FOUR
Georgetown, 9:11 p.m.
Aging street lights imperfectly masked by overgrown elms played their light as a mosaic on the dark street, bordered on both sides by late-modeled cars parked nearly bumper to bumper. The night air was thick with humidity and the temperature was holding steady. An occasional gust of wind rattled dead leaves across the street. Hurricane Estelle was finished with the Carolina coast and was working its way north. Already the sky was filled with heavy clouds and Powers scented the unmistakable presence of imminent rain.
After a quick glance at the map Powers decided to walk along Pennsylvania Avenue which he found to be a gentle incline that turned north on 29th Street to Marei’s apartment off Dumbarton, to give himself space and time to consider events. Alta Fort could not have been aware of the impact in what she did. It was his adolescent reaction to the unconscious gesture he found troubling. The incident served to emphasize just how off balance he was, a rare occurrence since he had been 19 years old.
Seeing Becky Gordon brought back vivid memories. Powers’ father had run one of Shalom's garages and his family lived in a clapboard house beside it. Most of the fathers of the kids Powers went to school with worked at the mill, as Powers did summers during college, after his father sold the garage. The refuse from the sawmill dropped into a huge inverted funnel-shaped tin furnace that burned every hour of every day. On windless days the smoke gathered and hung over the town like a dark blanket.
Powers had been unaware of class distinctions until shortly before entering high school. His father owned a sparse cabin on Lake Taneycomo near the Arkansas line, and during the weekends of his childhood, summers Powers went there with his mom and dad. During the hottest part of the season, he'd stay for two or three weeks straight, while his dad drove up Saturday afternoons.
There were more than a dozen cabins on their side of the lake and the Gordons owned a modest place themselves, one Becky's mother brought into the marriage. As the kids swam, ate hot dogs and played, they were all equals. He and Becky had been the oldest of the summer children and though he was the boy, Becky was the ringleader. They had been friends the way pre-pubescent children of different sexes can be. There wasn't time to pass through the awkwardness of a changing relationship as they matured because his dad sold the cabin when Powers was 12.
He worked at the garage in his spare time after that and quickly realized that he was from the poor side of town, just a gangly, reticent boy with grease under his fingernails. He'd tried out for the football team his freshman year but wrenched a knee. That summer he grew another four inches and added 20 pounds. He had a lot to prove and his sophomore year he hit the tryouts with a vengeance. He was a starter by the end of the season, and a star his last two years.
Powers rebuilt a '56 Chevy and was the only student from the poor side of Shalom who drove a car to school. His fame as a running back, leading the Sabercats to their first division title in 18 years, broke through the social barriers. Still, he was awkward with girls and with little time for study was no more than an average student. He saw Becky from a distance at school but she didn’t seem to recognize him and he never found the nerve to speak to her.
Then Becky Gordon’s dad gave her a red Mustang convertible for her sixteenth birthday and she filled it up at the Powers' garage, though there were others closer to her house and to the school. She'd arrive laughing often accompanied by a girlfriend, disparaging her latest ex-boyfriend, and playfully tease Powers as he pumped the gas, checked the oil and air pressure. Then she laughed again and waved gaily as she sped off with a flash of blond hair.
Powers was always torn when she drove up. She was the prettiest girl in school, head of everything, easily the most popular student in the high school. She never dated anyone more than two or three weeks and he had heard stories in the locker room that she was “loose,” but he put those down to jealousy since she was also the richest girl in school. The Gordons owned Shalom and there was bound to be resentment.
Every time he filled her tank with gas, he was embarrassed, no matter how friendly she was. Though he wore dirty gray overalls and his hands were grimy no matter how often washed them, she didn't seem to care and for some reason that made it worse. A thousand times at school he had intended to ask her out but never found the courage. Each time she saw him at work his resolve faltered even more.
