“No, it wasn’t. But I gave you the number,” Rita said.
“I’m sorry. We cannot provide information without verification that you actually made that call.”
“Can’t you tell me just the name?”
“I’m sorry we cannot provide that information.”
“Now let me get this straight,” Rita said. “I can’t call and get the name associated with this phone number because it isn’t on my bill. However, I could dial this number today, call you back in a month when I get my new bill, and as happy as a clam, you’d tell all.”
There was a brief pause on the other end. “I’m sorry. The number must appear on your bill in order for us to provide that information.”
“Never mind.” Rita hung up. She eyed the greasy garlic bread slice. Frustration made her hungry. Instead she dialed the phone again.
“Hello,” she said in a timid voice, then sniffed. “I was wondering if you’d help me with something.”
“Yes ma’am. May I have your account number please?”
“Oh,” Rita stopped, smiling at her own duplicity, “it isn’t my account number.”
“I’m sorry, but—” The woman was ending the conversation.
“Please, let me explain.”
The woman allowed her the explanation.
“You see,” Rita sniffed again, held her breath. “My husband was away a few weeks ago, in West Virginia and—”
“Ma’am, we don’t handle West Virginia accounts in this office.”
“Oh, I know that,” Rita said hurriedly. “But a friend said you might be able to tell me where a call went to. And well, you see, I think my husband is having an affair and I need your help.” At this Rita broke into her crying act.
“Mrs.?”
“Mars.”
“Mrs. Mars, we’re really not supposed to give out that information unless the number appears on your bill.”
“Oh, I know that.” Rita’s voice rose with a sob. “But can’t you just at least give me a name. I’m not asking for an address. I—I just need to know.” Rita crossed her fingers with this last line of one of her finest performances.
“What’s the number?”
Rita spoke clearly and distinctly.
The woman on the other end mumbled something under her breath and put Rita on hold. When she returned, she whispered, “Your husband was calling a Senate conference room.”
“My husband was screwing his Congressman?” Rita blurted.
“Mrs. Mars.”
“Sorry,” Rita said and quickly resumed her act. “You’ve been so kind to help me.”
Rita pulled her worn leather binder across the desk. Bobby Ellis had phoned a Senate conference room the night he died. It was clear to Rita that his investigation series played an integral part in his death.
And who the hell was Miriam Blalock? Was she the woman in Bobby’s room that night? Rita picked up the envelope and inspected the address. It was time for legwork.
The post office noted on the envelope was Silver Spring. It was a short straight drive from Rita’s downtown Baltimore office down I-95. That’s how the original road designers planned anyhow. As usual, traffic generated opportunities for patience and creative driving.
She could see the jackknifed eighteen-wheeler with its sprung back doors. Cars in all three lanes idled with brake lights lit. Undaunted Rita veered onto the right shoulder and plowed toward the next exit. She waved as the politely stalled beeped horns and glared. She passed the crash site where a safe but disheveled driver stood with hands on hips as he explained to police how he came to dump a ton of frozen fish at the Laurel exit ramp.
A few minutes later Rita flipped her ID at the postal worker behind the counter. He was an older man, probably a minute or two from retirement from his acute lack of speed. He wore his half glasses at the end of his nose and peered over them with a squint as Rita spoke.
“Hi, I’m Rita Mars, private investigator.”
“Got a warrant?”
“Actually no.”
“Can’t tell you a thing.” The man waved up a woman customer in front of Rita. The woman bought a book of stamps, stared curiously at Rita, then left.
“I’m working on an inheritance case for an attorney.” She flicked out the envelope with Miriam Blalock’s name and address for the man to view.
He waved the next customer for a first class package. With his deliberate movements, he might have been weighing weapons grade plutonium.
When the customer left, he scrutinized Rita’s envelope through his half glasses by peering down as if he were looking into a microscope. “She’s not here.”
“Well, I know she’s not here right now, but—“
“I mean she’s not here,” the old man insisted. “Private mail place over on Georgia.” He pointed to the zip code. “Different number.”
