Am I imagining things?
Alec parked in front of his apartment and studied his surroundings as he stepped onto the pavement. He saw nothing suspicious, no unusual movements or familiar objects out of place. As he unlocked and entered his apartment, a piece of folded white paper fluttered to the floor from the crack in the door. He locked the door behind him and picked up the paper. Words jumped into view as he unfolded the note. He recognized the handwriting—it was the killer of his family.
“I’ll finish you off real soon, but first I’ll have some fun.”
Chapter 18
Max Flowers sat on his living room couch, his brow furrowed. He was alone in a quiet house. He punched a few numbers on his cell phone.
“I just had two visitors with questions about the money problem with Roderick Preswick,” Max said.
“He’s dead and gone. That’s going to blow over,” a voice said.
“Well, I’m getting nervous.”
“Just lie low for a while. It’ll go away, I tell you. No one can prove anything.”
“I’ve never done anything like this. Are you sure the money’s safe?”
“Trust me. We’ll both be a lot richer soon.”
“Can we meet?”
“Not now. I’ll let you know. Just act normal, and try not to look nervous.”
“All right.” Max ended the call.
***
Nancy Preswick walked into her bedroom closet and slipped out of her clothes, hanging each article in its designated place. Then she pulled out some nondescript boxes from the upper shelves of the closet, boxes that would not attract attention from a casual observer. She set the boxes on her bed and removed the lids.
For many years, Nancy had dieted and exercised her body parts to maintain a lean figure. This motivation for leanness came from the pride she felt when gazing at her well-proportioned body in full-length mirrors and from her satisfaction with maintaining a consistent dress size. Her motivation was nurtured by the secret excursions she took alone at night. She’d been enjoying these outings for almost eight years now, and her unfaithful husband had never acted like he suspected anything. He’d been so self-absorbed that he’d not—even once—commented on her clandestine activities. Nancy’s boxes had remained undiscovered.
Now her husband was dead. She’d miss him in some ways and at certain times, but not tonight. She thrust her hands in the air and danced around the room. “I’m free. For the first time in a long time, I’m really free.”
Nancy held high each chic garment in succession. After choosing a tight-fitting, maroon evening dress, she perfumed her body—lilac—and applied her favorite nighttime makeup. Her transformation from a subdued daytime elegance to a foxy nighttime wardrobe was complete, and the two women weren’t comparable in appearance or attitude. Heavy eye and skin makeup and an expensive wig protected her from recognition by any well-meaning friends, and she frequented trendy places with darkened interiors, which helped to shield her from unwanted identification. As far as she knew, no one had ever identified her as Nancy Preswick in disguise.
She relished the lascivious looks she’d get from men on the prowl at her favorite nightclubs. Nancy’s night persona had become her passion in life. It kept her sane. Now she could indulge with abandon, and she could consummate any affairs that appealed to her.
Nancy Preswick—aka Vanessa Monroe—strolled out of her home into the cool night air. She decided to display her wares at one of her favorite D.C. nightclubs, in the Adams-Morgan neighborhood.
***
It was after midnight as Tina Landry and Blake Sutcliff parked near one of their preferred D.C. nightspots.
“Remember, Tina. I’ll go in first. You wait a few minutes and then come in and sit several tables away from me. Don’t look at me.”
“I have to look at you to find you.”
“You know what I mean. Just don’t act like you know me. Look, I wish you’d stayed away. I don’t think your being here is a good idea.”
“We’ve been through all that. It’ll be all right. Don’t worry.”
“Just do as you’re told,” Sutcliff said. He opened the glove compartment and pulled out a handgun.
“That’s the gun you told me about?”
“Yeah, got to be prepared in the drug world.” He stared at the gun for a few seconds, then returned it to the glove compartment. “But I won’t need it tonight.”