Powers’ senior year, at the height of his popularity, Becky was elected homecoming queen. That was no surprise because she had been winning such contests since her sophomore year. Powers, however, had been shocked when his name was announced. In his sweat stained football uniform, holding his helmet in one hand, he rode around the track in a white Cadillac convertible provided by Gordon Auto Center as Becky waved gaily to the crowd, a bundle of white roses on her lap. With her other hand she had taken his.
After the game at the homecoming celebration she asked him to dance and on the floor told him she was just sick of Bobby Moran and why didn't the two of them sneak away? He'd felt like a heel for ditching his date and later caught hell from his dad, but he never even considered saying no. In her Mustang, she produced a bottle of scotch. Laughing, Becky drove to a bluff overlooking the river with the lights of Shalom sparkling below.
Becky opened the trunk and removed a heavy horse blanket then ran off shouting, "This way!" Laying on the blanket, drinking liquor from paper cups, they made out until Becky announced that she was drunk. "Look at me," she said wobbling on her feet. Then slowly, in the moonlight, she removed her clothes until she stood before him naked, wearing only her plastic homecoming queen crown. It was the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen.
It was silly, Powers knew, but he had fantasized about the nude Becky Gordon for years before this night. One summer at the lake, shortly before his father sold the cabin, he had accidentally come on the girls changing into bathing suits and for an instant had seen Becky poised above her suit, naked, breasts just beginning to form. No one had seen him but he had carried that memory with him ever since and every erotic notion he'd had since then was measured against that first.
"You're not always shy with girls, are you?" Becky said huskily, standing on the edge of the blanket, running her hands from her breasts along her hard stomach then down the flanks of her thighs. Just as when they had been summer friends, Becky assumed command.
~
Powers took a position in the darkness overlooking the rear entrance of the General Burnside Apartments which were near the United Methodist Church. He had called Julie Marei three times since leaving the White House with no answer. After twenty minutes, satisfied no one was watching from the rear he moved to the front.
It was a quiet Sunday night. Only a lone pedestrian, a heavy middle-aged man walking a frisky Dalmatian and wrapped in a faded green raincoat passed, hurrying a bit because of the pending rain. Two cars eased slowly down the street, one a black limousine. He'd already observed they were a common sight in the capital's streets.
Powers decided to make contact. He crossed the narrow street in steady strides, through the double front doors and up the stairs on the left to the second floor. He continued more casually along the length of the hallway to apartment 2D where he rang the buzzer several times then knocked. Nothing. He tried the buzzer again.
A young, slender woman came up the stairs and approached, eyeing him steadily. She stopped at 2B, removed keys from her jacket pocket, and then stared at him again. "May I help you?" she asked tentatively.
"I'm here to see Miss Marei."
"Oh, yes." The woman looked him over slowly, head to foot then up again as she bit her lower lip. "I think you ought to come in here. We shouldn't be seen talking in the hallway."
Her apartment smelled of vanilla and fresh tea. Magazines were askew and an empty glass sat on the coffee table. Otherwise the place was in nearly perfect order. "Sorry for the mess," she said, "My schedule is so irregular the place is either immaculate or in need of cleaning. You've caught me on my messy cycle.
My name is Yvette Dorat."
Her accent was French. She was just below average height and beautifully made, though so slender her bones were sharp against finely textured skin. Her delicate facial features and pale brown hair cut short reminded him of a porcelain doll. Her lips were painted a flat crimson and her slightly cynical eyes were a rich brown.
Incongruously, she was wearing tight black denims, worn Dock Martins and a short-fitted black leather jacket. Except for her manner and exquisite beauty, she appeared as if she had just stepped from the back of a Harley.
"I'm sorry to intrude," Powers said, not introducing himself. "Are you a friend of Miss Marei's?"
"That's why I asked you in. I work with Julie. I wondered when they'd send someone to check up on her. You are from her friend, aren't you?"
Powers considered his answer first. "That's right. Does Miss Marei need checking up on?"
Dorat moved uncomfortably as if she had made a rash decision and now regretted it. "Let me get rid of this," she said indicating her jacket. "And I've got to feed Hugo. Have a seat if you like. I'll be right back."
