by John Case
‘Turns out – where she lives? It’s a group house, north of Frederick, not far from Emmitsburg.’
‘“A group house,” huh? Let me guess –’
‘You don’t have to. Just say “I told you so” and leave it at that.’
‘So what is it? A monastery?’
‘I don’t know what they call it. Some kinda retreat. Basically, it’s just a big house in the boondocks.’
‘And it’s Umbra Domini?’
‘Yeah. According to the assessor’s office, the place is owned by Umbra Domini.’
Lassiter sat back with a sigh, and the two of them rode in silence for another six or seven miles. Finally, he couldn’t help himself. ‘Well,’ Lassiter said, turning to Riordan, ‘I told you so.’
Twenty minutes later, they turned the corner of a tree-lined street on the west side of Emmitsburg, where five unmarked cars, an ambulance, and a communications van waited behind a line of yellow tape. A second van, matte-black and heavily armored, sat in the middle of the street, while a helicopter hovered overhead, beating the air with its rotors. Nearby, a pair of Emmitsburg policemen joked with a gang of kids on BMX bicycles.
The focal point of everyone’s attention was a large Victorian house, set in a clearing amid winter gardens and leafless oaks. On the lawn in front of the house, surrounded by snow, was a statue of the Virgin Mary, holding the baby Jesus in her arms.
Riordan parked at the curb and, together with Lassiter, walked over to the communications van. An earnest-looking man in a blue windbreaker was sitting in the front seat with the door open, talking on a cellular phone. Seeing Riordan, he raised his chin in silent hello. A dozen other men stood in groups around the van, waiting for something to happen. All of them were wearing windbreakers with FBI on the back.
‘That’s Drabowsky,’ Riordan said. ‘He’s like the number-two guy in the Washington field office.’
‘What happened to “Derek”?’
Riordan narrowed his eyes and faked a double take. ‘You’ve got a good memory,’ he said.
‘So?’
‘I don’t know. He was reassigned, or something. Now I got Drabowsky. He’s a lot more senior.’
‘I’m sure he is, but what’s he doing here?’
‘Well, offhand, I’d say he’s running the show.’
‘I can see that, but why?’
‘Armed carjacking. Bureau’s got jurisdiction.’
‘I don’t mean that. What I’m wondering is: since when does someone like him make apprehensions?’
Before Riordan could answer, Drabowsky tossed the phone onto the seat beside him, swung his feet out of the van, and jumped down.
‘Okay, lissen up!’ he said, clapping his hands to get the agents’ attention. ‘They’re coming out in three minutes! Eight people! One by one! That’s eight! Ocho! Everybody got that?’ The agents murmured assent. ‘Once they’re out, LaBrasca and Seldes will ID them in the van. When I give the go-ahead, and only then . . . the Special Unit’s going to enter the house and clear it, room by room. When that’s done, we’ll execute the search. Any questions?’ Drabowsky looked around. ‘Okay – one other thing. Remember! This isn’t a crack house. It’s a religious community! Only one of the people in there is accused of a crime – so keep your cool, gentlemen! Okay? All right! Let’s go!’
The agents suddenly came alive, taking up positions behind the cars and other vehicles, while Drabowsky strolled over to shake hands with Riordan. ‘Nice of you to stop by,’ he said.
Riordan shrugged. ‘I was in the neighborhood. Anyway, I want you to meet someone. Joe Lassiter – Tom Drabowsky.’
Drabowsky frowned, but shook hands.
‘Joe’s sister was –’ Riordan began.
‘I know,’ Drabowsky said. ‘You aren’t going to do anything that would make the news, are you?’
Lassiter shook his head. ‘No. I just wanta see the sonofabitch.’
‘Good, because –’
‘Whoops!’ Riordan said, with a nod toward the house. ‘Here we go!’
The door to the house swung open and a middle-aged woman stepped out with her hands on top of her head. She was followed by a kid of college age, who couldn’t help smirking, and an old man, pushing an aluminum walker. One by one the occupants of the house filed up the garden path to the street, where FBI agents took each of them by the arm and led them to the back of a van, there to be ID’d.
