Chapter 22
Rita slid the small UPS box out of her trunk. Bobby’s brother had phoned her two days before to say that the West Virginia police finally sent him the package with the rest of Bobby’s things. In his distress, Edmund Ellis never asked about any other clothing or effects Bobby had with him; he had simply accepted the plastic evidence bag with the smaller items as all he was due.
Rita had told him to send them immediately. Now she lugged the box into Bobby’s apartment, still unrented and furnished with his few belongings. She turned the key and entered the meager rooms Bobby Ellis had arranged as the staging area for his return to former glory.
A chill shivered along her backbone. She was violating that vulnerable and hopeful place again. She could not give in to that emotional response though or she could never do her work. Rita marched past the psychic stop sign into Bobby’s bedroom.
Here she placed the box beside Bobby’s bed. Carefully across the comforter, so that each item was clearly separated, she laid the following: grey flannel slacks, a pair of Gold Toe socks, an undershirt and briefs, a belt, a shaving kit, two long-sleeved polo shirts, a sweater, a leather bomber jacket, and a pair of scuffed Docksiders.
The leather jacket and sweater Rita placed across the two pillows then descending the bed she placed the slacks and belt with the polo shirts alongside, underwear and socks and shaving kit, Bobby’s shoes. She then pulled a manila envelope out of the box. Inside were the things the police had previously given Edmund: the fatal tie, the valet set of car keys, the wallet, and the full set of keys she had found when inspecting Bobby’s apartment the first time. She spread these along the bottom of the bed. The death scene photos were still tucked inside the envelope.
“Talk to me, Bobby,” Rita said from the end of the bed. She visualized him dressed in the slacks and polo shirt and concentrated on that image of the man.
He stood woodenly before her like a cigar store Indian. His lips were stone, his eyes blank, a bruised ring around his neck. A lump rose in her throat and she closed her mind to the image her mind had so vividly constructed.
“It’s not going to work like that,” she whispered. She stared at the clothing. The thought arose of a missing article so that she slid the photographs out of the envelope and tried to decipher any missing piece. Bobby Ellis died in a pair of slacks and a T-shirt.
“One undershirt,” Rita said. “One pair of slacks, underwear, socks.” She checked the corresponding items on the bed. These were unworn. She decided the missing items he was wearing had gone with Bobby’s body from Friendly Mortuary to the Maryland undertaker with whom Edmund had arranged Bobby’s funeral.
“The keys.” Rita picked up the full set and the valet set. “Did you leave home without your apartment keys? No, I’ve already decided that somebody took these off your body or out of your room. That person had to take them in order to get in here and search.”
Rita segregated the two sets of keys to an open space on the bed. “But is there anything else here to know?”
She stared at the bomber jacket. She had already checked the pockets, but she went through again. She caressed every seam, fondled the lining, but found no hiding places or stashed goods. She re-checked the pockets of Bobby’s slacks and glanced over the polo shirts to the belt.
“So why didn’t you hang yourself with your belt?” Rita picked it up and pulled the smooth leather through her hand as though it were a snake. Again and again she ran it across her palm.
“Guys in jails hang themselves with their belts. It’s strong enough to hold you. You would know that.” Rita gripped the buckle in one hand, doubling back so that when she snapped the leather, it cracked like a rifle shot. She set the belt beside the car keys.
She passed over the underwear and went to the shaving kit. She drew out a disposable razor, a travel size shaving cream, deodorant, dental floss, toothpaste and a toothbrush with a glob of paste dried in the bristles.
“You were in the middle of brushing your teeth,” Rita said. “Somebody snuck up behind you?” Rita shook her head. “No sign of struggle in the bathroom and besides you would have seen them in the mirror.”
Rita took the toothbrush into Bobby’s bathroom and stood in front of the mirror. She closed her eyes. “It’s time for bed and I’m brushing my teeth. Somebody’s in the room, but I go ahead anyway. No.” Rita paused. “Yes, that’s it. Somebody knocks on the door. An urgent knock. I don’t take time to rinse, but go to see who’s there.”
