Grave Apparel (67 page)

“The cops!” she said. “Oh, I feel much safer
now!
And
if
this guy whacked Cassandra, what the heck is he
even
doing
here today? Has anyone
even
peeked in
today’s
envelope?
Is
he gloating
over
putting her in the hospital? Might be good
to
find
out.
Maybe
he’s
got
a
complaint
about
Peter
Johnson
now,
maybe he thinks people shouldn’t park at
bus
stops! I think you bagged the wrong
guy,
Mac. He may be a letter
writing
nutcase,
but
he’s
not
the
guy
in
the
alley
with
the
Santa
cap.”

Mac and Johnson were dead silent.
Lacey
opened the
office
door and then stopped.

“Good
work,
Peter,”
she said.
“Now
that
you’ve
nailed the nonassailant, at least Pickles and
Wiedemeyer
are
off
your list of
suspects.”
She let the door slam behind
her.

Word
traveled
fast
in the
newsroom.
Word
that a suspect in
Cassandra’s
attack
was
in custody and that he
wasn’t
from
The
Eye
elicited
sighs
of
relief.
Even
if
Cassandra
wasn’t
well
loved,
she
was
a
fellow
journalist. Assaulting her
was
like
at tacking their
newspaper.

Lacey
didn’t
feel the same relief. It bothered her that the as sailant,
whoever
it
was,
had apparently also threatened her lit
tle
shepherd.
It
bothered
her
that
someone
had
been
nosing
around the
girl’s
neighborhood asking questions. It
bothered
her that the cops and
even
Mac were stuck in what
looked
to her
like
a dead end. It
even
bothered her that Johnson
was
an arro
gant
idiot,
though
she
told
herself
she
should
be
used
to
that
by
now.
But if the
attacker
wasn’t
Stephen Graybill, who
was
the Santa Dude?

She
was
way
behind on
everything
she could actually call
work.
Today
was
her deadline for her weekly “Crimes of
Fash
ion” column. Felicity and
Wiedemeyer
weren’t
around. It
was
quiet in her
corner,
but
there
was
a persistent
buzz
in the
news
room about the man in the
lobby.
Lacey
worked
the morning
away.

Finally
at
noon
she
gave
up
trying
to
make
sense
of
her
end
oftheyear
fashion
piece. She
picked
up her coat and purse and headed out to
take
a
walk
and pick up some lunch. She needed to
walk,
to think, to pray the phone
would
ring. She
didn’t
even
care who
was
on the other end of the line, she thought, she
was
in no mood to talk to
anyone.
And then she corrected herself.

Except
Jasmine.

Lacey
saw
the
man’s
reflection in the
window
of
Filene’s
Base ment and tried not to react. She could tell he
was
watching
her and
waiting
for a moment to catch her
eye.
She
wasn’t
going to let him until she
was
ready.
This close, she
saw
his sharp nose and his ears sticking out through the thin
hair,
his breath com ing out in short
puffs.

Either Stephen Graybill hadn’t been arrested, or
he’d
es
caped.
She
doubted
this
thin,
weedy
man
would
have
the
strength to break the hold of
two
burly
cops. Graybill
hadn’t
been
charged,
she concluded. But she had just enough doubt about him to
make
her feel a sharp pang of
fear.

She
wondered
if
he’d
done this with Cassandra, lurking in the background while she
was
windowshopping.
No
way,
she
decided,
Cassandra
would
never
windowshop.
And
could
Graybill surreptitiously pull some hidden holiday weapon on
Lacey,
say a giant candy cane? Not here on
busy
Connecticut
Avenue
in broad daylight, with his reflection
very
clear in the glass.

There
was
no
sense
letting
her
tension
build any longer. She turned around quickly and looked right at him.
Graybill
backed away and met her eyes
pleadingly.
He had that
eager
confessional look she recognized so well as a
reporter.
This
was a man who wanted to tell her his
story.
She relaxed.
The
only
danger,
she thought, was that he might try to talk her
to
death.

“You’re
Lacey
Smithsonian?”
His
voice
was
more
con
trolled
now.

“You’re
Stephen
Graybill.”

“I gotta talk to
you.”
He
extended
his hand,
but
she
didn’t

take it. “I’m not dangerous. I wouldn’t hurt you, or anyone.
Really.
Swear to
God.”

“Not the
way
I hear it. So
they
didn’t
arrest you?”

“No.
They
didn’t
arrest me because
they
got no case.
They
got no case because I
didn’t
hit
her.
How
crazy is this whole
thing?
I’ve
never
attacked
anyone
in
my
life.
Physically,
any
how.
I
know
my rights. They said they want to question
me
some more,
but
I got an alibi. And I got a good
lawyer.”

“What’s
your alibi?”

“Friday
night
services.
I
take
my
mother.
She’s
the
only
person
left
who
talks
to
me.
Call
my
lawyer.
Hell,
call
my
mother.”

Graybill wrapped his oatmealcolored muffler around
his
neck. Standing outside in the cold
was
probably a
stalker’s
oc
cupational
hazard.
He
looked
chilled
and
his
cheeks
were
chapped.

“Listen, Smithsonian, can I
buy
you
coffee?
I’d
like
to talk to you.
Quietly.
You
have
a reputation for listening to people, for
finding
the truth
even
if you write about that stupid
fashion
stuff.”

“Such a compliment.
Ten
minutes, and
I’ll
buy
my
own
cof
fee.”
It
was
her
flaw,
she
knew:
She
always
wanted
to
know
the
whole
story.
Her plans to escape the
office
for fresh air
and
freedom
evaporated.

“A
woman
after my
own
heart,”
he
cracked.
They
picked
a
Starbucks
at the end of the block.
They
bought their
beverages
and found a small round table in the triangular shop. The mid day December sun streamed through the
windows.

“I’m not gonna
waste
your time, Ms.
Smithsonian,”
Graybill
began.
“I
just
want
you
to
know
I’m
not
the
one
that
beat
up
your friend
Wentworth.”
He took a gulp of hot
coffee.
“I’m not saying I
didn’t
want
to sometimes. That
woman
sure can piss people
off.
She pissed me
off.
But I
didn’t
do
it.”

“Why
do
you
care
what
I
think?”

“You’re
the one who caught those killers, right?
They
say
you’re
like
a crime
solver
or
something.”

“Please
don’t
tell me you
have
been reading DeadFed dot
com.”
She breathed in the aroma of her café mocha.

“I
don’t
know
what your beef is with them.
They
worship
you.
You’re
like
their superhero or
something.”

She cursed Damon
Newhouse’s
creeping influence.
“You

know
of course that
everybody
at
The
Eye
Street
Observer
was
pretty relieved to see the cops drag you
away
this
morning.
They think Cassandra’s attacker is
off
the streets
now.
They think
it’s
you.”

“Bunch
of
pelican
heads.”
He
gulped
his
coffee.
“Got
their
beaks
in
everybody’s
business.
You
ever
watch
pelicans
at
the
beach?
Damn
big
nosy
birds.
So
what
do
you
think,
Smithsonian?”
“I think you should
give
up writing letters to the
editor.
Find a nicer
hobby.
How
did you get
Cassandra’s
name in the
first
place? Our editorials
aren’t
bylined.”

“Oh, that
was
easy.
I called up your
office
mad as hell one day and
they
told me to send an email through the
paper’s
Web
site. So I check the
Web
site and
there’s
her name and email address: Cassandra
Wentworth,
Editorial Page
Editor.
Pretty
simple.”