“Is it possible the Maid is the skinny-jeaned woman? She was at the recycling center on Thursday.”
“It is possible,” Frank said. “She may have seen Bob arguing with the doughy man, but she may not have known the outcome. Maybe she’s been looking for Bob and that’s why she showed up at his house a few days later.”
“We need to make a move,” Charlie said. “The reason people are on these sites is to socialize. If Bob’s avatar doesn’t communicate soon, people will know something is up.”
“So she can tell Bob’s online?” I asked.
Charlie pointed to a graphic in the upper right-hand corner of the screen. “This box keeps track of who has signed in or out. It’s almost like watching the door of a bar on a Friday night to see if your crush has come in.”
Frank circled Bob and Barbara’s kitchen table. “It’s possible Recycle on Thursday was code to schedule a meeting. The skinny jeans woman might have been on her way to meet Bob when she stumbled upon him with the doughy man. If Marissa was right about what she saw—that the skinny jean woman was running away—then she might have known Bob was in trouble.”
I offered Frank the last cookie. “Why didn’t she do something?”
He took a bite and said, “I don’t know, but let’s see if we can draw her out. Type Recycle on Thursday, and we’ll see if we can get her to show up again this Thursday.”
Charlie, posing as Bob’s avatar, posted the message. Bob’s message bubble hung in the air for no more than a second before the Maid abruptly logged off.
“Damn,” Frank said. “We scared her off.”
“But look what we started,” Charlie said as the screen filled with messages sent from avatars visiting from one of Bob’s many fantasy worlds.
Each message, although not identical, escalated in intensity.
Lost job.
Need new one by next week.
Please help.
“What the hell?” Frank whispered, and then turned to Charlie, frustrated. “Log out.”
thirty-eight
I gave Charlie my bike, and he offered to ride it home so Frank and I could meet with the Goldbergs. David Goldberg’s storage facility, our first stop, was a quick drive from the recycling center. Laid out similarly to Harry’s place, it had one distinct difference—it was well-kept. There were flowers planted outside the main office, and the internal streets were clearly designated with names like Park, Madison, and Lexington Avenues. Fresh white lines gave the parking lot a sense of order, and the office looked welcoming, with a smiling attendant at the counter.
Frank made no move to exit the car. I knew the messages on Bob’s screen bothered him. He turned to me and said, “There was a certain level of desperation in those messages.”
I nodded silently, allowing Frank to think out loud without interruption.
“The timing appeared urgent. I don’t know what the ‘job’ represents, but these people seem to think that Bob can deliver something within the week. What could Bob have that these people wanted?”
I shook my head and reached for the door handle. “I don’t know, but I still feel like this is connected to the warehouses. Let’s see what we can get out of David.”
We approached the facility’s main office. Frank held the door for me and a tinkling, cheery bell announced our arrival. Frank, distracted by Bob’s messages, ignored the customer-friendly environment and cut right to the chase, flashing his badge at the counter attendant and asking for David Goldberg. A nice-looking man, about ten years younger than Harry, strolled casually out. I was confused. If I had to choose between Harry and David, I’d definitely go for the latter, yet Cheryl had married David and was cheating with Harry.
“Can I help you?”
Frank repeated his credentials and nodded to the hallway behind the front desk. David invited us in to his office and offered us the chairs facing his desk. His workspace was organized, the plants by the window were thriving, and his face, a placid canvas, showed no sign of nerves.
“We’re following up on the toxic warehouses,” Frank said. “We’ve already met with your cousin.”
“Is there some type of additional clean-up I need to do?” David asked. His hands rested calmly on his desk. “If so, I’m fine with it, although Harry will blow a gasket if he’s required to shell out another penny.”
Frank leaned back in his chair. We already knew the Goldberg cousins didn’t get along and that Harry’s business dwarfed David’s single location. I figured Frank was about to use this knowledge to get David’s back up and crack his composure.
