Monument to the Dead (6 page)

“Go! I’m going to stick around and hand your information to James.”

Shelby grinned. “I think you should go back to his place and go over them in detail.
Maybe a bottle of wine would help.”

I won’t say the same thought hadn’t crossed my mind. “I’ll see you in the morning,
Shelby.”

Once the third floor had emptied out, I went downstairs
to wait for James. I watched as Front Desk Bob gently ushered out a few lingering
patrons who had just one more item they had to look at right now. I sympathized: many
people couldn’t make too many trips here, and it was frustrating to have so many resources
and so little time to use them. We were doing the best we could, making documents
accessible online, but it would never be enough. Most of the visitors had no idea
who I was, as I smiled and nodded when they went out the door, clutching their precious
notes. When the rooms were emptied, Bob looked at me. “You need me to stay?”

I shook my head. “No, you go on. I’m waiting for someone. I’ll lock up.”

“See you tomorrow.” Bob disappeared toward the back of the building, to make sure
everything was secure in the rear.

Normally I found the silence of the empty building soothing. The thick walls of the
Society building effectively muffled noises from the outside world, even though the
street outside was a busy one. It seemed so hard to imagine murder and mayhem in this
stately space, but I had learned the hard way that even here, some less than pretty
things lurked. I’d come face-to-face with a couple of them. Sometimes I marveled that
I could handle coming into work each day.

Because I loved the place, of course. I loved being close to so much history and sharing
it with the public. It wasn’t the past that was dangerous, it was the present.

Still, I jumped when my phone trilled: James, waiting outside. I gathered up my bag,
making sure Shelby’s envelope of spreadsheets was still there, and hurried to open
the heavy front door, a relic from an earlier time. I armed the alarm system, pulled
the door shut behind me, and turned to welcome James.

He looked depressed, and I told him so.

“I keep thinking I’m missing something—something that would convince the right people
that we have a serial killer on our hands.”

I glanced around to see if anyone, friend or stranger, had overheard the term
serial killer
, but the pedestrians kept moving. “Maybe our list will help.”

“If it doesn’t, I don’t know what I can do next.”

I had never seen James Morrison so frustrated or helpless. “Do you want to talk about
it?”

“If you’re willing, it might help if we went over the list together. I’d ask Marty,
but she has a tendency to go off half-cocked.”

“I know what you mean, but right now I think she’s really worried. And I’ve already
told her she’s too close to the people involved to see the big picture, if there is
one. How about we pick up some food and go to your place?”

“I’d really appreciate it.”

“Great. Let’s stop at that Indian place—it’s on the way.”

I was always amused at how differently James and I had made homes for ourselves. I
lived in a tiny former carriage house in the leafy suburbs, and I had filled it with
flea-market finds and a few semi-antiques from my family. James lived in a stark,
sparely furnished apartment in an older building near the University of Pennsylvania
campus. It was neat and efficient—everything my place wasn’t. (He had, after several
visits, admitted that he had a cleaning service that sent someone over once a week,
which made me feel better.)

We spread out our food on his small but immaculately clean table (why was it
my
table was always covered with salt and pepper shakers, unanswered mail, and a host
of things I didn’t know where to put?), and he pulled an open bottle of wine from
the refrigerator and held it up, raising an eyebrow.

I laughed. “Shelby would approve.”

“What?” he said, retrieving two glasses.

“She mentioned that maybe some wine would loosen up our thinking.” I took a glass
from him and sipped.

“At this point, I’ll try anything. There has to be something I’m not seeing.”

I doubted that, but maybe he was looking for facts and obvious patterns, while what
we had put together was more about nuances and subtle connections. “Why don’t you
look over the spreadsheets while we eat? Then we can talk about it.”

I dished up from the takeout containers and kept my mouth shut while he quickly scanned
the pages, nodding occasionally. By the time he’d finished reading, we’d cleaned our
plates and finished our first glass of wine.

He squared up the pages and laid them on the table, then sat back and rubbed his face,
as if trying to erase his fatigue. I remained silent, waiting for his assessment.

It came quickly. He pulled his chair forward, sat up, and looked at me. “First, I
have to tell you this is great work. This is exactly the kind of stuff we probably
wouldn’t have found, certainly not as quickly.”

