by Jeff Miller
She lowered the glass and looked at the blurred spot in the mirror, then raised the glass again and brought Mike back. Down and up; blurred, then clear. Amazing how a little magnification could transform a clouded dot into the man she’d loved. It was this thought that sent Dagny to her MacBook.
Although it took only a minute to power on, it felt like eternity. Dagny opened iPhoto and scrolled through the pictures she taken, past the photos of the crime scene and the fingerprints, finally settling on the picture she’d taken of the Williamsons’ stolen Matisse. She enlarged the photograph so that it filled the screen. Behind the topless woman playing guitar were curved lines of blurry dots—the woman’s audience. Dagny right-clicked and chose the zoom feature. She zoomed in close, scanning each row of dots, sliding the scroll bar at the bottom of the image to move it along. Every dot remained a blur, every single dot except for one. And that one dot was the unmistakable face of Michael Brodsky.
Noel Draker hadn’t owned a Matisse. He had owned a Michael Brodsky forgery. The fact that Mike had placed himself in the painting meant that Draker and Mike must have been friends. And this meant that Dagny didn’t understand anything that had happened at all.
CHAPTER 52
May 7—Washington, DC
Dagny walked up the steps of the Foggy Bottom row house and rang the bell. When Gloria Benton answered, Dagny noticed that her kinky blonde hair was now accented with red highlights, and she’d replaced her old glasses with a tortoiseshell pair. There was something sad about the publicist’s desperate efforts to stay hip.
Benton greeted her with a smile and a hug. “Hello, Dagny. Come in, please.”
Dagny followed Benton into her cluttered mess of an office, dropped her backpack to the floor, and took a seat. Benton settled behind her desk, cleared some stacks of papers, and then folded her hands on the desktop. “My, my, my. You’ve had quite the time of it, haven’t you?”
“You have no idea,” Dagny replied.
“How are you holding up?”
Dagny leaned back in her chair. “My phone won’t stop ringing. The Today show. Charlie Rose. 20/20. They show up at my door, unannounced, sometimes at odd hours.”
“It’s awful, what goes on.” Benton leaned closer and spoke softly. “But there are things we can do to make it easier. And considering how much you’ve suffered, you deserve to come out of this with something for your pain and troubles. The networks pay for interviews these days, you know. Everyone wants to be one of the first to tell your story, and once that chance is gone, everyone moves on.” Benton paused. “Tell me, how do you feel about writing a book?”
“I’d love to, Gloria. I just don’t think I’m ready.”
“You need some time? To decompress and—”
“It’s not that. It’s just that there are some loose ends that I haven’t wrapped up.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, there’s this problem of coincidence.” Dagny shook her head. “Coincidence—it’s an awful thing.”
“What do you mean?”
“A lot of agents—cops, too—don’t believe in coincidence. Anything strange happens, and they assume it’s fishy. But then there’s Cortés.”
Benton scrunched her eyebrows. “Cortés?”
“Yes.”
“The explorer?”
“Yes. The Mayan calendar predicted that a pale-faced god named Quetzalcoatl would reclaim Tenochtitlán in 1519. And by coincidence, Cortés landed in Mexico in 1519, so the Aztecs assumed he was this god, and Cortés was able to capture Mexico. If Cortés had come in 1520 or 1521, who knows? Coming in 1519—that was pure coincidence. Do you believe in coincidence, Gloria?”
“Yes,” she said. “I do.”
“For instance, here’s one right now: I’m in a position where I need a publicist, and I met you while working on this case. That’s a coincidence, and it really happened, didn’t it?”
“It did. I’m very happy that it—”
“Here’s another coincidence I’ve been thinking about: I was chasing Draker, and Draker once bought a painting from my boyfriend.” Dagny opened her bag and pulled out a copy of the photograph she’d taken of the Williamsons’ stolen Matisse. She slid it across the desk. “Tell me about this, Gloria.”
Gloria looked down the photograph, but did not touch it. “I don’t know anything about this, Dagny.”
