Killer Chameleon (25 page)

“Lopez!” his companion shouted, snatching open the door of a squad car some distance away. “Come on! We've got a ten-fifty PI, East Capitol and Southern!”

“Uh, sorry, gotta go,” Lopez said, backpedaling before turning to sprint away. He hopped into the cruiser and it burned rubber moving into traffic, lights flashing, siren climbing the scale.

Ordinarily the news of a traffic accident with personal injury would have evoked a Pavlovian response from me, pulse jumping, a small jolt of adrenaline. My heart rate had certainly revved up several beats per minute but not because of the ten-fifty PI.

I stared at Duck. “No wonder Eddie and Billings and what's-his-name swore they'd seen her somewhere before! She was at the wedding, too!”

“Be damned. Move, babe.” I backed up so he could open the door. “We've got to go watch a video.”

 

The lights in the conference room were lowered, the chairs around the big table occupied by a half dozen cops, most in civvies. A few in uniform ringed the wall, their focus the big monitor at the end of the room. This was foreign territory to me. I'd expected it to be a bit more posh. It wasn't and I was a little disappointed.

Jensen, nearest the VCR, a silly smile on his face, watched his image as he clomped his way awkwardly through a waltz with his wife's sister, the maid of honor. Marty's partner was her father, a real smoothie, circling the dance floor with panache.

Duck pulled out a chair for me and I sat down with a nod in response to the assorted greetings. The few who knew me stared for a moment, undoubtedly puzzled by the wig and makeup. Duck moved to Jensen's side and squatted, whispering in his ear. Jensen stiffened, looked at him wide-eyed, whispered something in return, then got up and left the room.

The plainclothes in the next chair moved down one and Duck slipped in beside me. “He's calling Marty,” he said softly. “She's got a whole database on diskette, invitees with addresses and what wedding gifts they sent so she could mention them in her thank-you notes. Jensen's having her shoot it to him via e-mail. He'll print it out for us.”

Good old Marty. She and Jensen had been engaged for fifteen years before tying the knot. It's a good thing she'd never met Plato, I reflected, or she'd have been married years ago. She was older than he was by a decade or more but when it came to computers, they'd have had enough of a shared passion to delete any obstacles.

We sat through more dancing and lame jokes by the DJ between songs, then the four-course meal, which played havoc with my empty stomach. The camera made several circuits of the room, moving in for close-ups of the guests, the videographer obviously determined to catch all the attendees at least once. The conference room erupted in guffaws and good-natured insults as they recognized their images on screen. The headcount ebbed and flowed as some left to answer their pagers and others arrived, still in uniform, their shifts just ending.

Duck and I were silent, intent on the faces on the screen as the camera panned back and forth. I squirmed with dismay whenever I spotted myself. Even allowing for the fifteen pounds contributed by the camera, I looked as if I should have skipped the meal. As hungry as I was now, I reconsidered dinner with Duck. This was sheer torture.

The tape ended. I hadn't seen anyone who resembled the photos from the bridal shop. I'd paid particular attention to Lopez when I finally spotted him, but of the women at his table, only two were African American. Perhaps she'd occupied the vacant chair to his right.

Duck got up and pushed the button to rewind the tape. Most of the company left but a few remained, settling down at the table, saying they'd missed the beginning. We had too, and as much as I dreaded it, we couldn't afford to leave until we'd seen it all.

Marty and Jensen had just been pronounced man and wife when he returned, a sheaf of pages in his hand. Not wanting to disturb the others, Duck and I got up and moved to the rear of the room, our backs against the wall so we could still see the screen.

“Dead end,” Jensen said, handing over the pages. “At least as far as who received invitations. Marty says she's sure she didn't invite anyone named Micky—which is probably Michelle—or Shelly, but she might have come with one of the guys. That's why we didn't use place cards. Some of the RSVPs included who they were bringing, some didn't. As long as they indicated how many, we didn't care.”

