by Otho Eskin
“Except him. That was later. Can I use your restroom?”
“You can use the restroom when I say you can.”
I turn to the second man. “Do you ever have anything to say, Gene?” I ask. “Are you allowed to talk? Or is talking above your pay grade?”
“I’m asking the questions here,” the first man announces.
“I’m getting bored talking to just one guy,” I say. “I thought it might help improve the quality of our exchange if Gene jumped in now and then.”
“You’ll talk to whoever I tell you to, which is me,” the beard declares.
“Have it your way, but I’d sure like to get some input from Gene. I’ll bet he has some helpful ideas.”
“Detective, you’re failing to appreciate the seriousness of your situation. You seem to treat our investigation as some kind of joke.”
“How am I supposed to treat it?” I ask.
“Three capital crimes have been committed. Maybe more.”
“It looks like an assassin threatening the prime minister’s life was killed,” I say. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
“There was an attempt on the life of a visiting head of state. One man, a man employed as a waiter, was shot and killed, and an employee of the US government was seriously wounded. Involvement in any of these incidents could be an act of treason.”
“If you say so.”
“Are you clear about how serious that is?”
“I want to use the bathroom.”
“Two men were killed in one of the stairwells at the hospital you were visiting. One man was shot. The second seems to have fallen down three flights of stairs and broken his neck.”
“You’re telling me this because?”
“You were at the hospital when this happened.”
“If you say so.”
“We say so. Do you know anything about this incident?”
“It doesn’t sound like something the FBI would be interested in. More like a standard police investigation.”
“The police are at the scene of the crime now. But it struck us as curious you were present at the scene of all these crimes. Don’t you find that curious?”
“Not really.”
The man with the beard is about to say something I expect to be rude when there’s a disturbance and the door to the room flies open. A man I haven’t seen before sticks his head in and gestures urgently for one of my interrogators to come out. Gene goes out the door. In less than ten seconds, he’s back in the room whispering urgently into the ear of the man with the beard. They both look agitated, and the beard guy jumps to his feet, almost knocking over his chair. Together they rush from the room without even saying goodbye.
“I want my gun back,” I say. They pay no attention to me.
I sit in the room as patiently as I can, shifting position from time to time, but nothing I do makes the chair comfortable. I find myself checking my watch every minute or so. I’m getting anxious. I need to get out of here and get to the theater.
After almost half an hour, the door opens and a woman walks into the interrogation room. “Your assignment, Detective Zorn,” she says, “was to protect Prime Minister Nina Voychek, not get yourself arrested by the FBI. Did I not make myself clear?”
Carla Lowry looks around the little room with profound distaste. She’s not often reduced to spending time in places like this. “Why aren’t you looking after Nina Voychek?”
“I think I’m being held by the FBI.”
“Not any longer, you’re not.” She sits at the table across from me. “You can go. But before you do, I have to warn you—Goran Drach is now here in the States.”
I feel my heart beat faster. I lean forward. “Where is he?”
Carla looks a bit abashed. “We don’t know. I wish I did. All we know is he’s here in the country.”
“How can you not know where he is? What’s the point of having a domestic spy agency if you can’t find master criminals wandering around doing nasty things? A man you said was acting as the agent of the Russians … and you lost him?”
“You don’t have to be offensive, Marko.”
“You told me Goran Drach was working with the Russians to organize the assassination of Nina Voychek. That would suggest some priority.”
“We know he’s here through the CIA source in Montenegro. That’s sensitive information from the CIA and is strictly close hold. They get into a snit if anyone talks about their secrets.”
“I promise to be discreet.”
“The CIA is very put out that the Bureau has lost their guy. I’ve already been lectured to once today. Don’t you pile on.”
“How do you know he’s here?”
“Goran confirmed his arrival to his co-conspirators back in Montenegro by coded message. He told them he arrived here and was in place and they should prepare for the final act. Meaning the assassination of Nina Voychek and a counterrevolution back in Montenegro.”
“When did he arrive?”
“A few days ago.”
“And we’re just hearing about it now?”
“He’s traveling under an assumed name and we therefore have no record of a legal entry. The FBI’s Counterterrorism Division has an alert out to all field offices to find Goran Drach, but that’s going to be nearly impossible. We have no pictures of Goran and no good description.”
“How can you have no pictures?”
“Goran Drach always stayed behind the scenes while his brother ran the country. When the Drach regime was about to collapse, Goran had all his pictures and TV film of him purged. Once he arrived on US territory, he simply vanished and is presumably operating under a false identity.”
“No description?”
“Goran has no notable distinguishing characteristics or features: medium height, medium build. Speaks English with an accent.”
“That’s half the population of the United States.”
I steal a glance at my watch trying to be discreet. Carla sees me. She sees everything.
“The CIA’s source in Montenegro saw him as recently as three weeks ago. The agent asked him for a description. Not much help there. The source described Goran as having a black beard and a large Slavic nose.”
“That’s it?”
“One little detail. The source told the agent that Goran recently had surgery done secretly by a doctor who is loyal to the old regime.”
