Drawing Conclusions (10 page)

nineteen

Naomi had lived in
an apartment in a brownstone about two hundred yards from our bed-and-breakfast. Calvert Street was a tony address with fully renovated buildings painted in a palate of historical colors. Four stories including the basement apartments, the brownstones harkened back to an era of cobblestones and horse-drawn wagons. We met Officer McDonald on the apartment's stoop.

“So, y'all partners?” McDonald asked me.

“Me?” I said with surprise. “A cop?” I looked at DeRosa and laughed.

He rolled his eyes, leaving McDonald feeling awkward.

“Sorry 'bout that,” McDonald said. “I just figured, 'cause you two seem like you've known each other awhile.”

“Just since Teddy's death.” I wondered what type of vibe DeRosa and I gave off. True, I felt comfortable with DeRosa, and now it appeared others had started to take notice.

“I see. So are you related to the doctor in New York?” McDonald asked me.

“He's my brother.”

“I'm sorry for your loss,” McDonald said, showing his accent wasn't just for show: he was a true Southern gentleman.

“Thank you,” I shook his hand. “My brother was engaged to Dr. Gupta, but the engagement broke off before her suicide.”

“And the lady doctor is not a suspect in the case?” McDonald asked.

“She's not a direct suspect,” DeRosa answered. “However, given the timing of her suicide and Dr. Prentice's death, we suspect she was aware of a threat against Dr. Prentice.”

“But she's not a suspect,” McDonald persisted. “I'm only asking because I can't let just anyone upstairs if you think this is anything more than the site of a suicide.”

“We're not ruling out Dr. Gupta's knowledge of a crime, but there's no reason to think a crime has been committed here,” DeRosa answered as he gave Naomi's building the once-over.

“I'll have to take your word on that,” McDonald replied.

“So what's with this building?” DeRosa asked. “It doesn't seem to fit with the rest of the block. In fact, it's an eyesore.”

Peeling paint hung off the building, and the dome-shaped cupola leaned precariously toward the street. That surprised me because I knew Naomi was a stickler for appearances.

McDonald put his hand firmly on the iron railing leading up the brick stairs to the heavily carved French doors. The doors, however impressive, were in desperate need of a good oiling. If I had a rag and a pair of rubber gloves, I would have done it myself. Officer McDonald gave the railing a good shake, and it swayed easily under the pressure. “Be mighty surprised if the building hasn't been hit with code violations. Especially in neighborhoods like this, pressure from local community groups forces owners to make changes. Wait till you see inside, there's something may get your brain a-turnin'.”

The exterior lack of curb appeal extended to the building's interior. The neglected lobby was poorly lit and smelled like a basement. The labeled mailboxes indicated only one other resident besides Naomi.

“What's rent go for on this block?” DeRosa asked.

“Most of the block is owner occupied. A one bedroom co-op runs about three fifty, and a well done two-bedroom can push up to six hundred thousand.”

“Two sweet for a cop's wallet.”

“Hell, I got over an hour commute from Virginia just to find a place I could afford,” McDonald shook his head. “Anyway, Adams Morgan attracts a lot of younger professionals from the NIH. The metro stop is a straight shoot to the NIH campus, and you can see the neighborhood is known for its nightlife. Once the professionals get hitched and have kids, they flee the city for better schools.”

“What's the rental history on this place?” DeRosa asked as we ascended the stairs to the third floor.

“I did a little checking about that with a local real estate agent,” McDonald said. “The place was bought two years ago by YWS Corporation for an even mil. According to district records, some safety modifications were made at that time and permits were filed to renovate two of the apartments. From what I can tell, one of the apartments belongs to Dr. Naomi Gupta and the other belongs to YWS.”

McDonald jiggled Naomi's key, swung the door open, and then stepped back. DeRosa whistled through his teeth as if a beautiful girl had just walked by.

“Holy cow,” I exclaimed. “Now
this
is the Naomi I knew.”