“We didn't spot her in the video,” I said, my eyes glued to the monitor where Jensen and Marty were climbing into the rear of a limousine. “At least not yet.” I searched the crowd outside the church, but there were so many. Half the force had turned out for this long-awaited wedding.

“Keep your fingers crossed that she does,” Duck said, his expression grim. “Otherwise, we contact every male on the list and ask him the name of his guest.”

“Sorry, guys.” Jensen jammed his hands into his pockets. “Let me know if you think of anything else I can do.”

The wedding proceedings had switched to the reception hall, capturing attendees as they entered through the double doors. Duck draped an arm around my shoulder and we watched with increasing frustration through the introduction of the wedding party at the head table, mini speeches, toasts, and the beginning strains of the wedding waltz, which is where Duck and I had come in. No sign of Shelly. He squeezed my shoulder, a signal that we might as well leave. We waved a good-bye to Jensen and threaded our way out into the hall.

“Well, that was a waste of an hour and a half,” Duck said, ushering me through the squad room.

“Yes, but think how much tape wound up on the cutting room floor, so to speak. The wedding was at four. We left at eight-something and people were still dancing. Suppose Michelle got edited out.”

He slowed, nodded. “You may be right. Let me go back and get the name of the video guy from Jensen. I'll meet you at the car.” He hurried away.

I stood for a moment, consumed with nostalgia by the scents, sounds, and controlled chaos of the squad room. Half of the desks were vacant, phones ringing unanswered. Nearest me a woman who was probably a bag lady sat in a visitor's chair waiting for the return of a detective. A group of plainclothes huddled in a far corner, their conversation low and intense. I hadn't realized how much I missed all this, the camaraderie, the sense of doing something of value despite the mental and emotional fatigue, the stress. Heading up the Shores' police force would be a far cry from my days as a part of this organization.

For a third of a second, I wondered if I'd made a mistake severing my ties with the District police department. There were plenty of jobs I could have done, but the bum knee would have confined me to a desk most of the day. I loved the street, moving from one location to another, responding to calls for help. Yet I'd never be able to join a foot pursuit and that pursuit might be instrumental in catching a perp or, God forbid, coming to the aid of a fellow officer. On the District's streets, one was as likely to occur as the other. I couldn't chance failing, not when someone's life might be at risk. No. No mistake. I'd done the right thing.

I left the building and was heading for the Cadillac when a two-fingered whistle from behind me made me look back. Lopez, a streak of dirt across his cheek and a rip in the knee of his pants, trotted toward me.

“Sorry about whistling,” he said, closing in on me, “but I couldn't remember your name. I wanted to apologize again. I shouldn't have—”

“It wasn't a problem. What happened to you?” I asked, my curiosity getting the best of me. “I thought it was a traffic accident.”

“It was, a hit-and-run, but the driver bailed out a block away. A couple of witnesses caught him and were holding him for us.” He chuckled. “It took a bit of convincing to get him to come along quietly. Uh . . .” His face sobered. “I just wanted to check with you about Duck, make sure I didn't piss him off.”

“He understood, and I'm glad to see you again. This Micky you thought was me. Duck and I just sat through the videotape. We didn't see her. You're sure she was at Jensen's wedding?”

“Hell, yes. I've got a cleaning bill to prove it. Something startled her as she was pouring the wine and I wound up wearing it.”

“She wasn't at your table. Where was she sitting? Who'd she come with?”

“Oh, she wasn't a guest. She was serving.”

I felt something implode behind my eyes. No wonder we hadn't seen her.

I grabbed him and planted an eardrum-shattering kiss on his grimy cheek. “You, Lopez, are my hero.” I left him there, dark eyes wide with confusion, as I hurried back into the station house.

I ran headlong into Duck just inside the door. “She wasn't a guest,” I said, pulling him out of the way of traffic. “I just ran into Lopez outside. She was with the caterers, a waitress!”

His jaw sagged for a second before he grabbed my hand. “Come on.”

We headed back to the conference room double-time, me struggling to keep up with him. Opening the door, he beckoned to Jensen.

