Onyx Webb 6

by Diandra Archer

  When the night ended, I returned to my apartment and told Ulrich I’d decided to try my hand at singing, and that I was going to perform under my maiden name.

  I went to bed that night determined to find out if I was any good as a singer, and hoping the man from Hollywood would return.

  Chapter Twelve

  SAVANNAH, GEORGIA

  OCTOBER 8, 2010

  As it turned out, Mika’s fence—the man she turned to whenever she had stolen property she needed to sell—refused to help her move the James Joyce book.

  “Jesus, Mika, you are the worst thief ever,” he said. “You could have asked me to move the nuclear power plant from Chernobyl in mid-meltdown, and it wouldn’t have been as hot as the first printing of Ulysses.”

  “I don’t understand,” Mika said, sitting at the dining room table in her house on Monterey Square. “It’s just a book, for God’s sake.”

  “Just a book? Ulysses is considered to be the greatest novel of the twentieth century. And the copy you brought me? There are only a hundred signed and numbered first editions. This is number forty-four. Every one of them is registered.”

  The fence didn’t say it outright, but he was suggesting he knew who she’d stolen the book from.

  “Just try to get something for it, okay?”

  “Let me ask you something. Do you believe in God, Mika?” the fence asked. “Well, I believe in God, and the only thing that scares me more is Declan Mulvaney.”

  The call ended.

  Mika looked at her watch. It was 12:45 p.m. She had an appointment in forty-five minutes with the catering manager at the Forsyth Park Hotel to go over the decorations and the menu for the Restoring Savannah Foundation event, just three months away.

  Mika gazed at the plethora of bills and invoices in front of her. Some were from the recent Sip ‘n Smoke event. Some were personal, including the mortgage on the house and the lease on the Audi. A few were bills still due from the Restoring Savannah Foundation banquet nine months earlier.

  So this is how the other half lives? Mika thought. If worst came to worst, she figured she could always put the house up for sale.

  Mika turned in her chair to stand and was immediately overwhelmed by her Great Dane-Newfoundland mix, Tiny, who jumped up and placed his massive paws on her shoulders and engulfed her beneath his enormous weight.

  “What? What do you want?” Mika snapped, pushing him away. Tiny barked, and Mika looked over at his empty food bowl. There was no need to check the pantry. She knew the cupboard was bare. Didn’t she learn a poem about this when she was a kid?

  Oh, yeah:

  Old Mother Hubbard,

  Went to the cupboard,

  To get her poor doggie a bone.

  But when she got there

  Her cupboard was bare,

  And so the poor dog had none.

  Mika knew she probably butchered the words, but that was pretty close. It seemed like there was more. Oh, yes—the rest went something like:

  So she went to the baker,

  To buy him some bread,

  But when she came back

  The poor dog was—

  Mika stopped herself just in time. There was no need to upset the dog unnecessarily. “Don’t worry, boy. Mommy is a survivor, right? She got us this far.”

  Mika picked up her cell phone and dialed the catering manager. When he didn’t pick up, she left him a message. “Yes, this is Mika. I’m on my way. Please tell the chef to double the quantities for the tasting. I’ll be there on time, as I’m sure you will be.”

  Mika hung up. “See, boy? Mommy’s bringing back some wonderful leftovers, just for you.”

  “I’d like to see the entire menu first,” Mika said to the catering manager when she arrived at the hotel. “Besides taste, I’m concerned with the overall balance of the evening’s offerings.”

  Mika was shown to a private room and seated at a table set for two people. “I’ve taken the liberty of opening three very nice bottles of wine for your enjoyment.”

  “No, no alcohol,” Mika said.

  “Are you saying there will be no alcohol served at the event?” the catering manager said with a look of concern.

  “No, of course there will be,” Mika said. “I want everyone sloshed to the hilt—they write bigger checks when they’re drunk. I’m not drinking because alcohol dehydrates my skin.”

  The catering manager motioned for a waiter to take the wine away, and then handed Mika the menu. “What are your thoughts about the menu, Mika?”

