Landis drove past. “I’ve been here. Better parking in back. They renovated an old bank, put a restaurant in about two years ago. Guess there are offices above.”
Figured Landis knew about the restaurant.
Belichek visualized the personalized map of Fairlington he carried in his head — one pockmarked by crimes he’d investigated. This area wasn’t as well known to him as others. “What is this? A little over a mile from the Chancellor house?”
“Yeah. Still Old Town, but not as ritzy a neighborhood.”
“She didn’t inherit office space.”
The back of the building was a hodgepodge of centuries, with practical additions for modern amenities of varying eras added with varying amounts of discretion. Also parking, as promised.
The kitchen’s rear door was on one side. An unobtrusive door on the opposite side opened to a small entry that mostly provided a landing for a set of stairs. Four plaques stacked on the wall across from the door.
Belichek tipped his head toward the Sunshine Foundation plaque. “Suite 301. Third floor.”
“No elevator? They make people climb the stairs to give away their money?”
“More likely, they go to the donors. And the people they help don’t mind a climb.”
Landis grunted, starting up with no more complaint.
What awaited them at the top of the stairs and through a doorway on the left wouldn’t impress donors. Unless they were the kind who preferred their money go to the cause.
The space was neat and clean. The aging furniture didn’t match, though it had the same general look and similar wood tones. Furnished by someone who cared how things looked but not more than sticking to a tight budget.
The small space was crowded.
A middle-aged woman sat behind a desk, with an air of belonging.
A young man with wild hair showing from under a ubiquitous dark hoodie looked as if he’d been crying, from his red eyes and pale face. Two other women, each around forty, and standing across the desk from the guy, were actively crying.
Add in two detectives and the small space was like a crowded elevator with a desk in the middle.
“May I help you?” The woman behind the desk wasn’t crying.
Force of will? Lack of emotion?
“I’m Detective Landis from the Fairlington County Police Department.” His pause let Belichek identify himself, without looking away from the people of the Sunshine Foundation, before he continued. “We’re investigating a homicide.”
“Oh, my God, it is Jamie,” wailed the taller of the two women standing. “I knew it was her address, but kept hoping and hoping—”
“Keep still, Kimby,” ordered the woman behind the desk. “How can we help you, Detective Landis?”
“We’re here to talk to each member of the staff,” Landis said. “And you are…?”
“Celeste Renfro, office manager.” Jamie had written about Celeste’s calm in a crisis. Was that why the woman seemed oddly familiar to Belichek? “You should start with Hendrickson York.”
He recognized the name — he’d been with the foundation since Jamie started it.
Landis looked toward the young guy. He shook his head and pointed toward the hallway behind him. “First door on the left.”
“And you are?”
“Delattre. Uh, Adam Delattre. IT.”
Landis nodded, started turning to the two women on the right.
Released from Landis’ attention, Delattre scooted down the same hallway he’d indicated, but he went past the first door and entered one on the right.
“They’re volunteers,” Celeste said.
Landis made a mistake then, bypassing her to continue to the two other women. He was more than good with most women, but he had a blind spot with women like Celeste Renfro, who prided themselves on not being won over by men like Tanner Landis.
“Your names, ladies?”
“I’m Kimby Curtis and this is Denise—”
“Denise Gutierrez.” The other woman claimed her right to identify herself.
“Thank you. Will you be here awhile?”
“Oh, yes,” Kimby said. “All day. We’ll—”
Celeste Renfro said, “There’s no need for either of you to stay. I won’t have jobs for you today.”
“Oh, but, Celeste—”
Again, Denise Gutierrez cut across Kimby. “We’ll work on organizing the clips Jamie—” Her voice fluttered, then steadied. “—asked us to do when we could. With no one using the conference room, this is the perfect time. C’mon, Kimby, let’s get started.”
If Celeste Renfro weren’t already irked, that would have done it.
Landis appeared unaware, though Belichek knew otherwise. His partner nodded at all three women and started down the hall.
Belichek looked directly at Celeste. “Thank you for your help on this extremely difficult day.”
In the couple strides before they reached the closed door marked “Hendrickson York,” Landis muttered, “Keep mending that fence when we talk to her.”
“Yeah, after you broke it,” he muttered back.
Landis knocked.
CHAPTER TEN
“Wasn’t sure you’d be open today,” Landis said mildly after performing introductions.
Hendrickson York was in his mid to late sixties. He wore his thick gray hair combed back to one side from a sharp widow’s peak. Gray also salted his dark brows. A gray mustache was trimmed precisely above his top lip and not allowed to extend beyond the corners of his mouth, where it would have met a sharp line on each side cutting from nose to chin.
“We at the Sunshine Foundation are, of course, devastated by the tragic death of our founder, Jamison Chancellor. At the same time, we understand not only what the foundation is meant to do and what many rely on us to do, but what Jamie herself would want and expect us to do. After all, she created this foundation to find meaning and value from the murder of her aunt, Vivian Frye.”
