The Demise (14 page)

Chapter 16

Julie rolled over and glanced at her alarm clock. “No! No no no!”

She jumped out of bed. “Stupid, stupid alarm clock!” She raced to the shower, dressed in record time, threw an apple and a granola bar in her leather carry-all along with her laptop, and was out the door in less than twenty minutes.

With the upcoming audition for
Romeo and Juliet,
she didn’t dare miss her Saturday workshop. Her drama coach was on the audition team, but that was no guarantee she’d get the part of Juliet. Marty McLemore was a stickler for commitment, loyalty, and punctuality. And since he was conducting today’s workshop, she would not miss it. Bad enough she was late.

As she merged onto I-40 East, her cell rang. Recognizing Matt’s number, she looped on her earpiece and answered the call.

“Hi, Matt.”

“Morning, Julie. I hope I didn’t wake you?”

“Hardly. I’m on my way into Nashville for a workshop. What are you up to this morning?”

“Small world. I’m just getting off the interstate near downtown. I’ll be here most of the day.”

“I’d ask what you’ll be doing, but then you’d have to kill me, so I won’t bother.”

“Good girl. You’re learning. How long is your workshop?”

“All day. We should wrap up around five, I think.”

“And I’d ask
you
what you’ll be doing in your workshop, but that hardly seems fair.”

“True.”

“I was calling to see if I could take you to dinner tonight.”

Julie smiled. “I’d love that, Matt.”

“Since we’re both here in town, how about meeting me somewhere when you get done?”

“Sounds good. What did you have in mind?”

“I hear J. Alexander’s on West End is good. Ever been there?”

“One of my favorites. But I’m wearing jeans and a tank top. Hardly appropriate for J. Alexander’s.”

“There’s a dress code?”

“Not really, but it’s a nice place. I’d hate to show up like this. Wait, here’s a thought. If you don’t mind meeting me a little later, I can run over to my favorite shop at the mall after class and pick up something I saw online the other day.”

“You don’t need to—”

“Are you kidding? It’s the perfect excuse I’ve been waiting for. Would six-fifteen be okay?”

“Absolutely.”

“Great. I’ll look forward to it.”

“Okay, then. Well, have a good day. Break a leg or whatever they say.”

“You need to get out more, Matt,” she teased.

“Exactly.”

Twenty-five minutes later, she pulled into the lot at the studio and made a mad dash for the door. She rushed to the theater-style classroom and quietly slipped in the back door, taking a seat in the back row.

Marty pushed his glasses up on his head. “Nice of you to join us this morning, Miss Parker.”

Julie sighed and decided to go with it. She stood up and took an exaggerated, grand bow. “The pleasure is all mine, Lord McLemore.”

As the class settled back down, Julie tried to zone in on the discussion. This morning’s session focused on character motivation—or as Marty called it, “finding your character’s guts.” He would set up a uniquely specific scenario then ask two class members of his choosing to step into the roles and perform. Afterward, the class would dissect the motivations used.

Her friend Jared was the first up, taking the part of a homeless man who’d fallen from grace after losing everything, opposite a former streetwalker turned nun, played by her friend Gretchen. After a particularly heart-wrenching scene, the class cheered the ad-libbed performance with a rousing applause.

Later, when Julie’s turn came, she turned on the charm and accent to play an Australian flight attendant trying to explain the concept of turbulence to a hysterical and frightened redneck on his first flight. The role of the redneck went to Johnny Wray, a native of New Orleans who was a dead ringer for a young Cuba Gooding, Jr. The class was in stitches by the time they finished.

Julie slid back into her seat and relaxed as the others took their turns. As the improvs and discussions continued, her mind kept wandering back to the blurry images on the water tower in Gevin’s photograph. She wondered if Matt had come to the same conclusion she had; that Peter Lanham was pushed off that tower. And, given the unlikely location, did Matt also conclude that the act was premeditated?

Peter was murdered? No one had ever been murdered in Braxton. They’d had their share of accident fatalities like most other towns, but never had one of their own been targeted and killed. Who could have done such a thing? Was the murderer also one of their own? Someone they all knew? If so, chances were good he or she was still among them. The thought sent a slight shiver feathering down her spine.

Julie shook off the implication of such thoughts, and tried to focus on what she did know. Something had been bugging her about the files she’d perused after accessing Lanham’s computer using his password, especially the emails. Most of them were routine corporate correspondence, financial records, inter-office memos, travel arrangements, and that sort of thing. Here and there, she’d skimmed personal notes from women she assumed were his
bimbos
. They couldn’t be ruled out, of course. She’d seen enough movies to know passion could turn ugly and dangerous when jealousy and money were involved. She made a mental note to make a list of these women just in case.

But the correspondence that piqued her curiosity were a series of emails written in some kind of Asian language sprinkled throughout the past month or so. She hadn’t had time to dig through them or even find out what language they were. Even now, the flash drive of these “borrowed” files seemed to burn a hole in the zipped pocket of her bag. Probably nothing of consequence, but Miss Marple had taught her to assume nothing and leave no stone unturned. What was it she always said? “Ordinary people can sometimes do the most astonishing things.”

Well said, Miss Marple. Well said.

Matt was restless as he waited for Julie. He checked his watch for the hundredth time and noted that she was now fifteen minutes late. J. Alexander’s didn’t take reservations, and with the Saturday evening crowd beginning to grow, he finally stepped up to the hostess desk and requested a table. If she never showed up, he’d just have dinner alone.

