Authors: Jeffrey B. Burton
“Very impressive.”
“I did feel a little sorry for him back in high school, though, and not just because of, well, his family situation—having no father at home—but more from a
social acclimation
standpoint, not fitting in with the other kids. You see, he grew up so fast. Too fast, in retrospect, bearing in mind how it all turned out in the end. Jakey was this fifteen-year-old senior, a great athlete in his own right—a wrestler—but still a highly sensitive fifteen-year-old boy surrounded by these young men. He stood apart. Jakey was in twelfth grade but not of twelfth grade, if you know what I mean. I think Marly made that thorny transition a little easier for him.”
“He loved her, didn’t he?” Terri asked.
“I think Marly was the first friend Jakey ever had. Perhaps his only friend. This was Jakey’s second home. We would cook extra dinner in case he showed up. Quite a pair those two goofballs made, lying in front of the TV playing all sorts of games—checkers, Battleship, Monopoly, that Ker Plunk marble game. They both got into tennis back then, played every night at the school courts. Marly had the knack and really took off. Jakey went to all her matches, her home matches anyway, to cheer her on. Yes, Terri, to your point—Jakey loved Marly with all his heart. At first and always.”
Chapter 26
“B
ut Jake Westlow is deceased,” Terri repeated. “Wouldn’t you call that the proverbial dead end?”
They were seated at a table on the lower level of Trattoria Nicola’s, the hotel’s Italian restaurant. The trip back to D.C. had been animated, more so than the grim trek out to Reading. Terri had heard Cady’s side of the conversation as he read off the additional names and reported his findings back to Agent Preston.
“Think of the pattern we’ve witnessed so far, Terri. Your husband’s death is made to appear an accident. Dane Schaeffer’s death is sculpted a suicide. If Westlow were the Chessman, knowing the activity he was about to undertake—up to and including the slaying of a sitting United States congressman—faking his own demise would throw us off track, providing him maximum elbow room.”
“But Jake committing suicide wouldn’t be out of the question. Some people are too bright for their own damned good. The shooting star burns out quickest. Marly dies a tragic death. Jake’s mother dies a slow and painful death. Suddenly, he’s all alone in the universe.” Terri took a slow sip from her glass of Pinot Nero. “Probably never got over the love of his life dying so young.”
“That’s the likeliest scenario. A quick peek at the autopsy report will settle everything. If that’s cut-and-dry, we’ll move on and see what Marly’s tennis coach and those three other names have been up to in their free time.” Cady pushed one of his remaining mushroom raviolis across his plate with his fork. “I’m proud of you, Terri. Meeting Dorsey Kelch today took a lot of gumption on your part. That’s something I don’t think I’d have it in me to do.”
“Sure you would, G-Man. You’d just have done it in your own way.”
“Did you offer her the resort?”
“Right before you brought Rex back. Dorsey laughed and told me she wouldn’t have the foggiest idea what to do with a lake resort in Minnesota.”
“Did you get what you were looking for?”
“I thought I’d feel better.” Terri shrugged. “But I guess we’re all open wounds in search of a Band-Aid.”
“You think I’m an open wound?”
“You especially,” Terri said, smiling. “By the way, I notice you’re not wearing a ring anymore.”
“Someone I recently met gave me pause to consider what ghost was haunting me…or what deluded statement I was trying to make. I see you’re no longer wearing yours.”
“Some fisherman is going to hit the jackpot when he cleans a largemouth bass. I tossed that ring as far into the lake as I possibly could.”
“Why did you do that?”
“You shook up my world last week, G-Man. No way I go back to painting cabin walls after that bombshell. I haven’t been able to think about anything else. What Bret did was unforgivable. What he did was vile and immoral—all those young women the Zalentines murdered would still be alive today if he hadn’t covered up for them. Nobody deserves to die like Bret did, but it’s hard to mourn now that I know his secret. Time wounds all heels, I guess, and Bret’s past finally caught up with him. Anyway, I’ve cut all ties.”
“I’m sorry, Terri.”
“You’re following the truth, Drew. The chips are falling where they may. I guess I’m falling where I may. You’ve got nothing to apologize for—well, except the dog thing.”
Cady shook his head. “I hate Rex.”
Terri broke out laughing and pushed her plate, now empty of chicken parmigiana, aside. It was good to hear, Cady thought.
What a difference a day makes
.