“I guess that’s how your cousin’s chain grew,” Frank said in an obvious attempt to insult David. “He watches every penny.”
“Yeah, well he’s going to need a magnifying glass to find those pennies, because he’s broke,” David laughed. “You know Harry is hard up when he calls me asking for money.” I watched David’s eyes smile in concert with his mouth. I’d been drawing faces long enough to know that a genuine smile envelops the whole face, like I’d just seen. Based on his facial cues, David Goldberg was for real.
“He’s broke?” I asked.
“Harry snatched up a bunch of storage places during the height of the recession only to find out that people don’t store their junk when they’re broke. They sell it or chuck it or simply stop paying the monthly bill.”
I looked at Frank. Harry had portrayed David as a visionless businessman living on a shoestring. If I was right about David’s relaxed attitude, then this cousin rivalry was a one-way street. “The auctions,” I said.
“That’s one way to get rid of it,” David confirmed. “I chose a different strategy. I lowered my prices to keep my long-term customers from defaulting.” He shrugged. “A unit earning something is better than an empty unit. I got this place free and clear from my grandfather and every dollar goes straight to the bottom line. All Harry’s got is debt and empty units. He acts like he’s got money, but he doesn’t.”
“How did the Eco-Systems deal come your way?” Frank asked.
“Harry brought me the deal, actually. Made me pay him a finder’s fee to boot.”
Frank rose and shook David’s hand. “How much debt are we talking about?”
“Millions, unfortunately,” David said as he led us to the door. “I heard he’s got an expensive girlfriend too.” And then he winked.
Frank thanked David for his time, and we headed back to the car.
“David knows his wife is having an affair with Harry,” I said.
“That he does,” Frank confirmed, “and I’ll bet he thinks Harry’s current financial bind is fair payback for ruining his marriage.”
“What’s your take on him?”
“I think he’s a straight shooter,” Frank said as he started the car. “I wish we’d spoken to him earlier because now we know Harry is carrying millions in debt and that helps establish motive. Financial stress makes people do stupid things.”
I shook my head in agreement wondering if now was the right time to tell Frank about Norma’s “mooning” job. Frank’s observation about money as a motivator seemed like a perfect segue to explain Norma’s decision to take a second job offered by my father.
“I need to tell you something,” I said.
Frank swerved the car slightly. “You slept with Charlie?”
Gee, I thought. I’d almost rather own up to sleeping with Charlie than admit to Frank that I’ve been playing super-sleuth on my own again.
“I haven’t slept with Charlie,” I said quickly, and then I described how I discovered Norma had been hired to clean Dr. Corey’s house.
Frank nostrils flared, and I watched as he tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
“You’re mad.”
“At you?” he said. He slowed the car down, found another parking spot, and then turned to me. “I’m not mad at you. If it
makes you feel better, I budget for things like this.”
“You … what?”
“I know I can’t control you,” he said. “Instead, I’ve started to anticipate that eventually you’ll step over the line.”
I wasn’t sure what to make of Frank’s assessment. Did he think I was impulsive and he’d forever be picking up the pieces of the messes I’d be certain to make? Or was he working around my quirks because he genuinely valued our relationship?
“So you’re not mad?” I asked slowly.
“If it were Bob’s case, I’d be furious, but your missing egg is not a police matter. I expected your curiosity might get the best of you.”
I leaned over and pretended to rub the frown marks out of Frank’s forehead. “You’re mad.”
“I’m not happy.” He removed my hand. “But it has nothing to do with you. There’s a reason your father is watching Dr. Corey, and I’m going to bet it’s because Corey knows something about your egg. This crazy experiment of your father’s never came out at your brother’s murder trial, and I suspect he’s been concerned it could resurface. I’m guessing your father wants to bury it for good.”
The word bury was a poor choice of words. If there were a child—and by now I was convinced there was—he or she would be living proof of my father’s perverted sense of morality. “Oh God, what if he gets to this child before we do?”