The day had been a complete waste of time. Berkowitz was in a foul mood—no surprise—and seemed to hover over Matt’s shoulder like a cranky mother hen. He wished his so-called partner would give him some space and stay buried in his Memphis case.

“I’m up to my eyeballs in this old case. I don’t have time to hold your hand through yours.”

“I’m not asking you to hold my hand. I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself, so by all means—you work on yours, and I’ll work on mine.”

He’d noticed Berkowitz had a bad habit of snapping his neck by cocking it to one side then the other. He read his body language perfectly:
you’re wasting my time and wearing me out, kid.
Matt had a string of responses on the tip of his tongue but kept his mouth shut.

“See, the thing is, I
can’t
let you handle it all. I’m responsible for you and responsible for the Braxton case. I never asked to be your babysitter, but those clowns up the food chain have a sick sense of humor. I’m sure they figured I’d toughen you up, but the problem is, I don’t care.”

“Good. That makes two of us.”

“Yeah? Then how about you keep it to yourself, and just do what I tell you.”

Which is basically how the entire day progressed. Minus the progress.

As a result, Matt opted not to mention his late-night conversation with Underwood and the mysterious subject the chauffeur alluded to. Berkowitz would no doubt pressure Matt to beat it out of him, or worse. Besides, there was no guarantee that the information Underwood mentioned as he left was worth bothering Berkowitz about. Better to save himself some grief and wait it out.

As the day wore on, the tech guys in the photo lab tried every trick they had to improve the resolution of Gevin’s photograph. But just as Gevin predicted, any further enlargement only destroyed the resolution. After two hours of tedious, repetitive attempts, the lead technician handed a copy to Matt, with Berkowitz still leaning over his shoulder.

“See this right here?” The techie pointed to the blurred image of the person standing next to Lanham on the water tower. “That’s some kind of reflection, but I can’t say for sure what it is. The sun had already set, so it’s not solar. I’m guessing it’s refracted light from some other source—the headlights of an automobile below, or maybe a flashlight. It’s impossible to tell.”

Berkowitz snatched the photograph from Matt’s hand and set it on the backlit worktable. He grabbed a magnifying glass and leaned over to study the picture. “Could be some kind of metal frame on a pair of glasses.”

Matt leaned over for a better look. “Or it could be an earring. Which means it could be a woman.”

“Lots of guys wear earrings too,” Berkowitz murmured. “The angle makes it hard to tell if it’s on the face or on the side of the face.” He dropped the magnifying glass on the table. “Not much help.”

Matt fought the urge to respond, mentally counting down from ten just to hold his temper.

Berkowitz rubbed his face and scratched the two-day growth on his jawline. “Talk to me about the shoeprint.”

“Obviously, it’s a Reebok.” Matt took his seat on the lab stool again as he opened his laptop file with the shoeprint photos. “Reebok always puts their name on the soles of their shoes, which makes our job easy. When we ran the analysis, the computer confirmed the style. It’s their ZQuick design.”

Berkowitz stood beside him studying the side by side images on the monitor—the print made near the water tower, and the Reebok sole of this particular shoe featured on their website. “You sure that’s it? Don’t these companies have a billion designs for each shoe they produce? Sometimes hard to tell which is which.”

“Right, but if you look right here, you can see the unique tread lines that curve with the shape of the shoe. These shoes were designed mimicking the concept of high-performance tires, giving the runner the same optimal ground contact you’d find on, say, a Ferrari or Porsche.”

“Ridden in a lot of Ferraris and Porsches, have you?” Berkowitz teased. “I had you figured more of a sedan kind of guy.”

“Very funny.”

Berkowitz moved to the stool beside Matt. “Lab guys give you stats on our Reebok spy?”

“They figure he—or she—is close to six feet tall, which probably rules out most females, come to think of it.”

“Says who?” Berkowitz countered. “Patricia Lanham is hardly a munchkin. What’s she? Five-nine? Five-ten?”

Matt remembered the day he met her in the study at her home. When she stood, she was eye-level with him, which made her around five-ten, give or take. He couldn’t remember if she was wearing heels, though he guessed that was most likely the case. Women walk differently in heels than in flats or pumps. And when Patricia Lanham made her exit, she was poised, ramrod straight, and walking with an air of sheer confidence.

Matt folded his arms over his chest. “Still, I’m guessing our spy is a guy.”

“Don’t assume anything, Bryson.”

By the end of the day, they’d made precious little headway. The Lucky Strike stubs provided ample DNA for analysis, but no matches were found in the national database. The absence of lipstick suggested the smoker would be male, but not every female wore lip color or gloss, so he could not rule that out. Matt had spent the rest of the day formulating a database of his own based on notes he’d made off Peter’s computer files.

He’d also researched those Asian emails and quickly found out they were written in Korean. He tried some online translation sites, but decided it would be more accurate to have someone in their linguistics department take a look. He remembered Underwood telling him about a Korean nanny named Su-Jin and wondered if these were from her. But why would someone like Peter, who was in his early sixties still be in touch with a childhood nanny? She’d have to be in her eighties, right? If she were still alive.

But if Matt were honest, all he could think about was getting out of that lab and sitting across the table from the bright, beautiful girl who would soon be joining him. He refused to look at his watch again, and instead drained his second glass of tea.