Rita drove to the Mail Stop on Georgia Avenue where a pale and chubby young man wearing a tired, clip-on tie and dirty, white running shoes proudly held the title of manager.
“Can you give me any information on this box holder?” Rita asked.
“I’m not supposed to do that.” The kid took two steps back.
“I’m not going to hit you.” Rita flipped out her ID again. “I’m a private investigator working on a murder case.”
“Wow, really?” The young man recovered his two steps. “What do you want to know?”
The “shooting fish in a barrel” light registered in Rita’s head. “Do you have the application for this box?”
“Sure, wanna see it?”
The street address was downtown DC and very familiar, but unplaceable. The mailbox rental was paid for an entire year.
“Ever see this person in here?”
“Nope, I’m new.”
“Is it possible to look in the box?”
“Only from the user side.” The young man’s hesitancy returned. He scooped up the application as if he suddenly realized he’d overstepped his authority with his enthusiasm.
“It’s ok. I wouldn’t ask you to do anything illegal.” She marched in the direction the manager pointed as the location of the box. Inside were several envelopes.
She looked back at the young man, but he slunk into his office away from her imploring glance.
Back at the office she revved up her PC and produced a lovely authoritative letterhead on watermarked bond. She hummed as she composed the letter from R.S. Mars, Attorney at Law. It informed Ms. Miriam Blalock that the firm was investigating the possibility of her as an heir to a substantial estate. Inquiries could be made at the Baltimore office.
When that letter was addressed and stamped, she dialed the Senate conference room.
“Committee Room 27.”
“Excuse me,” Rita said. “Who am I speaking to?”
“We’ve got a meeting in session. Who the hell is this?” the man roared.
“Hilary Clinton.”
The phone on the other end slammed.
♏
Trisha Ellis lived in a townhouse community a few blocks from the Washington beltway exit for White Oak. Officially the name of the neighborhood was Woodmoor, but if anyone were asked, it was Silver Spring. The area was a mix, packed with traffic and checkered by ethnic enclaves within a predominantly white middle class assortment of individual homes and townhouses. It reflected the typical Washington suburban lack of planning.
Rita pulled into the narrow lanes of the Springview community and immediately ducked to begin checking house numbers. Trisha had given directions, a cul-de-sac off the right past the entrance. As she cruised, Rita noticed a commotion at the bare patch of ground graced by a metal swing set and jungle gym.
“Hey.” Rita flattened the brake and left her car in park in the middle of the road. She dashed toward the playground. It was slippery running in the soft loafers and she could feel gravel punching in on the soles.
“Get the hell out of here.” Rita yanked the arm of one boy, about twelve, who, with two others, were pu
shing and taunting a little girl.
“You can’t touch me,” the boy yelled in defiance. Rita’s appearance arrested the progress of the bullying while the little girl, an Indian child of around ten, stood shivering and crying in the center.
Now one of the other boys yelled at Rita. “Yeah, I’ll tell my mother and she’ll call the cops.” Although the boys were younger, they had almost as much body weight and they started to gather around Rita as a target.
“I am a cop, you jerk.” Rita reached inside her jacket and flipped her private investigator’s ID, hoping they were too stupid to pay close attention. “Now beat it.”
“Police brutality,” shouted one of the boys, but all three took a step back.
“I’ll show you police brutality if you don’t get out of here,” she said in a strong firm voice as she guided the sobbing girl behind her. “I’ll pound your mushy little heads so hard you’ll have to breathe out of your butts.”
This idea must have captured their imaginations. The boys continued to glare, but took a few more retreating steps.
“Outta here,” Rita said.
The boys went, though slowly and looking back more than once to mumble threats.
Rita gave the girl a tissue to blow her nose. The child murmured a shy thanks and then ran away to safety.
“Land of the free, home of the brave,” Rita said to herself as she slid behind the wheel of her Jeep.