Referring to Naomi's digs as an apartment would be misleading. Naomi owned the entire top floor of the brownstone, like a penthouse. The pristine open kitchen, a showstopper with pounds of granite countertops, probably never saw more than a Chinese takeout carton. The visual disconnect from the lobby to the apartment was so glaring that I dashed from room to room like a kid in a candy store. I flung open a door expecting a second bedroom only to find an enormous walk-in closet. I found shoes in every color, style, and heel height displayed like a wall of fine china.

I yelled to DeRosa from Naomi's closet. “Someone's got a fetish.” I dragged my arm across a shelf, pulling at least twenty pairs to the floor. “How much money could she possibly be making?”

“I wondered the same thing,” McDonald answered as he and DeRosa made their way into Naomi's shoe emporium.

“Let's hope she left a money trail, because that is something we can follow,” DeRosa said. “You got anything for us, McDonald?”

“I might have somethin'. I got the call to check on the apartment approximately forty-eight hours after the time of death. Standard scenario: the victim doesn't show up for work and the cop on duty does a drive-by. The building and apartment didn't match up and although the coroner couldn't find anything suspicious, the environment didn't sit good with me.”

“Is there a suicide note?” I asked.

“Yes, ma'am. It's just one line.” McDonald didn't need to refer to his notes to remember Naomi's last correspondence. “
I preferred the lie.”

I looked at DeRosa. “I think the note is a link. It's like the second part of the card she sent to Teddy.”

“How so, CeCe?'

“Her note to Teddy implied that she tried to do something for him, but the outcome wasn't what she wanted.
I did what you said but it's not what you promised,”
I recited Naomi's original quote to DeRosa, and then I added, “
I preferred the lie
.”

“Say it again, but this time include references to authorship and scientific papers,” DeRosa challenged.

I was about to start when my words bottlenecked somewhere between my brain and my mouth. I tried again but found it difficult to re-create a believable conversation between Naomi and Teddy. DeRosa and McDonald nodded smugly at my ineptitude, but I refused to be beaten.

“All right. Just give me a second. I'm not an investigative expert.” I paced Naomi's over-decorated bedroom. I grabbed a silky bathrobe off her four-poster mahogany bed and held it up in front of me. “Let's say Naomi tried to get a paper published. Maybe something she worked on with Teddy. Teddy knew her research had problems. Maybe she tried to make some changes, but the study still wasn't up to Teddy's standard. Then, she tried to smooth over Teddy's objections by signing off on the grant. A payoff of sorts. The bad research combined with an attempt to buy him would be tough for Teddy. He refused to play and threatened to report her careless research.”

“Not bad,” DeRosa complimented. “The lingerie is more than I expected.”

“Thank you.” I bowed deeply tossing the robe aside. “Maybe I haven't got it exactly right, but I think the note confirms that whatever Teddy asked her to do and the result of that action was more than she could handle. In fact, I think she meant the note for Teddy. She must have thought he'd be alive to see it.”

“Interesting,” DeRosa said.

I turned to McDonald. “He likes that word. It means he's thinking.”

“You sure y'all ain't partners?” McDonald asked again.

“I'm certain.” I turned to DeRosa, “What are you thinking, Frank?”

DeRosa nodded robotically, ignoring my question. “You mentioned that Naomi seemed to appear suddenly in your brother's life. Do you think she sought him out?”

I looked around the room, wondering how Naomi had supplemented her income. I hated to think that my brother had been had, but it was possible. “It could be,” I answered regretfully.

“I'm going to file that away,” DeRosa said, and then he turned his attention to McDonald. “What else did you find?”

“Well, I questioned the apartment. However, there was no suspicion of foul play and until the call from New York, the victim didn't appear to be involved in anything requiring follow-up. I interviewed her direct supervisor at the NIH, and his comments were innocuous. The family wasn't asking questions, so the body was shipped to Michigan as requested by her parents. The chief told me to drop it.”

“But?” DeRosa encouraged.

“But ... I'm curious and I couldn't explain the huge investment in this apartment. According to her employer, she made a hundred and thirty-five grand a year and even as a single woman, she lived well outside her means. Thing is, I'm up for a promotion this year, detective rank. I really want it, so I pushed a little further.” McDonald reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a wad of papers. “I got as far as pulling up tax returns for the YWS Corporation. It stands for Young Women Scientists. According to their public filings, the purpose is to provide scholarships for young girls pursuing higher-level education i
n the sciences.”