Rita hurried back to the bed. She placed the toothbrush with the keys and the belt.
“Now what?” Rita paced across the room. “The killer confronts me. I laugh and tell him no way. The killer pleads. I say, forget it. The killer gets pissed and grabs my arm to talk sense into me. I fight back. He’s too big and I know this, but instead of trying to calm him down, I get more belligerent.”
Rita paced faster across the room at the end of the bed. “I make him madder. It’s a real fight, but the guy is way too much for me to handle. I’m scared but it’s too late now. He has me by the throat and I can’t scream and I’m losing consciousness.”
Rita halted. “It’s over.” Her knees wobbled. “Now the killer panics. He has to cover himself. He needs a quick getaway. He thinks of the suicide. Why? Because he knows me, knows I have the drug history, the recent rehab. Yes.”
Rita turned to the bed. “The killer picks up the first thing he knows could be a noose.” Rita grabbed the belt. “Why wasn’t it this?” She reached for the tie with the other hand and glanced from one to the other as if weighing their value. “Where was this tie that it was so handy?”
Rita stood at the end of the bed surveying the clothing she had arranged there. The tie and belt were the only possibilities for a ligature in Bobby Ellis’s things. Of course, the killer might also have been able to work one of the cheap thin bath towels into a noose, but the tie and belt were the best bets. But why the tie?
“Bobby, I know you weren’t wearing a tie to brush your teeth.” She checked the label. It was an expensive silk, an Armani, not one a man would choose to go with Ellis’ L.L. Bean casual.
Rita surveyed the bed again. The bomber jacket, grey slacks, two polo shirts.
“Why in the hell were you packing a tie?” Rita asked the scattered items as she stared at the two casual shirts.
She caught her breath. “I’ll tell you why you weren’t packing a tie. Because you don’t wear one with these shirts.” She held the ligature high for scrutiny.
“Whose fucking tie is this?”
♏
Charles Strutt emerged from the limo as Rita approached the entrance to the Cock and Bull, a power lunch den already thronged with the hungry and the hunters. Though Rita reached the door first, Strutt cut her off and marched through. She shook her head and followed after.
Strutt stood at the maitre’d station. He was in his early fifties, tall and Kennedy-esque, looking as though he had been coiffed and shaved by some movie make-up artist. As Rita studied him, she considered how remarkably he resembled the publicity photo on the back of his new book Trade-off: How America Gets Cheated in International Markets. It had been a great success with Rush Limbaugh fans.
While she thought about how much fun it would be to watch him pose a little longer, she stepped up. “Senator Strutt, I’m Rita Mars.”
Strutt looked down at her, his eyes traveling from her face to her shoes and then making a return trip. “I was expecting someone much taller.”
“Yes, well, my writing does make me seem larger than life.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Never mind.”
The maitre’d seated them in a corner. Upon taking his chair, the senator pulled a sheaf of papers out of his breast pocket and set them on the table. He then slipped on a pair of reading glasses.
“You don’t mind, do you? I have a roll call vote at two thirty and I have to go over my notes on the bill.” Without waiting for a reply, he gestured for the w
aiter and ordered two Caesar salads and two Pelerines.
“Do you have my questions answered also?” She folded her arms across her chest.
This stopped Strutt in mid-perusal of his legislation notes. “My God, did Randy forget to give them to me?”
“Senator, I didn’t give you any advance copy of my questions. I was hoping to have a few minutes of your time and candor on the Bobby Ellis case.”
“Ellis.” Strutt teased the name. “One of my constituents?”
“No.” Rita sighed. “He was a reporter who was murdered recently and I’m working on the case. It was suggested that he might have been doing an investigative piece on you.”
“On me?” Strutt snorted and peered over his glasses. “Nothing to investigate. Nothing to find. Reporters are always swarming around my office, but I don’t remember anyone in particular.”