Puzzled, Jensen left the rear wall, tripping over the foot of a baby face in uniform as he made his way out. “What's up?”

“The woman we're looking for, Micky, Michelle, whatever, was one of the waitresses. What's the name of the caterers you used?”

“Uh . . . Celebrations. The owner's some friend of—”

“Celebrations?” Duck cut him off. “Off Eastern Avenue? Not the place that burned last night where they found two bodies?”

Jensen ogled him. “You're kidding. I hadn't heard.”

Duck looked down at me. He didn't have to say it, I knew what he was thinking. But he said it anyway.

“Aw, shit.”

18

I DIDN'T REMEMBER UNTIL WE GOT THERE
because it had been years since I'd worked in this district, but Celebrations had been a big, white clapboard house, two-storied, probably a result of the building boom after World War II. Emphasis on “had been.” It would never be habitable again. Sunset was approaching but we could see clearly that the only thing remaining was a shell and not a lot of that.

The walls, those left, were bowed. The roof was gone, one whole side of the house no more than an open wound, the interior black and charred. The siding was blistered and warped, windows shattered and gaping. Debris, largely unrecognizable except for a couple of file cabinets, littered the lawn, the air still acrid with the stench of burned wood, furnishings, carpeting. The ubiquitous crime scene tape marking the perimeter of the property made it resemble some sort of obscene gift.

The curious lingered in twos and threes on the sidewalk, subdued, faces mirroring their horror. A police car blocked the driveway, behind it one from the fire department. The only free parking spot was across the street and we jaywalked to get to the other side. Duck lifted the tape for me.

“You sure about this?” I asked.

“My district,” he said tersely, as if that was all that was required.

I squatted, knees protesting, and scooted under the yellow ribbon, still a little nervous about it. He had a badge. I didn't. As far as the law was concerned, I was trespassing.

“Hey!” A broad-beamed cop in uniform rounded the house, scowling, the setting sun glinting off his glasses. “You two blind? Get back behind that tape.”

“Hey, Masters.” Duck smiled affably. “Just nosing around. How long have you been working days?”

“Duck! My man!” They shook hands, did the usual knuckle-to-knuckle nonsense. “Just started last week. Still not used to it either. This your lady? Seems to me I know you.”

“Leigh Warren,” I said, extending a hand.

“Oh, yeah. You used to work out of the Fourth. Haven't seen you in a while.” His body language was now completely relaxed. After all, he was in the company of members of the brotherhood. Evidently Duck considered it prudent to keep to himself that technically, I no longer belonged. I wasn't about to correct him.

“How'd it start?” I asked. “It must have been one hell of a fire.”

“Gas leak, they think. Blew furniture and stuff all over the neighborhood. Lucky there aren't any places closer by.”

A gas leak. Duck and I exchanged wondering glances. He took my hand and squeezed it. Translation: button up, babe.

“I hear two bodies were found.” His arm snaked around my shoulder. “ID them yet?”

“Nah, but most likely a couple of cooks. According to the owners, they had a brunch scheduled for today, so the lady who did most of the baking might have come in early. Their offices were on the second floor and all their records were destroyed. The owners are scrambling to dig up phone numbers for their employees. The last I heard, they had a few left to find.”

“Large staff?” Duck asked.

“A dozen or so, mostly part-timers. They did a good business, though. A shame. Y'all excuse me,” he said, his attention caught by a white paneled van pulling up behind the fire inspector's. “This here's one of the owners.” He moved toward the new arrival with a flat-footed gait.

The man who climbed out of the van was on the short side but solid, with a caramel complexion and, I suspected, a plethora of deeply etched furrows in his face that hadn't been there the night before. His eyes were bloodshot, visible even from where we stood. Shoulders slumping, he hesitated, looking at the ruin his business had become, shook his head, and slammed the door of the van.

“Hey,” Duck said, surprise plastered across his features. “I know that dude.”

Big wow. The number of people in the District he didn't know would only fill a storefront church.