“Please, Gloria.”
“I don’t.”
“Michael used to forge paintings. Draker bought this one from him back when he lived in DC, so they must have known each other. What are the odds that Draker’s old friend would be dating the FBI agent that was trying to catch him?” Although the question seemed rhetorical, Dagny waited for an answer.
“Small,” Benton finally said.
“Freakishly small. Right? It’s crazy. But I’ll buy it, because crazy things happen. I can buy one coincidence. I just can’t buy two.” Dagny leaned back in her chair and looked directly into Benton’s eyes. “The second coincidence is that you just happened to talk Michael into visiting Candice on the afternoon they were killed by Draker. I can’t buy that coincidence.”
Benton looked at Dagny. “What are you trying to say?”
“That didn’t just happen by chance. Noel Draker asked you to send Michael to the bookstore with Candice.” Dagny reached into her bag, then slid a photograph of a young woman across the table. “That’s from your college yearbook, Gloria.”
Gloria put on her glasses studied the picture. “So?”
“You were with Noel Draker when he was bitten by a dog.”
“No—”
“I e-mailed a copy of this photo to the dog’s owner, and he recognized you.”
“You found the dog’s owner?”
“Draker did. He killed the guy’s dog.”
Gloria handed the photograph back to Dagny. She sat in silence for a few seconds. “Is this all you have?”
“That’s it.”
“That’s not enough to convict someone for a crime.”
“You’re right. It’s not. But I’d like you to tell me what happened anyway.”
“This is where I should call for a lawyer, I suppose.” Gloria looked at her phone and then turned back to Dagny. A few seconds passed, and then she began. “Michael was still a student. Candice was a young professor. They were dating, but kept it under wraps to avoid a scandal. I knew Candice because she’d asked me to help her get a column in the paper. Being a professor wasn’t enough for her, I guess.”
“And Draker?”
“He was writing software for the Department of Defense, but also trying to raise capital to start his own company. Put every cent he had into an office on K Street. Tried to plush it up to impress the investors. And the word on the street was that you could get paintings of the masters on the cheap from a student at Georgetown.”
“So that’s how he met Mike?”
“They hit it off. Noel was the embodiment of everything Michael loved to paint—man conquering the world and all that jazz. And Noel wanted to be like Mike—handsome, suave, confident. Noel was none of those things—he was this nerd who had never fit in anywhere, this kid who’d been beaten by his father and made to feel worthless, even though he was a genius. Mike made him feel like he belonged in this world. I doubt Noel ever once felt good about himself before Mike.”
Dagny knew something about the uplifting aura of Michael Brodsky. To share this with Draker felt strange. “How did you meet Noel?”
“Candice and Mike set us up on a double date. And then we became a regular foursome. Dinners and plays and benefits. We were in our twenties, but pretending to be adults. And we were always together. Laughing and crying. Supporting each other. Confiding in one another. Dreaming together. I’ve never had anything like it since. It was the happiest time of my life.” A slight smile faded. “And then he left. Once he raised the capital he needed, he went back home to Cincinnati.”
“Why?”
“He said he didn’t
want to build his empire in a government town. There was more to it than that. I think he wanted to show up the rich kids he went to high school with. Maybe prove something to his father. It’s easier to become a big fish in a small pond. I don’t know. He asked me to come with him. A publicist doesn’t move from DC to Cincinnati, so I stayed. We flew back and forth to see each other, but that didn’t last long. His company consumed him, and I wasn’t eager for the life of a mistress.”
“There was no falling out with Candice and Mike?”
“Not then. Later on, I think he felt abandoned by Candice. When his company was under investigation, it was rough for him. I called constantly, offering advice on the public relations aspect, but it didn’t do much good. Michael called him a couple of times. I’m not sure Michael believed that Noel was innocent, but he remained cordial. But Candice stayed silent. She didn’t return his calls. She was the one who could have really helped him, with her newspaper column and her political connections. But she chose not to. It would have looked bad, I suppose, for the tough-on-crime pundit to come to his aid. She certainly didn’t want anyone to know they’d been friends.” Gloria paused, and then added, “I didn’t know he was going to kill them, Dagny.”
