“What’s all that for?” DeMott asked.
“Soil samples.”
“Why do you need soil?”
“I can’t say.”
"I told him to open this dump.”
I nodded. But right now I was skating on paper-thin ice, working while suspended. DeMott’s presence would only make things worse later. If they could get worse.
“Don’t take it personally. Please.”
I closed the trunk. DeMott followed me to the wooden shack. A sign on the door said, "Wipe Your Feet." Inside the tiny space Al Gibson sat on a stool, staring out the window. The scavenging birds circled the heaps, calling out.
"When I’m finished, I'd like to look at that log of deliveries.”
He nodded.
Closing the door, I watched the seagulls swooping and swirling through the moist stench. They seemed to enjoy the filth.
“What now?” DeMott asked.
"I’m fine,” I said. “Really. You can go now.”
"That's all right.” He shrugged. “I'll just hang around, in case you need something."
"Your father told you to stick to me?"
He nodded. "Like glue.”
===============
After taking some soil samples and photographing both the landfill and the log book – knowing that Harrison Fielding would never release the records to me – I drove Wally’s Duster to the opposite end of town.
While Monument Avenue was considered a prestigious address, Windsor Farms topped it. Named after the British royal family, Windsor Farms was launched in 1926 as an exclusive enclave for Richmond’s wealthiest families. To anchor its reputation, the developer imported two historic English manors, Agecroft Hall and Virginia House. The centuries-old homes were tugged across the Atlantic board-by-board and rebuilt along the neighborhood’s curving roads. I passed Canterbury and Dover and came to a stop at a Tudor house on Berkshire. The Duster made it look like I’d come for some breaking-and-entering.
But I came to see Martin Thalborough.
I was introducing myself to the elderly woman who answered the door when an equally old man appeared behind her. He was taller by a foot with long white hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and the curved back of a dedicated book reader.
"What's that she’s saying?" he asked her loudly.
"She wants to talk to you," the woman said, even louder. "Something to do with city council."
He lifted his chin, gazing at me through his trifocals. He then dropped his chin taking in the long-distance view over my shoulder.
The Duster.
"It's a loaner," I said.
"Looks more like a burden,” he said. “What's your business, young lady?"
"I wanted to talk to you about your vote on the P Street Landfill."
Now his gaze was dead-straight. "Who you work for?"
Oh, boy.
"Right now I'm working for a private enterprise," I said, “but I’m concerned about how quickly that landfill was pushed through council. Frankly, sir, something just doesn't seem right."
“Mama,” he told the woman. “We'll be in the study. Bring tea."
===============
Norman Thalbrough's study was paneled in dark oak. Book-burdened shelves ran from the sloping ceiling to the floor covered with worn Persian rugs. Two reading chairs with footstools were set next to the windows that looked out at the back garden. A literary cave. It made me want to curl up for a decade and read every word.
"You're not with the newspaper, are you?" He gestured for me to take the other arm chair.
"No, sir, not with the newspaper."
"Good. Because I probably wouldn't talk to you. When this whole mess started I called that newsroom. I told them this landfill stunk -- pun intended. But something’s wrong with journalism these days. The reporters don’t investigate anymore. They have their minds made up and then go find the facts that fit. They don’t listen to me because I represent ‘rich folks.’ Bunch of confused Bolsheviks down there."
His wife shuffled through the curved doorway, carrying glasses of iced tea. Fresh mint sprigs poked from the glasses.
He thanked her and snapped the green sprig, chewing it before settling back in his chair. “Your serve, young lady.”
I told him about my visit to city hall and the landfill this afternoon. "I read the records. Lots of anonymous complaints. But nobody showed up to speak against it."
"Right."
"And it went through council fast."
"Also right." He sipped his tea. He had long fingers with big knuckles. "It went fast because nobody showed up to complain. So the proposal sailed through to a vote."
"But you voted against it.”
