Don't Cry Over Killed Milk (15 page)

“What do you think of the younger set of Atwaters?” Damon asked Rebecca once they were driving back to Hollydale.

“Katz-Atwaters,” Rebecca corrected. “They seem like they lost a family friend. Nothing remarkable.”

“Not with Geoffrey and Liliane. Matthew struck me as a bit shell-shocked.”

“Put yourself in his position,” Rebecca said.

Damon acquiesced. “I suppose. But I wonder how much the kid knows about Jeremiah. They spent a lot of time together. It would be interesting to know whether the conversation ever veered from Matthew’s problems to the details of Jeremiah’s life.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Rebecca said. Then she looked at him and her voice turned stern. “Damon Lassard, don’t you dare talk to that boy. He needs time to grieve.”

Damon colored. “I wish I knew whether Milt, Lawrence, and Alex had alibis,” he said to change the topic.

“Veronica, too. But Jeremiah was killed at night. They could all just say they were asleep.”

“True, but if I could cross one or two more names off of my list and just focus on a couple, it would be easier.”

“Do you want me to call Gerry and ask him?” Rebecca asked.

“Do you think he’d come right out and tell you?”

“I don’t know,” Rebecca said. “Margaret hasn’t banned him from speaking with me. And he knows you have a history of getting results. It’s worth a try.”

“All right, let’s do it.”

Rebecca invited Damon into her bungalow. Damon shook rainwater from his pants over a braided rug in the small foyer while Rebecca changed in her upstairs loft. Flowered 1980s wallpaper lined the entryway.

Minutes later, Rebecca bounded down the steps in a dry T-shirt and khaki shorts. Wet hair clung to her forehead. Rebecca tossed Damon a bundle of clothing—soccer shorts and a large sweatshirt. She microwaved hot chocolate while Damon changed in a downstairs bathroom.

Damon bundled his wet clothes into a plastic grocery bag, and the pair sat down at a rustic farmhouse table in the combination kitchen-dining room.

“Should I put it on speakerphone?” Rebecca asked.

“No, that’s too obvious,” Damon said. “I’ll just listen in.”

Rebecca dialed.

“Gerry Sloman here.”

“Hi, Gerry. It’s Rebecca Leeds. Are you alone?”

“Yes, I just left Margaret’s office. Did you see something interesting at the funeral?”

“Not really,” Rebecca said. “Alistair Atwater and his family came to the burial site just after you and Margaret left. But I wanted to ask you a question about the park employees.”

“Rebecca, Margaret told me not to discuss the case with Damon, and I’m sure you’re acting as a proxy for him. I told you both about RDF Corporation, but for my own sake, I really need to halt the flow of information.”

Rebecca didn’t respond directly to Gerry’s comment. “Gerry, I just want to know about the alibis of the park workers. We know Emmanuel and Aylin were in Harrisonburg, but can anyone else be eliminated as a suspect?”

“So you and Damon can bother the rest of them like you harassed Lawrence Drake?” Gerry snipped.

Rebecca flinched from the barb. “I told you I was sorry about that, Gerry.”

The phone was silent for several seconds. Then Gerry said, “I’ll tell you what little I know about their alibis if you and Damon promise not to speak with the park employees anymore.”

Rebecca looked at Damon who nodded. “Deal,” Rebecca said.

“Please keep your word, Rebecca,” Gerry said. “We questioned all of the park staff about where they were last Saturday after nine o’clock in the evening. Alex Rancor went with a group of friends to a late dinner and then to a dance club in downtown D.C. She was with them from eight-thirty until one o’clock in the morning. Then she took a taxi home and went to bed. We couldn’t find the cab driver but we have statements from her friends, a restaurant waiter, and a bartender at the club. So she didn’t pull the trigger on the pressure washer. None of the others have an alibi. Drake, Verblanc, and Veronica Maldive all said they were home alone, either watching television or reading before going to bed.”

“How about the two Park Police officers?” Rebecca asked.

“We didn’t come right out and ask them for alibis. It’s too sensitive. But they both have stellar work records and no criminal history. It doesn’t eliminate them, but our focus remains on the staff.”

