Favors and Lies (5 page)

“It appears to be missing.”

—

The large Greek letters in the yards of the brick houses for a block near Nebraska Avenue provided every indication that Dan had arrived at Greek Row. Alpha Chi Omega was the third house on the right and the only one on the block that looked habitable. The fraternity next door had a sofa in the yard and another on the porch. The fresh coat of paint the fraternity applied every summer to spruce up the place was already under siege. Ten guys under a single roof aged a house like beer-drinking termites.

Dan approached the front porch of the Alpha Chi Omega sorority house and suddenly he felt his age. Memories of college life flooded back to him. Nights huddled around a keg in some yard, drinking out of red Solo cups, keeping one eye out for the police and the other out for a girl better looking than the one you were currently chatting up.

Dan knocked on the door and gazed at the Greek letters emblazoned on the ceiling of the porch. Under the letters the sorority's slogan—Real Strong Women—was painted in bold strokes. Or as bold as strokes can be when stenciled in light pink.

A young lady in pajamas and flip flops opened the door.
At least these students aren't killing their parents with expensive clothing bills
, Dan thought.

“Hi,” Dan said to the black-haired, blue-eyed girl. He guessed she was of Hungarian descent, but kept his opinion to himself.

“Hi,” the girl replied.

“My name is Dan Lord and I'm looking for a girl named Lindsay.”

“We have two Lindsays, which one are you looking for?”

“I have no idea.”

“What class do you teach? One Lindsay is a Psyche major, the other is International Affairs.”

Dan brushed off his ego. If he needed further evidence he was no longer college-aged, the black-haired, blue-eyed junior had just provided it.

“I'm not a professor. Or a student,” he quickly added. “My nephew passed away this weekend and I think he was seeing, or at least knew, Lindsay. Or one of the Lindsays.”

“You're talking about Conner, right?”

“Yeah.”

“That would be Lindsay Richer.”

“She around?”

“Yeah, I think I heard her fire up the shower a little while ago. Come on in. She's been a mess since she got the news.”

Dan followed the dark-haired girl into the living room. The room décor was a head-on collision of Ikea and Martha Stewart. “Have a seat, I'll get Lindsay.”

Dan nodded and sat down on the edge of the sofa cushion.

“Man in the living room,” the black-haired girl yelled loud enough to be heard next door. She looked at Dan. “House rules on weekdays. Now if someone comes dancing through the living room naked, you'll be innocent.”

“Good rule,” Dan replied as the girl bounded up the stairs. He turned his admiration to the array of magazines on the table, none of them fit for male consumption. Each cover offered its own sex secrets comingled with the recurring themes of how to catch your man cheating and tips to lose weight.

He heard footsteps above and a moment later a blond with wet hair wearing a white bathrobe came down the stairs.

Dan stood.

“Hi. I'm Lindsay.”

“Lindsay Richer,” Dan replied, showing that he'd been paying attention. “My name is Dan Lord. I'm Conner's uncle.”

“He mentioned you,” she said, tears welling up in her eyes. “I can't believe it.” She looked like she had been crying, no small feat for someone who had just exited the shower.

“You want to grab a seat? Talk for a minute?”

Lindsay sat on the far end of the sofa and Dan returned to his seat a cushion away. Lindsay's hair was wet and she had yet to apply her daily cosmetic layering, but Josh McKeen had been right. She was a hottie. An angelic face. She reached for a tissue from the box on the coffee table and blew her nose.

“How well did you know Conner?”

“We've been dating for almost two months.”

“Dating, dating?”

“Well, we weren't tennis partners, if that's your question.”

“Fair enough. You mind if I interrogate you a little?” he asked.

“No. Go ahead,” she said, blowing her nose again and then dabbing her eyes.

“Where was he on Sunday and Monday?”

“Sunday he said he was spending the day with his mother, helping out around the house. I don't know where he was on Monday.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“I talked to him on Sunday. That was the last I heard from him.”

“You usually talk to him every day?”

“Sure. Or at least a text or two.”

“Did you hear where they found him?”

“Yeah. Under the Promenade in L'Enfant Plaza. Word travels fast.”

“The police seem to think that it was a drug overdose, probably heroin.” Dan paused. “Any thoughts on that?”

“Just one. It's not possible.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I don't do drugs. I don't date guys who do drugs. I know Conner had smoked marijuana, but not since we started dating. I have a perfect 4.0 GPA. I'm planning on going to the Kennedy School of Government for my masters.”

“Harvard.”

“That's right.”

“Was he involved with anything else that you're aware of? Something that would piss off the wrong person? Maybe an old boyfriend who was jealous?”

