Facade (12 page)

O
n Wednesday morning Iris opened her copy of the
Globe
to see, as expected, Budge's front page article about everything that had really happened on the night of Lara's disappearance. He referred to Jasna as “an unnamed friend” and made it sound as if Lara had stopped by Jasna's apartment while running away from her father, and had gotten kidnapped while the “friend” was out. Budge avoided making it sound as if Jasna was helping Lara run away. Iris owed him thanks for that at least. She wondered, though, why the article hadn't mentioned the suspicious blue van or Xander's connection to it. The police had probably made Budge put a freeze on that part of the story.

Iris already had a message in to Budge saying she'd learned that DeWitt had pulled a muscle, so wouldn't be swimming for awhile but wasn't it good that, thanks to her, he was able to write that front page article about what had actually happened on the day Lara disappeared. Hopefully he would consider all her debts paid.

Iris' phone buzzed. “Hi, Ellie,” she said noting the caller I.D. “I survived my first wearing-a-wire experience.”

“Let's hope it's your last. So, what did Xander have to say?”

“First of all, he'd been beaten up by Lara's barbaric father. He had to spend the night in the hospital.”

“That's terrible. Is Xander ok? I knew that the father was a brute. His eyes are too close together.”

“Very scientific. Xander should be ok in a few days. But the reason he wanted to meet was to tell me he thinks someone's setting him up. He said that after his house was broken into, he found porn on his computer. Young girl porn. I have to admit he sounded pretty convincing.”

“Maybe he downloaded it himself and now that he's being scrutinized by the police he needs to explain how it got there. Did he explain why he lied about having access to the van?”

“Detective Malone didn't want me to bring that up. They're still hoping Xander will lead them to wherever he's hidden Lara. But here's the thing— I'm not so sure anymore that he's the one who took her.”

“Why not?”

“If you had seen the misery in the guy's eyes, you'd question too whether he could be the kidnapper.”

“But let's think about his possible agenda—why did he want to tell you about this alleged set-up?” Ellie asked.

“He wanted me to alibi him to the police for that night.”

“Did you agree?”

“Yes, I could say in full honesty that I would tell the police what I saw that night.”

“Our architect superstar sounds a bit paranoid.”

“On the other hand, he's got so much to lose by getting caught up in a scandal. What if someone really is framing him and the police are zeroing in on the wrong guy? Last night, I had a terrifying nightmare about Lara. It made me want even more for the poor girl to be safe, and for the police to lock up whichever monster took her.”

“Amen.” There was silence on the line, then Ellie said, “I saw Luc yesterday.”

“Oh?”

“He was crossing Mass Ave toward the Paradise and didn't see me.”

“Did he look like he hadn't been sleeping? He gets these deep shadows under his eyes.”

“He looked pretty haggard.” Ellie said. “How are you doing?”

“I have to stop myself from calling him twenty times a day.”

“Maybe you
should
call him and see what he has to say. You guys are good together. I can't believe that he doesn't have an explanation for this.”

“Whatever the explanation is, he should have told me four months ago.”

“Don't let your pride get in the way here. Life isn't black or white. It's complicated sometimes.”

The man sitting in the interview room stroked his goatee nervously and stole the occasional glance at his watch. A messenger bag and rolling suitcase rested on the floor.

Russo sat shoulder to shoulder by Malone, studying DeWitt's assistant on the other side of the half-silvered mirror.

“Long enough?” Russo said.

“Let's find out.”

They strolled into the adjoining room. Russo flipped the wall switch to start the recording system and listened to Malone start with the basics.

“My name is Nils Jensen. I live at Binnengasthuisstraat 27, Amsterdam, the Netherlands. I work as an architect for Co-op dWa. I am in Cambridge assisting Professor DeWitt with teaching a studio at Harvard GSD and keeping him up to date with office matters.”

Nils' voice was high and raspy. His albino-fair hair, held back in a pony-tail, and his slender frame gave him a feminine look.

“We've asked you here, Mr. Jensen, to see if you can help us understand some of the particulars of Professor DeWitt's life here in Cambridge.”

Nil's eyes darted between the two detectives. “Have you asked Professor DeWitt your questions? Why are you asking me?”

“We know how it works with these big honchos.” Malone said. “The assistant is the one who does all the work behind the scenes—am I right? Putting together slides for his talks, organizing his schedule, setting up his living arrangements. You probably even buy his coffee and cereal, don't you?”

“Yes, of course I do those things. The professor is a busy man. His favorite muesli and coffee must be carried here from Amsterdam in my luggage. He wouldn't have a clue how to shop in an American grocery store. But I don't understand why you want to know about this.”

