Confessions of a Red Herring

by Dana Dratch

  I checked the side of the recorder. The red light was out. The batteries were probably dead. No telling what, if anything, it had captured. And I was going to have to wait to find out.

  Next I headed for Chaz’s office like a woman on a mission. Which I was.

  Chaz displays a lot of tchotchkes in his small space. A collection of NCAA shot glasses. His UVA diploma. A grip-and-grin with Donald Trump. A community service plaque from his college frat. Another grip-and-grin with George W. Bush. Chaz tells people he was “involved” in the 2004 reelection campaign. I happen to know it was taken at a local Barnes & Noble during the former president’s book tour.

  In another shot, Chaz—wearing a helmet and fatigues—gives a thumbs-up in front of a helicopter. The implication: home from a successful mission. The reality: ten-dollar chopper rides at a Maryland air show.

  But that was Chaz. From “sun streaks” that magically appeared in his hair every three weeks to the deep, year-round tan, and that whiter-than-white shark smile, I always wondered: was there any “there” there? Or was he just an empty suit?

  Whatever he is—or was—someone had cleaned his office.

  I grabbed the trash can first. Empty.

  All the pictures were still in place. Except for Bush and The Donald.

  I went through his desk. I knew he kept a dopp kit at work. I’d seen him head to the bathroom to shave before evenings out with clients. And he was compulsive about brushing his glow-in-the-dark teeth after every meal.

  But the kit was gone, too.

  OK, Chaz was in the wind. And it looked like he’d left with supplies. Which meant he had probably gone voluntarily. So where would he go?

  I moved the mouse, and his computer came to life. I clicked the Chrome icon and scrolled through his search history. The last three sites he’d visited were cabin rentals in the West Virginia mountains.

  I picked up his phone and hit “redial.”

  “Thank you for calling Amtrak! For station locations and routes, press ‘1.’ For special travel deals and prices, press ‘2.’ If you would like to speak with an attendant, please press ‘0.’”

  Jeez, Chaz, why not leave me a trail of bread crumbs while you’re at it?

  It was either a clever feint, or Chaz was just as witless as I’d always suspected. I copied down the names of the cabin-rental places and logged off. Clearly the cops hadn’t been looking all that hard or they’d have him already. I’m guessing they viewed him more as an additional witness than a serious suspect.

  It was almost 11. I grabbed my cell and dialed Trip.

  “Hey, Bob Woodward, how’s it hanging?” he said.

  “I think Chaz is renting a cabin in West Virginia. He took the train, so he may have rented a car or caught some sort of shuttle.”

  “Do I want to know how you know?”

  “My name is Anonymous Tipster.”

  “Ah, so you’re a well-meaning public citizen who doesn’t have an ax to grind.”

  “I vote, I give blood, and I love my dog.”

  “And bake apple pies in your spare time.”

  “When I’m not twirling a flaming baton in the Fourth of July parade.”

  “OK, I’d pay to see that.” He dropped his voice. “Speaking of things I’d pay for, what are the chances you could get me a few more of those cinnamon rolls?”

  “I might be able to hook you up. Want to know exactly where Chaz is?”

  “In all honesty, right now I’d rather have the cinnamon rolls. I missed lunch again. But shoot.”

  “Try Blue Mountain Resorts, Shenandoah Retreats, and Joe’s Cabin Rental.”

  “Joe’s Cabin Rental? Joe really used a lot of imagination coming up with that one.”

  “Yeah, well my money’s on Joe. He takes cash. And he’s a lot cheaper than the first two. Plus, it was the last site Chaz visited on his computer.”

  “You do tend to find things in the last place you look.”

  “Oh, and I got the you-know-what.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I know,” I said. “After two weeks, it doesn’t seem possible. The batteries are dead, so I’m guessing it’s got something. I just don’t know what.”

  “Sounds like Baba’s cooking.”

  I looked at the desk clock: 11:03. “Oh, shit, I gotta go! I gotta call Baba!”

  * * *

  Before we left, I had one more dirty job: Walters’ office.