"Sure did. And in the beginning of this, the black votes on the council agreed with me. It wasn't like they were putting in a manufacturing plant, employing people. Just the opposite. Nobody wants to work or live near a garbage dump, do they?”
He waited, as if that wasn’t a rhetorical question. Maybe because of the Duster.
“No,” I said. “The stench alone would drive them away."
"You know who runs that district?"
"LuLu Mendant. The mayor."
"Another thing that needs changing. Soon.”
“You want Mendant out?”
“Yes, but it won’t happen.” He waved his big hand, as if saying good-bye. “The man will die in office. They won’t vote him out. What we need to change is a mayor who's also a city council member. He’s got too much power. We don’t have enough checks and balances on him. Not unless we’re talking about the bank’s checks and balances."
“Are you implying something?”
He sipped his iced tea, watching me over the rim. But he didn’t reply.
“You said the black votes were with you, initially. What happened?”
"What else? The mayor got a hold of them. Every last one of them. The mayor gave his marching orders. Told them how much money would come into the city each year. And best of all, the money came from raising taxes on the West End. Class envy. Charge the rich white folks for picking up their garbage. I kept saying they’re still dumping it on land where black people live. But the Mayor’s parrots lined up. And the newspaper squawked just like them. Said I was just mad about higher taxes on the West End. Bunch of malarkey. The whole thing stinks, stinks like parrot poop, you don’t mind my saying."
I liked him. I liked him a lot. But I hesitated to say the next thing. He didn’t seem like someone who wanted words put in his mouth. “Sir, back to the checks and balances comment. Are you suggesting that payments were made, beyond the usual permitting fees?"
He waited. “Like what?”
“Like bribes.”
"I'm not suggesting that.”
"Oh."
"I'm flat-out telling you. Same as I told the newspaper. Somebody’s greasing palms on this thing. There's no other explanation."
"The entire council was paid off?"
“No. Didn’t need to.”
“How so?”
“Simple, really. The mayor showed them how much money they could pump into their districts. Fund all their pet programs with the revenues. They’d look like heroes.”
“That’s it?”
“You’re talking about politicians. It doesn’t need to be complicated. In fact, most politicians aren’t that different from spoiled brats. They wait until nobody’s watching then rob the candy store.”
Chapter 39
That night seagulls flew into my dreams. The birds gusted up drafts of warm air, hovering over my head. Their feathers were dirty and gray. Plunging into the piles of garbage, they tore open the plastic bags and rose again. I raised a hand, shielding my eyes from the blinding sun. Somebody began knocking, knocking on a door.
I turned around, searching for the sound. The wooden shack was there and through the window I saw a man standing inside. It wasn’t Al Gibson. This man was white. Older. Yet somehow familiar. And he was pointing at the sky. Through the glass I could see his
mouth moving, saying something I couldn’t hear.
Look.
Look, he said. Look at the birds.
I stepped closer, trying to see his face. His eyes. They were blue. Like tourmaline.
"Dad?" I said. "What are you doing here?"
But he only pointed at the sky. Raleigh, look at the birds!
I turned around. The seagulls swarmed the garbage and needled their sharp beaks into the torn bags like savages. Then one by one the birds flew away and in a split second the sun dropped. I could see each seagull clearly now. And I could see the things clutched in their greedy beaks. Things gripped tightly in their filthy talons.
Things I did not want to see.
I turned around, gagging, but my father shook his head.
He pointed at the sky.
Look.
The birds kept circling, turning an endless loop of gray against the lapis sky. One bird following another and another, circling back, tracing out the shape of a figure eight that was laid on its side. It was the symbol for infinity. Eternity.
"Raleigh."
I turned around. The shack was empty. "Dad?"
"Raleigh Ann, it's me."
"Dad, where are you?"
Standing outside the shack, I was turning my own circle, searching for him. But all that remained was the garbage, and the peculiar taupe soil in the bluff. And the birds marking out infinity over my head.
"Raleigh Ann, wake up."
I opened my eyes.