That sounded like a drafted, edited, and polished news release to Belichek.
That might explain the stilted delivery.
The office furnishings were a cut above that in the entry area, perhaps the pick of the litter. The desk chair significantly more impressive than the two guest chairs on the opposite side of a desk outfitted with old-fashioned blotter, pen holder, leather portfolio. The computer was consigned to a side table. The star of the room was the half-moon window that started close to the floor and gave a view across rooftops. Some grimy, but looking their best under a bright blue sky.
“Interesting that both the aunt and the niece were murdered,” Landis said mildly.
“I can’t imagine any connection between these two tragedies, especially with the separation of time and place. Not to mention that Vivian’s murder was solved almost immediately and her murderer himself was killed. I can only say that we, those who most loved Jamison Chancellor, count on you to bring the same resolution to her death.”
Did he not recognize that he was at least one more connection between the two cases? Or was he excellent at masking that recognition?
“That’s why we’re here.” Landis’ flat tone told Belichek he was irked, but would tell Hendrickson York nothing. “You knew Vivian Frye, too?”
“I did. Very well. Very well. She was a marvelous woman. Incandescent. She could dazzle you with one look. No one else like her. No one.”
Belichek noted the repetition and the choppiness of his words. Strong emotion behind them.
“What about Jamison Chancellor?”
“Jamie is a great deal like Vivian. Not in looks. Of the girls, Ally looks the most like Vivian. But personality — yes, Jamie is very like Vivian. The spirit. The energy. The innate ability to draw people to her. But also the drawbacks. Impulsiveness, failure to see beneath a glossy surface, failure to sort through the many drawn to her to focus on those of value. Vivian never learned.”
Interesting that Landis’ broad invitation to talk about Jamie took Hendrickson Yor
k back to Vivian.
His priorities? Or a deliberate detour from the recent murder victim?
“What did those traits in Jamison Chancellor lead to?” Landis asked.
York spread his hands, indicating a topic too broad to encompass.
“Here at the foundation,” Landis added as if that’s what he’d always meant.
Belichek appreciated that, especially since disappointment crossed Hendrickson York’s face. He’d been building toward telling them something. He’d invited them to inveigle it out of him.
Good move by Landis to delay his gratification.
“Ah, here at the foundation. You’ve met our staff.” York smiled thinly. “Some hired for inexplicable reasons of Jamie’s, not for their professional experience.”
“The foundation reputation for being well-run is not accurate?”
York didn’t like that blunt question exposing his intimations to the naked eye. “Even the most well-run organization can and should look for ways to improve.”
“Uh-huh,” Landis agreed, then turned the steering wheel. “When did you last communicate with Jamison Chancellor?”
“I told all that to the officer who came to my home to inform me of Jamie’s death.”
“We like to go over material again with witnesses after we’ve laid some of the groundwork,” Landis said.
Something flickered in Hendrickson York’s eyes that indicated he recognized that this time counted more than his first comments. “It strikes me as most inefficient. However, I will cooperate with your unwieldy process to the best of my ability to bring Jamie’s murderer to justice.”
“That’s all we ask. What do you do here, sir?”
“Senior adviser and donor liaison.”
“You were aware Jamison Chancellor was leaving to complete her book?”
“Of course. We planned for the time she would be away.”
“Did you know where she was going?”
“No.”
“Did you have a way to contact her?”
“No one did. As well as geographic distance, she said she needed to sever communication on these occasions. We needed to plan for no communication regardless, because the work of the foundation could not stand still while she was in the mountains.”
“How was she going to get there?”
York looked at him as if he’d said something obscene. “Drive, of course.”
“Drive herself?”
York wouldn’t hear it, but Belichek did. A delicate thread of hope that maybe Maggie was right. That maybe the car in the garage and all the other circumstances were wrong.
“Of course. She does not — did not indulge herself by hiring a car and driver.”
“When was she leaving Fairlington?”
“I do not know. Jamie did not know. She said she preferred to leave it loose.”
“When did you last have contact with her?” Landis asked again.
“I last saw her the Friday evening before Labor Day. When we were all leaving these offices at the conclusion of that work day.”
“You say all. Who was that, specifically?”
“Myself. Jamie. Celeste Renfro. Bethany Usher, a recent hire to assist Celeste in her duties as office manager. Adam Delattre, who does social media and other promotional efforts of the foundation. And two volunteers.”
“Which two volunteers.”
He raised one hand, opening his palm in a gesture of not knowing, and not concerned about that lack of knowledge.
“Did all or some of you go somewhere? Have a drink? Toast Jamison’s time off?”
“No. We dispersed to our various weekends.”
“What did you do that weekend?”
He squinted slightly. “I dispatched personal errands, attended a concert Saturday night with three major donors, and another alone on Sunday. In between, I read.” He flipped one hand over. “Perhaps a bit of television.”
“That Friday or the days before, was there anything out of the ordinary here or in conjunction with Jamison Chancellor? Something that happened or was said or how anyone acted?”
