by Andy Straka
“Books?” I said.
Her mother nodded.
Averil's gaze never left me. What connections, I wondered, were being made in her mind? What was she seeing in my face, in my expression, that could cause her so much interest? But then I remembered why I was here.
“Well, thank you, Ms. Joseph. I'm sorry to have taken up so much of your time. It seems a computer hacker is using your screen name to send the E-mails. You might want to change your password.”
“Yes, absolutely. Will you be able to find this person?”
“Not easily, I'm afraid.”
Averil, her smile disappearing, was suddenly pointing to something on my jacket. For a second, I thought she'd noticed my gun, but then I followed her gaze to a spare pair of leather jesses I had tied in one of the loops on the front.
Averil kept pointing.
“My daughter seems fascinated with something on your clothing,” Roberta said.
“These …” I held them up for Averil to see. “These are called jesses, Averil.”
The young woman nodded slightly.
“I use them when I go hunting.”
Without inhibition she stepped forward and ran her fingers over the leather. Then she smiled.
“I apologize, Mr. Pavlicek. Averil's a little forward sometimes.”
“That's okay,” I said.
The girl stepped back.
“I'm sorry we couldn't be of more help to you,” Roberta said.
“I appreciate your time. Just one more question. It may have nothing to do with anything …”
“Of course.”
“Does the term ‘Secret Amphibian’ mean anything to you?”
“ ‘Secret Amphibian’? No. Why?”
“It was contained in one of the E-mails.”
Roberta Joseph shook her head and shrugged.
Averil rocked on her heels. “C-c-cake,” the girl said. Her smile had disappeared as she mouthed the words. Her voice was flat.
I looked to Roberta.
“Averil! You spoke. Good for you.”
“C-c-cake,” the girl repeated.
“Cake?” I said.
“I'm sure she's talking about the cake they baked yesterday at the cafeteria. Isn't that what you were doing when I came in to get you to come home last night, Averil? You were helping the assistant chef with a cake.”
The girl gave no indication that she understood her mother's question. She seemed to have forgotten I was there as well. She stared straight ahead, as if she were looking across some vast distance.
“Well,” I said, “thank you both again for your time.”
“It was our pleasure.” Roberta Joseph showed me to the door.
Averil stayed where she was, swaying slowly back and forth to some silent beat, her eyes suddenly closed.
19
Diane Lemminger worked at a cable TV news affiliate in Richmond, where she had managed to parlay the infamy from her affair with Congressman Drummond into a career as an on-air host. A development not without irony or precedent. The show, appropriately enough, was about politics and scandal and was called Government Offense.
When I told the receptionist in the lobby what I wanted, she eyed me with disdain. Apparently, private investigators were pretty far down the social ladder from television personalities in her book. She closed the glass window to her partition and got on the horn to announce my presence to whatever powers there were. I took a seat on a shapely leather couch with a nice view of a fountain and a courtyard garden.
After a couple of phone calls, the receptionist slid her window open again.
“Someone will be with you shortly.” She smiled, then turned back to her obviously more important work. The partition slid closed with a dull clump, and I wondered vaguely if the glass was bulletproof.
I took in the plush surroundings. The cell phone in my pocket burst to life. I pulled it out, immediately recognizing the Caller ID number on the display screen.
“Hi, Bill.”
“Pavlicek, what in hell are you giving me now? We got a girl in a world of trouble, probably dead. We're trying to find her, or what's left of her, as soon as possible, not to mention the media all over our backs, and we've got you hiding her mother and her sister somewhere and sending me poetry.”
I looked around the lobby. The receptionist wore transcription earphones while she typed, but I lowered my voice anyway. “Pulled those E-mails off of Cartwright Drummond's laptop,” I said.
“You what?” He seemed to be fumbling with the phone for a couple of seconds. “You know, if Abercrombie finds out about this—”
“I think it's a dead end, for now at least. Looks like someone may have hacked in and used the E-mail account, but I've got an address and a room you guys need to dust for prints.”
“I want that laptop. Now. You hear me?”
Boy, did I hear him. Those digital cell phones get great reception. I had to pull the handpiece away from my ear to keep from suffering ear damage from the string of profanity zinging across the line. “You through?” I said when he finally stopped.
“No. But you may be.”
“I'll have Jake bring you the computer,” I said and pushed the button on the phone to break the connection. It immediately rang again, but I shut it off.
The receptionist hadn't looked up from her typing. I contemplated the fountain again, and the courtyard, and the fine Oriental carpet on the floor of the lobby. Maybe I should consider a change in career, I thought, set myself up as some sort of media expert like one of those ex-detectives plying the late-night talk shows. Maybe I needed a vacation.
Fifteen minutes later, a tall, good-looking young black man who said he was a production assistant ushered me past a couple of vacant sets, down a hall, and into Diane Lemminger's office, a softly lit rectangle, furnished à la Madonna—minus the bed, of course. A display on one wall showed several photos of Lemminger with various notable politicians she'd interviewed, including a certain curly-lipped former President of the United States.