“No, nothing. You know, I don't throw the word love around too much. It's an abused word these days. But Conner was a good guy. A real good guy. And who knows where things would have gone between us. But every time he walked into the room my stomach did a tiny little summersault. Every time.”

Dan paused as Lindsay wiped a tear away from her cheek. “Sorry,” she said, her voice more faint.

“I've shed a few myself,” Dan added. “I think something was going on with Conner I don't know about. I thought so before this morning, and I certainly think more strongly about it now that I have seen you. I'm pretty sure Conner wasn't under some bridge in Southeast DC shooting up. There are some people in life who keep you focused on the positive things. I get the feeling you were one of those for Conner. Call it a wild guess.”

“Are you saying he was killed?”

“I don't know what happened, but I doubt what I've heard. Hell, I doubt what I have seen with my own eyes. Did you know Conner's mother also passed away this weekend in an apparent suicide? I don't believe in coincidences.”

Lindsay started crying again. “That's horrible,” she said between sniffles and those gasps of breath that come with substantial tears and lack of oxygen. A minute later she stopped crying and paused as if she had a secret to tell. “Conner . . . he was tough, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I mean, he was
tough
.”

Dan looked into her eyes to convey something beyond words. “I
know
.”

“We were at a party one night and this guy, a real jerk, wouldn't leave me alone. Conner asked him nicely a couple of times to move along, but the guy wouldn't listen. We decided to go a little while later, just to avoid a scene, and when we were leaving the house this guy and a friend of his, a bigger guy, blocked our way. Conner asked him once to move and another time to mind his own business . . . and you could just tell it was the last time he was asking.”

Dan smiled.

“Sure enough this guy puts his foot on the doorframe and spews some movie-line bullshit like ‘you can go but the girl stays here.' He went to poke Conner in the chest and before you could blink Conner had him pinned against the doorframe, his wrist bent behind his back. This guy's friend, the big guy, jumps in and hits Conner in the side of the face. Conner doesn't flinch. He twisted the wrist in his one hand, smashed the guy's face into the doorframe, elbowed the bigger guy in the nose, and then kicked out his knee. Then he grabbed my hand and walked through the door as if nothing happened.”

Dan smiled again and reached into his pocket. “I'm going to be poking around on a few things. Here's my card. If you think of anything that may be helpful, let me know. If the police come to see you, I would be interested in what they ask. But that's up to you if you want to share or not.”

“Sure, Ok.”

“There is a service the day after tomorrow. St. Michaels. Ten o'clock. Burial at King David. Bring some tissues for me.”

—

Dan pushed the door open to the art gallery and jostled for position around four men in overalls. He dodged left as a massive slab of rock swung from an arrangement of pulleys, ropes and dollies. Neither the rock nor the men at work made any concessions for Dan interrupting the installation of what could best be described as a missing piece of Stonehenge.

The art gallery took up residence on the first floor of the only building on the small block, directly beneath Dan's sprawling, barren office. By default, the resident artist of the gallery downstairs was the only neighbor Dan had.

Dan peeked around the construction in progress and called out his neighbor's name. Lucia yelled from the back of the gallery and appeared a moment later, moving across the floor with a combination of grace and natural buoyancy. Mid-thirties, with a voluptuous body usually draped in a paint-covered smock, Lucia was the ideal neighbor. Cheerful and sweet. Helpful, without being nosy. She greeted Dan with a hug and a kiss on each cheek, her brown hair leaving a subtle trace of deliciousness on his shoulder as the embrace ended.

“How are you holding up?”

“As good as can be expected. Thanks for the flowers. Thanks for the food, too.”

“I am sorry I missed the service. I was in San Francisco.”

“I know. It's fine. The food was more than an adequate gesture.”

“I didn't make it, but I knew where to deliver it. My family is still trying to come to grips with the reality that I don't cook. I guess when I'm fifty, single, and living an artist's lifestyle, maybe they'll take me seriously.”

Dan changed the subject, nodding in the direction of the swinging slab of rock. “What are they making?”

“A desk. Italian marble.”

“Good thing there isn't a basement, the desk might go through the floor.”

“I was looking for something substantial. To make a statement.”

“Business must be good.”

“I can't complain. You want to see the latest and greatest?”

“Sure,” Dan replied as Levi, an aging chocolate lab with thinning fur on his hindquarters, appeared from the back of the gallery. What his hips lacked in movement, his tail made up for with high-speed reckless abandon.

“There's my boy,” Dan said, dropping to one knee so the dog could lick his face.

Behind the re-pointed brick wall of the main gallery, Dan took a tour of the artwork-in-progress in the studio. He stood under the lights and admired the oil on canvass, formulating his best guess as to the subject matter. “Two men climbing a mountain,” Dan surmised.