‘There she is,’ Riordan whispered as the nurse walked out, keeping her eyes on the ground. Then a stocky Korean, closely followed by a postal worker in full uniform, a well-dressed Hispanic man, and a young woman in a smock.
And then, no one.
‘Where is he?’ Lassiter asked, after a long, edgy minute.
Riordan stamped his feet in the cold and shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, glancing toward Drabowsky, who was speaking into a portable phone with quiet intensity. Suddenly, there was movement at the side of the house, as three FBI agents ran in a crouch toward the front and back doors, ducking under the windows. One by one they edged their way into the house, triggering a long and pregnant silence on the street.
Lassiter expected to hear a fusillade of shots. But there was nothing. One minute passed, and then another. Then a third. Finally, the agents came out with a collective shrug, shaking their heads as they holstered their guns. ‘Okay,’ Drabowsky called out, ‘let’s take a look around.’ Immediately, he and two other agents began walking up the path to the house.
Lassiter turned to Riordan. ‘I thought Grimaldi was supposed to be inside,’ he said.
‘So did I,’ Riordan replied.
‘They took a picture of him. He was right over there.’
‘I know.’
‘So what the fuck?!’
‘I don’t know!’
Together, Lassiter and Riordan followed Drabowsky up the path. As they mounted the front steps, an FBI agent stepped in their way. ‘You can’t go in there,’ he said.
Riordan brushed past him, flashing his ID. ‘Fairfax police. It’s our case.’ Reluctantly, the agent stepped aside.
The scene inside the house was one of determined simplicity. The walls were white and mostly empty, the hardwood floors polished to a high sheen. There was no television or stereo that Lassiter could see, and very little furniture – all of it old. The only ‘ornaments’ were crucifixes above each of the doors, and an eight-by-ten framed photograph of Silvio della Torre, smiling benignly from one of the walls in each of the rooms.
The common areas of the house were functionally spartan, and of very little interest. The dining room held a long, pine table with wooden benches on either side – and nothing else. In the kitchen, cabbage soup simmered atop a porcelain stove that had seen much better days. The living room held eight straight-back chairs, arranged in a circle, as if the room was dedicated to group discussions – which, in fact, it probably was.
Most of the FBI agents were in the bedrooms, searching through drawers. Lassiter and Riordan went from one room to another, looking for Drabowsky. Finally, they found him.
He was going through a dresser in a room whose only other furniture was a mattress and a standing lamp. There was a jar of Silvadene next to the mattress, and a wastepaper basket half full of gauze bandages.
‘This is his room,’ Lassiter said, picking up a copy of L’Osservatore Romano. ‘He was here.’
Drabowsky looked over his shoulder. ‘We missed him,’ he said.
‘Bad luck,’ Riordan replied.
‘You should see the bathroom down the hall,’ Drabowsky remarked. ‘It’s like a field hospital. She was taking real good care of him.’
‘Can I ask a question?’ Lassiter said.
Drabowsky looked at him. Shrugged.
‘How the fuck did he get away?’
Drabowsky shook his head. ‘There’s no need for foul language,’ he said primly.
‘He was under surveillance!’ Lassiter came back. ‘How the fuck does he get away with you guys sitti
n’ on his doorstep –’
‘He wasn’t under surveillance,’ Drabowsky replied.
‘Bullshit!’ Riordan exclaimed.
‘I saw the picture!’ Lassiter said.
‘We terminated the surveillance last night.’
Riordan gaped. ‘You what?’
‘Whose fuckin’ idea was that?’ Lassiter asked.
‘Mine,’ Drabowsky answered.
Lassiter and Riordan exchanged glances.
Riordan shook his head. ‘Tom – for chrissake – why did that seem like a good idea?’
‘Because it’s a rural area!’ Drabowsky shouted. ‘Maybe you noticed. We had half a dozen people coming and going out of the house, and the van’s sitting outside like a spaceship! I didn’t want to spook him, okay?’
‘“Okay”? No, it’s not “okay.” The sonofabitch took off,’ Lassiter said.
‘It would seem,’ Drabowsky replied.
Lassiter turned on his heel and walked out the door, with Riordan close behind. ‘This is wrong,’ Lassiter muttered. ‘Something about this is really fucked.’