It sounded sincere. “Tell me what happened.”
“On the day before the murder, I was walking down the street and a man grabbed my arm. I turned, startled, and there was Noel Draker. He looked thin and sad and empty, but then he smiled and leaned forward and gave me a hug. We stopped at a coffee shop and caught up. He told me he’d been out of prison for a year, that he was working on a new business plan. He asked about Michael and Candice. Told me that he’d like to see them—said he had something he wanted to apologize for. He was vague about it, but I didn’t think anything of it at the time. Said he was going to drop by Candice’s book signing and try to catch her there. Asked if there was any way I could get Michael to show up. Told me not to tell him he’d be there, because he was worried that Michael would stay away. I never, not for a moment, thought Noel would harm them.”
“And so you called Michael?”
She nodded. “I told him that Candice wasn’t doing well and that I thought he might be able to help. Asked him to stop by the book signing, check in on her, give me his thoughts. He told me about you and that he didn’t think he should see Candice. I told him that I wasn’t asking him to date her again—just talk to her. He said he’d think about it.”
“Did you talk to Draker again?”
“No. Never again.”
“After Mike and Candice were killed, why didn’t you tell anyone about this? Why did you protect Noel Draker?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
She sighed. “Because I loved him.”
It was something Dagny could understand. “You loved him?”
“Always. Even after we broke up. Even after I’d denied it a hundred times. I’m sure you can’t imagine this, but he was kind and sweet and smart. I can’t tell you how much it hurt to watch people tear him apart. Tear down everything he’d built. I can’t tell you how much he suffered. I couldn’t bear to watch him suffer again. I cried and cried when I heard Candice and Michael were killed. I loved them, too. But telling the police about Noel wouldn’t have brought them back—it would have just added another tragedy to the pile. I couldn’t do it.”
“And what about the Silvers family, and the children in Nashville? You could have prevented their deaths.”
A tear slid down Gloria Benton’s cheek. “By then, I was afraid. I was implicated. I’d lied to investigators.”
“Why did Draker kill Mike? You said that Candice let him down, but not Mike.”
“Did Noel know you were working on the case?”
Yes, Dagny thought, if he’d been watching the police station or Waxton’s bank after the robbery. He’d written Delta’s reservation software years ago; maybe he’d tapped into it and found the name Dagny Gray, found her address, found her seating assignment, and then given himself the seat next to hers. Maybe he’d even hacked into the Cincinnati Police e-mail server and read the initial message she’d sent, back when the Professor was just curious and didn’t want an investigation. “Yes,” she said.
“Did he know you were seeing Michael?” Benton asked.
Yes, if he’d found the picture of them together at the National Gallery in The Washington Post. And he would have. Dagny nodded.
“Then I think you were the reason he killed Michael. From what I’ve read, Noel was trying to get back at everyone who was against him, right? If you were investigating the case, you were against him. He had no real gripe with Michael. But killing him was a way to get at you.”
There it was: Michael Brodsky would have been alive if he’d never met Dagny Gray. She’d always known it, but had hoped it wasn’t true.
Dagny grabbed her backpack and headed toward the door.
“Wait!”
Dagny turned back toward Gloria Benton. “Yes?”
“Aren’t you going to arrest me?”
“I’ve got no evidence, Gloria.”
“You’ve got my confession, here today,” she shrieked, jumping from her chair. “You have my confession. You can’t just leave. I’ve got blood on my hands, Dagny. I’ve got blood, and it won’t wash away.” She was sobbing.
Dagny just backed out of the doorway. Benton could have called a lawyer, but instead she’d answered Dagny’s questions. That’s all Dagny really wanted. Sending Gloria Benton to prison wouldn’t have made the world any better. It would have just added one more tragedy to the pile. And besides, Dagny figured, for Benton to have to live with what she had done was punishment enough.