Sutcliff walked into a nightclub buzzing with cocktail conversation. Live jazz music pulsated in the background. He chose a small table in a shadowy corner and sat in a chair such that his profile would be visible to someone looking for him. He wore a sports coat over his white shirt and red tie. After several minutes, Tina walked in and moved to the shadows in a corner opposite him. After ordering a drink, he told the server he was expecting a guest and then stared at his glass as if he were deep in thought. At times, he scanned the bar scene. Tina stood and watched the activity in the club with a bored expression and a drink in her hand.
A woman sat at a table toward the middle of the room. Beside her, a handsome young man sat smiling and laughing. At first, Sutcliff paid them no special attention. But as the woman turned her head from time to time talking with her escort, Sutcliff had a vague feeling that her profile looked familiar. On closer inspection, the intriguing woman wore a tight-fitting, maroon dress.
Sutcliff spotted a burly man in a dark suit enter the club. A few minutes later, the man eased into a chair at Sutcliff’s table. “Lemme see it,” he whispered without looking at Sutcliff.
Sutcliff extracted a plastic bag from an inside coat pocket. He moved the bag across the table under his hand to the broad-shouldered visitor, who inspected the bag’s contents under cover of the left side of his unbuttoned suit coat and then touched a finger to his tongue. After a few seconds, the bag disappeared inside his coat. He slid an envelope out from a coat pocket and passed it to Sutcliff. “Don’t worry. It’s all there,” he said and disappeared into the gloom.
Sutcliff gulped the remnants of his drink. Just before he exited the nightclub, he glanced back toward the intriguing woman in the maroon dress, but she was gone. Another person was sitting in her place.
Tina sat with Sutcliff in their car and counted the money from the envelope. “Is it always this easy?”
“If it’s planned right.” Sutcliff smiled at her and pounded his chest with a fist. He’d scored big that night.
***
That evening, Eric the triathlete sat in a car in a motel parking lot, just east of D.C. in Maryland. For an hour, he’d watched a certain door in the middle of the motel’s lower floor. Eric’s rental car blended in with cars scattered around the lot.
He jerked forward as the door of interest opened and a man walked out wearing a light jacket with a hood that covered his head and much of his face. Eric pushed his car door open, but the man had already started his car and was moving in reverse. Turning on the car, Eric eased out of the parking space and began following the other car. Eric’s customary pulse rate was a gentle 40-something, but now his heart pounded against his chest wall. He slapped his thigh. It’s got to be him.
They were headed toward D.C.; Eric kept his distance and had no significant difficulty with his pursuit, until the man pulled into a parking lot at the side of a lounge. Eric stopped in a parking space at the other side of the lot and stepped out of his car. He noticed several other people walking among stationary vehicles, and, whenever possible, he used the cars for cover as he zigzagged across the pavement. He squeezed the handle of a handgun in his side holster and squinted his eyes at the smudged windows of the man’s car. Is he in there?
From about 20 feet away, he saw a movement on the far side of the car. As he whipped out his gun, he heard a loud noise and felt a sharp slap against the right side of his head. Someone screamed as Eric collapsed to the cement.
Garbled sounds drifting through a haze crystallized into understandable words. “Can you hear me? Can you hear me?” Eric o
pened his eyes and tried to focus on the talking head. A paramedic’s face came into view, and Eric sat up, holding the aching right side of his head.
“Are you all right?” the paramedic said.
Eric managed to stand. “Yeah. I’m good, except for this pounding headache.”
“You’d better come to the hospital with us, to be checked out. You’ve got a bloody scalp wound.”
“Thanks, but I’m okay. How long was I on the ground?”
“Maybe five minutes. We happened to be close by.”
“I don’t suppose you saw a guy with a hood over his head?”
“Negative. So, you’re refusing transport to the hospital?”
“Yes, I’m refusing, and I’ll sign your refusal forms.”
After Eric completed the paperwork for the paramedics, a police officer approached. Eric showed his credentials, picked up and holstered his gun, and gave the officer his report of the shooting.
“Do you want our help with this guy?” the officer asked.
“No. He’s my responsibility.”
