Don't Cry Over Killed Milk (11 page)

“Gerry would’ve taken the information we received from Aylin and used it to get a search warrant for Lawrence Drake’s attic. That way, the police could’ve sprung the warrant on Lawrence before he had the opportunity to clear the place out. They’ll still get one, but Gerry’s certain the attic will be empty by the time the police can legally inspect it.”

Damon knocked his knuckles against his forehead. “I never thought of that. So Gerry’s really mad?”

“He is. But more at Margaret than us. If she would’ve allowed him to speak with you this morning, the police could’ve questioned Aylin themselves and gotten a warrant before Lawrence knew what hit him.”

Damon grumbled, and the amateur detectives ate in silence.

After he finished his pizza, Damon asked, “Did you happen to ask Gerry about Emmanuel’s alibi?”

“I did,” Rebecca said. “He said that Aylin’s story checks out. Emmanuel and Aylin were in Harrisonburg on the night Jeremiah was murdered. Aylin’s mother confirmed the story as did a cashier at a nearby gas station. They stopped to fill up before driving back to Tripping Falls.”

Rebecca licked tomato sauce from her fingers. “Gerry also told me that Forensics is certain Jeremiah was killed in the basement of the shed off of Cherubim’s Run by Emmanuel’s electric pressure washer. And the power cord was severed by his hedge trimmer.”

“So Emmanuel’s theory on how Jeremiah was murdered was dead on,” Damon said.

“Yes,” Rebecca replied, “dead on is right.”

Chapter 11

At eight o’clock in the evening, Damon installed himself at the Arlington County Crime Solvers’ desk. Despite feeling exhausted, his fingers danced with excitement on a fresh pad of paper. He stared at the telephone and willed it to ring.

After an hour of absolute silence, Damon turned on the television but couldn’t concentrate on any of the programming. His mind was fixed on an image of the corporate headquarters of Atwater Enterprises, which he and Rebecca had agreed to tackle the following morning.

During the third hour of his shift, Damon’s thoughts veered to the crepe myrtle mystery. It had been several days since he’d checked in on the situation, so he logged onto the Hollydale community listserv. A flood of posts filled the online board. Insects were continuing to devour Hollydale’s crepe myrtles despite the best efforts of home owners and lawn care companies.

Reading through the posts, Damon learned that affected citizens had organized their efforts to gather information. One local resident, Diana Sauerbrun, had gathered the names and addresses of the Hollydale residents who had posted on the subject and asked them a series of questions: Did the resident use a professional service to spray, or did they treat their trees themselves? For those who used professionals, which company was used? For those who did their own spraying, what product was employed? Diana also asked for the number of days between the date their crepe myrtles were sprayed and the date the insects returned. Finally, she asked for pictures of the pests.

Diana had collated responses from thirteen Hollydale residents and posted the results. The infestations had started almost three weeks earlier and were not limited to any particular geographic location in Hollydale. Of the thirteen homeowners, ten had used professional companies, and three had done their own spraying. Four different professional companies were used: two organic and two standard pesticide companies. The three store-bought products were all different. And the number of days between spraying and the infestation returning ranged anywhere from two to five days. It all amounted to a lot of information that didn’t answer any questions. Interestingly, even the insects weren’t the same. Diana collected photos from eight of the households. Comparing the pictures to images from various websites, Diana surmised that some crepe myrtles had Japanese beetles, others were infested with crepe myrtle aphids, and one person’s trees appeared to be covered with a bug called the primrose flea beetle.

Damon shook his head in frustration. There didn’t appear to be any rhyme or reason to the infestations. The only consistent point was that crepe myrtles were under attack.

 
Damon was relieved of his Crime Solvers duties at midnight by a night watchperson at a high-rise condominium who would have the tip line forwarded to her cell phone. Damon hadn’t fielded a single call all night, except one from Arthur Jenkins to check in and ask if Damon could fill in for a sick volunteer the following night.

* * *

Damon wore his best coat and tie on Thursday morning. He picked up Rebecca, who was dressed in business formal attire, from her 1950s brick bungalow. They parked near a metro station in Arlington, then took mass transit into downtown Washington, D.C.

Atwater Enterprises dwelled in the heart of lobbyist country. A crush of suits and briefcases met Damon and Rebecca as they emerged from the metro’s escalator. Weekday morning commuters plowed forward on the sidewalks along K Street, which itself was jammed with vehicles. The thoroughfare was flanked by office buildings gleaming in the bright morning sun. Newspaper dealers, food truck vendors, and panhandlers all claimed valuable square footage on the street corners.