“I hadn’t thought about criminal history. Do any of the park employees have a record?”

“A few years ago, Alex was arrested for smoking marijuana at a concert pavilion. But that’s all we found on any of them.”

Rebecca pressed on. “Did one of the Park Police officers do an overnight patrol last Saturday?”

“I thought you were only going to ask me one question,” Gerry groaned. “Yes. Davida Harkins conducted her standard sweep at two o’clock in the morning. She didn’t see anything, but she only checks the parking lot and visitor center. The medical examiner placed the time of death between ten o’clock at night and one in the morning—before Davida came to the park to make her rounds.”

“Thanks, Gerry. I know you’re going out of your way here,” Rebecca said.

Chapter 15

On his way home, Damon called Bethany. He hadn’t spoken to her in almost a week and was excited to tell her about Clementine Snead.

Bethany answered on the second ring. She’d arrived back in Hollydale the previous day from her trip to tornado-ravished Nebraska and was anxious to hear Damon’s update on the crepe myrtle saga. She invited him to her condominium for lunch. Damon decided his visit to the fitness center in Frederick could wait for a couple of hours.

Bethany lived in a twenty-story high-rise. A marble front desk and indoor waterfall highlighted the building’s lavish lobby. Condominiums on the top floors had a distant view of the National Cathedral in Washington, D.C.

Bethany’s fourth floor unit was tastefully decorated with cream-colored furniture and glass tables. After Damon shed his rain slicker, she invited him to sit on a three-seat sofa that balanced on sleek spindled legs in an open area that served as both living and dining rooms. She brought him a Snapple and settled into a loveseat. Between them stood a coffee table adorned with books on Italian architecture.

Damon told Bethany about the anonymous tip in general terms and recounted his exploits of following Clementine Snead the previous evening. “I’m busy this afternoon,” Damon said, “but I’m planning to confront Clementine as soon as I have the chance. So please don’t tell anyone in the meantime.”

Bethany’s brown eyes radiated with luster. She looked breathtaking, as usual. Her chestnut hair was a shade redder than when Damon last saw her, and she wore a fetching open-necked blouse coupled with a chiffon pleated skirt. “I can’t believe you found the culprit,” Bethany said. “What do you think he’s doing?”

“I haven’t figured that out yet,” Damon admitted. “But I’ll do my best to ferret it out of him.”

 
“This is so exciting. Have you thought about joining the police, Damon?” She leaned forward and looked deep into his eyes.

Damon’s insides tingled. Was she flirting with him? He couldn’t tell.

“I’ve considered going to the police training academy,” Damon said after a moment. The thought had been on his mind. “Speaking of crimes, have you heard about Jeremiah Milk?”

“A little,” Bethany said. “Tell me about it over lunch.”

As Bethany brought a mayonnaise-free Waldorf salad and turkey-with-pesto sandwiches from the kitchen, Damon moved to the dining table and asked her about Nebraska.

“It was so sad, Damon,” she said. “Seven people died and almost a hundred homes were destroyed. I spoke with a lot of the residents. Most were strong and ready to rebuild their lives, but some were completely dejected. I can’t blame them.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Damon said. “But it was a good assignment for your career, right?”

“Absolutely,” she replied, setting down a pitcher of iced tea. “But I didn’t relish the feeling of making personal gains when everyone around me had lost so much. My father told me to look at it objectively. If the station hadn’t sent me to cover the story, the people in Nebraska would be no better off and another weatherperson would have reported on the horrific event. He’s right, I know. But it was still gut-wrenching.”

Until that moment, Damon hadn’t realized just how compassionate Bethany was. She often came off to others as cool, but perhaps that persona didn’t reflect her true nature.

The food was excellent, and Damon complimented Bethany on it. Then he told her he’d been investigating Jeremiah Milk’s murder, and provided a synopsis, limiting the narrative to information available to the public.

“What happened to Jeremiah is awful,” Bethany said. “But it’s exciting that you’re delving into it—maybe the police force is the right place for you.”

“Did you know Jeremiah?” Damon asked.