My mother was leaning over me, her face so close that her necklace dangled near my eyes.
"I hate to wake you, Sugar Plum, but napping is one of those habits that ruins your circadian rhythms."
I glanced around the room. Disoriented, I felt my heart pounding as I tried to put things in order. City Hall, landfill, Thalbrough. McDonald's for dinner. Came home, house was empty. I turned on the television in the den, laid down to digest two Big Macs and Supersize fries, and apparently fell asleep.
I glanced at the TV. A gardening show was on, the host explaining composting methods. I pushed myself up. That’s what provoked the dream, I decided. Composting. Garbage.
But those birds. And my dad?
"Where were you?" I asked.
“Wally wanted more pictures of the camp. So I got to listen to a man who lives in the jungles of the Philippines. A missionary. He lives on wild mangos and the Word."
"Great."
"He said to let you sleep.”
“The missionary?” I felt a stab of panic.
“No, silly! Wally.”
Her blouse was the color of Hawaiian lava. Her skirt ended three inches above the knee. Her heels were so high she looked like she was tiptoeing. Evening wear. The Pentecostals must have loved it.
“Wally said your boss is working you overtime, that we should let you sleep. I told him, 'A little sleep, a little slumber, and poverty comes on you like a bandit.' He just rolled his eyes and said the camp already delivered his daily allowance of Scripture." She fiddled with the beaded necklace then suddenly reached down, touching my face near the fading bruise. "Raleigh Ann, you don't look well."
"I'm fine. What time is it?"
"Nearly nine o'clock.” She straightened. “I know just what you need. Some decent amino acids. All this running around collecting rocks, hitting doors--your system is begging for protein."
She walked down the hall to the kitchen. I stared blankly at the gardening show. A bearded man who resembled an elf was extolling the virtues of nitrogen, the power of decomposition. Death to life, he said. After a moment, I got up, following her into the kitchen.
She was standing at the stove frying a slab of tofu. Using both hands, she squeezed a garlic press, scraping the pale pulp into the pan. The sizzle had a crisp almost salt-tinged scent. She stared at it, then murmured, “She’s not dating anyone.” Then tossed three more cloves into the pan.
"Mom, do you ever dream about Dad?" I asked.
She glanced over her shoulder. I thought she couldn’t hear me over the sizzling food so I repeated the question.
Still no reply.
"Mom?"
"He had red hair."
"Excuse me?"
"In my last dream, your father had red hair. It was so strange. He never had red hair in real life. Not even as a child. I thought maybe it wasn't him. You know, how that happens. People pretend to be someone you love. That’s how they convince you to do things. Be very careful." Her hazel eyes clouded, suddenly troubled. "Do you understand?"
"I understand you had a dream where Dad had red hair."
"Red. Yes. I wondered about it. Then I knew what it was. Fire."
"Fire?"
"Red. That’s the color of fire. Your father was warning me. And then that lamp blew up in the den. Remember that?”
"You dreamed about red hair. That's all."
She turned back to the stove. Picking up the spatula, she shoved the tofu.
"So," I said, raising my voice to sound cheerful, "tell me about your day."
"The doors won't open."
"Which doors?"
"At the camp. The sign says 'Alarm Will Sound.'"
I felt a chill down my spine. "Those would be fire exits." She must know that. "It’s a warning, about the alarm."
"’Alarm Will Sound’--a strange phrase, isn’t it?”
“No.”
“The words move forward and backward. You can read it both ways. 'Alarm will sound.’ Or, ‘sound will alarm.’ Even more interesting is that the words move in the same direction. Alarm will sound if you open the door. And once the door is open, the sound will alarm you. Check the refrigerator, would you, there's some rice from last night."
I couldn’t move.
“Raleigh.”
A familiar dread crept across my heart. I opened the refrigerator. That high manic spill of words. That strange look in her eyes. I felt sick, having asking about him. I crossed that boundary that shouldn’t be breached. And here came the avalanche.