“Seems like a noble cause,” I said after McDonald left us on our own with the papers. “Maybe Naomi had a second job working for this nonprofit?”

“Possibly.” I could see DeRosa's wheels turning.

“Maybe a sugar daddy paid for the apartment?”

“Doubt it.”

“Can you form a complete sentence?”

DeRosa shook his head and wandered off to inspect the rooms. I headed straight for the kitchen and filled up the remaining space in my bag with dry goods. As I rummaged through the drawers, I found a framed photo facedown under a pile of old mail. It was Teddy posing in front of the labs.

The frame felt like glass shards in my hands, and I realized it was the first time I'd seen an image of Teddy since he died. I took in Teddy's eyes; for a second I felt him with me. At that exact moment, DeRosa poked his head back into the kitchen.

“Let's wrap it up. I'm just checking the bathroom for prescription drugs. Could be a sign of instability.”

I gaped at DeRosa as he turned and walked away. The mere suggestion of a man Teddy's age and build immediately upon seeing his photo sent a shudder to my core. God, I missed my brother.

I tore the back off the tacky rhinestone frame, tossed the frame in the garbage, and shoved Teddy's photo into my bag. I yelled back to DeRosa, “I'm out of here. Meet me downstairs.”

twenty

DeRosa consulted the Metro
map. “We need to head out to the NIH.”

I fished around in my bag, unwrapped a roll, and handed it over. DeRosa made a polite attempt to throw away the napkin, but I nabbed it out of his hands before it became refuse.

“No sir. We save the napkin. Public bathrooms are notoriously devoid of tissue.”

DeRosa swallowed the roll in two quick bites, finishing before we took our seats on the red line. The relatively new D.C. Metro system was a far cry from the crumbling underground maze of Manhattan's subways. The platform and car were clean and well lit and although it was lunch hour, the station was empty. The air conditioning seemed evenly distributed, and I didn't feel the need to avoid looking at the tracks for fear of seeing a rat.

“You ever think of moving out of New York?” I asked DeRosa.

“Italy,” he responded.

“Get out,” I jeered.

“I was born in Italy. My parents came over when I was about three months old.”

“Did your father work for an international company?”

Uncharacteristically, DeRosa laughed loud enough that the few fellow passengers snuck a look. “Sorry to disappoint, but my father is a mason. He builds stone walls and patios.”

“Disappoint? I'm a big fan of working with your hands. Let's not forget I live on a working farm. So what brought the DeRosa family to the US?”

“I'm assuming my parents wanted to experience the American dream.”

“And did it fulfill their expectations?”

“I have higher hopes for the next generation of DeRosas,” he said. “Maybe we'd have more luck if I changed the family name to Prentice.”

“Don't tell my dad. He barely wants
me
to carry the Prentice name. Anyway, since you're an only child, it looks like the onus is on you to pass down the DeRosa genes.”

“I guess I am the last one in the line. I never thought of it that way.”

“That makes two things we have in common,” I answered, as I pointed to the map mounted above our seats. “Two more stops.”

“How about you?” DeRosa asked. “Ever think of living more than five miles from your parents?” It was the first personal question DeRosa had posed that had nothing to do with the case. It was also rather insensitive.

“Ouch,” I retorted.

“I'm only asking because the proximity and your relationship seem inversely correlated.”

“I guess the West Coast would have been a more likely choice,” I agreed. “Seattle crossed my mind a few years back. San Francisco was also on my radar.”

“Too far to hitchhike?”

“Try not to wallow in my failure, but at one point I actually had a plan to bicycle across country.” Even I chuckled at the memory. “I purchased a used cycling book at a garage sale, but I didn't get very far in that venture.”

“I think I know what stopped you,” DeRosa proposed.

“Do tell,” I said. “I've been beating myself up for years with regret.”

“You're independent, CeCe, but I get the sense that you don't like to be alone.”

“Twin psychosis?”

“Not at all,” DeRosa said. “You're a people person. Despite making the average citizen feel as if their every action is accelerating global warming, you have a way of pulling people into your circle. Hence, your communal living arrangement. You're the glue of the house.”

