“The main problem is, this method takes a long time to encrypt and decrypt material, so it’s not very useful for long messages or larger files. My method speeds up the process. It lets the user encrypt large messages or files with a public key, but only someone with the private key can decrypt them.”
Though I still didn’t grasp the technicalities, I began to see why his innovation could be valuable. “With all the emphasis today on cybersecurity, I guess that would be a big improvement, right? Assuming, of course, that it works.”
He sat taller in his molded-plastic chair, looking almost offended. “Oh, it works. To use it on a commercial computer, you just have to embed the process in a hardware chip. I asked DeLeuw to see if the guys at Encyte would create a prototype chip. We could use that to demonstrate the system to big tech companies, maybe even government security agencies.”
“So you gave him . . . what? A copy of the software program?”
Dion nodded. “More than a month ago. He acted really interested at first. But time went by, and whenever I called to ask if Encyte had responded yet, he kept putting me off and making excuses. Finally he just stopped answering my phone calls and my texts.”
I could understand Dion’s frustration, but I also imagined that he could make a major nuisance of himself when he got locked on to an idea.
He chewed and swallowed another mouthful of bran muffin, then continued. “So a couple of weeks ago, I dropped by DeLeuw’s house again. He was in a meeting with his assistant, that guy Ross. They both acted totally pissed off that I came by without an appointment. But what else was I supposed to do?”
It was the first time I’d ever heard of someone being stalked over a computer program, but I could see that, in some ways, Dion still had the prickly temperament of a teenager. “Your dad said you saw a news item, that another company was coming out with the same kind of system.”
He finished his coffee, then crushed the paper cup in one hand. “One of the big Chinese firms. I can’t even pronounce the name. But from the description, it sounded almost exactly like my concept.”
I felt pretty safe in the hospital coffee shop, even if he lost his temper, so I pushed further. “The police seem to think you got so mad that you went to DeLeuw’s house and killed him. Because you thought he made a deal with the Chinese and cut you out.”
Dion shook his head miserably. “I can’t even say for sure that he double-crossed me. Maybe it was a coincidence—maybe the Chinese already had a similar idea in the works. Could even be that Encyte knew something similar was in progress, and that’s why they were stalling me. All I know is, somebody beat me to the punch!”
Poor choice of words, I thought, even though DeLeuw hadn’t been hit with a fist.
Nick’s son leaned forward and lowered his voice again. “Yeah, I blew off some steam to Pop, and we both called DeLeuw a few names. But I never even went back over to the guy’s house again. By then I was thinking more about suing him, not that we have the money to do that. I hadn’t figured out what I was going to do about it, if anything. But going to his place in the middle of the day and killing the guy? Really?”
It did seem like a radical departure for someone who lived in a world of abstract thought rather than action. On the other hand, he did seem possessive about his invention and angry at DeLeuw’s dismissive treatment. And while Dion might not be in peak shape, at about six feet he was tall enough to have swung that lethal chunk of stone.
Even if he hadn’t committed the murder, could his invention possibly have been a factor in some way?
“You said George would have programmed the key himself, and might be the only one who had access to it,” I remembered, “and you told Detective Bonelli that. Did the police search for it? Could George have had it on him when he died?”
“She said they went through his clothes, his study, practically the whole house, and didn’t find anything like what I’d described. But that doesn’t mean much.” Dion shrugged. “The chip would be really small, so if it’s hidden, it could be almost anywhere.”
A food-service lady approached our table. “Mr. Janos?” she asked in a quiet tone. “They have your father’s test results in the ICU, anytime you want to go back.”
We thanked her, and Dion dashed from the cafeteria. I took the time to empty both of our trays into the garbage before following.
By the time I reached the ICU waiting room again, Dion was talking to a middle-aged Asian woman in green scrubs. She spoke softly, but I could just overhear her telling him that his father had not suffered any damage to his heart.
“It appears to have been just serious angina,” she said. “We’ve given him some medication, and we’ll keep him here overnight to make sure he’s stable.”
