Don't Cry Over Killed Milk (18 page)

“Did you ask Kenneth why he was trying to break up Dominic’s marriage?” Damon asked.

“Yes, but he wasn’t willing to tell me. ‘No questions asked’ was part of our deal.”

“Thank you very much for your candor, Ms. Richter,” Damon said. “Would you mind giving me Kenneth’s contact information?”

“Sorry, I can’t. Ever since Dominic’s wife left him, I haven’t been able to get in touch with Kenneth. E-mails bounce back and the phone company said his number’s been disconnected.”

Damon grunted to himself in frustration. “Why did you try to contact him? Hadn’t Kenneth sent you all of the money he promised?”

“Oh, I received every penny, but I was scared for my safety. Dominic left a nasty message on my voicemail. He said that his wife left him because of me and if he ever saw me again, he didn’t know if he’d be able to control his temper. I almost moved. Instead, I added that big lock.” She glanced at the door, then looked up at Damon with apprehension. “Now that I think about it, I probably shouldn’t have let you inside.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not working for Dominic,” Damon said. “But I really need to find Kenneth Randolph. Can you at least describe what he looks like?”

“That I can do,” Samantha said. She unwrapped a stick of peppermint chewing gum and popped it into her mouth. “Late thirties or early forties. Tall and thin. And his fingers are disfigured.”

Damon stared at her in disbelief. Was it possible that Jeremiah recruited another man with the same condition to help him destroy Dominic Freeze’s life? Or were Jeremiah Milk and Kenneth Randolph the same person? He recalled the photograph of Jeremiah and Matthew Katz-Atwater he had found in the gym locker. Damon reached into his wallet, pulled it out, and set it down on the breakfast bar.

Samantha Richter looked down at the photo and placed a forefinger on Jeremiah’s face. She said, “That’s Kenneth, all right.”

Chapter 18

Late afternoon sun scorched Damon’s driveway when he returned home. David Einstaff was sitting on the front porch. He wasn’t drinking, but the man’s ashtray looked like a clew of worms that had overtaken a sand hill.

 
Damon nodded at David and went inside. He called Rebecca and filled her in on the day’s events.

“Jeremiah Milk pretending to be Kenneth Randolph makes sense,” Rebecca said when Damon finished. “It gave him access to Trident without allowing Dominic to know it was him.”

“Right,” Damon agreed. “Funneling the money for the stake in Trident through RDF Corporation erased the connection between Milk and Randolph.” He snapped his fingers. “Marcus Pontfried must have been working for Dominic and figured out that Jeremiah was Kenneth Randolph. That’s why Pontfried went to the park.” He paused in thought, then said, “When Vanessa Maldive told Jeremiah that Marcus Pontfried questioned her, Jeremiah asked her if Pontfried had mentioned anyone else by name. I’ll bet that Jeremiah was trying to figure out if Pontfried had asked specifically about Kenneth Randolph.”

“So Jeremiah suspected he’d been found out,” Rebecca said.

“Probably.”

“Do you think Dominic Freeze is the killer?”

“I don’t know if he wielded the pressure washer,” Damon said. “But he sure had a strong motive. Jeremiah destroyed his career and tore apart his family. He ruined Dominic’s life.”

“Ruined his life,” Rebecca repeated pensively into the phone. She paused. “RDF. Ruin Dominic Freeze.”

* * *

At seven o’clock in the following morning, Damon made his way on foot to Clementine Snead’s home. It had been two days since he witnessed Clementine scrutinizing Hollydale’s crepe myrtles. The walk took Damon ten minutes, and the crisp air against his face invigorated him.

Damon approached Clementine’s row house from the rear. Each lot in the five-residence strip had a patch of backyard between the home and a detached one-car garage. Damon gingerly stepped around Clementine’s garage. Along one side, he noticed a small window positioned above head height. Damon scanned his surroundings. The stretch of backyards was desolate. He dragged a black plastic trash can from a neighbor’s lawn against the side of Clementine’s garage, turned the can on its side, and climbed on top.

Morning sunlight streamed through the grimy window. Damon pushed aside a cobweb and peered inside. Mason jars lined a waist-high shelf. Damon pulled out the binoculars that were still inside his fleece pocket. He focused the lenses on the jars. They were filled with insects. Gotcha!

From his left, Damon heard a door slam and a voice shout, “I’m calling the police!”

Damon swung the binoculars down and rapidly twisted his head. He tumbled from the garbage can and landed on his backside. A wave of pain coursed through him.