“No,” replied Lucia. “It's a woman on a beach.”

“So there is, at least, a mountain or two.”

Lucia shook her head.

Dan moved to the next work of art, a black and white rendering of what Dan could only guess to be a backroom painting accident. “I have no guess on this one.”

“It is titled
Night Blind
.”

Dan's eyes dropped to the already attached price tag and whistled. “That price will make you blind, regardless of the time of day. It's going to be hard to convince people of the starving artist lifestyle with that price tag.”

“I didn't say anything about starving. Do I
look like
I'm starving?”

“I can't even hear that question,” Dan said. He stooped to pet the dog again, wondering how people spent five figures on artwork that was open to interpretation.

“Can I take Levi out for a while? Maybe let him run in the park a little?”

“You know where the leash is,” Lucia said.

Dan followed Lucia back into the front of the gallery where the large slab of rock was now resting on the three equally large supports.

“Looks like your walk with my dog is going to have to wait,” Lucia said, pointing to the sidewalk in front of the gallery.

Dan looked out the front window and saw a young lady looking up at the metal numbers over the old doorway that led to Dan's second-floor office.

“A customer?” Dan said out loud.

“A novel idea,” Lucia retorted.

“I'll take Levi out later.”

—

Dan stepped from the gallery and startled his visitor as she pressed the button for the intercom.

“Can I help you?” Dan asked.

The young woman stepped away from the door and glanced down the street in each direction. There was plenty of midday foot traffic, well-dressed women strolling the cobbled brick, eyeing knick knacks that filled the stores of Old Town Alexandria.

“I'm looking for Dan Lord.”

“You found him.”

The young woman took another step back and Dan recognized his visitor was conscious of her space and the fact she was speaking to a stranger.

“My name is Sue Fine. I had an appointment for a job interview today.”

Dan rolled his eyes, grimaced, and offered a greeting. “Shit.”

“You forgot.”

Dan grunted as he exhaled.

“It's OK. I can come another time,” Sue said.

“No, no. It's my fault. Let's go upstairs.” Dan swiped his security card in front of a wireless reader and then punched a five digit number into a key pad on the doorframe. He smiled at Sue as the outer door made an audible click.

The inside foyer, one large step from the sidewalk, stood at the foot of a long, solitary staircase. Both sides of the staircase were brick from floor to ceiling. Between the foyer and the first step was a large, thick plastic door. Sue noticed the closed circuit cameras in the foyer and in the staircase.

Dan pressed his hand against a pad on the left side of the wall and then used a high-security laser-cut key in a custom lock to pull the door open.

“You in the diamond business?” Sue asked, trying to break the silence as Dan went through his security protocols.

“Gold,” Dan answered, gesturing for Sue to lead the way up the stairs.

“No, after you,” Sue replied.

At the top of the staircase was another thick plastic door with the number 201 stenciled on it. Dan used two more keys and pushed the door open into his sprawling, sparsely furnished office. The main room was as wide as the entire floor. Two windows on the front of the room looked out over the bustling street scene below.

Dan walked around the office, flicking on the lights and turning on the radiator heat. As he moved about the room, he eyed his visitor without staring.
Brown hair with a reddish tint. Brown eyes. Athletic. Maybe five foot six. His eyes landed on her shoes and he adjusted her height for one inch heels. Dan guessed they were not her foo
t
wear of choice. Sandals, most likely, even in cool weather. He also imagined a tattoo on one of her legs. Maybe another on her shoulder blade. Nothing too grand, but definitely a stamp of independence somewhere.

Dan's eyes met Sue's as the three-second window he allowed himself for measuring his guest expired. “I apologize for the mess. Deaths in the family have me a little behind in my housekeeping. Grab a seat,” Dan said, gesturing towards a pair of wooden chairs on the other side of the lone desk.

“I can come back another time. It is no trouble, really.”

“No, it's all right. I may need some help around here as it turns out. The timing is good.”

Sue nodded and moved the chair so she had a partial view of the door.
Good instincts
, Dan thought.
Choose a seat where you can see the exit.
“I think I have your resume somewhere here,” Dan said as he shuffled through a few folders on his desk. “I know I printed it out from the email you sent.”

“I brought an extra copy, for your convenience,” Sue responded, removing a resume from her leather shoulder bag and putting it on the corner of the desk.

Prepared
, Dan thought to himself.
His second favorite attribute
. He perused the resume, absorbing Sue's life in one large chunk. He did many things quickly, but almost nothing as fast as he read.

“So you're studying Forensic Psychology at Marymount?”

“That's correct. Well, actually Forensic Psychology and Criminal Justice.”