  Mika pulled out a pen. “Overall the menu looks fairly good, but I have some concerns about temperature and color. The appetizers are too skewed toward hot, and there’s too much green on the plates, not enough red and yellows. And what happened to the sea urchin?”

  “We’ve got some seasonality issues to deal with,” the catering manager said.

  “I told you already, don’t get it from Japan,” Mika snapped. “Have it flown in from Vermont. Their season goes until the end of January.”

  Mika ran through each item on the menu, placing check marks in front of the keepers and drawing a line through the items she disapproved of.

  In the salad, soup, and appetizer category, Mika check-marked the chilled beet and green apple bisque with a sour cream swirl, the endive and kale salad tossed in a buttermilk Cesare dressing, the sea urchin “ice cream” topped with Osetra caviar, potato gnocchi lollipops in a glazed teriyaki sauce, and foie gras and creamy potato leek shooters. She drew lines through the grilled cheese and lobster sandwich (which she felt was a bit too pedestrian) and asparagus parmesan Frisco (because Tiny hated asparagus).

  In the entrée category, Mika check-marked the Nantucket Bay scallops with shaved white truffles over a butternut squash purée, the penne ala vodka (for no other reason than she had a wonderful orangey-rust-colored nail polish that would match the dish perfectly), and the bourbon-marinated skirt steak with fennel slaw.

  Finally, on to desserts. Mika check-marked the vanilla mousse topped with a cranberry gelée and sprinkled in finely-pounded Oreo dust, the German chocolate cake balls topped with shaved coconut and chocolate-hazelnut ice cream, and white, hand-blown sugar swans drizzled in melted Godiva dark chocolate.

  Mika handed the catering manager the menu. “I’d like to try two of everything with a check mark, and make the second of each to go.”

  The catering manager nodded. “What about the wine?”

  “I’ll be supplying the wine myself,” Mika said. She planned to serve a 2004 Château Méaume she’d gotten on sale for $9.99 per bottle, which she intended to pour into the empty Lafite Rothschild bottles she’d been smart enough to fish from the trash the year before. That way she could bill the foundation $950 per bottle and pocket the difference. What they didn’t know wouldn’t kill them.

  Two hours later, a handsome waiter helped Mika out of the hotel carrying an enormous bag of “leftovers” in each hand. But when they walked through the front doors, Mika found two members of the Restoring Savannah Foundation board of directors waiting for her.

  Mika was afraid this might happen. “Well, look who it is. My two favorite board members,” Mika said. “Out for an afternoon nip?”

  “We need to talk, Mika,” the male board member said.

  “I wish I could, but—”

  “There’s money missing from the foundation account, Mika,” the female board member said. “We’re not talking a few hundred dollars either. We’re looking at over a million.”

  Mika got home, turned off the alarm system, and went directly to the kitchen. She dumped half the leftovers in Tiny’s food bowl, and then placed the rest of the food in the refrigerator. Then she dialed her phone.

  “If I put my house on the market, how much can I get?” Mika asked the real estate agent when he answered.

  “The market is a bit soft,” the real estate agent said. “It would be better if you waited another six months, maybe a year.”

  Mika didn’t have six month
s. If she didn’t replace the missing foundation money quickly, she’d be looking at six-to-sixteen in Effingham County.

  “Just sell the damn thing.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  MAY 24, 1993

  Twelve-year-old Newt Drystad sat as still as an ice sculpture in his airplane seat. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t talk. He didn’t look out the window. He looked straight ahead.

  He looked dead.

  When focused on one of the FBI’s serial killer cases, however, Newt was a whirling-dervish, absorbing information at an astounding rate and rattling off statistics and detailed theories. But when he was off, he was off, almost as if some unseen hand had reached out and flipped a switch, killing the power supply that made the boy run.

  Which made flying with Newt a breeze. Pipi simply stopped talking to him about serial killers, and that was that.

  He turned off.