“So what do you do when you’re not chasing bad guys and flabbergasting widows?”
“Ever hear of numismatics?”
“What’s that?”
“It’s the study of currency. In my case, I collect rare coins.”
“So the G-Man is tall, dark, and geeky?”
“I know—a lot of people make fun of it.”
“I wasn’t making fun of it, Drew. I was making fun of you.”
“Good one,” Cady said. “Do you like studying history?”
“I catch the History channel now and again. Whenever I do I feel that I should watch it every day.”
“I’m a history buff. Most of my collection contains rare American coins. Here’s a major nerd alert for you: I’m an associate member of the American Numismatic Society.”
“I bet the Holiday Inn gets awfully nervous when that bunch shows up for the annual banquet.”
“We keep the joint rocking till almost nine o’clock at night.”
“What coins do you have in your collection?”
“My stuff’s pretty much nickel and dime. Literally. I scored an 1851 Silver Three Cents piece earlier this year, designed by a chief engraver named James Barton Longacre and made at the Philadelphia Mint.” Cady grabbed his pen from the breast pocket of his sport jacket and sketched the coin on the back of his wine coaster, then slid it to Terri. “A giant ‘C’ with the Roman numeral III inside.”
“A three-cent piece seems like an odd number.”
“That’s where the history comes into play. The California Gold Rush began in 1848 at Sutter’s Mill. You remember the ‘Forty-Niners’?”
“Sure.”
“Well, as a result of the gold rush, the price of silver rose and people began to hoard and melt the silver coins since they were worth more as metal than as currency. Coins worth less than their face value back then were mostly rejected. At this same time, the United States postal system had reduced their basic rate to three cents. Congress came up with the idea to create a three-cent coin with just enough precious metal—silver—in it to avoid being worth less than the coin’s face value, but not enough to make it worth melting. These coins were small and thin, but they served their purpose in the purchasing of postage stamps.”
“Interesting. How big is your collection?”
“A few dozen coins. None of which cost me very much—I’m an amateur aficionado on a K-Mart budget.”
Terri stared at Cady. He could tell something was on her mind, something eating away below the surface. She appeared hesitant, but after another moment, Terri made her decision.
“Speaking of history, Drew, after you left Grand Rapids I went online and read every newspaper account on the murders of the Zalentine twins, K. Barrett Sanfield, Dane Schaeffer, and Patrick Farris that Google came up with. The more-recent articles after Dane Schaeffer’s death mentioned that an unnamed FBI agent had been with the congressman at the time of his…assassination…and that the agent had been brutally attacked by the killer.” Terri’s eyes danced briefly over the scars crisscrossing Cady’s right hand. “I’m sorry, Drew.”
Cady nodded. He felt himself begin to blush so he grabbed the bottle of Pinot Nero, refilled Terri’s glass, and emptied the remaining wine into his own.
“Dessert?”
“What?”
“Here comes the waitress.”
“Oh.”
In a high-backed booth across the room, a man with black hair and John Lennon glasses signaled his waitress for another glass of ginger ale. His bruschetta lay off to the side, completely untouched. The man appeared to have been stood up. He checked his watch before glancing slowly around the dining room, eyes settling on Cady’s table for a moment before returning to the
Washington Post’s
daily crossword laid out on his table.
Both stuffed, they’d split a Torta di Chocolate, with Terri allowing Cady to devour the lion’s portion of the cake and ice cream. Both had a cappuccino to counterbalance the Pinot. Afterward, Cady walked Terri back to her room and waited as she dug her keycard from the bowels of her purse. Terri pulled out the card and looked at Cady.
The two stared at each other for several seconds.
“Sleep tight.” Cady turned to go.
“G-Man?”
Cady turned back.
“Are you okay, G-Man?”
Cady gave her a quizzical look and nodded his head.
“I don’t mean to be presumptive, Drew. It’s been an intense week—and in a certain respect I feel as though I’ve gotten to know you quite well. You just seem so darned drawn, Drew,” Terri said, taking a step toward him. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Cady paused. “I don’t need rescuing, Terri. I’m not broken. And I’m not an open wound.”
“Maybe so, Drew.” Terri took a final step into Cady’s immediate proximity and looked up at him. “Maybe so.”
