‘I hope so,’ Tayte said as he was led away. ‘Oh, and look after my briefcase, will you?’ he called back as he went, passing the waitress carrying his steak and eggs, and wishing they had chosen somewhere else to eat.
Chapter Twenty-One
It was almost eight the following morning by the time Tayte was released from the custody of DC’s Metropolitan Police Department. He had been charged under DC law with aggravated assault, to which, under the advice of the lawyer Reese had quickly dispatched to his aid, Tayte had pleaded not guilty. Given that there had been so many people present to witness Tayte laying hands on Michel Levant at the National Archives Museum, however, Tayte had pleaded guilty to the misdemeanour offence of general assault, leaving it down to the prosecution to convince the jury at the DC Superior Court that Tayte had knowingly or purposefully caused injury to Levant. Tayte was grateful to both Reese and the lawyer that their actions saw him released on citation, which meant no bond was imposed. For now, all he’d had to do to become a free man again was to sign a form acknowledging that he was required to appear in court at a later date, when his longer-term freedom would be determined.
Mavro was waiting for Tayte on his release. From her weary appearance as he dragged himself into the car he could see that she hadn’t fared much better than he had since they last saw one another, although as she was wearing a black trouser-suit and a cream blouse today, he knew she’d at least had time to go home and get changed. However Mavro appeared, it was quickly apparent that she thought Tayte looked far worse.
‘You look like shit,’ she said. ‘You wanna try and get something to eat again before we go on?’
‘How about steak and eggs?’ Tayte said, smiling. ‘They were unlucky for me last night, but hey, it’s a new day.’ Mavro’s expression remained as unemotional as it had been since Tayte got into the car. ‘Okay, blueberry pancakes,’ he added. ‘A whole pile of ’em, covered in syrup and chocolate sauce.’
‘You have anywhere in mind for that?’
Tayte had a few favourites, but right now he didn’t care where they went. ‘The first place you come to,’ he said, and Mavro began to drive.
‘Did you bring my briefcase?’
‘Back seat,’ Mavro said as they filtered out into the morning traffic.
Tayte craned his neck around until he saw it. ‘Thanks.’
They continued in silence for several minutes. Tayte couldn’t decide whether Mavro was just tired or angry with him. When she eventually spoke, he knew it was the latter.
‘You know, you’re lucky I’m here to pick you up this morning. Reese went ballistic when I called him last night and told him what had happened. He wanted to see me about it first thing this morning. I’ve just left him.’
‘I was wondering why you’re wearing that suit.’
‘Well, now you know. He was very quick to point out that by disobeying his instructions to take you straight back to the safe house yesterday, I’d jeopardised the whole operation and put people’s lives at risk. I’m lucky I still have a job.’
‘I’ll talk to him—let him know I gave you no choice.’
Mavro was shaking her head almost as soon as Tayte started speaking. ‘No, he’s even more pissed at you right now. You’ll only make matters worse. Besides, I had a choice, and I chose poorly.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I bet you are. You know what the maximum sentence for aggravated assault is in DC?’
Tayte nodded. ‘My lawyer told me. I could get up to ten years and a fine of up to $10,000. It’s half that for attempted aggravated assault, although we’re hoping for general assault, which carries a maximum sentence of 180 days and $1,000 in fines.’
‘I’m glad you were paying attention.’
‘It was hard not to under the circumstances. Even 180 days in jail is a frightening prospect.’
Tayte let out a long sigh just thinking about what it could mean for Jean and him, and their wedding plans. He supposed that would now have to be put on hold. That’s if Jean had any interest in marrying an ex-con.
‘Did you manage to get those copies of William Durant’s vital records last night?’ he asked, trying to put his impending court hearing aside for now, knowing he had to refocus his remaining energy on saving Lauren Emerson if he could.
‘I did,’ Mavro said, her voice losing its bitter edge. ‘Birth, marriage, and death.’ She scoffed. ‘That’s why I also look like shit this morning. Pamela Bryant took a long time to show and we were there a few hours. I could tell she didn’t take too kindly to being called out in the middle of the night.’