She returned in a few minutes and without the jacket wore a ribbed, knit turtleneck shirt, also black. She had regained some confidence. "I've been very worried," she said. "I didn't know what to do. I considered calling the Metropolitan Police but Julie insisted I never involve anyone in her business. She made me promise. You are from her friend, aren't you?"
A yellow tabby wandered in from the bedroom, stretched leisurely, yawned with a gaping mouth that reached mouse-sized proportions, then casually marked his owner's leg. Powers watched as Dorat took a pack of Salem menthol cigarettes from the dining table then lit up with a disposable lighter.
"I've just come from his house," he said finally. "What color would you say it was?"
She smiled. "White." He nodded. She looked relieved. "You people are always so cautious. In France, we accept these situations. Mitterrand even had a daughter by his lover. The press never wrote about it. It was the Americans who finally exposed the poor woman. They waited until her father was dying. What creeps. Anyway, it's a relief to have someone here finally." She collapsed into a director's chair. "Last night I heard an awful fight in Julie's apartment. It was horrible." She pronounced it the French way, “Or-EE-bl.” "I was frantic. I pounded on the door but no one answered. I tried calling, but nothing. Even the answering machine was off. Julie never gave me a key because she didn't want to risk my coming in when..." She made a distinctly Gallic gesture. "You know. I've been in a state of panic. I tried to get her to answer her door all day. Nothing still. Her car's gone."
"What does she drive?"
She gave him a look. "A new Taurus. Blue. I called work and she isn't scheduled until tomorrow. I've been thinking maybe she went to the fountains, but she'd have told me. I didn't have a number to call you people, so you can see why I asked a strange man to come into my apartment. You are here to check up on her, aren't you?”
"Yes. Did you see anything unusual last night?"
Dorat shook her head. "It was quiet at first even though it was Saturday. Almost everyone in the apartments is on vacation. I arrived from Paris early in the evening and got here about 10:00. The fight must have been an hour later. I'm not certain. I hardly slept last night I've been so worried. I think you should check the apartment, don't you?"
"I better. You wait here please."
But she didn't. Powers had no key but the lock was not difficult. Dorat was surprised he had to pick it and a measure of her suspicion returned. He eased the door open then entered, the woman coming in on his heels, her manner daring him to object.
"Mon Dieu!” she muttered. "Look at it!"
The apartment was a wreck. Books had been thrown from their cases and were scattered about the living room like confetti. The television was knocked over and lay face down on the carpet. The video tapes kept in a cabinet below it were piled in a lazy cluster. The couch had been overturned and sliced open, the stuffing spewing out. Nothing remained on the walls. The frames of photographs had been smashed and the pictures inside torn up, the bits tossed about the room. From where he stood Powers saw the refrigerator door was open and heard the motor cycling continuously. He touched nothing.
"Look!" Dorat said, pointing with one hand, the other thrown to her face.
Powers had already spotted the blood. It was partially concealed by the chaos in the living room but a trail led along the short hallway. He checked the bathroom and found a pool in front of the sink, the blood an unpleasant brown, coagulated and smelling sour.
Dorat was peeping into the room. "They've killed her!"
“Keep your voice down."
"They've killed her!!" she declared firmly, backing away from him. "I warned her. I told her she was playing a dangerous game but she wouldn't listen." Her eyes were wide. In the iris he could detect a myriad splash of indigo, emerald and ash hidden within the brown.
Powers grabbed her thin shoulders. "This is no time to panic. Calm down. We don't know anything certain yet. Let's check the bedroom. Come on." He led her by the arm to keep her from bolting.
It was in the same state. The walls were stripped, the mattress tumult on its back then sliced open. Stuffing was everywhere like dirty snow. There was blood on the carpet but not like the rest of the apartment.
He slid open the closet door and saw clothes piled on the floor, each with a hanger. Leaning in the corner was a tripod and camcorder, the tape door open with nothing in it.
