Wade had only arrived one day before Donovan. He’d used his time to get established, talk to the kids, and take over the class he was teaching—in addition to doing his actual work as an FBI agent. He was also trying to meet with the parents under the guise of being a new teacher learning about his students. It was time-consuming, but Wade was using it to his advantage, trying to suss out information.
"Okay, let’s just trade what we have?" Donovan felt himself put a question mark on the end of his request. He hadn’t intended it to be that way, but he was starting to think it was appropriate at the end of everything he said. For all the information he’d gathered—and it was a lot—it still felt like he held one to three pieces from each of five hundred different puzzles.
"Sounds good," Wade replied with a tone that let Donovan know he was feeling the same. He launched into what he’d gathered. "I've now managed to meet the vast majority of the parents, and no one seems to think anything of Rychenkov. It hasn’t been easy working a murder into the conversation, but he did do special teaching days here, so that helps.”
Donovan thought that might have been part of Westerfield’s master plan and why Wade was in the high school.
“Everyone's worried about their kid’s physics grade and college applications, which I don't know anything about, so I'm a shitty teacher that way."
"Nah, you're good at the rest of it," Donovan said. "Besides, you're only there one term, one class each day."
"Yeah. It's not enough kids, and yet it's too many," Wade said. "It's definitely too many."
Donovan had to laugh at that.
Wade went on, "Westerfield helped Bennett pull some strings and get me kids whose parents specifically should be the ones who interacted with Rychenkov, but it's still not yielding much of anything."
When Donovan only Hmphed in response, Wade said, "Tell me what you came up with, and I can let you know if it matches any of my kids' parents. If it does, I can create problems with class or assignments that will get me back into contact with them."
It was a good plan, Donovan thought, if only there were connections. "All right, I've been going through phone records. I've been looking at the police logs. Rychenkov and Schmitt had a land line in their home. He was apparently a little bit old-school. Between the land line and his cell, he often talked to Suzie Carmen, who's a doctor over at the pediatric office. She and he must have discussed quite a bit— I have no idea about what, but the length of the phone calls and the odd times during the day, when she would be at work, made me wonder a little bit. Especially since Rychenkov has no kids, and thus should have no familial or professional need for a pediatrician."
"Okay," Wade said. "Let me see if I have one of her kids … No."
Donovan tried the next name "He's also spoken to a Kaya Mazur on her cell, and he’s called the home line for the Mazur family. She is a physicist. So's the husband—Nate. I could see a physicist and a robotics specialist having work-type conversations, but I have no idea what those calls were about, either. Honestly, this is just what we're looking at. We have no idea if there are or were any affairs going on or anything like that."
"We need to get to Mrs. Schmitt," Wade said, abruptly changing the topic.
"I was thinking the same thing, though I’m trying to figure out how to do that without revealing that we’re FBI, and I can’t think of anything that won’t. I think we're going to have to talk to her openly," Donovan told him.
"We have to get that processed through Westerfield first."
"Story for another day. When Eleri gets in, we'll take a look at how to do it and whether or not we should."
"Sounds like a plan," he said. Though Wade seemed to support him, that also meant he didn’t have a better idea.
Donovan continued down his list of names. "I also have Jivika Das."
"Wait, go back," Wade replied. "I have two kids. I have a Joule and a Faraday, set of twins, Mazur."
"Yes, that's them. I met them yesterday. Wait? Faraday? I met someone named Cage," Donovan said. “Oh my God. His name is Faraday… and they call him Cage. Never mind. I get it.” Then he proceeded to tell Wade about Cage being in full knight's regalia. "They're the ones who were arguing about historic eras."
"Okay, good. So we have at least established a small loop with Rychenkov in it and people we can question. What else?"
Donovan listed three more names, only one of whom had a kid in Wade's class. Those got notes, and Wade began trying to determine what kind of project he could dream up that would put him back in touch with the parents.