She left Benton’s office feeling that the gaps had been filled, and though the answers weren’t satisfying, at least they were answers. Dagny’s worst fear—that her involvement in the case had led to Mike’s death—had been confirmed, and though it did not bring comfort, it seemed to bring closure.
But on the drive home, her conviction began to waver, and the closure began to crumble. There were still holes in the story. If Draker had been lashing out at everyone who was against him, why hadn’t he killed her behind Murgentroy’s house? Why bother with the tranquilizer guns? And what did Senator Harrison have to do with the whole mess?
It was time to move forward, and it was time to leave Noel Draker behind. Still, Dagny couldn’t help but think that if Mike and Draker had once been good friends, maybe Draker was someone worth knowing.
CHAPTER 53
May 9—Cincinnati, Ohio
Dagny parked under the Fountain Square she remembered from the opening credits of WKRP in Cincinnati, then walked three blocks to the public library. A dozen teenagers loitered by a fountain that cascaded over a sculpture of oversize and casually arranged leather-bound books. One teen looked at her with the kind of menace she’d never even felt from Draker. There was too much anger in the world.
Her morning visit to the Ryder house still had her shaking. Harrison, Dutton, and Ryder—there were still too many pieces missing. She walked through the library’s glass doors, then took the elevator to the second floor. Newspapers hung from long sticks on a rack at the front of the periodicals department. Although five days had passed since his death, Draker was still featured on most of them. The Cincinnati Enquirer featured the biggest headline. The letters stretched from one side of the page to the other: “MONSTER.” Dagny picked the paper off the rack and settled into a chair.
The story relayed much of what Dagny had already learned over the past few days. The discovery of Draker’s handwritten enemies list, for instance. (There were 212 names on it; the Professor had guessed them all, and he was now insufferable). The dismantling of the dirty bomb that was sitting in Draker’s California basement. (Dagny had believed that Draker never intended to commit his final crime. She was wrong.) A related article at the bottom of the page was titled Why He Did It. An abusive father. His parents’ troubled marriage. Drugs. Alcohol
. Pressure on their son. Supposed mental illness. Hearsay upon hearsay—everything was thirdhand or worse.
More articles about Draker were scattered throughout the rest of the newspaper. On the second page, Dagny learned that the Williamsons were going to auction their reclaimed Matisse and donate the proceeds to the victims of Draker’s spree. Experts opined that it was one of Matisse’s best works, so it was expected to fetch a hefty sum. Only Dagny and Benton knew it wasn’t real. Although Mike had painted it, it was now a Matisse and forever would be.
A picture next to another article showed Fabee handing the stolen baseball back to a beaming Chesley Waxton. Fabee had found the ball inside of one of Draker’s hideouts. The article noted that the ball had been badly scratched and damaged, but Waxton didn’t care. “My baby has come home,” Waxton reportedly said, weeping. The reporter noted that it was widely speculated that Fabee would succeed the current director.
Enough with the present, Dagny thought. She placed the newspaper back on the rack, walked to the counter, filled out a slip, and handed it to the librarian. “You know, you can read these online,” he said.
“I know. I need the reels.”
He placed her strip in a vacuum tube and handed her a number. Twenty minutes later, the number lit on an overhead screen. She collected the reels and carried them to a microfilm scanner, the likes of which she had not used since high school. After threading the first reel, she flicked on the power and began reading the story of Noel Draker once again.
Reading the paper in its published form was different from reading the text of the articles in an online database. The earliest Draker stories were small blurbs buried in the back of the business pages. As his company grew, these stories grew longer and inched toward the front of the business section. Pictures of him at various galas appeared on the second page of the Tempo section. When he established a scholarship for students at his old high school, it made the front page of the Metro section. Draker’s IPO merited placement on page A4. Quarterly profits landed him on A2. Expansion plans pushed Draker to the front page, below the fold. But only scandal lifted Draker to the top of the front page.