Frank started the car and pulled back into traffic. “Now you understand the frown marks. Your father is smart, and he’s always one step ahead.” Then Frank grinned and added, “I’m having enough trouble staying one step ahead of you.”
Harry Goldberg had already been notified that Frank wanted to meet with him again, but Frank wasn’t about to make it easy for Harry this time around. The meeting had been scheduled for the police station.
“I’m dropping you at home,” he said. “I’ll need your sketch of Cheryl Goldberg.”
“Seriously? I’m not coming with you?”
“There’s no need for you to meet with Harry.”
I realized that if I hadn’t stalked Dr. Corey, Frank would probably have allowed me to show Harry the sketch myself. I suspected I was being punished for my activities earlier in the morning. I grabbed my backpack and pulled out my sketchbook. “Can I still come with you tomorrow to see Corey?”
Frank hesitated.
“I’ll wait in the parking lot,” I bargained.
No response.
I decided to up the ante. “I’ll wait in the car, and I won’t get out.”
“Fine. I’ll pick you up tomorrow,” Frank said.
I leaned in and kissed him. “Don’t lose my sketchbook.”
I watched Frank drive away, feeling strangely naked without my drawing pad. I walked over to the farm and made my way up and down the rows of neatly planted vegetables. Pockets of weeds brushed up against my legs and I realized the tasks ahead were more than I would be able to handle alone in the coming weeks. The farm, although pristine today, would soon show signs of neglect. Bob’s death had consumed my attention, and at this time of year, every lost day mattered. There was one option I’d considered—opening the farm to people interested in organic farming in exchange for a take of the harvest. The food co-op seemed a likely place to advertise, and since my first attempt to visit the co-op with Cheski had been derailed, maybe I could kill two eco-friendly goals with one stone.
thirty-nine
Cheski held the door of the food co-op open for me. All the amenities typically associated with large-scale food retailers were absent from the store. The co-op didn’t provide carts or bags. To hold costs down, lighting was dim and signage was limited. If you can’t recognize a carrot, you probably need to eat more went the theory. None of this seemed to bother Cheski.
Cheski looked around the store and smiled. “I like it here,” he said happily. We shopped the aisles and periodically Cheski picked up something interesting, sniffed it, and then put it back in place. “Did I ever tell you my grandfather owned a mom-and-pop grocery store in Queens? I used to bag groceries as a kid.”
“Then you’ll fit right in,” I said. I pointed to a man in a stained apron stocking fruit. “He’s one of the managers. Why don’t you start by talking to him about Barbara? I’m going to hang my sign.”
The woman at the customer service counter stamped my hastily prepared flyer and gave me the key to the glass-enclosed community board. I’d considered making the rounds with Cheski to inquire about Barbara’s whereabouts, but I figured I should stick to what I knew—sketching, Dumpster diving, farming, and jelly making. It bugged me that Frank had been “budgeting” for my behavior, as if I were a loose cannon, capable of blowing up his investigation at any moment.
I watched as Cheski moved easily through the store, listening patiently as people answered his questions. Cheski was an experienced cop, and it showed. Listening seemed to be one of my weaker qualities, and I noticed how Cheski gave ample time to each person he interviewed. By the time he got to the bread racks, he turned and gave me a thumbs up. I hurried over.
“So?” I asked.
“Barbara’s got relatives in Wyoming,” Cheski said.
“And you think you can find her? It’s a pretty big state.”
Cheski grabbed a loaf of whole grain bread and yanked off the end piece. “Easily. It’s a big state but also the least populated in the union. I’ll dig up her maiden name and start making calls.” He bit down on a chunk of bread and smiled. “Delicious.”
I handed Cheski a membership form, which he promptly filled out. As he dotted the I in his last name, his phone trilled.