“I could pick him out of a crowd,” Bethany said. “But I never had any interaction with him directly. Only through my father.” Damon recalled that Jackson Krims had been the person who introduced him to Jeremiah.

“How did your father know him?”

“Just by living in Hollydale, I think. Both of our families have been here for a long time. But Jeremiah was several years older than me, so he and I didn’t overlap in school.”

Bethany paused. She chewed a forkful of salad. Lines of concentration appeared on her brow.

“What’s on your mind?” Damon asked.

“I just remembered a strange incident my father told me about years ago. It was at one of his Exxon stations.” In addition to the Fish Barrel, Jackson Krims owned a handful of other properties in Hollydale, including several gas stations.

“Dad had just finished going through some paperwork with one of his suppliers,” Bethany said. “After the supplier drove off, Dad realized they had missed a document that both men needed to sign. It was just a standard form that had to be filed with the state. He and the supplier signed them all of the time. But the form was due by the end of the day.” Bethany stopped and took a small bite of a sandwich.

She finished chewing. “Dad said he tried to call, but the man didn’t have his cell phone turned on. My father started swearing up a storm. Jeremiah Milk was filling his tank and asked what was wrong. After Dad explained, Jeremiah said he could help.”

“How?” Damon asked.

“Jeremiah said that if Dad had a signature from the supplier on another document, he could copy it onto the form that needed to be signed. Jeremiah said he was an expert at replicating signatures.”

“Huh,” Damon said casually. His mind raced, but he couldn’t think of anything related to the murder investigation that involved forgery.

“My father didn’t take Jeremiah up on his offer. Fortunately, he was able to hunt down the supplier later in the day.”

They finished lunch by discussing the prospects of Bethany being sent out on further weather-related assignments for the news station. As Damon departed, Bethany didn’t offer him so much as a hug. He left the condominium, uncertain of whether the pair were beginning a courtship or just becoming closer friends.

* * *

The rain subsided as Damon drove fifty miles northwest to Frederick, Maryland. Rebecca had an afternoon filled with courses at The Cookery so Damon took the trek solo. As he drove, Damon thought about the key and sticky note bearing the number 47 he found in Jeremiah’s coat pocket. Just because the two were in the same cufflinks box didn’t necessarily mean they were related. Still, there was a good chance the key would open something at the fitness center in Frederick. Within seconds, he had it—a locker. Locker number 47 in particular.

Merriman’s Health and Fitness Center was located in a large free-standing building in the newer part of Frederick. It shared a parking lot with a Best Buy and a Trader Joe’s market
.

 
Damon had changed into in a moisture-wicking athletic shirt, mesh shorts, and sneakers. He slung a duffel bag over his shoulder and asked for a one-day trial at the front desk. A man with a chiseled jaw and bulging neck muscles took down Damon’s information and provided him with a temporary pass. When he gave his Virginia address, Damon told the man at the desk that he regularly traveled to Frederick for work.

Damon proceeded to the men’s locker room. White fluorescent light reflected off of a shiny floor. Three men were inside, changing clothes. Two rows of lockers, one on top of the other, lined three walls of the room. About a quarter were secured by a variety of locks. Damon set his bag on a bench and made a show of searching it for a sweatband. With his head bowed, he cast his eyes up and scanned the lockers for number 47. He found it on the bottom row, secured by a padlock rather than a combination lock. Damon breathed relief. Another man came in from the shower area and opened the locker immediately to the right of number 47.

Damon donned an orange sweatband and made his way into the gymnasium. He spent thirty minutes on a treadmill and another thirty on weight machines. Damon scrutinized the swimming pool and exercise classrooms on the off chance that the man at the front desk was paying attention.

Back in the locker room, a single man was dressing. Damon left his bag on the bench near number 47. After showering, he wrapped a towel around his waist and returned to the locker area. It was empty.

Damon snapped into action. He removed the key from a side pouch of his duffel bag, said a silent prayer, and inserted it into the padlock securing locker number 47. The key slid right in. Damon popped the lock open.