  Unlike Chaz, he was neat to the point of OCD. The room was sparse, the desk was clean, and everything was arranged at right angles.

  I’d heard rumors that he bagged his own trash and carried it out with him. Looking around, I believed it.

  Besides the blotter and the computer, there were only two things on the desk: a black-and-white wedding portrait that appeared to have been taken in the late 1950s. His parents, I figured. And, in a matching frame next to it, a color photo—an older, heavier version of the woman from the wedding shot.

  I moved his mouse with a rubber-gloved hand. Password protected.

  OK, OCD and paranoid. Time to go old school.

  I yanked one desk drawer. Locked. Definitely someone with something to hide. But was it murder or just dirty dealing?

  I grabbed the paperclip out of my pocket and popped the lock on the long, shallow drawer in the center of his desk. Neat as a pin. Post-it notes, pushpins, pens, and more paper clips. It looked like one of those display desks they set up in furniture stores.

  I closed it and popped a small drawer to the right. Pads, pencils, and a giant bottle of aspirin—half empty. Or half full, depending on your perspective.

  And I thought the guy only gave headaches. Who knew?

  I pulled out the pad on top and grabbed a pencil. What the heck, it worked in the movies.

  I lightly rubbed the side of the lead against the top sheet to see if I could raise an image. Like “Dear Diary, Today I killed Everett Coleman.”

  Or “To do: 1. Take bloody suit to cleaners. 2. Buy yogurt.”

  Instead, it revealed a number: 3045550122.

  Ten digits. Too short for an account number. Most of the ones I’d seen were thirteen digits or more.

  A phone number! Three-zero-four was the area code for West Virginia. I’d learned that in Chaz’s office. I grabbed my cell and dialed Trip.

  “Yeah,” he said. Flat.

  “Billy Bob around?” I asked.

  “Left about twenty minutes ago,” Trip said in a very businesslike tone. “Family emergency. He’s going to visit some relatives in coal country. He wanted to be there by daybreak. But I’ll tell him you asked after him.”

  “I think I have the direct number to Chaz’s room,” I whispered into the phone. “I found it in Walters’ office.”

  “No, I’m beat. I don’t think I can make it tonight. But give me the details, just in case I change my mind.”

  “Who’s there—editorial higher-ups or the cops?”

  “First things first. I’ll finish up here, and then see how I feel.”

  “Gotcha,” I said, firing off the number. Apparently our editors were on the warpath again, and I didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out that Billy Bob’s stories were the reason why. “And may the Force be with you.”

  I shoved the phone in my pocket, along with the pencil rubbing. Then I oh-so-carefully replaced everything.

  Next I sprang the larger, file-sized drawer underneath. No files. But what I found floored me.

  One small, intricately carved wooden box. It was a handcrafted, one-of-a-kind item that Annie had brought back from Spain. It had lived in my desk during my tenure at C&W. And the last time I’d seen it, a few days before I was fired, it was holding a pair of silver filigree earrings she’d picked up on another trip. The box and the earrings had both been missing when I’d collected my stuff last week. I’d figured Amy had grabbed them.

  I opened the box. Empty.

  He also had a small bottle of Oscar. My perfume.

  This wasn’t my
own bottle, specifically. But it was the scent I always wore. And, to my knowledge, I was the only one in the office who did.

  Majorly creepy. What was Walters doing with my stuff?

  With the phone in one pocket and the recorder in the other, I was seriously short on storage space. I grabbed the recorder and, with a little rearranging, managed to work it into my bra. I might look a little lumpy. But it was wedged in tight.

  Thank God for the black smock.

  I scooped up the box and slipped it into my jeans pocket. It was a present from my sister, and I was taking it home.

  Elia stuck her head in the door. “Maria and Olga are coming. You must leave now.”

  I slammed all the desk drawers shut and dropped the telltale paper clip into my other pocket.

  Walters was in for a hell of a surprise on Monday.

  Chapter 42

  By the time I got back to the office of Gravois & Co., I could barely keep my eyes open. I collected my weekly cash and—as per our agreement—passed it over to Maria and Olga. After the others left, I stayed behind to tell Les Deux Gravois that this was my last night.