“Who is he?”

“Give me a minute. I'm working on it.”

It took less time than that, thanks to the newcomer, who glanced without interest in our direction, looked away, then back again. “Kennedy?”

“Haskell!” Duck responded, striding toward him. “I didn't know you were back in town. My God, Beanie, this was your place?”

He blinked, his eyes filling. “Yeah. Aw, man, look at it. Just look at it! Goddamn!” He turned away, but Duck, at his side now, pulled the man into his arms. Haskell didn't resist, burying his face against Duck's shoulder. Masters, the cop, looked embarrassed, and retreated. I stayed put, knowing Haskell was in good hands.

In short order he pulled what had to be a linen napkin from a back pocket and wiped his eyes and nose, mumbling apologies. Duck murmured assurances, one arm still grasping Haskell's shoulder.

He looked back at me. “Give me a few minutes, okay, babe?”

I nodded. “Take your time. Unlock the car.”

He aimed the remote at the Caddy and I crossed the street and got back in, watching as he and Haskell walked slowly up the driveway toward the charred remains of the house. They talked for a short while, Duck nodding at Haskell's replies, before disappearing in back of the ruin. Masters followed them, lagging far enough behind to give them privacy.

I reclined the seat a little and made myself comfortable with a pencil and notebook, jotting down thoughts, unanswered questions, and potential trails to explore given this new development. Having learned that our girl worked for Celebrations, we would have asked Marty or Jensen to act as a go-between to get the full name and address from the caterers, since I suspected that the owners would be more inclined to give it to the Jensens than to Duck or me.

That was no longer necessary. Duck would find out what we needed to know from Haskell. With his records up in ashes, Haskell might not remember Michelle's address, but he would surely remember her name. From there, Marty would find out where she lived. Like Plato, she could massage a database into giving her the precise moment of conception of Genghis Khan, if it existed anywhere.

I must have nodded off because a rap on the window jarred me awake. The locks released and Duck opened the doors on the driver's side. He was not alone.

“Sorry, babe,” he said, getting in. “I didn't think I'd be this long.”

Haskell slipped into the backseat. “My fault.” He extended a hand. “Jim Haskell. Duck tells me you're The One. Pleased to meet you.”

“Leigh Warren,” I said, twisting to take his hand. “Likewise.”

“I'm sorry about what happened back there. I saw old Duck and I couldn't help it, all the starch went out of my stiff upper lip.”

“You're entitled,” I assured him. “I'm sorry too. You had a good thing going, if the service at the Jensen wedding was any example. I hope you'll be able to recoup.”

He sighed. “It's up to the wife. She worked so hard, put so much of herself into building the business. We'll see. Forget me for the moment. The Duck says one of my former employees has been giving you grief.”

“Former?” Was she slipping through our fingers again?

“Oh, yes. I fired her ass. By the way, her name is Michelle Halls, plural. And anything I can do to help, just ask. If it wasn't for Brother Duck here, I'm not sure where I'd be now. He got me into the fraternity, loaned me enough money to pledge. And he kept me going while I was ‘on line', hid me when I had a test so I could study without the brothers coming to get me.”

“Beanie.” Duck slouched under the wheel, looking embarrassed.

“Well, you did. You saved my hide more times than I can count. So how can I help?”

“Tell me about Michelle, for a start,” I said.

“She's a very troubled woman. It's almost like she's got multiple personalities, a real sweetheart and charismatic one minute, a bitch on wheels the next. But she was also a dynamite waitress and my best bartender. She could charm anyone she was serving, but behind the kitchen door hard as hell to work with, snotty, talking down to coworkers as if they were beneath her. And untrustworthy. That's what finally did it for me.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“People who turn over their kitchens, hell, their homes to us when we cater a dinner or party or whatever, have to be able to trust us, to know we won't abuse the privilege. Michelle broke the rules. She had to go.”

“How long ago was that?” I asked.

He thought about it. “I'm not sure. If you'd asked me yesterday, I could have told you. Unfortunately, all my records are toast. We used the second floor for office space.”

