Drawing Conclusions (9 page)

seventeen

The family of five
did indeed plop two of their nastier brood in the seats next me. Because we booked late, DeRosa had a seat a row in front between two more of the kids. He tried valiantly to negotiate a swap, as if I were a hostage, but my pint-sized kidnappers wanted nothing to do with the trade. We suffered in silence for the fifty-minute flight and landed without incident. That is if you don't count the four crayons I cracked in half out of sheer frustration.

We left the airport only to find a line for cabs deeper than an
American Idol
open audition. I tugged on Frank's shoulder and begged him to show his brass.

“Come on, Frank. You didn't get that badge for nothing and we
are
working on an active murder case here.” He gave me a look but caved to my whining and flashed his badge. He gave the cabbie an address in the northwest section of Washington, D.C.

“How about it's my turn for a riddle?” he asked.

“Hit me,” I responded, and I noticed a sly smile sneak across DeRosa's mouth.

His competitive edge came to the forefront and unlike our previous interactions, I saw now that he did not like to lose. Up to this point, DeRosa the cop had presented himself as controlled and composed, a collector of facts and evidence. This new DeRosa liked a puzzle. If he were anything like my brother, he would be motivated by the frustration of not knowing the answer, almost as if failure were the trigger. With my brother, it was the race to solve the human genome. Teddy's brain engaged when an answer seemed elusive. He loved to ruminate on the endless iterations of possible solutions. Frank DeRosa got going with the challenge of an impossible case, a case with too many loose ends and no solid suspects.

“I'm serious, Frank. Bring it on.”

“Okay,” he said as pulled his pant legs at the knees and got comfortable in the back of the cab. “Let's say the Freegan lifestyle catches on similar to the green movement. Slowly but surely, the idea of reusing and repurposing food, materials, and other resources becomes a mainstream concept. Even large corporations get in on the act.”

“I'm with you.”

“However, within half a century, the word
Freegan
dies out as quickly as it was accepted and eating from Dumpsters becomes as foreign as living on the moon.” Frank laid out his scenario, and I waited for the punch line. “How did a popular movement with positive social impact become obsolete?” he said.

“Because we won,” I answered. “That's the end game.”

“So you're not as naïve as I thought.”

“Bingo,” I said. “I'm also not so naïve that I think your scenario will actually play out. But, let me congratulate you on getting from point A to point Z at the speed of light. Most Freegans, even the ardent ones, can't get their heads around the fact that popularizing our philosophy will eventually put us out of business.”

“So then,” DeRosa said. I could tell by the way he rubbed his hands together that I'd found his soft spot. He loved puzzles just like Teddy. “As new converts join the ranks of established Freegans, the ability to find leftovers becomes more and more difficult. The fast rate of Freegan acceptance creates a severe scarcity of garbage, and the rejection of consumerism forces hordes of Freegans to become even more economical and efficient. Before long, society at large—now a massive anti-consumerism machine—is so good at
not
overproducing that there's nothing leftover to scavenge.”

“Bravo, Frank.” I put my hands around my mouth and breathed out to mimic the sound of the roaring crowd. He had indeed worked his way through the enigma of the Freegan philosophy. We Freegans can only fill our stomachs if the majority of the world is wasteful. If our ranks swell, there'd be more of
us
than
them
; much as we disliked
them
, they were a necessary part of our equation.

The cab let us out at a bed-and-breakfast on Calvert Street, about a block off the main drag in Adams Morgan. The town was lit up like Mardi Gras and a hip crowd of young people bounced in and out of the hottest restaurants and bars. I remembered that DeRosa and I were both young, and I felt a twinge of jealousy watching the revelers enjoy a night on the town.

“So what's our plan?”

He checked his watch. “It's ten p.m. Naomi owned an apartment on this street. We're meeting the cop who found her body at her apartment tomorrow morning. He'll show us her place and go over his report. Then we have an appointment at the NIH with her supervisor.”

“What are the sleeping arrangements?”

“We're in adjoining rooms with a shared bath. I'm sorry for the proximity, but for safety reasons, you need to be within screaming distance.”

“I can live with that.”

“Then let's get some sleep and we'll see what tomorrow brings.”

We entered our suite through DeRosa's room. He made a swift sweep of the place, and I thought it was a joke as he moved from room to room checking for a hidden assailant. As he closed the closet door he said, “Looks good to me. If you don't mind, I'd like to keep the pass-through door about an inch open.”

“Okay, but I want first dibs on the bathroom.”

“All yours,” he replied.

I don't have a nighttime routine. As a Freegan, I never bought into the idea of make-up or face creams. As a result, it takes me about three seconds to prepare for bed. This was always a fact that astonished men who are used to the time-consuming effort it takes the average female to scrub, powder, and perfume. DeRosa was no exception.