  “Humph!” said Madame Gravois, as she puffed on a cigarette.

  “Two weeks’ notice,” said Mr. Gravois.

  “No, this is it for me. It was a great job. Thanks for the opportunity.” To ruin my lungs. And by the way, just how long will it take to get the lime-cleaner smell out of my nose?

  “Have to give two weeks’ notice,” Gravois insisted. “We see you Monday, six o’clock.”

  “No, this is my last night. I’m giving notice.”

  “We treat you like family, and this is the thanks we get?” said Madame Gravois.

  Family? Outside of a Grimm’s fairy tale, who made family scrub toilets at midnight? With chemicals that were probably banned by the FDA, the USDA, and the ASPCA?

  “I’m sorry, but I haven’t been well. And the cleaning chemicals are aggravating my condition. So, as much as I’d love to work here for the rest of my life, I’m making this my last night. But again, thank you both for the opportunity, and good luck in all your future endeavors.”

  At that point, I’d pretty much burned through my allotted portion of polite. So I turned, quick-stepped to the door, and didn’t look back.

  I had a warm, happy glow. I was finally free. And I planned to sleep for a week.

  The glow faded when I saw my Chevy.

  All four tires were flat. Someone had carved a giant “X” onto the hood. And gouged the word “bitch” into one side of the car. And etched “slut” on the other.

  Four years of college, a dozen years of professional writing, and I could come up with exactly one word. “Crap!”

  I pulled out my cell phone and dialed 9-1-1. The cops had cleared me. Who was I to hold a grudge?

  Once the emergency operator determined it was my tires that had been slashed and not me, she put me on hold. Phone to my ear, I wandered back to Gravois’s storefront. He was locking up. She was sitting in their car, a new burgundy Cadillac, with the window down, puffing away into the cold fog.

  “Someone slashed all four of my tires,” I told her.

  “Humph!” she said, before launching into a wet, hacking cough.

  “I’m on the phone with the police, but they’re going to be a while,” I said to him. “Can I wait here with you or inside?”

  Down the block, an alarm went off. Followed by what sounded like rapid-fire gunshots. Joined by more shots—from a different gun. Gravois sprinted for the car. “Sorry!” he called. “Employees only.”

  “You said I was family. You don’t leave family alone in the dark. It’s cold out here.”

  “Rapidement, Étienne! Rapidement!”

  “You will be fine. Safe neighborhood. Good people. Good-bye!” He hit the door locks, jammed the key in the ignition, threw the Caddie into reverse, then hit the gas.

  So much for good old Uncle Étienne.

  I gave up on the cops and dialed Trip.

  “Hey, you’ll never guess where I am.”

  “Dulles International, about to board a plane to a country with no extradition?”

  “Close. Cold, dark parking lot in Arlington with four flat tires.”

  “Wow, somebody really likes you.”

  “Story of my life.”

  “You caught me just as I was heading home,” he said. “Where exactly is this alleged parking lot?”

  “I-395 to the Arlington exit. Left on Clovis. Then just follow the sound of the gunshots.”

  “Any place you can go ’til I get there?”

  “Not if I want to live to see morning.”

  “Anybody wants your wallet or your car,” Trip said, “you give ’em up and scream like a girl.”

  “Anybody coming after me doesn’t want wheels or cash. I’m dressed like a cleaning lady, and my car has four flat tires. If somebody gets close, I’m gonna kick ’em in the nuts and run like hell.”

  “So how alone are you?” he asked.

  “Well, there’s some guy across the street pacing under a street light and screaming into a cell phone. Oh, shit.”

  “What?”

  “He doesn’t have a cell phone. He doesn’t have a cell phone!”

  “And I’m officially making the jump to hyperspace,” Trip said. “If I get a ticket, you’re paying the fine.”

  “As long as the court system takes baked goods and hot iPods, I’m all set.”

  “We’ve really got to get your life back on track.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know what’s worse,” I said. “The fact that I’ve hit bottom. Or the sinking feeling that I’m not quite there yet.”