“Which, by the way, is where the fire may have started, babe,” Duck said. “They found a trash can that looks suspicious.”

“What about the gas leak?” I asked.

“I still haven't figured that out.” Haskell yanked off his cap and scrubbed his fingers through his hair. “Jackie—that's my wife—and I, we had a nightly routine. Before we left, we checked all the burners to make sure they were off. The equipment was new; we'd just upgraded all the cooking surfaces and ovens, had Washington Gas come and check everything out. I'm here to tell you that every last knob was turned to off and there was no smell of gas or anything.”

“Maybe one of the cooks turned it on,” I ventured.

“They hadn't arrived, weren't coming in until six. The only people in the place before six would be the cleaners, and the kitchen wasn't their responsibility, just the second floor and the reception area on the first. Now they're dead.” Heat flared in his eyes. “They were good people, hardworking. They didn't deserve this. Jackie's with their families now. We're gonna foot the bill for their funerals. In fact, one of them is . . . was a distant relation of Michelle's, a third or fourth cousin or something.”

Which meant I had to erase one of the images that had slithered through my mind when we'd first arrived: Michelle skulking around inside Celebrations and for whatever reason, turning the knob on the oven and blowing the place to hell and gone. With a cousin right upstairs? That made it seem less likely. But then what did I know? My dad's cousin had killed him and my mom. So who was I to guess at the dynamics in Michelle's family?

“But Michelle definitely served at Jensen's wedding, right?” Duck asked.

“Yeah. That was one of her bad days. She was fine the first hour or so, then somebody must have done something or said something, I don't know. Anyhow, it rubbed her the wrong way. She couldn't seem to keep her mind on what she was supposed to be doing, spilled things, snapped at a guest. I had to pull her off the serving floor, keep her in the kitchen.”

I processed that information and jumped, right or wrong, to my own conclusion. “She saw me at the wedding! She couldn't have missed me, Duck, not after the way everyone toasted us and with Marty walking over and plopping her bouquet in my hands. Michelle must have remembered me, remembered how we met.”

Duck swiveled in his seat. “That might have done it, lit her fuse. A fine actress—that's obviously how she sees herself—yet there she was, serving drinks and hors d'oeuvres.”

Now that I thought of it, she was in a white uniform that day on Sixteenth Street. Oh, yeah, there was Plato's trigger all right. Seeing me at the wedding.

“Well, to give her credit,” Haskell was saying, “according to my wife, Michelle is very talented. She went to a couple of her plays, sort of felt obligated to support her as a member of our staff, I guess. Jackie said you could have knocked her over with a feather, the woman's that good.”

I'd already seen proof of that. “Do you remember where she lives?”

“Lord, no. She used to have a room in a house on Sixteenth, but got herself kicked out. She worked for us for a year and a half and had to move three times that I know of. Guess she was as hard to live with as she was to work with. But the job was perfect for her because she could work around auditions and plays she was in. If she hadn't been so good behind a bar, I'd have let her go long since. But once I caught her on a client's computer, I had no choice.”

My gaze locked with Duck's. “How'd that happen?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah, babe, listen to this.” Duck swiveled around, his back against the door.

“We were catering a fiftieth anniversary party at a place in Gaithersburg. Everything was going smooth as silk, folks having a good time. I notice Michelle's missing, figure she's in the john. I go to knock on the door to tell her to make it snappy because it's time to serve dessert. I pass the door of the manager's office and there's Michelle plunking away on his computer! Her ass was grass, gone. I let her stay until the party was over so she'd have a ride back here but that was the end of it.”

I flipped through my notes. “Haskell—”

“Beanie,” he corrected me with a sheepish grin. “Around my frat brothers, I prefer Beanie.”

“You got it. Did you cater a party or anything at New Gospel in Mitchellville?”

“A wedding reception. Three hundred guests, hors d'oeuvres, Cornish hen with wild rice and baby peas,” he recited. “Why?”