‘I know what you’re saying.’
‘It doesn’t even make sense!’
‘I know.’
‘I mean: so what if Grimaldi made the surveillance? What’s he gonna do – dig his way out?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know what was on their minds!’
As they left the house, striding down the path to where the cars and vans were waiting, Lassiter saw the nurse talking to an FBI agent. Her hands were cuffed, but she was smiling – beatifically – as she answered his questions.
Lassiter hesitated.
‘Don’t,’ Riordan said.
But Lassiter couldn’t help himself. He walked up to her, grabbed her by the arm and spun her around.
‘Your friend butchered my family. You know that, don’t you? Killed them in their sleep. Real tough guy –’
‘Hey,’ the G-man yelped, pulling Lassiter’s hand away. ‘Hey hey hey! That’s enough of that.’
Juliette looked up at him with soulful brown eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘But . . . what did you expect?’
Suddenly, Riordan waded in like an Irish Mahatma Gandhi, bouncing his palms in the air. ‘C’mon! C’mon! Let’s go! No problem!’ Taking Lassiter by the arm, he pulled him away from the nurse and led him toward the Crown Victoria.
‘What did I expect?’ Lassiter muttered. ‘What did I fucking expect?!’
It was Thursday before Judy returned to the office, and when she did, she wore a black patch over her left eye.
‘It’s over,’ she said, closing the door behind her.
Lassiter looked up. ‘What? Your career as an umpire?’
Judy stopped and cocked her head: ‘No,’ she said, ‘your career as a P.I.’
Lassiter leaned back in his chair. ‘Oh?’ he said, hating himself for trying to sound so cool and disinterested.
‘Yeah. That’s what I was celebrating. We’ve got a deal. In principle, anyway.’ She dropped into a chair and crossed her legs. ‘As soon as their lawyers draw up the papers and our lawyers look ’em over – you’re outta here.’
‘Good. How’s the eye?’
‘The eye’s gonna be fine. You interested in how much you’re getting – or should I just give you what’s fair and keep the rest?’
‘No,’ Lassiter said with a laugh. ‘I’m actually pretty interested.’
‘I thought you might be. Bottom line? Eighteen five.’
‘Really!?’
‘Of which you get to keep twelve, with the rest going to minority shareholders.’
‘Such as you.’
‘Such as me. And Leo. And Dunwold. And everybody else. Even Freddy’s got a share or two. Enough to buy a car, anyway.’
‘It’s called profit-sharing.’
‘I know what it’s called –’
The interoffice phone rang, and Lassiter answered with a soft ‘Yeah . . .’ He listened for a moment, then put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Speak of the devil,’ he said. And then, ‘All right, send him in.’
Judy gave him a quizzical look.
‘It’s Freddy – do you mind?’
‘No,’ Judy said, starting to get up, ‘I’ll come back.’
Lassiter shook his head. ‘Stay where you are. This will only take a second. I want to talk to you about how we break the news.’
There was a short knock on the door, and Freddy came in, looking glum. Seeing Judy, he said, ‘Hey, Jude – I heard about the accident. Glad you’re okay.’ Then he turned to Lassiter. ‘I’ve been running those names you gave me –’
‘You can probably wrap that up. I’ve already given the list to Jack Riordan.’
Freddy shook his head. ‘I’m all done.’
‘You’re done?”
‘Yeah, pretty much.’
‘And . . .?’
‘They’re dead.’
Lassiter looked at him for a long moment, as Judy’s gaze shifted from one man to the other. Finally, Lassiter said, ‘What?’
Freddy gulped. ‘I’m sorry, but . . . what I said was: they’re all dead.’
31
LASSITER WAS SPEECHLESS. They’re all dead?
Well, then, he thought, it’s over. There’s nothing left to do, and in the end there was never any point to it at all.
The pensione’s guest book, and the list it generated, had led him to hope that some of the women and children might still be alive. If they were, his investigation might have served a larger purpose than revenge, or the satisfaction of his own morbid curiosity. So long as there were survivors, he could save them. And they, in turn, could help him to discover why Kathy and Brandon had been killed.
