Facade (14 page)

T
hey were finally making progress on the case, just not the good kind of progress. Russo was skimming through a pile of reports on his desk that Thursday morning, trying to forget the image from the previous evening of Ivano Kurjak's face dissolving into tears of despair. He had drawn the short straw so it was his job to drive out to MCI, the men's correctional facility out in Concord, to notify the father about their findings in New Hampshire, while Malone had gone to get a search warrant for the boots they had taken dirt samples from at DeWitt's house.

A definite DNA match of the blood might take weeks to confirm, but the discovery of Jasna's bedspread made it appropriate to give her father an update, even if he was serving time for assault and battery. The medical examiner's initial opinion was that an eighty-pound girl would be hard-pressed to survive the amount of blood loss left behind in the barn.

Russo rubbed his hand back and forth over his bald head as was his usual nervous habit. He hadn't expected a guy who'd planned to marry his pre-teen daughter off to a complete stranger to show so much emotion.

He read through the follow-up interview with the man who had witnessed the blue van's departure from the Sidran woman's apartment building. The young father, a math graduate student at M.I.T., turned out to have a photographic memory for numbers, no great surprise. He'd even remembered the color of the
B, B & N
sticker from a Cambridge private school on the van's left rear window. Too bad he hadn't gotten a good look at the driver, or been there earlier when, presumably, the rolled-up bedspread was carried out.

As he flipped to a report from the van's forensic techs, Russo's eyes zeroed in on a high-lighted passage. “A small gold locket containing a photo of a young woman was found wedged under the carpet in the cargo compartment.” It sounded like Ivano Kurjak was in for another painful visit from the police.

Russo cracked his knuckles as he headed over to the murder board. Malone joined him before he could pick up the dry-erase marker. Overnight, the older detective had assumed the animated air of a hunter in pursuit of his prey.

“Looks like New Hampshire isn't going to get territorial on us,” Malone said. “They're willing to kick the case to us since we've got all the prelim work done.”

As he studied Russo's additions to the board he said, “We've finally got the trail but it looks like it might be too late to save the girl.”

“Poor kid.” Russo fidgeted with the marker. “Is it going to be hard to convict the bastard without finding her body?”

“A body usually turns up sooner or later,” Malone said. “Remember the Scott Peterson case? Guy tosses his pregnant wife in the ocean so he can run off with his masseuse? Eventually the body washed up. In any case, the 'no body' cases actually have a pretty high success rate if the circumstantial evidence is any good. So that's our job—to connect the dots. We already know DeWitt's going to claim that it's a frame-up.”

“I can't believe the dogs didn't find her in the woods. It seems like the earth just swallowed the kid up whole.”

“Just remember—the D.A. only has to prove his guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. If everything else points to DeWitt, then we don't need the body. But don't give up hope yet. We might still find her. The son of a bitch could be keeping her hidden somewhere.” Malone said.

“I don't know what's worse—if he killed her right away or if he's keeping her alive.” Russo's shoulders slumped. “If his lawyer claims a frame-up don't they have to pretty much prove that someone else did it?”

“Who can they pin it on? Jensen's been alibied by a bartender from the South End, and we have no trail at all coming from the father.”

“What if it was some jealous architect who, I don't know, had a professional grudge?”

“You'd have to be ice cold to kill an innocent girl just to discredit a guy like DeWitt. But that's why we need to make this case crystal clear.”

Malone's cell phone buzzed and he clamped it up to his ear. His eyes turned hard, then one side of his lips curved upward. After finishing the call he turned to Russo. “The dirt we got from that boot at DeWitt's house matches the dirt near the boot impression at the barn. If the impression matches DeWitt's actual boot —plus the wear pattern and the traces of blood, then our case may have just moved past a reasonable doubt.”

I
ris entered their shared office at the GSD and gave Ellie a distracted look.

“Where have you been?” Ellie asked. “I need you to look over the seminar I planned to give about Colin Rowe's urban typologies.”

Iris sank into her chair. “About that talk. Any chance you could give the talk this afternoon? We can change the crits to Friday.”

“Why? What are you up to?” Ellie frowned at her. “ Does this have anything to do with the news report about what the police found in New Hampshire?”

Iris stared out the window. “I couldn't stop thinking about it last night. Remember Xander's presentation about the Frank Lloyd Wright house with all those recent photos? The house is located in Manchester, very close to that barn. Why would he be so dumb as to give a presentation advertising the fact that he was near an intended crime scene?”