The waiter delivered the salads and Strutt dug in. “Would you read that sentence?” He slid a page over her bread plate and poised his index finger at the third of a long list of bullet points. “Are they saying my constituents are split or do they mean Congress is split on that?”
Rita stared at the man who watched her in earnest anticipation of an answer. Finally she glanced down. “Congress.”
“Hmm. I didn’t realize that was the case.” He absently forked a mouthful of romaine.
“Senator, I need to ask you some questions about this murder.”
“Go right ahead.” Strutt checked his watch. “Just need to be back on the floor by two thirty.”
“Do you know who Bobby Ellis is?”
Strutt never lifted his head from his reading. “Heard the name, but I don’t think I would know him if I fell over him.”
“Did you know of anyone working on any investigative pieces on you?”
Strutt pulled a Mount Blanc from his jacket and scribbled a note on the paper he was reading. “Not directly. As I said reporters are always buzzing around, especially now that this healthcare thing is the hot item. I get calls about television interviews and newspaper articles, radio call-ins. You know how it is.”
“No, God damn it, I don’t know how it is.” Rita pounded the table with her fist so that the flatware jingled and the water slopped in the goblets.
“What is the problem? I came here willingly by your invitation and now that you find I can’t help you, you get irate.” Strutt peered over the reading glasses at Rita.
“I want your attention for five minutes.”
“But you have it. You know I’m a busy man. I’m not here to manufacture material for your newspaper.”
“I want to know why there was a rumor that you were the center of an investigative reporting piece,” Rita insisted in such a loud voice that people at the next table looked over.
Strutt pursed his lips in anger. “Don’t start threatening me. I don’t have to put up with this.”
“I’m not threatening. I want to know what you know, that’s it.”
Strutt studied her for a minute. “Would you mind proofing this statement? I’m reading it before the committee meeting today, and I didn’t have time to go over it with Randy before I left.”
Rita’s jaw dropped. She closed her eyes to let her anger dissipate in the darkness. “Give me the goddam statement. But I want an answer.” She snatched it out of Strutt’s hand.
“If you want to know what reporters, what news organizations, and what stories I’ve been involved in, all you have to do is contact Randy Wyman, my chief of staff. I don’t keep track of those details. I don’t have time.” Strutt shook his head.
“Give me that pen,” Rita said. She lined through a few words and wrote new ones above. “Passive voice sucks.” She handed the paper back.
Strutt glanced over the changes, his lips moving as he read. “I think you’re right,” he smiled. “It is much better this way.”
“You’re welcome,” Rita said.
“Look at the time, I’ve got to get back. I’m not even going to be able to finish my salad.” Strutt stood up. “Call Randy. I’ll tell him to expect you. He’ll have information.”
Rita called after the departing senator. “Wait, do you know a Miriam Blalock?”
Without turning around, Strutt called back. “Ask Randy, he’ll know if I do.”
Chapter 23
The fog draped an impenetrable billow across the city. The bright lights of Independence Avenue were blurs of sodium orange and the Reflecting Pool was lost. Rita could barely read the street signs before she was on them.
The day had been warm, but the Canadian front, which had steamrolled the landscape, forced walkers off the streets around the Capitol. Cars, headlights suddenly glowing like approaching eyes, floated slowly through the intersections. Only the buses seemed unintimidated as they lumbered along, chuffing huffs of greasy black smoke and screeching their brakes.
“Jesus.” Rita’s Jeep caught the edge of a curb as she misjudged the distance. She’d been driving for forty-five minutes and still no parking space in sight. At last, she took a chance and nosed the car into a No Parking zone near the Viet Nam Vet’s Memorial. Surely no cop would be giving her a ticket tonight.
She pulled the collar of her pea jacket close to her cheeks. The cold stung her eyes to tears as she jabbed the keys into the pocket with her father’s lighter. Beyond she recognized the ghostly shrine, which was her destination.