Cady stared down into Terri’s eyes, suddenly wanting to fall deep into those marble-blues. He slid his hand beneath the small of her back and pulled her flush against himself. He leaned down into the kiss. Despite their embrace Terri somehow managed to swipe open the door with her keycard and the two tumbled backward into her room.
Chapter 27
Six Months Ago
“P
apa,” Lucy said, “you remember Paul Crenna?”
Hartzell tossed the
Wall Street Journal
onto the side table, dropped his bifocals on top of the newspaper, and stood up from the couch.
“Of course I do. NYU, right, Paul?” Hartzell shook the younger man’s hand in a no-nonsense grip.
“Senior year, sir,” Crenna replied. “Time to get serious.”
“What’s your area of study?”
“Business with a minor in Economics.”
“I imagine Dr. Sladek keeps you hopping. Ty Sladek’s a dear friend, Paul. A finer mensch you’ll never meet.”
“Who’s Dr. Sladek?” Lucy asked.
“Tyson Sladek is the provost at New York University,” her date answered.
“Ty’s educational philosophy can be quite rigorous. To him the mind is a muscle in need of continual exercise, a strict regimen of aerobics, wind sprints, crunch-ups and power lifting for it to fully develop and remain finely tuned. The university as virtual boot camp for the intellect.”
Lucy stifled a yawn and headed toward the kitchen. “Let me get you boys some wine…a virtual guarantee of more stimulating conversation.”
“Janice left a batch of those crab-stuffed mushrooms you love, Lucy, if you’d like to heat those up.”
“Yummy—although I think we both know whose favorite those crab mushrooms truly are, Papa.”
Hartzell grinned like the Cheshire Cat, placed a palm on Crenna’s shoulder and led the business major to the wall of windows, far from the kitchen, so they could look out over the city at night.
“Million-dollar view, sir.”
“Call me Drake, Paul. Besides, I owe you a debt of gratitude.”
“What for?”
“If you hadn’t gone tonight, Lucy would have dragged me along, and I can’t do any more ballet. You took one for the team.”
Crenna laughed and hushed his voice. “I thought about my Fantasy Football picks all through
Swan Lake
.”
Hartzell chuckled. The kid wasn’t half bad. Lucy had been correct about his appearance: every strand of dark hair was flawlessly in place, even the intentionally stray curl that comma-ed the center of the young man’s forehead. Although the kid looked comfortably cosmopolitan, Hartzell disagreed with his daughter’s assessment—he sensed the boy had more grit to him than the average metrosexual flotsam drifting aimlessly about the city.
“What’s so funny?” Lucy appeared behind them holding two crystal glasses full of a dark ruby-colored wine.
“Paul’s giving me some advice on whom to select for Fantasy Football.”
Lucy looked as though someone had belched loudly in church.
“What have you got for us there, Slim?”
“Vina Alicia Cuarzo—a Petit Verdot blend from Argentina.”
“Nicely done.” Hartzell took his glass and inhaled the aroma. “A hint of blueberry.”
“I’m putting the mushrooms in the oven, Papa.”
Lucy returned to the kitchen and Hartzell steered the college senior back to the living room.
“That was a close one.” Hartzell motioned for his guest to take a seat on the couch with his wine glass. “Lucy said that you wanted to talk to me, Paul.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hartzell sat on the edge of the couch, away from the young man. “You seem like a great kid, Paul, if I may speak openly. I must confess to a bit of a start when Lucy mentioned that you wanted to speak with me in private. It’s very classy—quaint—but I must admit I think the two of you should date a while longer, get to know each other better. I’m sure your parents would agree there’s no reason to rush things.”
Paul Crenna stared at Hartzell for several seconds as a grin stretched across his face.
“I believe there’s been a misunderstanding, sir. Lucy is aces in my book. Someday you and I may have
that
talk, but today—I was interested in discussing a business opportunity.”
“You didn’t come here to ask for my daughter’s hand in marriage?”
Crenna shook his head.
“Oh, dear me.” Hartzell leaned back and took a long sip of the Cuarzo. “I owe you an apology—though I think Lucy was having a bit of sport at my expense. Forgive me, Paul. When your only daughter informs you that her gentleman friend would like to have a private chat with you, the old mind starts to wander.”
“No need to apologize. It was silly of me to approach you in this manner.” Crenna scratched his cheek. “When my sister got married last fall, my father went to buy a new tux. My mother suggested he be fitted for a straitjacket at the same time.”