“Maybe he didn't know when he gave that talk that he would go back there. Maybe it was a panicked spur-of-the-moment kind of thing.”

“It just doesn't seem to add up, how an intelligent guy like Xander would commit a crime. He wouldn't make obvious mistakes,” Iris said. “I just want to make sure that the right guy gets found and punished, for Lara's sake.”

Ellie looked long and hard at her friend. “Why is this your job, Iris? What can you do that the police aren't already doing?”

“Xander is the most self-controlled man I've ever met. He has so much to lose. If he ever were to give in to his impulses, wouldn't he do it in his own country where at least he'd know where to avoid notice and cover his tracks?”

“We can't understand how Xander's impulse control works. Just because something seems out of character doesn't mean he didn't do it. Anyway, the police won't charge him unless they have airtight evidence connecting him to the crime.”

“Sometimes the police zero in on the wrong guy and get fixated on him while the real culprit gets away.”

Ellie looked unconvinced. “I don't think you give the cops enough credit.”

“While I was staring at the ceiling instead of sleeping last night I did come up with another possible suspect,” Iris said, and paused... “Xander's assistant, Nils.”

“That wispy guy? He couldn't even lift a bedspread, let alone one containing a girl.”

“Skinny guys can be surprisingly strong. He could be in it with Xander or he could be setting his boss up. Maybe he's tired of being in the shadow of Mr. 'My-Life-Is-a-Work-of-Art.' Nils was in one of those New Hampshire photos, so they were together on that trip. And Xander said Nils deals with all his computer and internet issues, so he could have planted something incriminating on that hard drive.”

“Wouldn't Xander tell the police if he had any suspicions?”

“Maybe he doesn't realize that the awkward puppy who follows him around may have grown some teeth.” Iris rubbed her eyes. “Sterling thinks they're going to arrest Xander soon. If he is the one who killed Lara, I'd be the first to want to see him locked up. I just wish I didn't feel so skeptical.”

Ellie studied her. “Why do I have a feeling you have some dangerous plan in mind to find out if it's Nils?”

“Because you know me pretty well. And my plan won't be dangerous if you help me. If you can give your talk today in the meeting alcove on the fourth level, you'll be able to look down from time to time to make sure that Nils is busy with Xander's studio on the third tray. With that creepy white-blond hair, he'll be hard to miss.”

“And what will you be doing while I play lookout?”

“I can check his apartment to see if there's anything suspicious there.”

“You're proposing to break in?”

“Why not? We architects know all the vulnerable points of entry in a building, right? You can text me if you see him leave the class.”

“I know you're
capable
of pulling this off, but what about the
wisdom
of doing it?” Ellie crumpled one of the three empty Diet Coke cans lined up alongside her laptop. “You're going to do this whether I help or not, aren't you?”

Iris gave her a helpless look and Ellie continued, “I might as well try to keep you safe. But if I text you that Nils is leaving, you have to promise me you'll hightail it out of there immediately.”

Iris crossed her heart.

I
ris nestled her jeep between trucks in the parking lot of a roofing supply house in Nils' Somerville neighborhood, ten minutes by car or bike from the GSD. As she set off for his street a couple of blocks away, she sensed that she was being watched. She spotted two elderly women in puffy parkas sitting on their front porch smoking while tracking her every move. Luckily, Nils' dead-end street was out of their range of vision.

The structure stood at the far end of a densely packed row of houses and small apartment buildings. The faculty directory listed his apartment as #1R which Iris judged to be the first floor rear unit. A quick circle of the building confirmed a two-unit-per-floor arrangement. She toyed with the direct approach, credit-carding her way in through the front entry, but as she was about to step onto the front path a first floor curtain twitched open and a man's face scowled out at her. She could hear the raucous sounds of a TV game show in the background and hoped it would hold his attention while she worked her way in from the rear.

Backtracking one house, she circled around to a weed-choked backyard to assess her options. Nils' building was a squat boxy structure, stuccoed by someone with no understanding of Massachusetts winters. Had Harvard found this apartment for him? Iris could find no merits in its architecture. But for her purposes, it featured just what she'd been hoping for—a sliding glass door.