Finally, the parking lot was quiet again, and Eric stepped into his car. He studied the wound in the rearview mirror and saw a line of clotted blood crossing the right side of his head from front to back. “Damn, that was way too close.” As he drove away, his headache was easing, and his hands were firm and steady on the steering wheel.
Chapter 19
“Wake up, beautiful.” It was Alec on the phone the next morning, Thursday, at about 7:30 a.m.
Laura yawned into the phone.
“Are you awake? I’ve got a plan.”
Laura sat up in bed. “Let’s hear it.”
“I can use my informant to call each of the suspects. He’ll say he knows that a dealer sold the suspect the designer drug used to murder Dr. Preswick. He’ll promise to keep quiet about it—not tell the police—for a price. He’ll set up a meeting time and place for the payoff, and I’ll be there to identify the guilty one—the killer.”
“Sounds like a good plan. You’ve got a reliable guy who’ll do this for you?”
“Yep. He’s still alive because he’s a good actor.”
“You must pay him well.”
“Well enough. Besides, he owes me.”
“When can he do it?”
“Tonight.”
Laura was quiet for a few seconds. “Do we need to have the police involved?”
“We don’t have enough evidence to justify an official investigation. Anyway, they wouldn’t approve of this plan. All I can hope for is to surprise the killer. I can record the whole interaction and take photos from a distance. My informant is good at this kind of sting. We’ve used it before.”
“I want to be there with you.”
“Hold on. There’s no good reason for you to come. It could be dangerous. Better to leave this kind of thing to the experts.”
Laura took a deep breath. “I understand what you’re saying. But this has been my case from the beginning, and I want to see it through—all the way. I want to go with you.”
Alec didn’t respond.
Laura pressed on. “I did fine when we met with the drug dealer, and this time, I’ll be hidden—away from any action.”
Still no response.
“Alec, we’re a team now . . . You’ll call me later with more specific instructions?”
“I hope I won’t regret this.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t get in the way.”
“I’ll contact you, say about 5:00. I’ll call or drive over.”
“I can’t wait.”
“Those are phone numbers on the suspect list you gave me, right?”
“Yes, their home addresses and phone numbers are at the bottom of the page.”
Laura hung up the phone, and images popped into her head—six faces on a spinning wheel. Where would it stop? She spun that wheel over and over, and the arrow pointed at the same face every time.
Blake Sutcliff.
Laura readied herself for the day and ate a breakfast of oat cereal and blueberries. Pleased with the way things were going, she thought a walk around Old Town Alexandria would be a fitting treat. She locked her front door, walked down King Street toward the Potomac River, and turned onto Washington Street to The Lyceum—a museum of the area’s history. Some exhibits here changed periodically, so Laura liked to check in at the museum from time to time. She dawdled inside for a while over historic artifacts and old photographs of Alexandria’s history.
After stepping back onto Washington Street, she glanced across the road—and stopped. A tall, dark-haired woman stood alone on the sidewalk. She faced Laura, as if she’d been waiting for her. However, the woman averted her gaze as their eyes met, then turned and hurried away. Laura had the impression that she’d been wringing her hands.
Who was that? Laura stood pondering what just happened, then shook her head and resumed her walking tour down Prince Street. She turned onto an intersecting road to a place she always enjoyed visiting—the Stabler-Leadbeater Apothecary Museum. Original-style bottles and equipment used for preparing various herbal medicinal remedies from the 19th century were on display. After examining the old pharmacy wares, Laura strolled several blocks to Royal Street and Gadsby’s Tavern with its museum recreating the same tavern of George Washington’s day.
Her next stop, a block west on Cameron Street, was a replica of the modest town house that George Washington used for an office in town. After reading the explanatory plaques on the side of the house, she had the feeling she was being watched. She turned and spotted that same dark-haired woman staring at her from the next intersection. What the hell? Laura took off and sprinted toward the woman, who darted away down the intersecting road. Laura reached the intersection, skidded to a stop, and searched the street. The woman was nowhere to be seen. Laura put her hands on her hips. What is going on?