Number 47 contained a small gray bag, half the size of Damon’s duffel. Damon yanked clean clothes from his bag and deftly slid the gray bag inside, on top of his dirty clothes. He quickly zipped his duffel, dressed, and passed through the reception area with a courteous nod to the attendant at the front desk.

* * *

Damon drove toward the older part of Frederick and found an off-the-beaten-path coffee shop. He brought the small gray bag inside, ordered a hot apple cider, and planted himself in a rear booth.

The bag contained five inexpensive pocket folders, each of a different color and filled with paper. Damon quickly flipped them open in turn. The first contained bank statements and other details relating to the $2 million Alistair Atwater had given Jeremiah. The second contained a sheaf of papers on RDF Corporation. Damon smiled—finally, something tangible on RDF. Next was a folder dedicated to a single person, Mr. Dominic Freeze, CPA. Damon’s brain lurched. Dominic Freeze was the name of the boy Dottie Milk said tormented Jeremiah Milk as a child. The contents of the fourth folder appeared to concentrate on a person named Kenneth Randolph. Was he another person who had teased Jeremiah? The final folder revolved around a corporation called Trident Gaskets, Limited.

Damon breathed out audibly. A treasure trove of information rested on the table in front of him. He sipped scalding-hot cider and started methodically to examine each of the folders.

The first folder was easy, as Damon already knew that the source of Jeremiah’s wealth was Alistair Atwater. In addition to financial statements, there were a handful of photographs of Jeremiah with Matthew Katz-Atwater. Damon folded one of the snapshots in half and slipped it into his wallet.

Damon eagerly scoured the contents of Jeremiah’s RDF Corporation folder. It contained official-looking paperwork from the Commonwealth of Virginia. The company was a sole proprietorship created by Jeremiah Milk one-and-a-half years earlier. It had no physical address. Upon RDF’s creation, Jeremiah Milk deposited $1.6 million into the company’s coffers. Shortly thereafter, Jeremiah transferred corporate control of RDF to Mr. Kenneth Randolph. Once Randolph had control of RDF, he promptly sent $100,000 from RDF to the savings account of a woman named Samantha Richter and the remaining $1.5 million to a bank account owned by Kenneth Randolph in his personal capacity. Two days later, RDF was dissolved. Computer printouts revealed records that Damon deduced were the results of a hacker’s efforts to eradicate RDF Corporation’s entire history. A handwritten note said: “RDF wiped. Virginia business registration files eliminated. Could not completely penetrate bank security. Only partial wipe of True Capital.”

Damon’s excitement grew as he processed the information. Only the record of the initial transaction from Jeremiah to RDF remained at True Capital, which was why the police were at a dead end. Damon wondered whether the Commonwealth of Virginia kept paper copies of new corporations or if he had the only physical evidence of RDF Corporation in his hands.

Needing more nourishment, Damon bought a second hot apple cider and a blueberry muffin. Sitting back down, he opened the folder on Dominic Freeze. The first pages detailed the man’s biography and resume. Dominic was thirty-eight years old and lived in Havertown, Pennsylvania, near Philadelphia. He possessed an accounting degree from the University of Delaware and held positions with two other companies before his most recent stint with Trident Gaskets, Limited. At Trident he had the title “Chief Accountant.”

The remainder of the Freeze folder contained records of exchanges between Samantha Richter and Dominic Freeze, including telephone bills, printouts of e-mails, and screen shots of text messages. The e-mails and text messages all went one way—from Samantha to Dominic—and they were graphic. Samantha Richter’s phone bills suggested that over a year earlier, for a six-week period, she called Freeze’s phone several times every day. Dominic’s bills weren’t in the folder, so Damon had no way of knowing how often he called her. The folder also contained snapshots of an attractive blond woman together with the same man in several places: on a park bench, at a crosswalk, and at a table in a restaurant. Finally, there were photos of the same woman and man entering the same motel room, albeit separately. Damon guessed that the woman was Samantha Richter and the man, Dominic Freeze. He wondered whether either was married.

Damon’s head began to pound. He couldn’t assemble all of the pieces yet, but he felt confident that the contents of the folders yielded information that would lead him to Jeremiah’s murderer.