Wearing a white, V-necked undershirt and tight tennis shorts, Clementine Snead strode angrily from the back of his row house toward Damon. “You’re tr-tr-trespassing,” he bawled.

Damon was still sitting on the ground in pain. Clementine hovered over him. “I know you. You were hanging around the garden center a few days ago.”

“
I’m
the one calling the police,” Damon retorted and stood up, rubbing his backside. “I watched you on Friday night. You’re killing the crepe myrtles in Hollydale.”

Clementine took a step back and forced a laugh. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Come on, Mr. Snead. I photographed you, and I just saw the insects in your garage.” Damon knew the blurry pictures he had taken of Clementine during Friday’s overnight hours would be useless as evidence, but it was enough of a threat to put Clementine squarely on defense.

The man hiked up his shorts. “I’m not killing any crepe myrtles,” he countered. “I just needed test trees. Like lab rats. A-A-Actually,” he stuttered, “not as bad as lab rats because the trees aren’t in any danger of permanent harm.”

Damon stared at him.

Clementine wiped sweaty palms on his shirt as seconds ticked by in silence. Finally the master gardener explained, “I’m developing a new product to treat crepe myrtle infestations. It’s a major scientific breakthrough—completely organic but as strong as a pesticide. The organic sprays on the market are all weaker than pesticides, so you have to apply them more often. That makes it more expensive to treat your trees. My formula is just as strong as a pesticide but without the toxins.”

“And you’ve been testing the solution on the local crepe myrtles?” Damon asked.

“Yes,” Clementine admitted. “To perfect the combination of ingredients. I know which components to use but have to figure out the precise percentages of each to maximize effectiveness. And the solution I’m designing will work on all types of insects that eat crepe myrtle leaves. It’ll be one-stop shopping.”

“So you let loose a spate of bugs on your neighbors’ trees to test different combinations of your solution?”

Clementine flushed. “I-I-It’s for the good of the trees. And I’m not doing anything haphazardly. I have a methodology. One night, I populate a set of trees with one of three types of insects. Later, I spray them with a carefully calculated solution. Then on a third night, I take measurements to check the results. I’m only on my sixth cycle and already at the cusp of hitting the ideal ratios. My formula will revolutionize the organic tree spray industry.” A rich glow came into his beady eyes.

“Weren’t the owners of the trees spraying their own solutions as well?” Damon queried.

Clementine waived a hand in the air. “A minor impediment. Homeowners never seem to spray right away. By the time they do, my cycle’s complete, and I just wait a few days for their chemicals to wear off before repopulating. Mind you, crepe myrtles are just the beginning. I’ll be able to modify the core formula to take on all temperate plants and trees.”

Damon was tempted to ask if Clementine planned to repeat his testing procedure for every species he had in mind. Instead, he pulled out his cell phone. “I want you to repeat everything you just told me to the police,” he said and dialed the Arlington County police station.

He didn’t ask for Gerry Sloman. Instead, he requested an officer who handled property damage complaints. After Damon summarized the recent history of crepe myrtle infestations in Hollydale and Clementine’s story, the officer promised to come by and take Damon’s and Clementine’s statements and gather any evidence.

“The police will be here in fifteen minutes,” he told the master gardener.

“Hey, no problem,” Clementine said breezily. “Even if I have to pay a fine, that’s a small price to pay for gardening immortality.”

Later, after Damon returned home, he posted a note on the Hollydale listserv informing the citizenry that a perpetrator had been apprehended and the infestation would cease. The police had charged Beauregard Snead with destruction of property. Damon didn’t name Clementine in his post but he was certain the man’s identity would be all over town quickly—on his way home, Damon had stopped by Cynthia’s salon and, as promised, regaled Mrs. Chenworth with his escapades in watching, tracking, and confronting Clementine.

* * *

Despite the bruise on his backside, Damon decided to take a late-morning run along the Custis Trail—a bicycle and pedestrian route that wound through Arlington’s woodlands. The air had turned bitter and he felt a chill in his chest. But his mind, which was running on all cylinders, zeroed in on Jeremiah Milk.

Jeremiah had probably forged Dominic Freeze’s signature on the bank authorization slips, retrieved cash from each of Trident’s banks, planted it in Dominic’s basement, and then tipped off Trident management and the press. At the same time, Jeremiah hired Samantha Richter to concoct an affair that would end Dominic’s marriage.