"All right," Powers said. "Let's leave it as is. Did you touch anything?" Dorat's eyes were fixed on the bloody trail along the hallway. "Yvette! Snap out of it. Did you touch anything?"
She shook her head absently. "I... I don't think so."
"You and Julie are friends. You've been in this apartment before, haven't you?"
"Of course."
"Fine. That will explain any prints if you are ever asked. Come on."
Powers closed the door, smeared the knob then took them back to Dorat's apartment. She stumbled into her kitchen and poured herself a double shot of brandy. It calmed her at once, but she eyed him suspiciously.
"Something has happened," Powers explained in his most reasonable voice. "Julie is not in the apartment. I'm going to find her, Yvette. You must believe me. If she needs help, I'll see to it. Do you understand?"
"Yes," she whispered without conviction, looking frightened but also like someone very much out of their depth.
"You mustn't say anything to anyone. It could be dangerous for you. You realize that, don't you?"
The woman nodded slowly and he wasn’t certain she understood him. "Did your people do this?" she asked.
"No," he said firmly, but in fact he had no idea. "If I had anything to do with this, I certainly wouldn't have come back, would I?”
She considered that a moment. "I suppose not." She didn't sound persuaded. “What will you people do about it?”
"I don’t know yet. We both need for you to think logically. It's important. Julie needs you now, more than ever."
"Maybe. Maybe she's dead and they took her body away."
"That's possible. But we have to assume she's still alive. We don’t know if that's even her blood we saw. You understand?"
She nodded her head numbly. "I think so."
"This is a mystery. We mustn’t form conclusions prematurely. I'm calling for help. Remain here and tell no one."
"I understand." The young woman was in a state of shock but it was obvious any trust she felt for him was gone.
"It's for your own good."
Her eyes snapped to his. She looked in that instant like a porcelain doll captured in an unguarded moment, the expression of fear set permanently in its face. She had taken his words as a threat.
~
On the sidewalk Powers took the cellular telephone from his coat pocket and pressed pound nine. Alta answered at once. "Yes?"
"Trouble. We need to meet."
She didn't respond for a
moment. "Fifteen minutes," she finally said.
Powers stepped quickly towards M Street. On the second block, the last flanked by residential trees, they picked him up.
FIVE
Georgetown, 10:02 p.m.
There were two of them in long coats and they moved from the shadows with the casual confidence of professionals. One was short and heavy; the other tall and hard. It was accomplished with no fuss and within seconds Powers found himself flanked by the pair in the rear seat of the black limousine he had spotted earlier.
The heavy one spoke, his breath smelling of peppermint and tobacco. "Easy now, friend. No one's after trouble. And we damned sure don't wanna hurt you. A man just wantsa have a talk, that's all." There was no malice in his voice. If anything he sounded bored.
The hard one ran hands that felt like flint along all the right places. He slipped them inside Powers’ suit coat and paused momentarily at the cellular telephone before moving to his waist and ankles, even checking the area between his legs, an unlikely but occasionally used area of concealment. He said nothing to the other, so Powers concluded this pair had worked together many times. His silence meant he'd found no weapon.
"Nice and calm now," Peppermint Breath sniffed then said. "You'll be on your way in two shakes. My name's Shanken. He's Lily. You're Powers. So now we've all been introduced. We're gonna wait just a minute for someone to join us, then you'll have your little chat and be on your way."
“How’s the Dalmatian?”
Shanken grinned. “You got a good eye. He’s safe and snug at home. I thought I’d give you a once over before we made the move, see if anything was bulging or you had company.”
He was in his 50's, more portly than muscular with a wide fleshy nose. He was seriously balding with a thick shaggy fringe that hung as if he never combed it. His well-used raincoat had once been olive but was now a faded green closer to celery.
Lily was somewhere between early thirties and mid-forties. He was tall, taller even than Powers, with a spare frame and tight muscles Powers could feel through the man’s trench coat as he leaned against him. His hair was cut short, and his face was chiseled with a beak-like nose that had been broken more than once. His eyes were slate grey.
Shadows and Lies Page 4