Malone paused a moment and replied thoughtfully, “That's right—the professor is a busy man. We don't want to disturb him if you can answer some simple questions for us. Then you can be on your way and we won't have to interrupt the professor's work. For example, can you tell us what his teaching schedule is?”

Russo noted how artfully Malone walked the assistant through twenty minutes of innocuous questions until Nils Jensen finally lowered his shoulders and relaxed back into his chair. Then Malone threw the ball to Russo. “Anything else?”

Russo appeared to think for a minute then asked, “How does the professor get around?”

Nils smiled indulgently. “He has a bicycle. That is how we Europeans navigate around our cities. Not everyone needs a car.”

Russo continued, “But what if he needs to get out of the city? Do you ever rent cars for him, or does he maybe borrow a car from a friend?”

“No, I don't think he has needed a car since he's been here.” Nils appeared to ponder the question. “No, wait. I did rent us a Zipcar when we went up to New Hampshire a few weeks ago. The professor wanted to see Frank Lloyd Wright's Zimmerman House. It was a Saturday when he wasn't teaching.”

Russo jotted down a quick note to check on Zipcar accounts under Jensen's name, then asked, “Where is this Zimmerman house located?”

Nils frowned. “It didn't take too long to drive there, an hour or so. I did the driving of course. We went up in the morning and had lunch at a diner nearby. The diner had a tree in its name, I remember. I think the town is called Manchester—does that sound right?”

“Yes,” said Malone, the corners of his mouth turning up. “That sounds just right.”

I
ris had come to Jasna's desk at GSD during studio time, ostensibly to give her a desk crit, only to find her student visibly unsettled.

“The police came to my apartment and dragged me down to the station house. It took forever to get out. You said that I wouldn't get into trouble.” Since Sunday, Jasna's eyes had become enormous and her body looked even more shrunken than usual. Her oversized sweater and leggings made her look like a child.

“You're not in trouble. I don't want you to worry. The important thing is that the police now know all the relevant information so they can track down Lara. I sent my brother to make sure you were all right. Did he explain that no charges are going to be filed against you? That
Globe
reporter is also going to keep your name out of the story.”

Jasna looked at her skeptically.

“It's out of our hands, Jasna. The police are the ones equipped to follow the leads,” Iris said. “Now I need you to focus back on your schoolwork. I understand how worried you've been, but this master's program requires students to work night and day. You don't want to get an incomplete and jeopardize your student visa. The final jury is in a little more than a month and your project is way behind. You can catch up, but you need to put your full attention on it. And remember what I said about cutting yourself. You should go to Harvard Health and see what they can do to help.”

Iris touched the girl's shoulder to reassure her. Jasna flinched.

“It looks like your project hasn't progressed since last Friday's crit. Why don't you spend your studio time today working on your model. I can meet with you tomorrow afternoon to have a look at it, okay?”

With a parting smile that she hoped conveyed some confidence that all would turn out well, Iris headed for the open stairway to the level above, then turned through the door from the airy, skylit studios into the hard, heavy concrete side of the building.

As she approached Xander's office, ready to reassure yet another person about her efforts on their behalf, she heard raised voices through the slightly open door.

“First you get beat up. Then the police search your house. You said you had everything under control.”

“How was I supposed to know that maniac was lying in wait for me?” Iris heard a scraping sound. “Wait, Nils.”

“Let go of my arm. I can't believe you told that Reid woman about the porn on your computer. You should have discussed it with me first.”

“I explained that it was planted. I could tell that she felt sympathetic, and I need people on my side. She's my alibi for that night.”

“Lucky she couldn't tell what you were really doing when she spied on you.”

“Don't be vulgar. I was just listening to my Nabokov CD.”

“By the way, you'd better get rid of that.”

“They've already searched. Besides, those Keystone cops wouldn't know the plot of a Nabokov book if it were spelled out in one-syllable words.”

“Don't be so arrogant. They're not idiots. They were actually pretty clever at getting me to tell them that you rent Zipcars to get around.”

“It happens to be the truth.”

“So, you're sure the Reid woman will tell the police she saw you?”

“When has my charm ever failed to work? You're the one who told me to cultivate a relationship with a woman during this Harvard semester, and it's turning out to be helpful.”

“I hope you didn't have to put too much effort into it.”

“Luckily, I could tell she wasn't interested in getting between the sheets with me. I do have my limits.”