  Getting the Drystads to allow Newt to work with her had been easy. They were in favor of anything that would stimulate their son. It had been their idea for Newt to write letters to the FBI in the first place—to keep him engaged. Pipi met with Newt and his parents on her own dime, and Newt bonded with her immediately.

  Getting the director on board was another story. But Pipi knew the man was a goal-focused pragmatist, and once he’d seen the child’s predictive accuracy, the decision became easy.

  “You run him,” the director said. “And I want it done off the books, understood?”

  She understood all right. The director had no intention of admitting the bureau was relying on information from a pre-pubescent, autistic savant to solve the nation’s most horrific murder cases.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll get the credit when things go well,” the director said. Translation: If things went south, the bucket of blame to come would get dumped on her.

  The wheels of the 727 grabbed the runway and Pipi glanced over at Newt. Though the boy was still in a motionless state, Pipi knew he was conscious. Aware. Taking in everything around him—more alive than other kids his age who spent their days playing with their electronic Gameboy devices.

  Pipi stood and pulled her bag down from the overhead bin. “We’re here, Newt. Grab your bag.”

  Newt did not move. Pipi had forgotten to start the sentence with a proper prompt. “Ted Bundy,” Pipi said.

  “The Mulvaney case isn’t really a serial murder,” Newt said, coming to life and rising to his feet. “Not yet at least.”

  Newt was right, of course. By definition a serial killer was someone who murdered three or more people over more than a month, including a significant “cooling off period” between the killings. “Well, that’s what we’re here to find out, isn’t it?”

  “At this point, it isn’t even a murder,” Newt said. “Technically, it’s just a missing person case.”

  “The Lindbergh baby started as a missing person’s case,” Pipi said as they exited the plane. “That turned out to be a murder case, right? Why don’t you run me through the possibilities as we walk?”

  “That would take forever,” Newt said, following Pipi through the busy Charleston airport. “The possibilities are infinite.”

  Exactly, Pipi thought.

  “Can I help you?” a woman asked from behind the Hertz rental counter.

  “Yes,” Pipi said, stepping up to the counter. “I’m with the FBI. The reservation should be under my name. Esperanza. And, if possible, I’d like to upgrade to a full-size vehicle, if you have one.”

  The Hertz agent didn’t respond. Her eyes were glued on Newt, who’d gone still, staring into space.

  Pipi reached back and touched Newt on the shoulder. “How about you start with the least probable scenarios, and work your way toward the most likely.”

  “Sure,” Newt said. “Probability number twenty: Someone abducted her as part of a human trafficking ring. Probability number nineteen: She’s the victim of a bomb blast or some other catastrophic event. Number eighteen…”

  Pipi returned her attention to the counter agent. “So, how about that upgrade?”

  Pipi Esperanza climbed the steps to the Mulvaney mansion with Newt in tow, and rang the bell. When Bruce opened the door, Pipi flashed her ID.

  “What is this, bring your kid to work day?” Bruce asked.

  “This is Newt Drystad. He will be assisting me.”

  “Assisting you? By doing what, imitating a tree?” Bruce snapped.

  Pipi glanced down and saw that Newt had once again slipped into a frozen state. “Newt is an autistic savant, Mr. Mulvaney. Besides being a prolific math prodigy, he suffers from a rare condition called Selective Paralytic Mutism Disorder, which is what you are witnessing. Let me show you how to wake him up in case this happens when I’m not around.” Pipi looked down and said, “Jeffrey Dahmer.”

  Newt came to life and looked up at Bruce. “If I were pretending to be a tree, don’t you think I would have at least put my arms up?” Newt lifted both of his arms and stretched out his fingers, as if they were branches.

  “Any serial killer name will do the trick,” Pipi said. “And, as you just witnessed, Newt can hear every word you say at all times.”

  Bruce grimaced, knowing he’d just embarrassed himself.

  “Excuse my son,” Declan Mulvaney said from behind Bruce. “It’s been a rough week for all of us. I’m Declan Mulvaney.”