“Thank you for your insight, detective.” I grabbed DeRosa's arm as the subway doors opened and rushed him onto the platform.

“Hey, we got off one stop too early,” DeRosa noticed too late to reenter the train.

“Your comment reminded me that we should be walking to our destination instead of consuming limited resources.”

Our constant back-and-forth was evolving into an interminable tennis match, one in which the crowd inevitably loses interest while the players gain energy with every volley. I sensed DeRosa got a kick out of our repartee because he was still grinning about my planned detour when we reached the escalator. We made our way to street level and oriented ourselves in unfamiliar territory. “I'm going to make this detour work for us,” DeRosa said, as he pointed to an H&R Block.

“We need a tax expert,” DeRosa told the man at the counter.

“Let's see what date we have available.”

“We need one now.” DeRosa flashed his badge, landing us in the only office space with a door. A very nervous middle-aged woman took a seat behind the desk.

“If there's an issue with your return, we can offer you an audit package.”

“Just routine investigative work, if you wouldn't mind helping out the police on short notice.” DeRosa slid the YWS tax return across the desk. “The return was prepared by another firm, but I need help going through the basics. Does anything look wrong here?”

The woman took her time reviewing the YWS return. She added a few Post-its and wrote neatly on the yellow squares. Then she turned the forms towards us, pointing with the tip of her pen.

“The organization is taking in about two hundred thousand in revenue each year with five hundred fifty thousand invested in securities,” she said. “That's an unusual ratio for a nonprofit.”

I grabbed a pencil off the desk and did some of my own quick calculations. “The line here for scholarship expense. That's supposed to be their primary goal, but the expense is only five percent of annual revenue,” I said.

“You're quick with numbers,” the accountant said. “I'd also be concerned that eighty percent of the expenses are listed as
miscellaneous
.”

“There's a consultant listed at fifteen thousand a year,” I said to DeRosa.

“Might be our woman,” DeRosa said.

“Yeah, but it's too small a sum, given her lifestyle,” I added, considering the size of Naomi's apartment. “I'm assuming only an audit would unravel the miscellaneous expenditures?”

“That's right,” the accountant answered. “If you think this organization is not legitimate, then I'd track the money to its source. You need to find the entity supplying the organization with its resources.”

“How do we do that?” I asked. “There aren't any officers listed and the only employee we know of is dead.”

“The next person to draw on the account will probably be the largest benefactor. Someone will want to get their money back,” the account suggested, “if they haven't already done so.”

“How does the IRS overlook a scam like this?” I asked.

“Whoever did the accounting knows that the IRS hot button is four hundred thousand or more in contributions per year for a nonprofit. These contributions are under the ceiling.”

Someone knew what was going on, and it upset me. I stood up abruptly and left the building, allowing DeRosa to wrap up the conversation. The lunch crowd was in full swing now and before long I got lost in a sea of suits and sensible shoes. DeRosa caught up and found me muttering to myself like a lunatic.

At this point, it seemed the forces of evil were fully prepared to take an axe to my idyllic existence, an existence I literally built with my own two hands. I lived in a self-contained world I had created that asked nothing of others. Living off the grid wasn't hard. Stepping back into a world where injustice reins and rotten, mean individuals succeed through deception, however, was crushing. I felt helpless and useless and embarrassingly underprepared to take on the sociopaths multiplying faster than Jonathan's peppers. And to think we had actually doubted Jonathan, one of the good guys.

Who was Naomi Gupta and what did my brother get himself into? Teddy never struck me as the type of guy angling to get into a girl's pants, but in retrospect I hoped that's all he wanted from Naomi. Getting into her
head
seemed downright scary.

“CeCe,” DeRosa caught up with me and placed his firm hand on my shoulder. “I know you're losing it, but we're getting closer.”

“How do you do this for a living, DeRosa?”

“Because this is what I believe in, and I'm committed enough to go down in a spray of bullets to prove it. You said you couldn't figure me out. This is my conviction.”