Iris tiptoed away from the door, shock making her numb. She stumbled the rest of the way down the corridor, the sound of their chuckling dying out behind her.

B
y Wednesday afternoon at four, Russo sat across from Malone in a booth, studying the illustrated menu at the Oak Tree Diner in Manchester, New Hampshire. Framed photos of satisfied patrons, dating back decades, smiled down from the walls.

“This is the place where Jensen said they stopped after seeing the Frank Lloyd Wright house,” Russo said, then looked up. “Do you think the locals are going to take the search seriously?”

“Would you?” Malone answered. “We're asking them to find a needle in a haystack. Lara's been gone a week. We only have circumstantial evidence that DeWitt took her. We know that he came up here a few weeks ago and that the van's odometer supports two additional roundtrips. You saw Sergeant Ruiz's face when we told him what we have.”

“But this is a twelve-year-old girl. They have to take it seriously... on the off-chance... ” Russo trailed off.

“It's not like this city doesn't have their share of locally-sourced crime. But Ruiz seemed like a decent guy. I'm sure he'll make an effort.”

A middle-aged waitress with a tight perm and a black apron over her blue jeans approached their booth. “You gentlemen know what you'd like?”

After reading her name tag Malone asked, “What do you recommend, Trudy?”

“The chili's good today, but the Canadian pork pie is our house specialty. Comes with two eggs and hash browns.”

They ordered one of each.

Ten minutes later Russo devoured the pie and the eggs and the potatoes without interruption while Malone tucked into a huge mug of chili slathered in melted cheese.

They pushed away their plates just as Trudy returned to hand them back their pair of menus. “How about some strawberry shortcake or chocolate eclairs for dessert?” She pointed her pencil at the glass-front refrigerator behind her. “With coffee?”

Knowing his partner's weakness for chocolate, Malone said, “Two eclairs with coffee, black.” Then, as he handed back his menu, he asked, “Would you happen to know if there are any empty buildings around here? Properties for sale or maybe some place that's abandoned?”

Trudy arched a brow. “You guys looking for a weekend place—a fixer-upper?”

“No,” Malone answered a bit too emphatically. “We're police. Looking for a missing girl. We think she might be hidden somewhere around here. Maybe some place visible from the street between here and the highway.”

Trudy looked shocked. “Oh, my word. Let me ask the cook. I'll be right back.”

They could see the two conferring animatedly as Trudy parceled their desserts onto plates. After distributing the eclairs, the waitress explained, “We don't really have many empty buildings around here, but Frank reminded me that last summer some Boston folks built a vacation home nearby. They came in here to eat whenever they drove up to check on the progress. Frank says there's an old barn where the workers stored their tools. His cousin worked on the crew and claims his hammer was stolen from that barn— his favorite framing hammer. I guess they'll tear down the barn now that the house is done. May have already done it, for all I know.”

“Have the owners moved in yet?” Malone asked.

“Like I said, it's a summer place. The contractor finished the house last month, but I guess the owners are waiting to move in 'til next year. I haven't seen them in awhile.”

Trudy refilled their coffee cups with cool precision from an impressive height. Malone and Russo got her to sketch a map to the property on a napkin before she retreated to tally up their check.

They left her a large tip.

It was not difficult for the detectives to spot the freshly-shingled house and weathered barn from the road. Perhaps DeWitt had been drawn over for a closer look at the house's graceful modern form.

Russo steered the Ford into the driveway and cut the engine. No lights were on in the house. The late afternoon shadows provided the men some camouflage as they approached the dilapidated outbuilding on foot, Glocks out at the ready, avoiding the main path. Patches of red paint clung to the structure but otherwise it was pretty much as brown as the mud around it.

Malone signaled for Russo to watch the main door while he disappeared around the side. Russo squinted through a broken window. The interior looked and sounded deserted. He caught the acrid smell of manure, but the barn probably hadn't housed animals in many years. He could see some construction trash on the floor—nail coils, crushed cardboard boxes, along with a few abandoned soda cans. Malone returned to Russo's side and signaled. They gave up any hope of surprise as the heavy door swung open, creaking loudly on its tired hinges.

They took out flashlights and went separately into the gloom. It was colder inside than out. Russo tried to ignore the musty odor rising from the rough floorboards. He considered climbing up a wooden ladder to the hay loft, but doubted the rungs would hold his weight.

Russo heard Malone's steps behind him and turned in time to see his lieutenant trip over an old wooden trough. Malone reached out his hands to break the fall.

Russo came running to help.

“Don't come any closer,” Malone called out to him. “There's blood here. A lot of blood.”