"Who do you have?" Wade countered. "What kids do you have who might loop back to Rychenkov that I can check out?"
Consulting his list again, Donovan said, "I have a Madisyn James. Yes. She's my neighbor LeDonRic’s niece, but I don't know. . ."
"Her father," Wade filled in, "is Marshawn James, LeDonRic's brother."
"What does he do?"
"He's an inventor of sorts. Most of his money comes from a sponge he invented, some new material. He’s created a handful of cell phone apps, several of which have been pulled by the stores—”
“Why?” Donovan interjected, curious.
“Seems the apps themselves were fine and legal but could be used by kids inappropriately. Something like that. He also has a new-use patent on the workings from a coffeemaker. . . I haven't followed it further than that." Wade let the story trail off, and Donovan made a quick note.
Then Wade moved to the next name on his list. "Jeren Waits. He's a foster kid. He lives with a family over in the Shire, green people, do-gooders. Not much money, lots of heart, as far as I can tell."
Donovan added to the list, both the kid’s name and the foster parents’.
"What if we're on the wrong track?" he asked Wade. "What if it's not work related? What if Rychenkov was killed from a love affair gone wrong? Or he overheard a Mafia hit, or something like that?"
"I don't even know how to find that out. I don't see anyone on here that he might or might not be having an affair with. I mean, it could be anyone, so we need to start asking the coworkers. This shit's tough undercover. I'm not inserted directly into a position to ask these questions."
"There was no position to take. Our vic didn’t have a job he went to every day or even a club he attended regularly. I mean, unless you're going to live in his house as the butler, there's nowhere to go to get to know the people who knew him."
"True," Wade said. "Maybe you and Eleri can figure it out. If Rychenkov was having an affair, that's probably the first place to look."
"I don't know," Donovan said. "I mean, an affair makes sense—someone got him tied down to the bed—but it’s not enough. What we really need to know is if there was any evidence that he'd ever been tied down before. This is a very different case if bondage was a normal activity for him.”
Wade sighed. While Donovan wished his friend and fellow agent would jump in with a brilliant deduction, at least it was a relief to know he wasn’t the only one floundering. “Nobody’s found any evidence of that."
"Again, I say we blow our cover to Mrs. Schmitt."
"I think you're right," Wade said. "I have to go make class assignments now. I think Westerfield thought this was going to be easy, giving me one class per day, but it’s not. I'm telling you, these kids are absorbing everything I'm throwing at them. I'm about to get into quantum mechanics, and just see if maybe I can stump one of those little suckers for once.”
Donovan laughed. "If you're up for it, and if Eleri is, as soon as she gets home, I'm going to call Westerfield. I can't say I'm looking forward to it, but I believe with Mrs. Schmitt's understanding that her husband was murdered, it's time for us to go in and ask her the right questions more directly."
"I think you're right," Wade said, "and I'm glad you're calling Westerfield on that one—and not me."
Donovan understood. No one wanted to call Westerfield for this kind of thing.
11
Donovan stood on the front step
of the Rychenkov-Schmitt home for the second time. Only this time, he was there as himself. Or mostly as himself—he was after all, in town as Dr. Donovan Naman.
He startled when a sweet voice called from behind him. "Hello, Dr. Miller, Dr. Naman," and he didn't catch that the name was his for a moment.
Neither did Eleri. Nudging his partner, he turned to see the young woman they'd met the day before.
"Hi," he replied and waved back, his voice a little too high-pitched. Her name was Joule, he remembered. The other young woman spelling the kids’ names for him had actually been a boon to help him remember them all.
"Are you visiting Mrs. Schmitt?" she asked.
"Mm-hmm.” He nodded, wondering why the girl was asking. He and Eleri were obviously waiting at the front door, but Joule only nodded and waved as she headed toward a house caddy-corner across the street. Did Joule and the Mazur family live so close to the murdered man?