“Are Freegans against water?” I heard from the other side of the door.

“I'll shower in the morning. It's not like you have to share a bed with me.”

I heard DeRosa mumble sarcastically under his breath.

Turning off my light, I gave in to the fact that I was very, very tired. It had been a long day, starting with the accusations against Jonathan and ending with the troubling realization that Teddy had probably been aware of something sinister. Between the trip to the airport, the flight, and the mental exercises with DeRosa, I was beat. As I drifted off to sleep, a soft tap sounded at the interior door.

“CeCe?” DeRosa's voice seeped through the crack in the door. I considered the situation and feigned sleep although my eyes were now wide open and staring anxiously at the ceiling. I'd drawn my legs up in the bed, piled high with lacy sheets and puffy pillows. The whole damn setting screamed romance, and I certainly wasn't stubborn enough to ignore his good looks. Unlike Charlie's lanky frame, DeRosa was big, but I understood husky in a comfortable way since Teddy had also been a larger guy. I knew what it felt like to reach up on my tippy toes and hug a man with horizontal girth. Teddy's growth spurts came at avalanche speed, and I was no more than twelve before I had to climb up to his shoulder to whisper a secret in his ear. I weighed my options and chose the path of least resistance. I remained silent.

“CeCe?” DeRosa's tone rose past a whisper. He tapped on the door just in case I didn't recognize my first name.

“Yes, Frank.”

“I need to ask you something.”

“All right.” I stretched out the syllables at a snail's space. I tried not to think about where this could go. Would I be embarrassed to hear how he would phrase his proposition?

“Ready?”

“As I'll ever be,” I responded.

“What happens when the human genome is deciphered?”

An exceptionally long, uneven sigh released from my lungs, a relief similar to being passed over by an angry teacher expecting the answers to a homework assignment. “You mean what's their end game?” I answered.

“Yeah.”

I'd bet his question had been discussed at length by a committee of medical ethicists. Somewhere, someone with a Ph.D. was probably producing a hefty dissertation on this topic. But without the ability to reference academic texts, I relied on my own common sense.

“When the human genome is deciphered, all diseases can be identified in gestation. Prenatal genetic manipulation will wipe out diseases before they start.”

“Who does that put out of business?”

“The pharmaceutical companies.”

“Interesting,” he responded.

I closed my eyes knowing DeRosa was now wide-awake. I finally figured out what made him tick—a good puzzle. Before I drifted off, I gave him something else to think about.

“Don't forget about your break-in, Frank. You need to figure out how you fit into this mess.”

He met my comment with a grunt.

eighteen

For a split second
I thought I had been swept off for a weekend of fine dining and sightseeing. The bed covers smelled like fresh lavender and appeared impossibly white, as if they had just been selected off the shelf of a department store. My eyes adjusted to the morning rays streaming through the wooden shutters, now tilted to allow for maximum sun exposure. The shadowy figure looming by the window snapped me out of my fugue. When I found my vocal chords, they begged for my protector.

“Teddy,” I screeched with raw fear. The features of a man came into focus and I was less than pleased as the apparition took on a fully human form. I yanked the alarm clock out of its socket and flung it like a grenade. “Fuck you, DeRosa.”

His reflexes were primed, and he caught the clock with ease. In fact, he was so swift I could almost imagine him catching a bullet at a short distance.

“Sleep well?” He ignored my outburst.

“You're only supposed to enter my room if you hear me screaming.” I jumped out of bed and reached for my jeans. “You're not supposed to be the
cause
of my screaming.”

“Why are you getting dressed?” he asked.

With my pants mid-thigh, I found it difficult to interpret his question. I froze like a lawn ornament waiting for him to make his next move.

“You promised to shower this morning,” he said and then tossed me my door key. “Meet me downstairs in the dining room in ten and be sure to lock up.”

The heavy brass door key hit the floor with a thud as he sauntered off. Clearly, my mental meddling caused DeRosa's tossing and turning. Lack of sleep can bring out the worst in people. I understood his cranky disposition, but I wasn't entirely willing to take one for the team. I grabbed the complimentary fluffy white robe and checked my watch. If I timed it correctly, it would take me exactly twelve minutes to appear in the dining room—an additional two minutes of aggravation for Frank DeRosa.