“Can I see him?” Dion asked.
“For a few minutes, but then he really ought to rest. He shouldn’t have too many visitors tonight.” Because I stood close behind Dion, the doctor glanced at me. “Are you family too?”
“No,” I admitted, “just a friend, and I don’t need to crowd in on this. Dion, please tell your dad I wish him a speedy recovery. I’ll check in with you tomorrow to see how he’s doing.”
The young man’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Thanks for coming, Cassie.”
On my drive home, I felt drained from the day’s highs and lows. I was glad Nick’s prognosis was better than expected, and that I’d made the effort to support Dion. In talking to him, I also might have learned some helpful things about his conflict with DeLeuw. Not that I had any business trying to solve the murder.
Only now did I have a chance to reflect on my date with Mark, which was great until the very end. Did he like me as much as I did him, or not? Another mystery . . .
My life sure had become a roller-coaster ride lately. And tomorrow I had to revisit the murder scene to pick up Harpo.
At least we should be able to rule him out as a suspect!
* * *
A charcoal-gray Dodge Charger sat parked across the street from George DeLeuw’s house, with a young man in dark sunglasses relaxing behind the wheel. This told me that while the place was no longer an official crime scene, the Chadwick police still kept it under surveillance.
I parked up the driveway, just outside the closed garage and next to Anita’s older-model blue Toyota sedan. Even with a cop across the street, I felt a shadow of fear as I raised my hand to press the front doorbell. When that glossy oak door with its beveled window swung open, might I walk in on another scene of carnage? Maybe with Anita lying dead this time?
My post-traumatic-stress fantasies evaporated when the housekeeper peered briefly out through one of the sidelights, then opened the door with a smile. “Hello, hello, Cassie!” she greeted me like a long-lost sister. “Come on in. I’m sure somebody else is gonna be very glad to see you too!”
She’d certainly been keeping the place spotless, as if still trying to live up to George’s exacting standards. On the other hand, she had a lot less to dust and vacuum these days. Only the major pieces of furniture remained. Even in the front hall, nails jutting from the walls and empty niches and pedestals showed where DeLeuw’s beloved artworks had been confiscated. I tried to avoid looking into the study, but even passing by I noticed that the bloodstained Oriental rug had been removed from that room too.
“He’s upstairs,” Anita told me, and it took me a second to remember that she meant Harpo. “I already put him in the carrier so he wouldn’t give you no trouble.”
The Persian had never given me any trouble in the past when I was grooming him, but I guess being shut up for a week alone in a bedroom could make any cat irritable. “Thanks, Anita,” I said.
We climbed the steep, curving front stairs, the same as on my visits to the grooming studio. Faint halos on some walls told of more missing artworks. The big, modern credenza remained on the second-floor landing, but I missed the huge, abstract painting, with slashes of sunset rose and gold, that used to hang above it, and the hand-thrown ceramic bowl
with the wavy edge that had rested on top of it.
The FBI had really moved all those pieces into storage in a warehouse? Because something might have been used as a weapon, or because DeLeuw might have hidden the key chip in one of them? Dion said it could be made small enough to stash almost anywhere. I guessed they had already checked the furniture thoroughly before leaving it in the house.
Tempted to do a search of my own, I reminded myself that this was not my job. I’m just here to get the cat, not to solve DeLeuw’s murder.
But . . . what if I found evidence that might acquit Dion? I hated to see poor Nick driven to the verge of a heart attack with worry, especially if his son really was innocent.
A throaty wail of distress from behind one of the doors helped me refocus on my immediate goal.
“It’s okay, kitty!” the housekeeper called back in a lilting voice. “Your friend Cassie is here. She’s gonna take you home with her!” Anita pushed down the polished-brass latch and swung the door open.