‘Who would? Main thing is you got the records.’
‘Yeah.’
They turned on to 10th Street in the Penn Quarter and parked up close to a short-order diner called Lincoln’s Waffle Shop, which was opposite the historic Ford’s Theatre, where on April 14, 1865, President Abraham Lincoln was assassinated. The place was busy as they entered, the warm air humming with conversation and the sweet smell of waffles. They found two high stools side by side at a table that was set out like a family breakfast bar.
‘It’s cosy,’ Tayte said as he settled on to his stool, trying not to invade the space of the man eating his breakfast to the other side of him.
Once they had placed their orders, Mavro reached into her suit jacket and handed Tayte his notebook, along with a fold of papers. ‘Let’s see what you make of these. We’ll have to work while we eat. We only have a few hours left to crack this.’
Tayte was all too aware of how much time they had left. He only hoped there was enough, and that his antics with Levant the day before hadn’t cost Lauren Emerson her life. He set his notebook down and unfolded the copies of William Durant’s vital records. First, he studied his certificate of birth.
‘The date of birth tallies with the date on Durant’s B&O Railroad payroll record,’ he said. ‘Also with our calculated date of birth for the man calling himself Benjamin Kirkland. We can’t draw much else from it, given that I could find no certificate of birth for Kirkland to compare with.’
He turned to Durant’s certificate of marriage. ‘This is rather more interesting. Durant married a woman called Elma Brightwater in 1894.’ Tayte had brought his briefcase in with him. He pulled it up on to his knees and found the copy of Kirkland’s certificate of marriage to Dorothy Valentine. Then he laid them out side by side. ‘If these men are one and the same person, he married Dorothy Valentine in 1907, at which time Elma Brightwater had been his legal wife for thirteen years, unless they were no longer married by 1907 for whatever reason.’
He saw something then that cemented his belief that he was right—that Kirkland was really William H. Durant. ‘Take a look at that,’ he said, and Mavro leaned closer. His index finger was hovering over the heading ‘Husband’s Birthplace’ which showed as Rockford, Illinois. He moved his finger across to the other record, which showed exactly the same.
‘So, it has to be the same man,’ Mavro said. ‘Born on the same day, in the same city, winding up in DC working for the B&O Railroad, and dying on the same day he was reported missing.’
‘There’s no doubt in my mind at all,’ Tayte said, moving on to Durant’s certificate of death. ‘This confirms that he worked as a railroad engineer and that he did, indeed, die on May 2nd, when Benjamin Kirkland was reported missing, just as it said on his payroll record.’ He scanned down to the cause of death and read it out. ‘Injuries received by accidental explosion of boiler whilst at work.’
‘His train blew up? Does it say where?’
Tayte shook his head. ‘No, there’s no place of death shown. I expect the explosion would have made the news, though.’
Their food arrived just as Tayte was dipping into his briefcase again, this time for his laptop. As it booted up he cut into the pile of blueberry pancakes that had been set before him, suddenly oblivious to everyone else in the diner. It was just him and the pancakes, and he ate his way through half of them before coming up for air.
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‘You really are hungry,’ Mavro said, herself having taken only two small mouthfuls of her omelette. ‘Didn’t they feed you last night?’
‘It was paltry, and that’s being generous.’
‘Well, you’d better finish up your meal before you start typing, or you’ll get syrup all over your laptop.’
Tayte just nodded and continued to devour his pancakes as if he were in a race to finish them before his laptop was ready. When it was, he ate the last few mouthfuls and washed it all down with his coffee. Then he brought up Chronicling America, the Library of Congress newspaper archive website he’d used to good effect before, and selected publications for the District of Columbia, 1910. He decided to keep the search simple. He just entered his subject’s name, William Durant. He thought that would be enough as it wasn’t a particularly common name. Several results came back, but he was quickly drawn to the first. It was from the Washington Herald, dated May 3, 1910—the day after Durant died.
‘Here it is,’ he said, turning the screen around so Mavro could see it better.