But now . . . there was no one, and the realization left him stranded and cut off, with nowhere to go.
The truth is, every one of us is staked out and helpless, Lassiter thought. Cars crash, planes fall, disease spreads, and innocents are caught in the cross fire. It’s a wind-shear, guinea-worm kind of world – with an undertow. That’s why people prayed, took vitamins, and crossed themselves. It’s why they knocked on wood and wrote letters to the editor. It was all a way of maintaining the illusion that life was fair, or if not fair, somehow survivable – you could protect yourself and the ones you loved if you took the right precautions, or had the right mojo. Except, you couldn’t. Because the vitamins didn’t work, the letters went unread, and no one seemed to be listening to the prayers.
Why Kathy? Why Brandon? Why not?
‘Uhhh . . . Joe?’ Freddy was looking at him. ‘You okay?’
‘Yeah,’ Lassiter said. ‘Sorry. I was just . . . surprised.’
‘I could tell. Anyway, like I was sayin’, I’m pretty much done with the list –’
Lassiter raised his hands. ‘Wait a second: What do you mean, “pretty much”? Are you done, or aren’t you?’
‘There’s one I haven’t found,’ Freddy said. ‘Not yet. So I can’t be sure she’s dead, but –’
‘Which one?’
‘Marie Williams. Minneapolis.’
Lassiter thought about it. ‘How hard did you look?’
Freddy shrugged. ‘Not that hard. Just what we did for the others.’
‘Give me an idea.’
Freddy pulled a folder out of his briefcase and slid it across the desk. He tapped it with his fingertips. ‘There’s a report on each of them. Jody did half and I did half, and we subbed out a couple of the ones overseas. Routine stuff, mostly. I mean, it wasn’t like we were looking for the Unabomber. It was real basic.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, first we called the telephone number, if we had one. And if we didn’t, we got it from the Criss-Cross, using the address. Most of the numbers were kaput, but a coupla times we got the husband. And we talked to neighbors. The current stuff’s online, and we have CD-ROMs that go back about eight years. You key in the address, and it gives you the people on either side, across the street – wherever. So we calle
d them and . . . one by one, they told us what happened. Same story, each time, with a couple of variations. Mother and kid were killed, sometimes the whole family. Always in a fire.’
‘And there were kids in every case?’
‘Boys. They were always boys, and none of them was older than four.’
‘What about Tokyo, Rabat – you chase them down, too?’
‘We used subs, but – yeah, same thing.’
‘I want to be sure. How much of this was actually confirmed? And how much is just –’
‘Hearsay?’
‘Yeah.’
‘None of it’s hearsay. We got a date for every incident, and checked it with the local paper. We talked to insurance investigators, fire departments, funeral homes – they’re all dead.’
‘Except for what’s-her-name . . .’
‘Yeah. Except for her. Maybe.’
Lassiter opened the file folder and glanced at the dossiers. None of them was longer than a page.
Helene Franck
302 23 Börke SW
Vasterhojd, Sweden
B: August 11, 1953 D: September 3, 1995
August Franck
same address
B: May 29, 1993 D: September 3, 1995
Cause of death: Smoke inhalation assumed
Confirmation of death:
1. National Registry (#001987/8), Stockholm
2. Annelie Janssen of Vasterhojd
033 – 107003 (neighbor)
3. Mäj Christianson of Stockholm
031–457911 (mother/grandmother of deceased)
Investigator:
Fredrik Kellgren
Agentur Ögon Försiktig
Stockholm, Sweden
031–997–444
3 Feb. 1996
Lassiter paged through the forms until he got to the sheet for:
Marie A. Williams
9201 St. Paul Blvd. #912
Minneapolis, Minn.
Tel: 612–453–2735 (Until 9–9–91)
‘What about the one you couldn’t find?’
‘She was one of mine,’ Freddy said. ‘Let’s see. I called the number – it’s dead.’ He held up a finger. ‘No, wait – that’s not right – I got a fax tone. So I redial about thirty times in a row and finally somebody picks up and says the obvious: ‘This is a fax number.’ I’m like – wait, wait, I know that, don’t hang up. Anyway, it’s an insurance agent, he’s had the number for a couple of years.’