“It’s Frank,” he whispered. “Harry Goldberg cracked. Your sketch of Cheryl did the trick.”
forty
Frank was strutting around the police station when Cheski and I arrived. He returned my sketchbook and planted a well deserved kiss on my cheek.
“Yes, Harry is nearly bankrupt,” Frank confirmed. “He admitted to the affair with Cheryl, and yes, he knowingly rented the warehouse to Eco-Systems without doing his homework.” Frank smiled broadly and ushered us into his office. “According to Harry, he had no idea he’d get stuck with the equipment, but at the time he was happy to get cash he desperately needed.” Frank held up the sketch of Cheryl Goldberg. “Of course, he denied all of this until I revealed your sketch and explained that our eyewitness appeared to remember a few more details since the day we had originally met. I thought he was going to pass out when he saw the drawing of his cousin’s wife. You nailed it, CeCe.”
Cheski continued to chew on his loaf of bread, which he now dipped in a cup of stationhouse coffee. “Did he arrange to have the warehouses emptied to avoid the EPA fine?”
“He lawyered up after I told him the tuba lady could place him at the storage facility the night the equipment was moved.”
“Shoot,” I said. “So he’s not talking?”
“Never say shoot in a police station,” Cheski laughed.
“Darn,” I corrected.
“I knew he’d lawyer up,” Frank said, “but I did get one more piece of information out of him before he shut down. He said Bob had approached him about moving the equipment to the recycling center.”
I clapped my hands. “So he did know Bob! And Bob knew there was recyclable equipment in the warehouse. I feel like we’re nearly there.”
“Hold your applause,” Frank said as he rose and approached the white board. He picked up a marker and wrote Bob in the middle of the board. Then, like a bicycle wheel, he drew spokes emanating from Bob’s name at the center point. “This only comes together when we understand the connection between Harry, Bob, the doughy man, the skinny jeans woman, and the warehouse.”
“And all the diners at Bob’s diorama table,” I added.
Frank fell silent and then drew more spokes and said, “And that’s not counting his online contacts
.” He drew a tight circle around Bob’s name. “Bob is at the center of something. I’m not sure all of these people are necessarily connected to each other, but they all have something in common with Bob.”
Cheski slurped the last of his coffee. “What’s our next move?”
“I’d say finding Barbara is now a priority. She might have insight into Bob’s relationships.”
“Already on it,” Cheski replied.
“Today is Monday,” Frank said. “The false recycling drop is this Thursday, which gives us three days to tighten up the surveillance plan. These scavengers are part of the bigger garbage puzzle, and we need to root them out and work our way up the recycling food chain. If Bob was interested in the contents of the warehouse, then we are too.”
Lamendola poked his head into Frank’s office. “I think I found something,” he said, and I noticed his grimace. Lamendola placed Bob’s notepad on the table, the one that had fallen out of his pocket into the garbage heap. Then he put an identical notepad next to the first one.
“When people dropped off their computers at the recycling center, Bob gave them a receipt. The receipt included their name, address, phone number, and a price estimate of the item being dropped off, in case the item was picked up by a nonprofit and then claimed as a tax deduction.” He pointed to the first notepad. “This one fell out of Bob’s pocket. The other one I found on Bob’s desk at the recycling center. I called the first twenty names in each book.” Lamendola paused and swallowed. “Every person in this book”—he pointed to the pad from Bob’s pocket—“is dead.”
Cheski coughed up a chunk of bread.
“That’s insane,” I said. “Unless the book itself is old, how could they all be dead?”
“That was my first reaction, but on some level, it makes sense,” Lamendola explained. “From what I could uncover, in almost every case, a family member got rid of the deceased’s belongings. It’s not unusual to clean house after the death of a family member. I was, however, surprised to see something valuable like a computer being tossed, so I asked the relatives why they had dumped it. Many said they didn’t know the password, or if they were able to log on, the experience seemed too personal. Regardless of the reason, the owners are dead and their computers ended up at the recycling center.”
Drawing Blood Page 18