After a few minutes, she shrugged her shoulders and resumed her walk, looking behind her every few steps or so. A few blocks straight toward the river brought Laura to the Torpedo Factory Art Center, which housed the largest number of publicly accessible working artist studios in the country. She lingered a while to admire the works of talented artists and, upon feeling suitably genteel, bought a sandwich and walked to a park near the Potomac River for a relaxing lunch. From this spot, the view across the Potomac was gorgeous and made it one of her favorite locations for musing and dreaming about her future. She decided that she must bring Alec here someday.
The strange woman hadn’t made another appearance.
It was time to run a few errands, so she returned home to retrieve her car. At one point, she detoured to a parking area for several small shops and restaurants, stopped near a dumpster, and waved at a man sitting in a chair under a large umbrella.
Securing a red baseball cap on his head, the man jumped out of his chair and walked to her car. “Hi, Ms. Laura.”
She lowered her window and reached out for his hand. “Good to see you.”
“I bought a stuffed chicken for dinner with your last gift. I can cook some food at my tent.”
“Are you a good cook?”
“I’m okay. Some things I can do well. I used to cook for my family, but they’re all gone now.”
“Can I ask, what was your previous job?”
“I made cabinets. We built good cabinets, custom-designed. The business went belly-up, and I was out of a job.”
“Sorry to hear that. Maybe someday, you can make cabinets again.”
“Yeah. I’d like that.”
“It was a bit chilly last night. I’m sure your tent keeps you warm, but where do you go when it’s really cold?”
“There’s a shelter not far from here. Good people running it. They’re nice to me, when it’s cold.”
Laura turned and reached for her purse.
“Are they friends of yours?” the man said, pointing at Laura’s suspect photos strewn across the front seat.
“Not exactly.”
“I don�
��t mean to be rude, but I’ve seen that guy before, several times. Just in case you’re interested.”
Laura snatched up the photos and fanned them like playing cards. “Which guy?”
He touched the photo of Blake Sutcliff.
“Where have you seen him?”
“He comes around here sometimes. Folks meet in this parking lot for drug deals. The man in the picture came up to me once and offered to sell me drugs. I don’t use drugs. Heck, I can’t even afford cigarettes.”
Laura stared at Blake’s photo. “Thanks for telling me.” She returned the photos to the seat and handed the man a 20-dollar bill. “I’m embarrassed; I don’t know your name.”
“My name is Sam, and it’s okay. You have nothing to be embarrassed about.”
Laura sighed and started to speak.
“You look down today,” Sam said. “Are you all right?”
She looked into his bright, piercing eyes. “I’ve had a few rough days at work.”
Sam patted her shoulder. “Believe me when I say—everything will work out.”
Laura smiled up at him. “Good seeing you, Sam.” She rolled up the window and drove away. So, everything will work out? I hope to God you’re right.
Chapter 20
Alec walked into the office of Detective Judkins of the D.C. homicide squad, right on time for his 3:00 p.m. appointment.
Ryan Judkins was a tall, heavyset man with a toothy grin. He stood up from his desk chair and extended a thick hand—one that had laid low many a scoundrel. “Hello, stranger. How’ve you been?” Most of the officers, especially in homicide, knew Alec from his previous time on the police force.
“I’m good.” Alec sat down in a hard wooden chair in front of Judkins’ light brown wooden desk that sported more than its fair share of divots and stains. Loose piles of papers were scattered over the desktop. Toward the front of the desk lay a large calendar open to the month of April, with pencil scribbles in most of the daily squares. Alec spotted his name in the middle of the April 13 square, among several other scribbles. He adjusted his posture, surmising that the guest chairs were uncomfortable for a reason: to subconsciously disincline visitors from staying too long.
The Diagnosis is Murder (A Dr. Valorian Mystery Book 1) Page 16