“Diane's still in the studio,” the assistant said, “but she'll be through in just a minute.”
“Thank you.”
He bade me sit down in a canvas director's chair next to a chaise filled with oversized pillows and closed the door behind him as he left. Less than five seconds later, the same door opened and in stepped a tall, slender woman with brown hair swept back over her shoulders. Makeup caked her cheeks. She wore a red sweater top, a dark skirt, stockings, and pumps to go with her projected self-importance.
I'd never watched her news show, but she was easy to recognize from the photos on the wall. Not to mention that for a while there, her photo had been plastered all over every TV screen and supermarket tabloid in America. Her azure eyes assessed me with a look of mischief. Her pretty mouth dimpled to one side in a wry smile.
I stood up as she said, “You must be Mr. Pavlicek.”
Her slender fingers were moist.
“Sorry about the perspiration,” she said, wiping her hands with a tissue. “Always happens when I'm under the lights.” Her accent was smoothly Southern, not that different from Marcia's but with a deeper tone and an unmistakable hint of sultry. I caught an updraft of her perfume.
“So,” she said. She draped herself across the chaise. “You don't mind if I lie down, do you? I'm whupped. Please, sit.”
Sit, boy. Yes, ma'am.
I took my chair again as she eased onto her side with her head on one of the pillows, slipped off her shoes, and curled her legs under her in a feline motion. “You told the receptionist you're digging into Tor Drummond's background. Who are you working for, McCartney's campaign?” McCartney was Drummond's opponent in the upcoming election.
“No. I'm not working for any candidate.”
“Oh?” Her smile disappeared. “Who do you represent, then?”
“Others.”
She went right for the jugular. “These others must be really interested in Drummond for you to drive all the
way down here from Charlottesville. Does this have anything to do with Cartwright Drummond's disappearance? It was our lead news item again last night.”
“That depends,” I said.
“Depends?”
“I understand you know Cartwright and Cassidy Drummond.”
“Of course. I used to see the two of them all the time.”
“Have you had any contact with Cartwright Drummond since your breakup with the congressman?”
“Yes. Cartwright contacted me last month, in fact. Would you believe it? She called me all the way from Japan.”
“What about?”
She surveyed me for several seconds without speaking. “I'm working on a story,” she said. “Have you heard of my show?”
I shook my head. “Sorry, don't get a chance to do much TV.”
“Ummm… too bad for you. Anyway, this story involves Tor Drummond. We've been doing a series of exposés on Virginia politicians regarding their ties to big business or special-interest groups, whatever. I've been saving Drummond for last.”
I'll bet you have, I thought. She seemed about ready to lick her chops. Part of the reason her affair with Drummond had come to light, according to the newspapers, had been their very heated breakup. Ms. Lemminger, apparently, had made quite a bit of noise. Looking at her now, I could believe it.
“And Cartwright wanted to talk with you about your story?”
“Yes. That's what she said.”
“How did she know about the piece?”
“Oh, that's easy. I sent out a letter several months ago to several of Drummond's supporters and confidants, offering to let any of them tell their side of the story.”
“Did any others take you up on it?” I asked.
She smiled again. “A few.”
“If you don't mind my saying so, Ms. Lemminger, some might accuse you of having a certain bias when it comes to Tor Drummond.”
“Absolutely. That's why people watch, isn't it? I think I have a good idea what people want.” Her eyes searched mine. She shifted slightly on the couch, revealing a little more leg. “Sometimes I have an especially good idea what people want.”
“Uh-huh. Who else responded to your letter?”
She decided to examine her nails. “I'm sorry. My sources must remain confidential.”
“But not Cartwright Drummond.”
“Well, the poor thing's in trouble, isn't she? She might even be dead.”
“That she might.”
“I don't think her troubles have anything to do with our conversation, if that's what you're implying,” she said. “The information we discussed was strictly background.”
“Background. What kind of background?”
She waved her hand at me as if to dismiss the gravity, if there were any, of the information. “I suppose if you want to learn that you'll just have to watch my show. We'll be taping in a couple of days. It'll air this weekend.” She uncoiled from her chaise, stood, and came around to the back of my chair.
“If Cartwright Drummond is still alive, she may not have until this weekend,” I said.
She leaned over so that she was almost speaking into my ear. “All right,” she said softly. “I'll give you a tidbit. Ever hear of a foundation called Second Millennium?”
I decided I better play dumb. “No. What's that?”
“It's just one of three or four foundations supported by Tor Drummond's money. The Drummond family has always been very philanthropic.”
“So?”
“I'm sorry,” she said, her voice lilting upward. “Can't tell you anymore.”
“Listen. You don't understand. This might be very important.” For a moment, I thought about telling her about the E-mails, but decided I'd better keep it to myself.
“I understand your concern. But I assure you, if I had anything I thought could help find Cartwright Drummond, I'd take it to the authorities.”
“Even if it meant losing your story?”