Trisha Ellis was a tired blonde who at one time had probably been the Homecoming Queen. She still had a good figure, but the blonde hair was limp and tied back haphazardly and her blue eyes had the deep crow’s feet of too much to do and too much to bear. The old school enthusiasm was the single constant.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Trisha asked. “Coffee, soda?”
“No thanks,” Rita said. “And I’ll try to be brief. I appreciate your time.”
“Please excuse the house, I just got off work and everything’s a mess.”
With a quick sweep, Rita noticed the entire room was not only color coordinated, but also each item seemed to have its own place and was securely in it. Trisha pointed to the sofa with its loose cushion back. Each pillow dovetailed evenly into the next.
Trisha sat on the edge of a matching casual chair at the end of the sofa. She touched the magazines lined down the cocktail table.
“Please let me get you something.” Trisha stood as quickly as she had sat and ran into the kitchen.
Rita sighed. “Coke is fine, thanks.” She’d be here all night if she didn’t let Trisha Ellis fulfill her mission in life as the perfect hostess.
Trisha came back with two-soda glasses and a cheese board with a small wedge of Brie rimmed by water crackers. She offered some pre-cheesed rounds on the board to Rita.
“Uh, thanks.” Rita smiled, ate her cracker and washed it down with the Coke.
“Bobby’s brother told me you were looking into the possibility that Bobby was murdered.” The tired but pretty face of Trisha Ellis quivered with a promise of tears.
“I think it’s a possibility, yes,” Rita said softly. She looked away as Trisha pulled herself together.
“You know, I stayed as long as I could,” she said. “I loved him. We were so happy in the beginning. I don’t know how things got the way they did.” She stopped and took a deep breath.
Rita stared at the cocktail table and the copy of House and Garden that lay at the end of Trisha’s orderly line of magazines.
“Do you know of anyone who would have had any reason to want to kill him?” she said at last.
“No.” Trisha’s voice still held a quaver of tears.
“Did he talk to you at all lately?”
“We talked once a week. Mostly he called to talk to Stevie, but we kept on friendly terms.”
“Did he mention the series he was working on—anything concrete or specific?” Rita asked.
“Not really. Bobby was really excited about it though. He thought it would get him his old job back with the Star. That’s what he talked about most when he mentioned that series.” Trisha smoothed the lap of her skirt. “I’m sorry I don’t know much.”
“You can’t think of anybody who might have been angry in the least with Bobby?” Rita said.
“Well, maybe Skippy Lockerman. At the end when Bobby was spending all our money on drugs, I found out he was buying his coke from this guy in West Virginia. Bobby had written a check to him and I discovered it. He lied at first, but then he admitted it.” Trisha’s eyes filled. “That was the end of it for me.”
“I’m sorry to have to bring up these memories,” Rita said.
“It’s ok. You have to get over them sometime.” Trisha excused herself, gathered some tissues from another room and returned.
“So why might this Lockerman be angry now?”
“Bobby told me when he got out of rehab that he still owed him a lot of money.”
The front door opened then and a man entered the room. He eyed Rita as he approached Trisha Ellis. He walked with a quick suspicious gait as if he were on the alert for attack. He was a neat and plain man, the kind you would pass over in a group shot or crowd scene, yet there was a furtive energy in him. He was the dog who bit without warning.
“Honey, this is Rita Mars. She’s the private investigator working on Bobby’s death,” Trisha said.
Rita held out her hand. Still maintaining his wariness, the man offered an unresponsive hand. “Ron Steele.” He then went to stand guard beside Trisha.
“I was just asking about people who might have had reason to do Bobby Ellis harm,” Rita said.
“Anybody who came in contact with him.” Steele touched a protective hand to Trisha’s shoulder. “The only person he cared about was himself and he left a path of destruction in his wake. Personally, I’m glad he’s dead.”
Trisha turned to him. “Ron.”
“I don’t care. The way he treated you, I could have killed him if he’d come into my path.”
“And where were you that night he was murdered?” Rita asked.
“Oh, I have a perfect alibi,” Steele answered. “I was heading up a system cutover at work. You’re welcome to check my story.”