She read out the heading. ‘Engineer Durant of Baltimore & Ohio Railroad killed and his fireman injured.’
Tayte continued to read out the rest, just as it appeared in the newspaper. ‘The forward locomotive of a B&O Railroad double-header northbound coal train exploded yesterday morning south of the Takoma Park B&O rail station, instantly killing engineer William H. Durant of Woodridge, painfully injuring fireman J. S. Pendleton, also of Woodridge, and scalding, perhaps fatally, Henry Lewis, a negro section hand. Fireman Pendleton was on the forward end of the engine and was hurled a distance of fifty yards. His escape from being killed is considered remarkable. The explosion is believed to have been caused by water in the boiler running low. The locomotive was reduced to scrap iron. Engineer Durant leaves his wife, Elma, and their three children.’
‘It’s amazing what you can find,’ Mavro said.
‘It sure is. And here’s solid proof that Durant was a bigamist. He married Dorothy Valentine in 1907, yet this newspaper article confirms he was still married to his first wife, Elma Brightwater, when he died in 1910.’ Tayte tapped the screen. ‘This is what we’re looking for, though, the location of the explosion.’
‘South of the Takoma Park B&O rail station.’ Mavro read out again. ‘Shame it doesn’t say how far south.’
Tayte agreed. ‘There was clearly a B&O rail station at Takoma Park, Maryland, in 1910, although I don’t think it’s there now. There’s a Metrorail station this side of the boundary in Takoma, so I guess we’re looking for somewhere south of that.’
‘Could be a lot of track to cover,’ Mavro said, checking her watch. ‘It’s after nine. We have less than three hours left.’ She took out her phone. ‘I’ll call Reese and let him know.’
‘Tell him we’ll meet him at Takoma Metro. He’s going to need all the help he can get.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
It was close to ten by the time SAC Reese had mobilised a team of FBI agents and police officers to meet at the Metrorail station at Takoma, which was on the edge of DC’s Northwest quadrant. There were just two hours to the deadline Westlake had set, when, according to the rules of his deadly game, Lauren Emerson would be blown into oblivion. They had to find her in time. The overground rail line had been suspended, and Reese and his team were standing at the southern edge of the platform, preparing to walk the track. Beyond agreeing to Tayte being there with Mavro—on the basis that it was better to have him around and not need him, than to need him and not have him there—Reese had so far said little else to him. For now, there were more important matters to deal with than giving him a hard time over Michel Levant.
‘Remember,’ Reese called to the team. ‘We don’t know exactly what we’re looking for or where this is likely to happen, so stay sharp, eyes peeled. I want inspections of all trackside buildings, and anywhere else Lauren Emerson could be concealed. And be careful. We know how the Genie plans to kill Lauren Emerson and I don’t want any mistakes. If you suspect you may have found her, call it in. Leave the rest to the bomb techs. We have two hours, so let’s move fast and be thorough.’
It was a warm, bright morning with a clear sky and a light breeze as they set off along the track, no one saying much. Dogs trained in explosives detection were up front with their handlers. Reese and several other agents in shirtsleeves and blue FBI tactical vests were close behind them, and Tayte and Mavro were at the rear. They were accompanied by a handful of police officers and track maintenance engineers in white hard hats and orange high-visibility jackets, who had been called upon for their local knowledge and expertise should the need arise. They had already advised Reese of two potential locations for the killing: a track maintenance shed about half a kilometre down the line, and a disused signal box that was scheduled for demolition.
Tayte removed his jacket and slung it over his arm as they walked, revealing the bullet-proof vest he’d been made to wear, taking in the surroundings left and right as his loafers crunched over the coarse gravel beside the track. He wondered what Adam Westlake had planned, and it occurred to him that as the Genie couldn’t know exactly where in 1910 the B&O Railroad locomotive had exploded, he could have chosen just about anywhere close to the track. He doubted Lauren would be out in the open, though. A small building, such as those pointed out to them by the track maintenance engineers, or a room within a larger building seemed more likely, although he knew nothing could be ruled out where Westlake was concerned. After all, the man had already hanged one of his victims from Chain Bridge in broad daylight.