“Not at all.”
“Not even with Jamison preparing to be away for an extended period?”
“The foundation can run without Jamie. As it has these past weeks. not to say that she could not be an inspiring and uplifting presence in the office, but her planned absence was not a major disruption. Even with her permanent absence, the foundation is well-positioned to thrive.”
“What kind of leader was she?”
“She was quite adept at being a public face for the Sunshine Foundation.”
A public face. Not the public face.
Did York fancy himself as a public face for the foundation? Did he see himself at the same level as — or higher than — Jamie?
Landis clearly heard the same thing, because he played into it.
“Someone so young must not yet know all the ins and outs a more experienced manager or leader like you has learned.”
“Jamie was exceptionally quick in some areas, however there is much that only experience can provide.”
“Can you give me an example?”
“One example would be that she allowed herself to accrue stress, as they call it now. Unnecessarily, as a more mature and experienced person would recognize.”
“How did she do that?”
“Take this book. She felt a great deal of pressure about it because there had been a gap between books. Yet, she and no one else created the gap that put pressure on her. She created it by putting off the writing, I’m afraid. More generally she caused herself stress—” His tone dismissed it as an indulgence. “—by failing to handle matters in a decisive, forceful matter as they arose. Now, if there’s no more… I have a great deal to do today, important donors to contact.”
Landis had several ways of playing this. He went for head-on.
“There is more. Earlier, you must have misunderstood something I asked, because you said the last time you saw Jamison was the Friday before Labor Day, but I asked when was the last time you communicated with her? Of course, phone records will reveal that, but it helps us to know earlier in the investigation.”
Under the precise mustache, Hendrickson York’s mouth tightened. “Jamison and I spoke that Saturday morning. We spoke nearly every day.”
Good catch, Landis. Even if York’s switch had been inadvertent, it was a good move to call him on it. Having it pay off was icing. Lots of icing.
“Even when she went on these writing retreats?”
“No, not then.” Was there a flicker in his eyes?
“On the Saturday morning before Labor Day, when you talked on the phone, did you call her or did she call you?”
“I don’t…” Possibly recalling the comment about checking phone records, he amended whatever he’d been about to say to, “I believe I called her.”
“What did you talk about?”
“I merely wished her a good trip and successful writing.”
“What was her mood?”
“Entirely normal. Upbeat. Looking forward to her break.”
“Did she say anything at that time about exactly when she planned to leave for the cabin?”
“She had previously told me she planned to leave Sunday, midafternoon. She gave no indication of changing that plan.”
“Any other details of her departure?”
“Nothing.”
“Any indication she had any concerns or worries, whether about the trip or anything else?”
“Not at all.”
“More generally, were you aware of or suspect any concerns or worries she might have had.”
“Ah.” The older man sat back and templed his fingers. “There were — are — issues here at the foundation, though Jamie was not aware of them. Some might say deliberately so. Her thoughts…” He gestured, open-handed above his head, hinting at air headedness without saying it. “One forgives the young for being blinded by a physique and a certain cast of features.”
“Was that directly connected to the foundation?”
“Perhaps not directly, but it did indicate a lack of… mature judgment that showed in other areas. I’m not blaming Jamie. After all, one must remember how the foundation started. She was a little girl who started something that outgrew her. It’s been difficult to watch her struggling with that.
“I finally persuaded her to get the help the foundation needs. Professional management. To ensure that no longer could her amateur efforts — well-intentioned as they certainly were, but not what an organization needs to attain the next level — possibly hold back the foundation. She eventually saw the wisdom of that. Because at the core she truly did care about the Sunshine Foundation.”
“You were behind a plan to bring in outside management?”
“Jamie was a lovely girl. With a great deal of generosity. Alas, generosity is not the best rudder for steering through the real world.”
Landis nodded noncommittally at York’s failure to answer his question.
Belichek slipped in, “Seemed to work for Mother Teresa.” A poke from another side might prevent this guy from getting too settled and comfortable.
“Ah, yes. Though Mother Theresa was not an attractive young woman. Jamie Chancellor was. And that added so many complications.”
“What complications?” Landis asked.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Hendrickson York touched his mustache. “For starters, in aspects of her personal life. She let it bother her greatly that she has not had support from cousins one would expect to share this cause. One seems supportive, but rarely musters the time to actually contribute—”
Presumably Ally Northcutt, who happened to have a husband in a coma, a cop shot by an unknown assailant.
“—and the other a hard-driving woman without the nuanced intellect to understand Jamie’s advanced thinking for a girl her age.”
Landis clicked his pen.
Yeah, Belichek got the message — both parts of it. The guy was dissing Mags, and Belichek was not to lose his cool. But, c’mon, how often did he?
“A woman who refused to associate her name with the Sunshine Foundation when it might have been of benefit at the beginning. We’ve gone along without her dubious name recognition and her knee-jerk support for law enforcement.”
Price of Innocence Page 5