“The same double major combination as the last intern I hired. What do you think of the program?”

“I love it. As you know, the program started ten years ago with a dozen students and is now one of the largest on the East Coast. It's the only one in the DC area, so obviously it's popular for its proximity to the FBI, DEA, and Justice Department. We work on law enforcement issues, victim assistance, probation, and parole. Every aspect of the criminal justice system.”

“Seems like it prepares those who are willing to study.”

“The program has a lot of hands-on aspects. We actually work with the FBI and have on-site training exercises at the Bureau. A couple of weeks ago I was able to observe FBI interviews in progress from behind a two-way mirror.”

“Anyone I would know?”

“It's all confidential, but if you read the newspaper you would recognize a name or two.”

Respects confidentiality
, Dan remarked to himself.

Sue continued. “We have ongoing investigative access to cold case files and associated investigative databases. Any student who helps close a cold case gets a five thousand dollar reward from the FBI, in addition to any other reward that may be outstanding. Not to mention it would virtually guarantee a job at the Bureau.”

“I'm sure it would. So with all the potential glamour, why are you interested in a job here?”

“An internship. Professor Davis recommended you to me. He suggested I send you an email, introduce myself, and provide a resume.”

“Is that all he said?”

“He told me you were a legal advisor, but I figured he meant more than he was letting on.”

“Why do you say that?”

“In my experience, forensics professors are very exact, not surprising given forensics is an exact science. A certain lack of exactness led me to believe you may be more than a legal advisor.”

“I see. If this interview works out, you will be the fourth intern I have hired from your program. Two of the previous interns were great. One was a train wreck. Just so we are on the same page, let me be blunt. What's the main reason you are here?”

“I have to fulfill an internship requirement in Criminal Justice and one of my professors told me you were someone who had hired interns in the past.”

“You get an A for honesty. I will return the favor. Depending on what direction you are headed in your career, you may not get a lot of practical experience here. You may learn something about criminals, but the only forensics you are likely to practice will be on my dead body.”

Dan noticed Sue stifle a laugh.

“You can laugh,” Dan said. “It was a joke.”

A small nasal blurt escaped. “I didn't really think I was going to see any bodies. I thought the job would give me insight into human behavior. Things that may help me in diagnosing a crime scene. A look at the criminal mind.”

“A glance at the underbelly of humanity?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Well, I don't want to be responsible for your therapy bills later, so tell me why I should hire you and, God forbid, why you wouldn't faint if you came into work and found my brains spread across the desk . . . for example.”

“Nice example. In layman's terms it sounds like you are asking for my qualifications, beyond two years of forensic and criminal justice studies in grad school.”

“That's a fair translation.”

“I can type, answer the phones, use the computer, and send emails. I read two dozen newspapers a day. I'm a techno geek, meaning I'm connected all the time.”

“Connected?”

“Texting. Tweeting. Facebooking. Email. Instagram.”

“Can you use a camera?”

“I own a Cannon SLR.”

“Parabolic mic?”

“Never needed to use one, but would love to try.”

“Anything else?”

“I lost my parents when I was fifteen and went to court to become my own guardian when I was sixteen. I identified both of my parents' bodies. Your brains on the desk would bother you more than they would bother me.”

“You smoke?”

“Is it a smoke-free office?”

“No. I only ask because I quit three years ago and don't need to have someone blowing smoke around the place. Paying clients, of course, can smoke all they want.”

“I don't smoke, unless the situation calls for it.”

“Like?”

“You never know. I can't sit here and say you will never see me smoke a cigarette. But I can sit here and tell you I'm not a smoker, nor do I intend to smoke, but you never know the circumstances.”

“Good enough.”

“I've smoked weed a few times.”

“You buried your parents at fifteen. I'm willing to cut you some slack. Besides, I'm coming around to the opinion that everyone has tried it.”

Sue glanced up at the pictures on the wall. Photos from exotic locations—deserts, mountains, crystal clear beaches. “What did you do before?”

“Before what?”

“Before you became a legal advisor. Private detective. Whatever it is you do.”

Dan turned in his chair and looked at the pictures on the wall.

“Did you take them?” Sue prodded.

“Yeah. I spent half my life here in Washington and half of it wherever my father was stationed.”

“Sounds cool.”

“As for ‘whatever it is that I do' . . . it is simple. I provide legal advice, for a fee, to discreet clientele. I am very selective. You won't find me in the yellow pages. I work by referral and I go after scum.”

“Who determines what scum is?”

“Scum is self-identifiable. Like shit on a sidewalk, if you can excuse the crass imagery. You know what it is when you see it.”

“The average person sees shit on the sidewalk and goes around it.”