Lotello watched Ayres turn around and leave. Ayres didn’t seem to like being told what to do.
* * *
LOTELLO WALKED BACK TO the townhouse and found Barnet. “Finish up here as we discussed. I’ll see you back at the station.”
* * *
LOTELLO WALKED OUTSIDE THE townhouse complex, stretched, looked around the exterior of the complex once more, and headed back to his car. He was surprised to see one of the local beat reporters, Rachel Santana, already at the scene. Santana wasn’t a bad looker, Lotello thought, if you liked the flamboyant, ostentatious, over the top look, heels too high, skirt too short, top too tight, too much make up. “Hey, Rachel, what brings you out here so early?”
“Missing your pretty face, Frank. You know, when the boys and I have nothing better to do, we just start following you around. Figure sooner or later something interesting will pop.”
“Yeah, right. Suppose it wouldn’t do me any good to ask you for a more serious answer?”
“Probably not. Any chance you might have something for me?”
“Probably not.”
“C’mon, Frank, give me something. I will tell you I got an anonymous voicemail message earlier this morning saying Wells was caught without her panties one too many times, that it would be worth my while to stop by her place. Couldn’t pass that up. So what gives, Frank?”
“Nothing yet. Hey, Rachel?”
“Yeah?”
“You still have that voicemail message?”
“Not sure, Frank. Guess I could check.”
“I can get a search warrant for it. Anonymous calls aren’t protected.”
“No point, Frank. You know how I am with technology. All thumbs. Voicemail’s probably long gone.”
“Never learn, do you, Rachel? See you around.”
“Right, Frank.”
Frank drove off, mired in thought. Okay, that’s two mysterious telephone calls this morning, one to the station and one to Santana. Who’s making all these damn calls? And why?
CHAPTER 5
Friday, February 6, 10:00 a.m.
FIRST CAME ANGER. THEN anger turned to rage. Then rage led to confusion. He was becoming more and more confused. It was all becoming more and more confusing. He had not always been this way. Things had not always been this way. But I will prevail. I must prevail.
* * *
THERE SHE SAT, ONE week earlier, frightened, miserable, and all alone, in the lobby of the psychiatric ward of that local Washington, D.C., hospital. Paige Rogers Norman wondered how all of this could have happened so quickly, in the blink of an eye one might say.
Blink once. There was Paige, with husband Cliff and their young son Ryan. It was early 2008. They were on top of the world, happily married for twelve years, the owners of a highly successful local electronics business they had toiled together for more than a decade to build. Paige was now retired from the business and in charge of all family matters, including Ryan and their beautiful Georgetown home. Originally an engineer, Cliff now ran the business and was in the midst of merger negotiations to sell their company to a large national electronics chain. They were both looking forward to more family time together, and hopefully an addition or two to the Norman family.
Blink again. It was still 2008, but a few months later. The economy had come crashing down around them. Paige first thought the economy was just a problem for others, not for the Normans. But then their business began suffering too. Company accounts began drying up. Cliff was forced to lay off employees that were like family to him, and to Paige as well. If that was not enough, the merger fell through and their business failed altogether. The low teaser rate on their home mortgage expired, and the value of their home fell below the amount of their mortgage, making a sale all but impossible. The bank foreclosed on their home. They were now living in a tiny one-bedroom apartment, depleting what little savings remained while Cliff looked for a job to sustain their family—His success had proved unsuccessful. There were no jobs to be had.
When it seemed like nothing more could go wrong for them, something else did go wrong. Terribly wrong. Ryan had become ill. They had found a tumor. It was malignant. Ryan’s only chance was a prohibitively expensive new course of treatment. The Normans had a healthcare policy, one of the few remnants left over from their failed company, but the insurer wouldn’t cover the procedure because they said it was “experimental.”
Cliff had no family to help. Paige had only her parents, retired in Flagstaff, Arizona, barely making ends meet. Frantic, Cliff went to New York and tried to meet with senior executives of the insurance company, but they were in the midst of a weeklong corporate “retreat” at some fancy island golf and polo resort. And unavailable. His messages went unreturned.
Conventional treatment had proved inadequate. Ryan died barely two months later.
Blink once more. Cliff had all but died with Ryan. The Normans were hardly functioning, or even speaking. Paige would watch Cliff go off in the morning without a word, not returning until late at night, again completely silent and withdrawn.
Still grieving the loss of Ryan, Paige worried more and more about Cliff. He wasn’t eating. He wasn’t sleeping. He had nothing to say, except on rare occasion when he barely muttered to himself. Paige begged Cliff to let her take him for medical help. He just quietly stared back at her.
Then, one night, Cliff didn’t come home. Not that night. Not the next day. Not any time thereafter. Paige went to the authorities. They said there was nothing they could do, which was exactly what they did. Nothing.
Weeks went by. Nothing changed. Paige finally decided there was nothing more she could do. Heartbroken, she gave the authorities a forwarding address and reluctantly went to live with her parents in Arizona.
One more blink. Ten days ago, DC authorities contacted Paige. Cliff had finally turned up, on the steps of the Capitol Building. He was physically and emotionally disheveled, ranting at the top of his lungs. “It’s all your fault. You did it. You killed Ryan. Now I’m going to get you.”
The police were quickly summoned. Cliff was committed to a local psychiatric facility. The authorities contacted Paige. She returned overnight to D.C., all to no avail. Cliff was completely unresponsive, to the doctors and to Paige. After expiration of the short mandatory confinement procedures under D.C. law, the hospital was forced to release Cliff. He vanished all over again.
* * *
On the same day Cliff was released, a short story appeared in one of the back pages of The Washington Post under the headline:
LOCAL MAN TRAGICALLY LOSES FAMILY, IS ARRESTED
Anger turned to rage. Rage turned to confusion. He read the words again. It’s all your fault. You did it. You killed Ryan. Now I’m going to get you. Am I crazy? Who knows? But I will prevail. I must prevail.
The Amendment Killer (Brooks/Lotello Thriller) Page 36