She darted between the yards, trying to stay out of #1F's line of sight. When she was flattened against the back wall, she checked her cell phone for texts. Nothing. The coast was clear. She scanned the door. No contact wires or motion sensers. Shielding her eyes, she saw no movement inside. She tested the door, but the latch held firm. Nils had been careful to lock it but hadn't bothered to insert a rod in the track to brace it shut.

She took a Swiss army knife out of the pocket of her cargo pants and flicked open the blade. Jockeying the knife back and forth between the glass and the rubber gasket's edge she felt the glass shift slightly. She retrieved a small wood shim from another pocket and wedged it into the tiny opening. Using the side of her Swiss army knife, she whacked the shim further into the gap. Then she pointed the tip of the blade up under the latch and lifted, managing to raise the hook clear of the latch and slide the door open.

She stepped into the semi-darkness of Nils' living room and rested on the edge of a sofa, waiting for her heart to stop thudding. Then she began a systematic search, starting with a quick look around. Bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, living room. No serious hiding places or hidden safes. In the  bathroom she found several joints in a box of Band-Aids in the medicine chest, but nothing that could lead to Lara.

Moving on to the bedroom, she found a lone silky jacket hung in the closet. She searched his bureau, even inside the pockets of his pants, but found only a dry-cleaning receipt and a wadded up Snickers wrapper. She felt self-conscious going through his underwear drawer, learning that he wore skimpy briefs, but she had to be thorough. She opened the top drawer of his bedside table and her hand hovered over a photograph. She angled it toward the light filtering through a window. It showed two men, dressed in military fatigues, standing on a hillside. The middle man was a much-younger Xander, stripped to the waist. His physique was surprisingly chiseled, Iris noted, with a butterfly tattoo stretched over a toned shoulder, hands resting on his hips. She could barely recognize the baby-faced soldier standing next to him as Nils.

Iris tried to make sense of the image. Xander had mentioned performing some military stint in Bosnia when he was trying to pass himself off as Lara's father. So Nils had been there too. She had assumed that Nils was much younger. Xander's forceful personality and sophistication added years to his persona while Nils' waif-like appearance and graduate school wardrobe subtracted them.

Under the photograph she found a page ripped out of a magazine. It featured a picture of a hip-looking Xander in a black leather jacket. Iris recognized the shot from an interview
Time
magazine had done several years before about a high-wattage residential skyscraper Xander had designed in lower Manhattan.

These two items were the only things in the drawer. She shoved the photograph into a pocket and left the magazine article behind. Nils would notice the picture missing, but he wouldn't be able to trace the theft to her.

Iris checked her watch. She'd been inside for twenty-five minutes. She moved quickly to the living room. Judging by several CDs on a shelf, he liked classic jazz. She found a few design books in a foreign language, presumably Dutch. She read titles in the bookshelf and slipped out a hardbound book of poetry. In the front of the book she saw Xander's name in his small precise handwriting. Had he given this book to Nils?

There were few other personal possessions, no framed photos. In her concentration on the hunt, she almost missed the sound of the heavy front entry door slamming shut. She scanned the room for a place to hide and dove inside the hall closet just as a key scraped in the apartment's lock. Peeking through a sliver of opening, she watched Nils hoist his bike up onto wall hooks with ease. Maybe he was stronger than he looked.

He lifted the strap off his messenger bag and tossed it on the sofa. Then he froze. Iris tried to see what he was looking at but his glasses caught the sun's glare. Then she saw it. The book. She had left out the damn poetry book. What could she possibly say if he caught her in his closet?

He picked up the book and studied its cover. Opening it to an earmarked page, he stared at the words intently while Iris' mouth went dry. Looking puzzled, he returned the book to the shelf. While the tension in Iris' body made her muscles ache, he returned to the sofa and dumped a stack of mail out of his bag, then calmly sifted his way through the pile, tossing the junk mail on the floor. Next he pulled out his laptop and booted it up. He waded through e-mails and pecked out a few replies. She was just massaging a cramp in her leg when she heard it— an impossibly loud chirp coming from her pocket.

Nils cocked his head and stood up.

She felt blood rushing to her ears.

He turned in her direction.

He took a step toward the closet, then waited, listening.

The buzz of his own cell phone made them both jump. Iris watched Nils reach for it on the coffee table, turning away. He spoke loudly in a language Iris didn't recognize. The conversation became animated. She let out her breath as he wandered into the kitchen.

Iris carefully opened the closet door and tiptoed out of the apartment.