“Thanks, I will.” Rita added Steele to her list of potential suspects.
Chapter 19
Rita swung her Jeep onto the Rockville Pike exit as she was dialing The Star . She barely missed clipping the sharp curb of Beach Drive as she turned the wheel with one hand and held her Smartphone with the other.
“Huntley, this is Rita. Got anything for me?”
“Rita, you’ve been watching too many tough cop shows. You sound like bad TV dialogue.”
“You got anything or not?” Rita glanced at the van beside her where a bag of groceries rested snugly in the child car seat.
“The only thing I’ve heard is that Bobby’s story kicked up a lot of dust for Brett Hillman, the esteemed senator from Pennsylvania. Bobby caught him with his hand in the old PAC till and told all in that fourth part of the series. They mixed it up at a press conference where Hillman appeared to deny the charges.”
“Anything else?” It was damned hard trying to shift the car with one hand.
“Nothing. But I’m telling you, a lot of people aren’t buying your theory about murder,” Huntley said. Rita imagined him primping in the mirror he kept on his desk.
“Yeah, well I’m not in sales.” She spotted the entrance to the Montgomery Monitor parking lot.
“Rita, you’re a lunatic. This is why you had such problems on the paper. You were so far out there with your stories, nobody could believe what you were saying.”
“It wasn’t a matter of no one believing, Huntley. Sometimes people much prefer being lied to than being overwhelmed by the truth.”
“Whatever. Listen, I’m keeping my ears open, ok? Hey, did I tell you I got a book contract.”
Rita eased into a freshly vacated parking spot at the door of the Monitor . “A book on what—personal promotion?”
>
“Funny. For the stuff I did on the FBI.” Huntley’s voice took on righteous indignation.
“Oh, the gratuitous piece on national law enforcement?” Rita said.
“You’ve got to fight everything, don’t you? Everybody’s an opponent with you.”
“You take me too seriously, Huntley.” Rita laughed. “It’s only sour grapes. You got the book contract; I’ve got zip. Ok? Truce.”
Huntley sighed. “Sure. Shit, I don’t know why I talk to you. And I don’t know why I’m going to invite you to the contract signing party.”
“Because I’m so cute in pink taffeta,” Rita said.
Huntley snorted with laughter. “Yeah, that must be it.”
“And thanks for asking around,” Rita added in a more serious voice.
♏
The offices of the Montgomery Monitor could have fit in the men’s room of the Washington Star . It was a profitable local weekly, run on a tight budget. The pages were mostly ads and the news mostly congratulatory. Every once in a while, real stories found their way onto the sheets.
Joel Stone was the managing editor. He was a wiry little guy with rimless glasses, which made him look younger than he was. Joel skittered about like a nervous terrier.
“This was Bobby’s?” Rita paused with Joel at a paper strewn metal desk. On the right hand side was a small computer whose screen was fuzzy with dust.
“Haven’t touched it,” Joel said. “Haven’t replaced him. Haven’t had time.”
“Mind if I go through things here?” Rita asked as she watched Joel quick step around in front.
“Sure, sure. Go ahead. You find anything, you’ll let me know?” Joel asked. Now he scampered behind Rita, peering over her shoulder as he went.
“Joel, are you all right?”
“Sure, sure. Just checking to see nothing important left on there.”
“Before you go,” Rita said. “I need to ask you a few things.”
“Sure, sure.” Joel pranced in front of the desk to face Rita.
“Any ideas on who had grudges against Bobby?”
“Uh, nope, nope. Can’t think of anybody.” Joel adjusted his glasses to help him concentrate. “Well, now I take that back. That series stirred some people up. Brett Hillman was really pissed. His aide sent a nasty note, then Hillman sent a nastier one—threatened to talk to our advertisers. Hillman and Bobby got into it at the press conference where the senator was denying the PAC money charges.” Joel ran his fingers through his hair and gave out a short involuntary laugh.
DRIVEN: A Rita Mars Thriller Page 15