She said nothing. She stepped around in front of me, placed her hand on the arm of my chair, and bent down to look into my eyes. “Frank, you know, I'd really like to help you, but … “ Her fingers began to gently massage my wrist. The Chanel Number 5 went from trace to thick cloud.
I picked up her hand and put it back on the arm of the chair. “Maybe I should ask the cops to pay you a visit, then.”
“Oh, pooh. I told you, I don't think I can be of any help to them.”
“What about the rest of the Drummond family? They're under enough duress as it is. Running with some new scandal on the congressman now will only add to it.”
“I'm very sorry about that. I really am. But if I don't air these little tidbits, trust me, someone else will.”
“You seem to think television is more important than reality.”
“Reality?” She suddenly grunted in disgust, let go of the chair, and stood. “Let me tell you something about reality. About a young woman who works for a man she believes in, a man who represents all of her ideals about service, and justice, and doing what's right.” Her face grew red. “How she makes the stupid mistake of thinking she's in love with this man, but he uses her, and when she needs him the most, he turns his back on her and walks away. That's reality for you.”
“I see.” I rose from my seat, walked to the door, and pulled it open. “Thanks for your time, Ms. Lemminger and for the information.”
“You're entirely welcome. Anytime.”
“Maybe you'll finally get the story you're after, then.”
“Maybe you'll be part of it, Frank,” she said.
20
I drove back out toward Richmond's West End. I thought about everything I'd learned so far, about what Diane Lemminger had said, and decided I wasn't about to leave Richmond until I tried to find out more about Second Millennium. The E-mails and the TV reporter's upcoming exposé had to have some link to Cartwright Drummond's disappearance.
Roberta and Averil Joseph worked at Physicians’ Specialty Hospital. In the afternoon sun, the facility seemed to glow with the power and authority of modern medicine, all contained in a futuristic brick-and-glass structure that had once been an architect's dream. I parked in the visitors lot and entered the lobby.
Since it was the peak of visiting hours, the elderly volunteer behind the reception desk was occupied with at least three different groups of people who'd come to see their relatives or friends. I swept by this entourage without even looking at the desk. I didn't know exactly where I was going, but it wasn't hard to give the impression that I did.
Around a corner, a set of double doors brought me into a long hallway. About halfway down this corridor was a sign that read CAFETERIA, with an arrow pointing to the right down another hall.
Should I start with Averil? I didn't want to be seen as unscrupulous, attempting to talk to her without her mother present, so my head voted for finding her mom. But I hadn't eaten anything since the doughnuts that morning, and my stomach voted in favor of the cafeteria. The stomach won. At least I could always claim a legitimate reason for my visit. You know, gourmet Pavlicek, driving five miles out of his way just for a taste of hospital food.
After one wrong turn I managed to locate the cafeteria, a spacious affair with salmon-colored walls and tall windows facing the parking lot. A few dozen customers were eating dinner: families with children, a man and a woman in tailored business suits, an elderly couple who seemed to be stooping in prayer over their meal. The food was served assembly-line style, as you might expect. I found a tray, picked up a salad and a drink, and began to work my way down the line in search of an entrée, only to come face-to-face with Averil Joseph.
She was helping to serve pork chops, mashed potatoes, steamed broccoli, and some sort of rice and bean casserole. Another worker stood next to her, a fifty-something woman with gray hair and a flat face. She and Averil seemed to be operating in tandem.
Averil showed no sign of recognition as I slid my tray in front of her and asked for the pork chops. She d
utifully took the plate I handed her and scooped a couple of pieces of meat neatly onto the side, then handed it to her coworker. Averil wore an oversized green apron and a thin paper cap with elastic around the edges. I picked up the plate with the rest of my food from the other woman and moved on down the line, keeping a close watch on Averil out of the corner of my eye.
She seemed to try not to be too obvious about it, but by the time I reached the desserts, she had cupped her hand over the side of her companion's head and was whispering something in the older woman's ear. Apparently Averil could communicate, at least in some fashion, when she needed to. Since there was no one behind me in line, the other woman had no food to serve at the moment. She disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Averil standing at her post in the serving line alone.
I paid the cashier, then stepped back along the counter.
“Averil. Remember me?”
The girl stared straight ahead as if she hadn't heard me.
“My name is Pavlicek. I just visited your house this morning. Remember?”
Her face turned to me then, but not in the way you would expect. She didn't look me in the eye, or even acknowledge that I had spoken her name. Instead she stared at my jacket and the jesses still attached there.
I took them off and gave them to her. “Here. Remember these?”
She turned the leather straps over in her hand as if they were a magic amulet.
“Do you send E-mail a lot, Averil?”
She said nothing, but for the briefest moment she smiled.
“Just what do you think you are doing?” Roberta Joseph's voice came from behind me. Her department must have been closer to the cafeteria than I thought.
I turned to see the nurse in hospital scrubs covered by a half-length, multicolored coat, standing next to the gray-haired cafeteria worker. She had her hands on her hips. Her hair was neatly tucked beneath a surgical cap, and her face looked grim.