Damon still had several questions, including how Marcus Pontfried had discovered that Kenneth Randolph was, in fact, Jeremiah Milk. He thought hard—had the private investigator spoken with Samantha Richter?

Damon also didn’t know how Jeremiah penetrated Dominic’s computer at Trident to make the electronic bank authorizations. Had Jeremiah stolen Dominic’s password and broken into his office, or did he hack Dominic’s computer? Someone had also wiped clean all references to RDF in the Commonwealth of Virginia’s electronic business registration files. That fact suggested the work of an expert. Damon racked his brain. Did Jeremiah have that expertise? Perhaps he had assistance. Did Milt Verblanc’s skills in robotics or Alex’s engineering knowledge extend to computers?

Damon jogged the final stretch of a four mile trek in cool-down mode. He bent over on the sidewalk in front of his duplex to catch his breath. And then it came to him: the boy. According to Glenda Atwater, Matthew spent hours on his computer. No one except Matthew knew what he and Jeremiah talked about in the teen’s room for considerable lengths of time. They must have been plotting a grand revenge.

Damon closed his eyes and pictured Glenda Atwater speaking with Jeremiah at Tripping Falls:

“Please help me,” Glenda pleaded. “Matthew won’t leave his room. All he does is type away for hours on end on his computer. I don’t even know what he’s doing up there. All I see on the screen is code.”

Damon’s thoughts moved to the initial conversation between Jeremiah and Matthew. He imagined the scene:

Jeremiah strode into the boy’s bedroom and shut the door behind him. He held up his hands for Matthew to see.

“Going through some tough times, kid?” Jeremiah asked with avuncular charm.

Matthew nodded, staring wide-eyed at Jeremiah’s hands.

“It’s not going to get better for a long time,” Jeremiah said. “Those boys who are teasing you are dirt. And the girls are no better—they’re talking about you behind your back. You hate them, don’t you?”

“More than life itself,” Matthew said. “Who are you?”

 
“My name’s Jeremiah. Your grandmother asked me to see you. She thought I could help get you out of your funk. Do you want to humiliate the kids in your class?”

Matthew nodded again. “I’m being homeschooled right now, but I don’t like that either.”

“Okay. We’ll work on getting you back into school and come up with a plan for those bullies. But first I need you to help me. I hear you’re good with computers. How good?”

“Very good,” Matthew said with quiet confidence.

Jeremiah hesitated. “Could you hack into one? Say, the computer system of a company. Or a bank?”

Matthew nodded for a third time.

Jeremiah smiled and laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I have a feeling we’re going to be great friends, Matthew.”

* * *

Damon had to speak with Matthew before informing the police of his suspicions. Alistair Atwater would never let the teenager talk to a detective without an attorney present.

But first, Damon had another call to make. He dialed Samantha Richter.

“Samantha,” Damon said into the receiver. “This is Damon Lassard. We met yesterday.”

“Hello again, Mr. Lassard. Is everything all right?”

“Yes. I have one more question that I forgot to ask you. Did you provide a description of Kenneth Randolph to a man named Marcus Pontfried? He’s a private investigator from York, Pennsylvania, that Dominic hired.”

Damon could hear Samantha take in breath quickly. “I did,” Samantha admitted. “A man by that name called about three or four months after I stopped bothering Dominic. But he didn’t tell me he was a private eye. Or that Dominic hired him. He said he was with the IRS. He started by asking me questions about who had taken the photos of me and Dominic. I admitted it was Kenneth, and Mr. Pontfried said that the IRS needed to locate him. I told him the same thing I told you—that I didn’t have any way of reaching him.”

“But he asked for a description of Kenneth?”

“He did. I gave him the same description that I gave to you yesterday. Two weeks later, he came by my Target and showed me a picture. I verified that it was Kenneth.”

Damon thanked Samantha and ended the call. Now he had a better sense of how Marcus Pontfried tracked down Jeremiah: Pontfried surmised that there was a connection between the embezzlement set-up and Samantha Richter and had squirreled Kenneth Randolph’s name and description from Samantha. Recognizing Randolph’s name as Trident’s silent partner, Dominic would have realized that the man was trying to destroy him. And Dominic only knew of one person who matched Samantha’s description of Kenneth Randolph and his malformed fingers—Jeremiah Milk. So Pontfried tracked down and photographed Jeremiah, then had Samantha confirm the person in the photo was the man she knew as Kenneth Randolph. Pontfried and Dominic would have concluded that Milk, acting as Randolph, also set him up on the embezzlement charges.