Heal her, I prayed. Please, heal her.
"Do you see it?" she asked. "Look for a glass bowl. I never use plastic. Hormones leach into the food and make you behave oddly. Remember that."
I placed the bowl on the counter. "I'll be right back."
Walking down the hall to the living room, I tried to breathe. In the parlor I stood at the front windows and gazed at the floodlights around Robert E. Lee. In the dark some guys were throwing Frisbees. The discs shuttled in and out of the bright light, almost stroboscopic.
"What's wrong?" Wally asked.
I turned around. He had one hand on the staircase balustrade.
"Nothing."
"Nadine."
"She mention the fire exits?"
"That forwards and backwards thing? Yeah, she mentioned it. The whole way home. Like I didn't get enough crazy talk at that camp.” He sniffed the air. “But I smell garlic so she couldn’t have cracked completely."
I stared out the window.
"Hey, that was a joke.”
I nodded. “If only I felt like laughing."
Chapter 40
John Breit's condominium on Stafford Street was one of the Fan district's many converted residences, a grand old home chopped up into hovels for students and bachelors. The security phone box was bolted to the brick exterior, beside what used to be one family's front door. I picked up the receiver and pressed #10.
"Who is it?" he said.
"Raleigh." My breath smelled of garlic.
He buzzed the door, and I walked through the foyer-turned-lobby. The front hall had blue shag carpeting, and John stood at his open door. He wore a Braves baseball hat, wrinkled polo shirt, and baggy shorts that looked more like boxers.
“Nice of you to stop by.” He dropped into a green leather chair that was too large for the studio space, then nodded at the baseball game on the TV. "These Braves. Worst thing for my blood pressure."
I sat down in a yellow velour chair. The arms were dirty, almost black.
; "Want a beer?" he asked.
"I don't drink."
"I forgot." He stared at the game. "Actually, I didn't forget. But I thought maybe you'd change your mind now that you got suspended."
“Phaup told you?”
He pushed himself out of the chair, lumbering into the kitchen that was only seven paces away. The back of his polo shirt was pressed into wrinkles from a long night of beer and baseball in the big chair.
"My first guess would’ve been Phaup, too. But she hasn’t made an example out of you. Yet. Then again, she got called out of town, so there’s still time for her to humiliate you publicly."
"So how did you find out?"
"Raleigh, it’s an office full of trained investigators." He rocked a bottle opener over the bottle, then carried it back to the chair. "The betting pool started, for why you got yanked. White Collar thinks you messed up your paperwork—typical, everything's paper with those guys. But they did put some serious cash into the kitty, and considering Phaup's devotion to bureaucracy, it's not that bad a wager. Sex Crimes says you just needed time off, after those guys at the river attacked you."
So that part was out, too. Terrific.
"What’s your bet, John?"
He rubbed his jaw, scratching at the ten o'clock shadow. "You're young. You’re good-looking. And idealistic to a fault. All of that ticks off Phaup. So my bet was that it was something personal between you two. Some argument. By the way, she gave me your 44."
"And you still managed to figure out I was suspended? Wow, you really are a trained investigator."
He grinned, tapping the bottle to his temple. "Every once in a while, I do some real hard thinking." He chugged, suppressed a belch, and said, "So, now that’s out of the way, want to stay for the game? It’s not like you have to get up early."
"Thanks for the reminder."
"Raleigh, stuff happens. I once drank a beer at lunch and got suspended for ten days. Ten days. Imagine what that did for my marriage."
"You had a beer, on duty?"
He looked as if that was the dumbest question ever asked by a trained investigator.
I said, “They told us at Quantico that an agent’s legal drinking age was fifty-seven.” The mandatory retirement age for FBI agents.
"When I signed on, back in the good ol’ days, drinking wasn't considered a big deal. Nobody got bombed. Not on duty anyway. One beer with lunch. Big deal. And after work we met at the bar. Long road trips with nothing in between, we loaded the cooler and enjoyed the ride."
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