He didn’t get a chance to think about it as the door swung open and pulled his attention back to the house. Mrs. Schmitt gently greeted the two strangers on her doorstep.
"Hello." Though Donovan and Eleri knew many things about her, and even had been inside her home before, they had not yet officially met. According to Mrs. Schmitt, they knew nothing of each other, so he tried to approach the situation as if he were a stranger at her door and saw that Eleri was doing much the same.
"Hello, Mrs. Schmitt," Eleri said. "My name is Eleri Miller, and this is my colleague and friend, Dr. Donovan Naman."
Johanna Schmitt merely nodded at them. Though her face appeared curious about them, her hand lay by her side, her fingers curled into a fist, letting Donovan know she wasn't quite as relaxed as she appeared.
"I would love if you could let us in for just a moment,” Eleri continued in her sweetest voice. “We're new in town. We live next to, we believe, a friend of yours, LeDonRic James. He's friends with your neighbor across the street, Joule—the Mazurs." Eleri motioned over her shoulder, as though a reference to a kid in high school was going to make Mrs. Schmitt feel better. If the woman was concerned that her husband had been murdered, that connection wouldn't make things any better.
Eleri continued, "His girlfriend, Maggie, is apparently a friend of yours, too, a good friend."
As Donovan watched, he saw that Eleri had gone too far. Johanna looked even warier now.
"Please," Eleri said, and Donovan decided to let her do the talking. He wouldn’t be any better at this than she was, and Mrs. Schmitt was already on edge. "I'd like to not do this on your porch. We're trying to keep things quiet, but if you will let us into your home, we'll show you. . ."
Not the right words, he thought. They could easily be interpreted as her saying they didn’t want to murder the woman in broad daylight, but in the dark interior of her own home.
"Don't wait, El," he said as he reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet with his FBI badge in it. Without flipping it open, as one normally would do, he simply handed the closed wallet to Mrs. Schmitt. He offered a simple instruction that he hoped would set her at ease or at least as comfortable as a widow who believed her husband was murdered and no one was investigating it could feel.
"Take this, step away from the door, and open it and look at it, please, he said calmly. “If you want, you can look up the number for the local FBI branch and call it in to check on all the information."
She did as he requested, stepping just out of the light as she flipped his wallet open and looked at the badge. Her discretion meant that no one could walk by and see what was in his wallet which would have completely blown their cover.
"My partner has one, too," he offered. "We will gladly hand it over when we get inside. We just don't want your neighbors to know who we are or why we're here."
He watched as Mrs. Schmitt broke, ever-so-slightly. Though she covered it well, for a moment her hand went to her mouth and he saw her fight back tears. She had to understand that their presence meant her suspicions were more accurate than she'd wanted to believe. Slowly, she pulled herself together.
"Come in," she said, smart enough not to hand the badge back to him until she'd gotten them inside and the door closed. She looked out with a smile plastered on her face and waved to Joule across the street. The girl had arrived at her front door and was turning the key to let herself in as Mrs. Schmitt waved to her.
"You know Joule?" Donovan asked.
"Oh, yes! Sweet kids. Joule and her brother Faraday, they come over here a lot. My husband loved working with them."
“Faraday?" Eleri asked.
"Cage. He usually goes by Cage. His parents were both physicists, and named the kids physics terms, and they thought Faraday Cage was funny or cute, I guess.” She confirmed what he and Wade had come up with when they were talking earlier. The smile on her face said she liked the twins. “Those two are wonderful smart-asses, too. So sharp. People around here, they're weird. That's why my husband and I fit in. The Mazurs have been here since just about the time the town was founded, my husband and I not so long. We don't have any kids of our own, and Joule and Faraday are just. . . Well, they're great." She sniffed then, just a little. "Faraday is going to be one of the pallbearers at my husband's funeral tomorrow."
"Yes," Donovan said, nodding as the door clicked shut behind them. He put his hand out to request his badge back and watched as Eleri flipped her own open. Mrs. Schmitt, no dummy at all, carefully inspected the shield and the ID card.