As much as he tried not to, Tayte began to picture Lauren Emerson tied up somewhere with explosives strapped to her, perhaps watching a digital clock readout slowly counting down to the end of her life. He wished the search party would move faster, but Reese was right. They had to be thorough or risk missing some vital clue as to where she was. High concrete walls lined the track for a while, yielding little but wild trackside shrubbery. Everything had to be closely inspected, which ate into the precious time they had left, slowing them down. After the concrete walls, the sidings were lined with wire fencing, topped with barbed wire, through which Tayte could see the rear of factories and businesses to one side, and residential housing to the other. There was nowhere to hide anyone here, so they pressed on.
The first half-hour passed quickly, and then a call went out from the front. It was Special Agent Martinez, and Tayte couldn’t help but notice Mavro’s eyes light up at hearing his voice.
‘He’s found something,’ she said to Tayte, at the same time quickening her step to see what it was.
Being taller and at a better angle relative to the curve of the track, Tayte could already see what it was. ‘It’s the track maintenance shed the engineers told us about.’
Everyone came to a standstill as the dog handlers and bomb techs went on ahead to inspect the building. Tayte checked his watch and noted that they still had almost an hour and a half to the deadline, and he silently prayed that they were about to find Lauren. If she was there, he figured there was plenty of time left to disable any explosives Westlake had set up and get her to safety. Tayte and Mavro crept forward to get a better view, and the tension became palpable as Tayte looked on with the rest of the team while the shed was inspected externally. Then one of the track maintenance engineers was called forward with the keys to the building and the first of the bomb techs entered the brick and corrugated steel structure. Tayte had been watching the dogs with interest. He’d noted no change in their behaviour, so when the bomb techs came out again a few minutes later, he wasn’t surprised to see one of them shaking his head. Lauren Emerson wasn’t there.
Everyone relaxed again and they moved on, passing more wire fencing and trackside foliage. The repetitive landscape seemed to stretch on and on as they progressed down the line, offering few suitable places to conceal someone. They crossed above an underpass that was busy with late morning traffic, then the buildings that had previ
ously run close to the curve of the tracks became more distant, yielding to a wider expanse of land beyond the wire fence, where there were trees to one side and open ground to the other.
One of the track maintenance engineers sidled up to Tayte. He was a portly man with an Irish-American accent. ‘I’ll bet you fifty bucks he’s got her tied up in the old signal box a little further down. That’s where I’d take her. It’s no more than a shell. Doesn’t even have a door.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ Tayte said. ‘Is it much farther?’
‘Ten or fifteen minutes, maybe. We should see it soon. The track straightens out after the community gardens on the right there, just past the trees you can see up ahead.’
Tayte followed the line of the man’s arm towards the trees, and through the wire fence before them he could see the section of land he’d referred to, which was largely in a tilled state ready for winter crop planting or had been freshly sown. There were some wooden sheds close to the wire fence and he saw that a few agents were on their way over to inspect the area, presumably to see whether the fence had been breached. He noticed then that he’d fallen behind Mavro and most of the police officers while he’d been talking to the engineer, so he quickened his pace to catch up.
Then something stopped him altogether.
An explosion no more than fifty feet away almost shook him to the ground. It ripped through the wire fence as if it were made of nothing more than paper chains. Everyone instinctively ducked as debris from the explosion came at them and black smoke began to plume skywards from the garden sheds that had now been reduced to matchsticks. Tayte’s eyes immediately sought Mavro out, just in time to see what appeared to be a large piece of timber flying straight at her.
‘Mavro! Look out!’
He was too late. It all happened so fast. He saw the timber slam hard into her. The next moment she was down.
‘Frankie!’
Tayte’s pulse began to kick harder as he rushed to her, but he was narrowly beaten by Special Agent Martinez who was quickly at her side.
Dying Games (Jefferson Tayte Genealogical Mystery Book 6) Page 19