The commercial property behemoth was headquartered in a twelve story building on K alongside Farragut Square.
Rebecca and Damon strolled through the street-level revolving doors of the Atwater building. Employees waved identification badges in front of a scanner at a security booth and proceeded to a bank of elevators. The Hollydale residents walked with bravado toward a guard positioned behind the booth.

“We’re here to see Pamela Reeves,” Damon said. Reeves was Alistair Atwater’s executive assistant. Rebecca had found her name on the Atwater Enterprises corporate website.

“Your names?” the bored security guard asked.

Damon provided their names. He wasn’t sure what would happen next. The security guard’s fingers clattered across his keyboard, and then he punched a number into his telephone. Damon and Rebecca listened to one side of a brief conversation.

“I have a Mr. Damon Lassard and a Ms. Rebecca Leeds here to see you, Ms. Reeves,” the guard said into the receiver.

After a brief pause, he repeated, “Lassard and Leeds.”

The guard looked at Damon. “Do you have an appointment?” he asked.

“No,” Damon admitted, “but it’s very important that we speak with Ms. Reeves. It concerns Mr. Atwater.”

The security guard shrugged his shoulders and repeated Damon’s plea word for word into the telephone. He listened for ten seconds, then hung up. “Sorry,” the guard said. “You need an appointment.”

“Can you give us Ms. Reeves’ telephone number to set one up?” Damon asked. “I would have called it, but it’s not available online.”

“Sorry, sir,” the security guard said. “I’m not permitted to give out the direct telephone numbers of any of the employees. But if you call the main corporate number, they can connect you.”

Damon and Rebecca left the Atwater building and found a Starbucks on the same block.

“I suppose if anyone could get into the executive suite without an appointment, they’d have a lot of unwelcome visitors,” Rebecca said over a cup of hazelnut coffee.

Damon conceded the point. “Do you want to call the corporate line, or should I?”

“Let me try,” Rebecca said. She looked up the number on her iPhone, dialed, and asked the operator to connect her to Alistair Atwater. Damon smiled. She was going straight to the man at the top. Rebecca picked up her coffee cup and walked around the booth to sit beside Damon. She turned up the phone’s volume and leaned toward his ear so he could hear both sides of the conversation.

“Alistair Atwater’s office.” The voice was female.

“Good morning, I’d like to make an appointment with Mr. Atwater,” Rebecca said in a clipped tone.

“Who would like to meet with him?” The woman must have assumed Rebecca was someone’s administrative assistant. No one important enough to see the CEO would set up his or her own appointment.

“Mr. Damon Lassard,” Rebecca said without missing a beat.

“Who is he with?” The woman sounded skeptical.

 
“Arlington County,” Rebecca improvised, but the confidence in her voice had waned.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “This is Mr. Atwater’s assistant, Pamela. Were you just at the security desk in our lobby?”

Rebecca breathed in deeply and renewed her vigor. “We were. Mr. Lassard and I really need to speak with Mr. Atwater. Someone he knows was murdered.” Damon admired Rebecca’s pluck.

After a moment’s hesitation, Pamela Reeves asked, “Are you with the police?”

“No, we’re neighbors of the deceased man.”

“And what exactly was this man’s connection to Mr. Atwater?”

“We don’t know. But we have information suggesting that he and Mr. Atwater had a business relationship.”

“I’ll pass along your names to Mr. Atwater,” Reeves said and requested Rebecca’s telephone number. “He can decide if he wants to call you back.”

Rebecca thanked the assistant.

Before hanging up, Pamela Reeves asked for the name of the murdered man.

“His name was Jeremiah Milk,” Rebecca replied. “He lived in the Hollydale community of Arlington.”

* * *

“Do you think he’ll call?” Rebecca asked Damon as they passed through Bethesda, Maryland. The pair had returned to Hollydale on the metro to retrieve Damon’s car, then promptly headed north to the upscale suburb. They wanted to take a look at Atwater’s home.

“It probably depends on his relationship with Jeremiah,” Damon said. “If Atwater paid Jeremiah two million dollars to do something illegal, I’m sure we won’t hear from him. If their relationship was aboveboard, my guess is that he’ll either call us back or contact the police.”