"Those are not the last names you gave me."
"We're undercover." He'd gotten permission from Westerfield to say exactly this, though the conversation had been arduous and unpleasant for him. He suspected it had been for Westerfield, as well, but it had gotten them here.
"Would you like to sit down?” she asked. “I have tea, some high-end sodas, ice water."
Donovan was about to refuse, but Eleri touched his arm to stay him and said, "I would love a soda, if you have something not diet."
"I do," she replied. Donovan felt Eleri use the back of her hand to tap him on the wrist.
"I'd love a water."
Eleri was right. The more they put the woman in her comfort zone, the better off they'd be, and getting drinks for guests was clearly something that she was used to doing. It was only a moment before Johanna Schmitt had them all seated at the dining room table. A small, round affair, it held four chairs—the one empty seat seemed telling.
Mrs. Schmitt did not beat around the bush. "You're here because you think I'm right. I think my husband was murdered."
Donovan only nodded. "You're aware his body went from the morgue in Lincoln to the CDC?"
She nodded. "They told me they were just testing him, and that it all came back negative, but I don't believe it."
"That part, at least, is correct," Donovan said, glad he’d been authorized to tell this woman everything they knew about her husband. He figured she would want to know how he was qualified to tell her what was in the report and why it was right. "I'm a former medical examiner who's now an agent with the FBI."
She nodded, seeming to have fully bought into the badges, which was a good thing. Since she was the only person who knew who they were, she was going to be their only link to straightforward information. They needed her to be willing to give them everything she possibly could, even the things she didn't know she was handing over.
"We appreciate your cooperation," Eleri said, placing one hand flat on the table in front of her, almost as a half-gesture of peace. Had she known the woman better, she might have placed her hand on top of Mrs. Schmitt's. "Your cooperation will help us do our best to solve this."
A lone tear leaked out of Mrs. Schmitt's eye. "But you're telling me the toxicology screens came back negative. So what could it be?"
"That was actually what alerted the CDC to the problem. There's no chemical indication of a heart attack, no sign of aneurism whatsoever, and while it's plausible that he might have simply dropped dead. . ."—Donovan hated the term, but tr
uly, other than “he just gave up,” there was no good medical terminology for it—"It’s not likely at all. However, the ligature marks on his wrists and ankles make it look like a murder."
"How was he killed?" she asked, aiming straight for all the smart questions.
"That's the problem," Eleri said. "We truly don't know. Are you willing to hear all of this?”
Donovan thought it was smart of Eleri to ask. He hadn’t thought of it. He had just started talking about her husband’s corpse during their interview. He watched as Johanna Schmitt got herself together and nodded.
“It appears he was bound,” Eleri said, “but that there was no struggle." She gently handed over as many of the details of the case as they had.
Mrs. Schmitt agreed with everything, listening as they rattled off all the numbers. She asked for clarification on very little of it. It was then that Donovan asked, "Can you tell us what made you suspect your husband was murdered?"
"The same things,” she said. “He's too young. He's been working on a project he hasn't even told me about." That perked Donovan's ears up. "And someone has been in my house."
"We were here a while ago," he explained. He hated having to admit what they’d done, but it was better she know the murderer wasn’t casing her. “We gained access because we needed to check the scene for evidence.”
“Did you find anything?”
He shook his head, though that wasn’t fully true, and their evidence didn’t really make sense. He told her about the marks on the bed.
“I don’t think we even own rope or bungee cords. I mean, maybe one or two in the trunk of the car?” She was shaking her head and trying to think. “I have a garage full of old motherboards and soldering tools. We have spools of fine wire and an oscilloscope with dials, because Marat didn’t like the advanced software that smoothed the curves. He wanted to see them as they were.” Johanna Schmitt took a deep breath, probably to stop herself from bursting into tears. “But no rope or bungees.”
The Camelot Gambit Page 7