“Why would Goran do that?” I ask.
“We have no idea.”
“How do you expect me to protect Prime Minister Voychek if you don’t know what the prime conspirator looks like or where he is?”
“I’ve told you all I know. But you haven’t told me all you know. You haven’t told me what the Greek said.”
“The Greek admitted he was the middleman who recruited the assassin.”
“Who is the assassin?”
“Domino.”
“You’re certain it’s Domino?” Carla asks.
“I’m certain.”
“According to our sources, the New York mob families are searching for this man Domino. Why would the mob be interested in Domino?”
“Beats me.”
Carla looks at me suspiciously. “If they find him, that might save us all a lot of trouble. How did the Greek communicate with Domino?”
“He claimed his contacts were always through intermediaries and never in person. His principal go-between was a man in Paris who tragically fell into the Seine a week or so ago. The Greek said Goran Drach ran the operation locally to assassinate Nina Voychek.”
“The CIA knows Goran has close ties to Vladimir Putin,” Carla says. “They’re pretty sure Putin and his intelligence agencies are financing this assassination. I assume Goran and the Greek worked together and that Goran had Domino take the Greek out before he was able to tell anyone about who else was involved in the plot.”
“That doesn’t get us anywhere,” I say.
“The man in Chicago you asked me to protect … what’s his c
onnection?”
“He was one of three men, along with a bunch of friends and neighbors, who organized what amounted to a lynch mob and killed Mykhayl Drach, Goran’s brother.”
“Why did they do that?”
“They’re from Montenegro and their families and friends back home suffered horribly in the massacres General Drach unleashed. In that part of the world, a crime like that must not go unpunished.”
“Why do you keep looking at your watch?”
“I have an appointment at the Capitol Theater.”
“You’re supposed to be keeping Nina Voychek safe. Leave the Victoria West investigation to your partner, at least until the prime minister is out of the country. Keep your focus on the main issue: the safety of the prime minister.”
“Vickie’s murder and the plot to assassinate Nina Voychek are linked,” I tell Carla. “Trust me. When I have the answer to one, I’ll have the answer to both.”
“Take care of your theater business, then get to the embassy. I want you in that car with Nina Voychek when she goes to the airport.”
“I want my gun back. Your guys stole it.”
Carla looks at me thoughtfully. “I thought you never carried a gun.”
“This situation is different. Nina Voychek is in danger. I need my gun.”
Carla bites her lower lip. “That might be difficult. I believe my guys, as you call them, have confiscated your weapon and sent it to the FBI lab for inspection. I don’t think they trust you with a loaded gun. I’m not sure I trust you.”
“Carla, I must have that gun.”
“I’ll get it back for you. It may take an hour or so. I’ll send it to the Montenegro Embassy. You can pick it up from the ambassador when you get there.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
THE ACTORS ARTHUR Cantwell, Natalie Esmond, and Tim Collins; the director, Garland Taylor; Lily, the props girl; and Michael Toland, the stage manager, are standing on the stage when I arrive. Cynthia Fletcher is here, too. Their expressions range from unhappy to enraged. In addition, Hanna Forbes and two bored DC homicide detectives have been added: one is Roy Hunt. Lucy corralled them to stand in for the stagehands who were backstage the night of the murder and as backup for what I hope will be closure to the Victoria West murder investigation and the exposure of the identity of Domino.
For this occasion, Hanna wears a bright yellow scarf along with her usual somber outfit and her Orioles cap. I thought it would be a treat for her to be at the scene before the crime takes place instead of, as usual, afterward.
Lucy is still deeply shaken by last night’s experience at the reception, and she doesn’t look like she’s slept for days.
The set is as it was on the night of the murder. With the help of Lily and Michael Toland, everything is back in its place.
“Thank you for coming here today,” I announce, trying to sound positive. “I know this is an inconvenience to many of you.”
“You’re damn right this is an inconvenience!” Garland Taylor yells at me. “It’s more than an inconvenience, it’s an outrage.”
I’m spared having to reply by Arthur Cantwell demanding: “How long are we supposed to hang around this place? We’ve answered all your questions. I’ve had it! I’m leaving. If you want to stop me, you’ll have to arrest me! And if you do, I’ll sue your ass.”
“We have jobs,” Michael Toland says. “We have families and I’m losing money.”
Even Cynthia Fletcher raises her voice above the tumult, soon to become yelling at me.
“A friend and colleague of yours—Victoria West—was murdered,” I announce loudly, over their voices. “Right here in this theater. I don’t give a damn about the inconvenience this causes you. Or your clients.”
That shuts them up, at least for a moment.
“Hanna Forbes,” I go on, “our crime scene specialist, is here to stand in for Victoria West and walk through the action as it was on the night of her murder. I want everyone to take their places where they were just before Victoria West entered the drawing room.”
The group grumbles and mills around until everyone finds their places, some on the set, some backstage behind the double doors.
Hanna crosses the stage to the fireplace and Michael Toland gives her the play script.
“How am I going to get through the evenings, here in this house?” Hanna reads, a bit uncertainly.
