got copies in my Sent folder,” Caitlin said. “It’s not like they can keep me from reading my own email. And I might be able to find the loan applications and tax deferment letters she filed for some of the developers in the city.”
“Did she keep notes about the work she was doing?” I asked.
“On her laptop,” Caitlin said. “She jotted stuff down in an old-fashioned day planner as a backup, but I haven’t seen it since they cleared her office out. I’ll keep an eye out for it.”
“I know a guy who works…worked…with Mr. Montero,” Becky said. “I bet he saw a couple of juicy bits go across his desk he might be willing to share.”
“Great. Just be careful. Be smart.”
We exchanged cell phone numbers and email addresses, then the two girls left together, chatting excitedly as they went out the New York Avenue door. Hopefully they wouldn’t keep talking about it at the office. They seemed smart enough, if dippy around the edges.
I waited five minutes, watching more librarians and bookstore owners worry about the future, then headed out, wondering if I was going to slam-dunk this case for the price of a box of cupcakes.
Chapter Fifteen
I pressed the phone to my ear. The line rang three times. Four times. Five times.
A prickle of heat started around my hairline. My stomach was doing flip-flops. For the past year or two, those would’ve been symptoms indicating a medical situation in need of attention. But this had nothing to do with cancer. Though it would make a nice entry in my anxiety diary.
The rings stopped on number six, as they had the other two occasions I’d called this week, then Julie’s dry voice came on the line and instructed me on how to leave a voice mail if I wanted to get in touch with her. I ended the call before the beep. That would be the last time today. I tried to put her out of my mind and turn to other things, though it was hard not to speculate. Was she just not available, or had she seen my calls and just not answered? A part of me pined for the days before cell phones and caller ID, when you just had to say hello to find out who was on the other line.
I shook my head and forced myself to think of other things. Like the murder case I’d been hired to solve. Instead of calling up old flames, I should be following the leads that would be coming to light soon, if Caitlin turned out to be good at snooping.
And getting the information was its own source of worry. After talking with Alex Montero, I realized that I had barely scratched the surface of how corporate real estate worked. If I was right and both victims had been killed because of something to do with their work, I might not recognize a clue if it came up and bit me. Caitlin and Becky could hand me the lead that broke both cases wide open, but if they did, I’d better make sure I knew what they were giving me. Wendy Gerson’s professional world was weird, murky, and completely out of my depth.
I called Paul Gerson, someone whose field of expertise was more in line with the one I was missing. He listened to my request, asked me to hold for a minute, then came back with a number. I thanked him, hung up, and in two shakes of a lamb’s tail I was making an appointment with a Stanford chum of his, one Channing Faraday, a former corporate Realtor turned campaign director and politico. He’d run the race for Rob Rudman, a mayoral candidate who’d been left holding the losing end of the stick several years before. Faraday agreed to meet me at Longfellow Park.
“Longfellow Park?” I asked, frowning. I thought I knew every open space in the city. “Where is that?”
“Eighteenth and M,” Faraday said, his voice a pleasing baritone. “The park’s tiny, but there’s a statue of the poet on a big block of granite. Hard to miss.”
“Oh,” I said, then bit back the next words that came to mind. I knew the park he was talking about, but back when I’d worn a uniform there used to be a less respectable name for the place. It had long been a hangout for junkies because it was an easy place to panhandle office workers for money or food. Maybe the place had been cleaned up since then.
Not so much. When I got to the little wedge-shaped park—neatly squeezed into the angle created by Connecticut Avenue, 18th Street, and M Street—half the benches were occu
pied by the homeless, the other by office geeks trying to get a jump on the lunch crowd. At eleven o’clock there were still seats available, and I took one directly across from the statue of Longfellow. I gazed at the thing for a few minutes. I’d never actually looked at it in all my time on the MPDC. In fact, I would’ve found it impossible to tell you who it was a statue of unless I saw the inscription on the base. There were a lot of those places in DC, landmarks I knew only by their intersection or who got shot there and not their import or meaning. I’d have to make some time to visit a few of them once I finished the whole business with Gerson.
“ ‘This is the forest primeval,’ ” a voice said from behind me and to the left. I turned to see a youngish white guy, balding but in good shape, with gold-rimmed spectacles and dressed in black dress pants and a brown merino sweater. He grinned. “Is it wrong I only know one line out of the whole thing?”
“I didn’t even know a statue of the old boy was here, so you’re one up on me,” I said, then stood and shook his hand. “I’m Singer.”
“Faraday,” he said and we sat. “Paul said you could use a crash course in the interaction between our illustrious city government and the boisterous, yet oh-so-aboveboard corporate real estate industry.”
“I sense you are being ironic.”
“I am indeed. Sarcastic, even. You have to be if you don’t want to go insane.”
“A guy I talked to in the game said it attracts money from out of town,” I said. “And that it’s so impossibly complicated at the local level that there are entire firms that just handle the permitting process for the investors.”
“That’s true,” he said. “But there’s a political angle that takes it to a whole new place. What else did your friend tell you?”
“Not much. He stopped talking recently. So any info you can give me about the game would really help. Assume I don’t know a thing.”