I took DeRosa in, all of him, and I allowed my subconscious to accept a fact I had been repressing. We had only just met, but it irked me from the first night. I felt like I had met DeRosa before, even though I knew I hadn't. I had swept that niggling data point to the back of my brain, but like water through a sieve, it filtered out my fingertips and onto my canvas. I'd been drawing DeRosa for the last two weeks, not Teddy. The sketches in my attic, numbering more than ten at this point, always stopped at the same point: the eyes. The exact feature where the two men differed. Although both Teddy and Frank wore expressions of curiosity, Frank's gaze was skeptical while Teddy's was filled with hope. Not to overanalyze their traits, but it seemed fairly easy to extrapolate their chosen professions from their eyes.

“I'm sorry,” I confessed as I reached out for his hand. “You remind me of Teddy, and I'm hating you for it. I'm mad because you resemble Teddy but you get to live.”

“If it makes you feel better, I apologize,” he said squeezing my hand lightly.

“Unnecessary.” I searched for the right words to explain myself. “It's just that what you said about conviction struck a chord, a familiar one. Teddy and I were dissimilar in so many ways, but we both shared a strong belief in the potential to change the world for the better. Our paths were different—science and Freeganism—but the goal was the same.”

“And is there only room for you and your brother in this world?”

“No. In fact, he would have liked you.”

DeRosa let my comment lie, but I could see he itched to ask me something. He gathered up the YWS statements that had fallen to the ground, then he pulled me to a clearing near the corner of a high-rise building.

“CeCe, how did you know how to read the YWS financial statements? I thought you were an art major.”

Revealing my mathematical savvy was a red flag for DeRosa, but I couldn't contain myself after viewing the YWS tax returns; the documents were so obviously false. The fraudulent setup was recognizable by anyone involved in charity work and my knowledge of nonprofits, unbeknownst to DeRosa, made my hair stand on end. I prepared to explain my accounting acumen when I saw a familiar profile in the crowd. The telltale low brow, flat nose, and thick nape surfaced no more than fifty yards from where we stood.

“Shit,” I said with unusual composure. “I just saw Igor.”

“Quick, which direction?”

I pointed south on K Street toward an entrance to the subway station. With my arm extended outward, my legs kicked into high gear, and I started jogging forward to the last place Igor's head had appeared. As I moved rapidly through the crowds, people recognized a sense of urgency in my movements. Pedestrians parted and in a fleeting moment, I caught another glimpse of Igor looking over his shoulder. He glared at me, just a little too long for comfort and although my body was moving forward, I had not planned step two.

“Move it,” I shouted as I tore through the crowd. I heard but ignored DeRosa, who could not run as quickly holding the stack of accounting papers. I'm sure he yelled for me to stop, but I was on a tear. My arms began to pump and my knees swung higher, practically grazing my elbows in rhythmic motion. The back of my neck flooded with pressure, preventing DeRosa's pleading strains from reaching my eardrums.

I spotted Igor once again as he made a dash for the Metro entrance. He moved shockingly fast for a stocky man with short legs. Having just exited the same station, I knew a very steep escalator lay ahead and ended in a cement floor. Regardless of the danger, I sprinted like a gazelle toward Igor.

With his squat frame in my sights, my hamstrings began to tighten as gallons of oxygen filled my lungs faster than I could exhale. A pair of elderly, lawyerly looking men passed slowly by the first step of the escalator. I knew it was the only chance I had to connect with Igor. I hoped that somewhere deep in the recesses of his twisted criminal brain, he had an ounce of good manners. And there it was. He hesitated ever so slightly to avoid plowing over the two gentlemen, providing me with the extra strides to close the gap between us.

As Igor's foot hit the first rung of the stairs, I threw myself onto the moving rubber hand rail. I stretched my arm, imagining it to be as flexible as Silly Putty, and formed a claw with my fingers. As the railing carried my body forward, I lengthened my core until my shoulder practically dislocated from its socket. With a last ditch effort, I dragged my nails into the back of Igor's neck before plummeting sideways off the escalator.

DeRosa discovered me, tangled in a ball of my own body parts, my hand raised proudly like the Statue of Liberty. He knelt down next to me, resting the back of my head in the palm of his hand, my outstretched arm resting on his shoulder.

“I did it,” I croaked. “I did it.”

“Did what?”

“I got Igor's DNA.”