Damon turned onto Atwater’s street and drove slowly past the magnificently manicured lawns of houses spaced hundreds of yards apart. He pulled his Saab to the curb across from Alistair Atwater’s estate. Unlike a majority of the neighboring homes, his drive wasn’t barred by a gate.

The Victorian-style mansion was covered in ivy and dominated by cupolas and elaborate gables. Flower gardens in the large front yard were crafted to perfection. A governor’s driveway circled in front of a veranda highlighted by intricately-carved columns.

“Should we see if anyone’s home, or give him a few hours to call us?” Rebecca asked.

Damon tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel. “Let’s give it a shot. I’m sure he’s at work, but he could have a wife at home.” After Damon spoke the words, he recalled the photos of Atwater with women much younger than him on the Society pages.

Damon parked the Saab in front of a five-car garage and the pair approached glass-inlaid double front doors. Damon rang the bell.

A uniformed housekeeper answered. Her dark hair was pulled into a severe bun.

Damon asked whether Mr. Atwater was home.

“Mr. Atwater is at work,” the woman said with a slight German accent. “But Glenda, I mean the missus, is here.”

Rebecca said they would love to see her.

The housekeeper left them on the doorstep.

“I didn’t think he was married,” Damon whispered to Rebecca and quickly described the newspaper pictures he had seen of the billionaire.

“His wife could be forty years younger than he is,” Rebecca murmured.

Thirty seconds later, a gray-haired woman came to the door. She was dressed in loose, comfortable clothing but wore a stern expression. Large jewels dangled from her ears and wrists. “May I help you?” she asked stiffly.

“Good morning, Mrs. Atwater,” Damon said. “We were hoping to speak with your husband about someone he knew who recently passed away.”

The older woman smirked. “It’s
Ms.
Atwater. You don’t know Alistair well, do you?”

“Not at all,” Damon admitted.

“If you did, you’d know he’d never have a wife as old as me. He prefers girls closer to her age.” She grimaced and nodded toward Rebecca. “I’m his sister, Glenda.”

“Perhaps you can help us,” Rebecca said using her sweetest voice. “We live in Arlington. A neighbor of ours died recently, and we came across a document with Mr. Atwater’s name on it.”

“Who died?” Glenda asked.

“A man named Jeremiah Milk,” Rebecca said.

Glenda Atwater put a hand to her mouth. “Oh my.” Her tone softened considerably. “You two had better come inside.”

* * *

They sat in a spacious living room adorned with Italian furniture and Persian rugs. The housekeeper brought in tea and chocolate chip scones.

“How did Jeremiah die?” Glenda asked after Damon and Rebecca formally introduced themselves.

Damon looked at Rebecca, then turned to Glenda Atwater. “He was murdered. Someone killed him at the state park where he worked.”

“Goodness!” Glenda’s face registered shock. “Who would do such a terrible thing to such a good-hearted man?”

“We don’t know, ma’am,” Damon said. “The police are investigating.”

Glenda Atwater reached for a cup of tea, then changed her mind. She pulled a phone from her pants pocket and punched a series of buttons. “Pamela?” she said into the phone a moment later. “This is Glenda Atwater. I need to speak with my brother immediately.” She waited a beat. “Get him out of the meeting. This is important family business, and I need him at home right away.” Damon nibbled on a scone in silence.

After two minutes, Glenda said into the phone, “Thank you, Pamela.” She hung up and turned to Damon and Rebecca, “Alistair will be home in thirty minutes. This is terrible. Jeremiah was so very good to our family.”

Rebecca nudged her. “Ms. Atwater, would you mind telling us how you knew Jeremiah?”

“Not at all, dear. Jeremiah Milk practically saved my grandson’s life.” Glenda smiled warmly. “My late husband and I had two children—a son, Adam, and my daughter, Liliane. I kept the Atwater name and gave it to my children as well—it goes a long way in the circles we travel in. Adam’s a free spirit and a world traveler. He never settled down. But Liliane is more of a homebody. She’s married to a wonderful man, Geoffrey Katz. They live nearby in Potomac. Geoffrey is one of my brother’s best executives. Alistair’s grooming him to take over Atwater Enterprises in a couple of years.” She picked up her tea cup. “Liliane and Geoffrey have two children. Their oldest, Rachel, is a well-adjusted young woman. She’s in school at Dartmouth.” Glenda dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a napkin.