“I’m sure Judge Brack will be kind enough to drop in occasionally even though I will be away,” Garland Taylor reads from the script.
“Oh, every evening, Hedda,” Arthur Cantwell calls out from his place. “Every evening. And with the greatest of pleasure. We two will get along famously, I’m sure.”
“Then Hedda crosses to the drawing room door,” Taylor directs.
Hanna removes one of the prop guns from its bracket, crosses the stage to the drawing room door, stops uncertainly, looking first at Taylor, then at me.
“Your line, Hanna,” I say encouragingly.
Hanna finds her place in the script and reads, “I’m sure you flatter yourself that we will, Judge. Now that you are the only cock on the walk.”
Hanna opens the door and goes inside.
“Hedda steps into the drawing room,” Taylor reads. “And closes the door behind her.”
“Bang!” I say loudly. “That’s supposed to be a gunshot. Drop your prop gun, Hanna. As close as you can to where you found the gun when you first inspected the crime scene.”
There’s a thud from inside the drawing room.
“The actors on stage are supposed to jump to their feet,” Taylor says. “They open the door to the drawing room.”
“What has she done?” Natalie calls out.
“Blackout!” Garland Taylor says, then to me. “Why are we doing this?” he asks me.
“Because I’m telling you to.”
As Hanna emerges from the drawing room, I say to Taylor. “You came onto the stage at that point. How long would that have been after the shot?”
“Almost immediately. Ten seconds at most. I told Michael Toland to douse the stage lights and I went directly to the drawing room. I told everyone on stage to leave and I said something to the audience.”
Taylor walks to the double doors, turns, and returns to the drawing room and peers in, then looks back at me. “Okay? Satisfied?”
“What was supposed to happen after Miss West entered the drawing room?” I ask.
“There’s supposed to be a few seconds of silence. Then the shot. The actors do their thing, open the door to the drawing room, say their lines, the stage lights go out. End of play.”
“Lucy,” I say, “stand backstage behind the double doors. When I tell you, walk around the exterior wall of the drawing room and stand for a count of five at the far wall, then return to the double doors. Don’t run: Just steady pace. Got it?”
“Got it.”
I silently count as Lucy disappears around the corner of the outer wall of the set. After fourteen beats, she reappears, passes by the props table, and joins the group at the double doors.
“What does that prove,” Garland Taylor demands.
“It proves there had to be two people involved in the killing,” Tim Collins says.
“Very good,” I say. “There had to be two people. When Vickie got into place in the drawing room, the killer simply opened the door to the backstage area and fired. It would have been a difficult shot. It was dark in the drawing room and the shooter, we calculate, was twenty feet away. The killer had to know exactly where she would be standing. The killer then passed the murder weapon to someone else, who went to the drawing room from the stage set, placed the gun in Vickie’s hand, and then made a speech to the audience. Have I got that about right, Mr. Taylor?”
“Are you saying I put the gun in Vickie’s hand? That I planned Vickie’s murder? Why should I kill Victoria West?” His hands are shaking. “She was my leading lady in an important production. I had everything to lose by her death.”
“Goo
d question: why would you want to kill your leading lady? And why did Victoria West forget her last line?” I ask.
After a long, uncomfortable silence, while I wait for someone to speak up, I say, “Maybe I can help answer that. She didn’t forget her lines. She was making a statement.”
“That makes no sense,” Arthur Cantwell says. “She said I was evil and would be exposed. Why would she say that to me? We were about to announce our engagement.”
“She wasn’t talking to you,” I say. “She was talking to Garland Taylor, who was standing just behind the double door. This was all about a young actress named Valerie Crane. Remember her, Garland? Remember Valerie?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Taylor shouts at me.
“She was in your show Blue Remembered Hills. Halfway through the run, she quit. She just walked off the show. Why would she do that? Something that would ruin her career? While she was performing in your show, you invited her to your apartment to give her notes. You molested her. She resisted. You wouldn’t stop until finally, not to put a fine point on it, you raped Valerie Crane.”
“This is absurd! Nothing like that happened.”
“What’s this got to do with Vickie’s death?” Michael Toland asks.
“After you were finished with her, you threatened to blackball her if she said anything to anyone about what happened. You said you’d see she’d never be cast in a play in New York again. You said you’d end her career.”
“Jesus!” Garland yells. “You’re making this up. You have no evidence of anything.”
“That’s true. But, like you, I’ve read the emails between Vickie and Cynthia I found on Vickie’s laptop. I’ve seen Vickie’s message saying she planned to denounce you on opening night of Hedda Gabler.”
“What evidence do you have that I ever looked at Vickie’s computer?”
“I have no evidence. But I know you did read her emails.”
“You’ve got nothing.”
“You knew the secret names Vickie used in her correspondence with Cynthia. No one else knew the names they used for each other. But you knew that Vickie used the name ‘Ariel’ when we talked that first night. The only way you could have known is if you’d read Vickie’s emails. You got hold of her computer, searched her personal emails, and learned she signed herself ‘Ariel.’”