Normally, I'd linger in the shower suffocating myself in plumes of steam. However, wasting hot water at the bed-and-breakfast concerned me. Harbor House had ample hot water because we had a highly efficient, nearly cost-free geosolar system—a complex setup combining solar panels and geothermal plumbing to provide hot water throughout all three floors of the house as well as the outer buildings. Once Harbor House residents got the alternative energy bug, we were hooked. There's a wonderful feeling of empowerment when you see your energy bills plummet faster than a parachute with a broken release. On this particular morning, I sacrificed my lengthy shower, shaving minutes off my normal soak time, and popped out as soon as the soap was out of my hair.

I towel-dried my head, thankful that my homespun haircut needed no more than a few brush strokes to be public ready. My blunt bob had been my trademark since childhood for the simple reason that it worked. My cheeks and nose showed the rosy effects of the late-spring sun and with a good night's sleep behind me, my blues eyes sparkled with hope that today we'd get a break.

I stared intently at myself, wondering what DeRosa thought about me. My standard uniform consisted of jeans, t-shirts, and sneakers, and I was often mistaken for someone younger. I abandoned the concept of a bra before I was even old enough to be offered one, adding to the tomboy effect. Luckily, my anatomy never required excessive amounts of support. If I guessed DeRosa's type, I'd pick a voluptuous maven with dark, flowing hair. He'd want someone to soften his brawn without overpowering his stature. I imagined a damsel in distress with a hint of Sophia Loren's curves. Our adjoining bedrooms did not tempt him. I was more dame than damsel, and usually the direct cause of the distress.

“Sorry I'm late,” I said with indifference when I reached his table in the dining room. “Let me grab a scone and a cup of coffee.”

“The breakfast is included so you can eat with the rest of us paying patrons instead of at the Dumpster.”

I poured myself a cup of coffee and tossed a few extra rolls in my bag.

“You just can't help yourself, can you?”

“You'll be thanking me later.” I buttered my scone and selected a dab of homemade orange marmalade with a silver teaspoon so worn the handle felt like a slip of paper. “When are we meeting up at Naomi's place?”

“We've got a few minutes.” He powered up his iPad and tapped an icon. The beeping noise seemed horribly out of place in the eighteenth-century bed-and-breakfast. Even DeRosa glanced around nervously, as if he had broken with etiquette.

“Any updates from the home front?” I asked.

“Your father calls every few hours, but I can manage that,” he said as he ran his finger across a screen of icons. “He's not thrilled I took you to D.C., but as I explained to him, it's actually safer having you within arm's reach.”

“The two of you are making me feel embarrassingly helpless, and I don't like it.”

“You have a better solution?” he asked not waiting for a reply. “Charlie left a message for you to call later. More importantly, it looks like we've got a departure point for Igor's GPS.”

“No way.” I was genuinely surprised, as pertinent clues seemed few and far between.

“Don't get your hopes up. It's not exactly the lead we were looking for.” DeRosa swung the pad around for me to see. A map of Brooklyn filled the screen with a red marker on a side street. “Based on the GPS configuration, the limo's starting location is this building in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn. That's the heart of the Russian immigrant community. It's also a black hole for police investigations. There's no chance of getting anyone to talk in that neighborhood.”

“Is it a language gap?”

“No, there's a heavy mob influence in Brighton. Makes residents hesitant to talk.”

“Do you think the
Russian mob
is involved?” My breakfast roll swelled in my mouth.

“Hard to say. All we know is that a limo left from this neighborhood, and the man driving the limo seemed to look Slavic.”

“Can't you show my sketch around?”

“We can and we will, but I doubt anyone will come forward. At this point, I don't see a connection between your brother and the Russian mafia. However, my guess is the job was contracted out and Igor was just low man on the totem pole. We'll shop the sketch around, residents will recognize him as a street criminal, but no one will be willing to risk their safety to report him.”

“So that's it?”

“CeCe, we're not giving up on Igor. We ran the sketch through a national database with no matches. We showed the photo at the Sound View labs to see if Igor was on the campus, and we checked footage of the labs' security cameras. No luck there. Cheski and Lamendola also went through mug shots by hand, hoping for an ID. I mean, for all we know this guy just got off a plane and he botched his first job—your hit. Now that I think of it, his inability to complete his mission may have earned him a pair of cement boots.”

“Can you show my sketch around Freeport?” I asked. “You know, like near your apartment? Maybe Igor was the one who broke in.”

“Actually, that's not a bad idea.” DeRosa fired off an email to Cheski and Lamendola. “Igor would, in fact, be noticeable in Freeport, and if we could get a description of his vehicle—assuming it's not another limo—at least we'd have something to track. It's possible he's been cruising around Cold Spring Harbor undetected.”

The thought sent shivers down my arms. Much as I relished the image of Igor burping up bubbles at the bottom of the East River, I knew better. If Igor was alive, he was waiting patiently to strike again. Unfortunately, I was his primary target and DeRosa an added bonus.