  Declan extended his hand, and Pipi shook it. “Pipi Esperanza, good to meet you, sir.”

  Pipi turned when she heard the sound of an engine behind her, and watched as a black stretch limousine came to a stop in the drive. Moments later, a large Samoan man in a black suit emerged from the vehicle.

  “This is Tank,” Bruce said. “Tank, this is Agent Esperanza from the FBI, and her assistant, Newt.”

  “I remember you,” Pipi said, extending her hand to Tank. “Left tackle, Georgia Bulldogs, right? I thought for sure you were going to the NFL.”

  “I got offered a better job,” Tank said, and then looked down at Newt. “Is he okay?”

  Pipi glanced down and saw that Newt had, once again, slipped into a frozen state. “The Leg Collector,” Pipi said.

  Newt instantly relaxed and released a big yawn. “Sorry,” he said, covering his mouth. “We had a long flight.”

  Bruce yawned. “Well, come on—let’s all go inside.”

  Bruce led everyone into the front sitting room of the mansion and motioned for everyone to sit.

  “You said that Newt’s gift is mathematics?” Declan asked.

  “Yes,” Pipi said. “Newt, what is the distance traveled by light in one year?”

  “9.46 x 1015,” Newt said, followed by another yawn. “Or, more exactly, 9,460,730,472,580,800 meters.”

  “And what does Pi equal?” Pipi asked.

  “Pi equals 3.141592653589793238462643383279—”

  “That’s enough,” Pipi said.

  “That’s amazing,” Tank said.

  “Part of it is math, and part of it is Newt’s extraordinary photographic memory,” Pipi said. “He also knows more about the world’s serial killers than anyone in the FBI.”

  “I’m sorry. How is all of this going to help find my wife?” Bruce asked, running his hands over his face in frustration.

  “Newt’s talent—with math as the foundation—is solving puzzles and detecting patterns, Mr. Mulvaney. He wouldn’t be here if the bureau didn’t think he could help.”

  “Okay. So, what are the chances of finding my wife?” Bruce asked.

  “Right now, there’s a 64.6 percent statistical likelihood of your wife’s safe return,” Newt said. “But after ten days we enter less positive territory, at least as far as the abduction probability models are concerned.”

  “Does he always use such big words?” Tank asked.

  “No,” Pipi said. “Usually they’re bigger.”

  After returning several phone calls to the bureau, Pipi walked around the estate, trying to get a sense of the l
ife Nisa Mulvaney had decided to run away from. It was difficult to understand why she would voluntarily reject such luxury, unless spousal abuse was involved—or she was having an affair.

  Pipi found her way back to Declan Mulvaney’s study, where Newt had been holed up for the last couple hours absorbing the contents of the file compiled by the Charleston Police Department. The chance of Newt drifting into a trance state while she’d been gone was minimal. As long as Newt had a case file in front of him, things were usually fine.

  “So, what did you find?” Pipi asked as she entered the room.

  “I have one conclusion and two questions,” Newt said.

  “Okay, start with the conclusion,” Pipi said.

  “Based on everything in the file—and a few things that are not in the file—I’ve concluded the Charleston PD dropped the ball,” Newt said.

  “Really? How?”

  “The biggest problem is that they’ve stayed focused on Bruce Mulvaney as the primary suspect for far too long.”

  “I don’t need to tell you, but most cases involving a wife’s disappearance end up involving the husband,” Pipi said.

  “I didn’t say they shouldn’t have looked at Bruce,” Newt said. “I’m saying they should have been able to clear him in about forty-five minutes. But as recent as yesterday, they still had detectives trying to make a case against him.”

  “You sure it’s not him?” Pipi asked.

  “I’ve looked at everything. Trust me, it wasn’t him,” Newt said flatly. “Besides, he yawned.”

  “He yawned?”

  “When we first came into the house, I went out of my way to yawn—”

  “And yawning is contagious,” Pipi said. Damn, the kid was smart.