The illuminated Lincoln brooded on his marble dais. He seemed a thoughtful god considering the fate of nations. Rita jogged the tiers of marble steps toward his benevolent presence. At the temple entrance her footsteps echoed through the Doric colonnade.
Tourists were scarce on a night like this, and with the fog choking out all but an illusion of the city beyond, Rita felt alone. For an instant she wished she’d worn the heavy shoulder holster with the 9mm. As quickly, she scoffed at herself. For a moment she thought she smelled cigarette smoke then she jumped when she heard footsteps behind her.
“Evening.” It was a park policeman in a brown uniform and oil black slicker.
“Hi,” Rita said.
“Can I help you with something?” The ranger paused in his rounds.
“I’m waiting for someone.”
“Not a good idea on a night like this.”
“I’m fine, but thanks,” Rita said.
“I can wait with you for a few minutes.”
So chivalry isn’t dead, Rita thought. “Thanks, but he’ll be along any minute.”
The ranger walked off to continue his tour into the night.
Why in the hell did this guy want to meet here, Rita asked herself. She checked her watch. And why the hell was he fifteen minutes late? She eased toward the towering legs of Lincoln and leaned her back against the platform over which he presided. It was easier to deal with somebody who attacked from the front. Rita started whistling “It’s Off to Work We Go” from Snow White.
“Nice tune.”
The voice made Rita jump again. “Why did you sneak up on me?”
“Sorry.” Randy Wyman laughed. “Just wanted to see if I could.” He stood with his hands on his hips, his tan cashmere coat a perfect fit, his shoes polished and his pants cuffed.
“Don’t do things like that. You scared the hell out of me.”
“You aren’t carrying a gun?” Wyman asked.
“I never carry and tell,” Rita answered.
Wyman walked up close, too close. Rita took a step back.
“How unusual,” Wyman said. “I thought all detectives had guns.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t have one.”
“I see. And you know how to use it?”
“Yes,” Rita answered abruptly. “But it’s too cold for idle chatter out here. Why couldn’t we meet in your office?”
Wyman inched back into her personal space. She could smell his sweet cologne. “Too much going on there with all the media hype on healthcare. Reporters see you hanging around, they’re liable to get the wrong impression.”
�
�And what would that wrong impression be?”
“Oh, you know, some back room stuff. Do you have to take any martial arts to be a detective?”
“Why, are you considering it?”
“Just curious. That’s all.”
“Your boss said I could ask you a few questions and that you’d give me some straight answers.” Rita looked up into his eyes, which were hard and dark like shining black marbles.
“Go ahead,” Wyman said. Before she could respond, he asked, “So do you?”
“Do I what?” Rita snapped.
“Know martial arts.”
“What is this? Are you interviewing me for American Gladiators ?”
“The senator uses security types every once in a while for sensitive projects. You never know, you might want a job here sometime.”
“I had a job here. I left it for meaningful work,” Rita answered.
“Just trying to be helpful.” Wyman rocked back onto his heels.
Rita watched her breath curl into smoke as she talked. “Your boss said you could tell me about how many times Bobby Ellis came see you.”
“He didn’t,” Wyman said.
Rita figured that Strutt had already warned his chief aide about what he’d told her earlier that afternoon. “Never saw him?”
“He wasn’t a regular, no consistent contact. Would you like to go somewhere for coffee?”
“No thanks. I’d like to ask these questions and move on.” She continued. “So, you had no idea he was writing a story on the senator and his office?”
“None. In fact, I would have been surprised. Ellis was strictly small time. Check out the stories in that series he did. Tired pieces. No ambition. He had had it.”
“That’s your opinion?” Rita asked.
Wyman shrugged. “Everybody knew it.”
Rita could feel the heat in her cheeks. “When did you see him last?”
“Can’t remember.”
“You’re using the Republican defense?”
DRIVEN: A Rita Mars Thriller Page 18