George’s spacious bedroom followed the same theme as the rest of the house—beige tones and clean-lined furniture meant to emphasize the artworks. The décor looked bland now that everything colorful and creative had been removed. Anita gestured toward the bed, where Harpo paced as well as he could inside a big, soft-sided pet carrier. The mesh panels all around gave me a good view of him, and vice versa.
I sat down next to the carrier and unzipped the front far enough to stroke his fluffy blond fur. “Hi, handsome! Been having a rough time, haven’t you? Sorry about what happened to your person—that sucks. I’m sure you miss him.”
Starved for attention, the Persian rubbed his cheek against my hand so hard that he shed meringue-like fur inside the carrier. Anita also must have noticed his desperation, because she smiled sadly.
“I fed him this morning,” she said, “and he used the litter pan right before you came. I cleaned it out so you can take that, too, if you want.”
“Might as well. His routine will be disrupted enough, so he should have familiar things around him.”
While I continued to pet the restless cat, Anita and I also discussed what kind of food he was used to eating and a few kinds that didn’t agree with him.
“Do you have his medical records in case of any emergency?” I asked.
She blanked for a second as if she hadn’t thought about that. But after a quick trip to George’s home office, she came back with vet records for all of Harpo’s vaccinations, his neutering, and other medical procedures. She even handed over his official papers from the breeder who’d sold him to DeLeuw.
“That’s great,” I told her. “Whoever he ends up with will appreciate having all of this background.”
I zipped the carrier shut again and we all went back down the long front staircase.
Just as we reached the landing, I saw someone outside walk swiftly past the great room window. I stopped short and caught Anita’s arm.
She jumped a little too, but mainly because of my reaction. “It’s okay,” she chuckled. “It’s only Louis. He was coming by to mulch today.”
I remembered Marjorie’s suspicions that one of George’s household employees had been pocketing some of his smaller artworks in the past. Whether or not that was true, no harm in giving both Anita and Louis the run of the property, I guessed, now that so much had been confiscated. Louis wasn’t likely to sneak a sectional sofa into the back of his landscaping truck, especially with a cop posted across the street.
But if Anita or Louis had been stealing, could that explain the missing computer key? What if one of them had taken home, say, a small antique box or a Chinese snuff bottle that George had used as a hiding place for the chip? The thief would now possess an even more valuable treasure . . . maybe without being aware of it.
As the housekeeper and I continued on to the entry hall, I asked, “Does it make you nervous, working here now by yourself?”
“It does sometimes,” she admitted. “’Specially since they never caught whoever killed Mr. DeLeuw. I figure that person probably doesn’t have any reason to hurt me, but who can be sure? What if he thinks I know more about it than I do?”
I set Harpo’s carrier down for a second on the marble tile floor. “At least you have a cop watching the house. Is he here all day?”
“Seems to be, at least for the few hours that I’m here. And sometimes, like today, Louis works outside at the same time.”
Let’s just hope she doesn’t have anything to fear from him, I thought. Unless they’d been conspiring . . . something I found hard to believe.
“But when I’m all by myself, it does get lonely,” Anita went on. “Mr. DeLeuw was a quiet, serious man, so he didn’t make a lot of noise. Still, just having him around was company.” She scanned the high-ceilinged entry hall. “And now that all the art is gone, it’s so empty . . . sometimes I feel like I’m working in a mausoleo.”
A tomb, I thought. “I suppose the police checked everything for fingerprints?”
“They left that messy dust over everything.” She flapped her hands to indicate the front rooms. “If they found the killer’s prints, wouldn’t they arrest somebody by now?”
“You’d think so.” I glanced toward one particular empty pedestal. “At the funeral home, you said you thought they were looking at this stone sculpture as the murder weapon.”
“Sí! I heard two of them talking about how it could have made the mark on the back of his head.” Anita hugged herself. “I never liked that stone thing—it just looked like it was made to hurt somebody. It even had a bad name!”