  Chapter 43

  By the time Trip pulled up, I was standing by my car chatting with a patrol officer.

  “Jeez, this is much nicer than your usual street corner,” my best friend said. “You’re really moving up in the world.”

  “This is Trip Cabot. Trip, this is Officer Sanchez. He took my report, and he’s been keeping an eye out while I’m stuck here.”

  “Have you talked to her Baba yet?” Trip asked.

  “That would be the elderly Russian female?”

  Trip looked at me in astonishment. “You didn’t!”

  “It was the only way we could keep her from charging out here. I don’t know who’s behind this, but I’m pretty sure she and Nick are safer at home.”

  “I’m gonna roll,” said Officer Sanchez. “You need anything, just dial 911. They’ll get me back out here.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “We should be OK. And good luck with the little one.”

  Sanchez gave a two-fingered salute.

  “Little one?” Trip asked as we climbed into the Corvette, and he cranked the heat all the way up.

  “He and his wife just had a baby,” I explained. “Two months ago. Two months of colic, crying, and sleepless nights. Baba gave him a few suggestions that worked with my dad.”

  “Why do I get the feeling you’d have been just fine on your own?”

  “Tell that to my car. Not only did someone slit all four tires, they engraved ‘slut’ and ‘bitch’ on the sides and carved an ‘X’ on the hood.”

  “‘X’ marks the spot,” he said. “Sounds like some pent-up woman-rage. Especially the vocabulary. Margaret?”

  “I’m thinking Margaret.”

  “But why?” he said. “You weren’t sleeping with her husband.”

  “Or carrying his baby,” I added.

  “There’s something we’re not seeing.”

  “Yeah, and it’s wearing my earrings and perfume.”

  “You’ve lost it,” he said. “And you’ve lost me. I’m beat, and I could really use a cheeseburger. What happens if we’re not here to do a personal meet-and-greet with your tow-truck driver?”

  “You mean if I’m not here with my wallet open, ready to hand over all my available cash? He keeps driving, and we have to wait another two hours.”

  “I was afraid you were going to say that,” Trip
said wearily. “So do you have any actual cash on you?”

  “No, I’m going to write him a bad check.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Why couldn’t you get a flat in front of a five-star restaurant? Or an all-night donut shop?”

  “Don’t tell me. Tell Margaret.”

  “OK, what’s all this about your perfume and earrings?” he asked.

  I told him what I’d found in Walters’ desk.

  “Holy cross-dressers, Batman. Maybe your friend Walters does have a personal life after all.”

  “And I’m his fashion muse? I don’t think so. And Margaret seems to have a violent, irrational hatred of me. Cutting off my credit cards. Disconnecting my power and my phone. Eighty-sixing my health insurance. Probably savaging my car. Hell, Trip, someone tried to give my house back to the bank.”

  “If this was her tonight, she’s getting a lot more violent,” he said. “And a lot more hands-on.”

  “OK, so what if Walters is feeding that hatred? Pointing her in my direction?”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. But I only found the earring box. What if he dropped the earrings somewhere private, where Margaret was sure to find them?”

  “And sprayed around a little of ‘your’ perfume to complete the effect?” Trip said. “It’s diabolical. But why?”

  “How do you kill someone without leaving fingerprints?” I asked.

  “With gloves. Preferably something stylish.”

  “Better than gloves,” I said. “You incite someone else to do it for you.”

  “Especially if that person seems to be drinking more and losing her grip on reality,” he concluded.

  “Which means at this point Margaret could really believe I was schtupping her husband.”

  “And, based on the condition of your car, she’s unraveling.”

  “How did she know I was here?” I asked. “This isn’t exactly her kind of neighborhood.”

  “It’s Friday night,” Trip said. “She probably figured a big-time hoochie like you would have plans. She followed you.”

  My stomach dropped. “Do you know Baba planted herself in the car before I left? Insisted she was coming with me.”

  He smiled. “That sounds like her. The woman is spooky.”

  “But it means Margaret has seen my family. She’s dangerous. This time it was only my car. Next time it could be Lucy, or Nick, or Baba.”