The pedestal still bore a small bronze plate, so I stepped closer to read the artist’s name and the title of the work. Both seemed to be in Italian. “Timore? What does that—”
“I asked Mr. DeLeuw once, because we have almost the same word in Spanish.” With an obvious shudder, Anita translated, “It means ‘fear.’ ”
Chapter 11
“Goodness, Cassie,” said Sarah. “That’s the most beautiful cat I’ve ever seen!”
I scratched Harpo under the chin. “Pretty impressive, isn’t he? He’ll look even better after we give him a good combing.”
I had just eased the Persian out of his carrier and onto my grooming table, where he shook out his fur to its full glory. His “imperfect” tail curled in a jaunty plume over his back. Unfortunately, in just a week with only minimal brushing by Anita, it all had gotten a bit matted. He’d need some tidying up before we put him into his boarding condo.
Meanwhile, Harpo’s round, copper eyes seemed to be asking, What’s going on? Why aren’t I home? And where’s George?
Sarah steadied him while I started untangling his thick undercoat with a wide-toothed comb. I dropped puffs of fur, the texture of cotton candy, into a step-on garbage can near my feet. Anytime I hit resistance, I braced the area with my fingers and used the comb as a pick to loosen and remove the mat. Though this had to be done carefully, I knew Harpo’s coat well enough by now to make good progress. If anything slowed me and Sarah down, it was the cat’s attempts to rub his head or hip against our hands.
Even when Sarah stretched him on his side as I’d taught her to, so I could work on his belly and legs, Harpo didn’t resist. Maybe he was grateful to us, and not just for the grooming.
“What a sweetie.” She beamed at him.
“You see why I couldn’t let this nice guy go to a shelter. Or even to somebody in DeLeuw’s circle who might not treat him decently.” I paused to spritz the cat’s fur with an antistatic moisturizer to help with the dematting. “So, did anything important happen here while I was out?”
“Not much. The Burmese was acting restless this morning, so I let her out to climb around on the shelves for a while. And a Mrs. Reynolds called to ask if you could do a Maine Coon for her. I took a message, up at the desk.”
I mulled this prospect. “Coons can be a challenge—they’re so big, with so much hair. I just hope he’s not in too bad shape, or too cranky.”
“If he is, charge extra,” Sarah suggested. “Other than that, it’s been quiet. One guy did stop to look in our window, but he didn’t come inside.”
“Oh?” I gently loosened another clump of blond fluff.
“Too bad you weren’t here. He was young and good-looking. Probably disappointed to see an old lady like me behind the counter!”
My comb caught in the mat and I froze it there for a second. “What did he look like?”
“Medium tall. Brown hair that kind of came down over his forehead. And he was wearing a blue blazer with some kind of badge on the lapel.”
Damn. I didn’t say it out loud, but Sarah’s sharp instincts picked up on my reaction anyway.
“What? You think he was some kind of health inspector?”
“If he was, I think he would have come in, don’t you?” I went back to my grooming. “I’m just worried it might be my ex.”
“Oh dear. Not the one who knocked you around?”
I nodded. “Mom said he just got a job as a security guard in Morristown. That would explain the blazer. Could be he drove out here on his lunch hour, trying to track me down.”
“I didn’t think of that. Then maybe it was lucky you weren’t at the desk this morning, eh? If he thinks I’m ‘Cassie,’ maybe he won’t be back.”
Silently, I regretted the brilliant idea to include my nickname as part of the name of the shop. Too late to do much about that now, though. I told Sarah, “If he ever does come in, and introduces himself as Andy, feel free to chase him off with the pepper spray.”
Once we’d restored Harpo to his full handsomeness, I buckled his powder-blue collar around his neck again. Its rolled design let his neck ruff lie smoothly—DeLeuw obviously had chosen the collar with care. It held the cat’s license tag plus a tiny silver heart stamped with his name and George’s home phone number. I reflected sadly that the number was obsolete now and Harpo’s next owner, whoever that might be, would have to change it.
“Speaking of boyfriends, how did your date go last night with Dr. Coccia?” Sarah asked.
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