I was warmed by the compliment. “Thank you. So why don’t you tell me what conclusions
you draw from it?”

“Before you tell me yours? Okay. It seems clear that the greatest overlap is on three
primary institutions: the Art Museum, the Society, and this Forrest Trust. What’s
this trust all about?”

“I’m not familiar with it, but I’ve asked Shelby to put together a summary of whatever
we have in our files.”

“You came to the same conclusions?”

I smiled. “We did. But there were three of us, and it took us longer than it took
you.”

“So the three people who have died all shared connections, past or present, with these
three institutions, or with each other through secondary links.”

“Have you talked to a profiler?” I had no idea if the local FBI office had a stable
of such people, but I knew James had found one who specialized in arsonists and who
had previously been extremely useful to us.

“Since this is not an official investigation, I can’t go to them.” He got up and started
pacing, although in his small place he couldn’t go far.

“James, what would it take to convince the police to call it a murder?”

“I don’t know!” It looked as though he wanted to punch a wall, but then he controlled
himself and said less vehemently, “That’s the problem. I have nothing concrete that
I can take to the police, or to my bosses, who could override the police. Everybody’s
so damn budget-conscious these days that they won’t look at anything that doesn’t
have a high probability of producing a solution—it has to look good in the Metro section.
And even if everyone agreed that these deaths were somehow connected, we still don’t
have a motive. Why would anyone want these particular people dead?”

“I wish I could help,” I said softly.

James stopped pacing and dropped back into his chair. “You already have, Nell. You
put together information that we couldn’t. You let me blow off steam. You believe
me, and you tell me I’m not imagining things.”

“And I mean it. James, we—Shelby, Marty, and me—all agree with you that something
hinky’s going on, we just can’t quite put a finger on it. But why now, all of a sudden?
Was there some trigger, or a deadline?”

“I don’t know! And I’m getting damn tired of saying that. Marty’s right—we don’t know
who’s safe and who’s at risk.”

Poor James—even with his years of FBI experience, he couldn’t figure this out. And
if he couldn’t, who could? Together we had cobbled together a glimmer of . . . something.
But people were dying, and we weren’t getting any closer to figuring out where to
look next. Maybe sleeping on it would prod something to a higher level of our consciousness.
Or maybe a distraction would jump-start our brains into working on the problem. A
physical distraction, that had nothing to do with crime or society or museums. And
I wasn’t thinking of a fast game of tennis.

I stood up, walked deliberately around the table, and held out a hand. James looked
up at me, confused, and when he took my hand I pulled him to his feet, and close to
me. The man wasn’t dumb: he figured out pretty fast where I was going with this.

We succeeded in distracting ourselves, or each other, for, oh, an hour or so. But
who was counting? When I finally looked at my watch, I realized I had about thirteen
minutes to catch my train. The alternative was showing up the next morning wearing
the same clothes, which seemed a little tacky. Lucky men—no one cared if they wore
the same necktie two days in a row, and it was easy to keep a clean shirt in a desk
drawer.

“I’ve got to go,” I whispered in James’s ear.

“Maybe you should start keeping some clothes here,” he responded.

“Maybe I will, in the future. But for now, we could both use some sleep. You know,
to recharge the batteries and all that?”

“I’ll drive you home. I don’t have to be in early tomorrow. Besides, you’re my consultant.
I need to do some more consulting.”

I didn’t argue.

James and I drove back to the city together in the morn
ing. What would it be like to do this more often? I wasn’t sure. I valued my “alone”
time on the train, where I could read the paper or a book, or just sit and think.
Time alone with the leisure to think was a rare commodity in my life.

At least I’d succeeded in cheering him up. The recharging part had been great, but
the thinking part I was still working on. Maybe caffeine would help.

“You can go straight to your office. I’ll walk from there,” I said as we battled morning
traffic going into the city.

“What, you don’t want to be seen with me at eight o’clock in the morning?” he joked.

“I need the exercise, and I have to get some serious coffee along the way.”

I was going to be a determined optimist and assume that since James’s phone hadn’t
rung last night, there were no new crises—or deaths. Of course, he might have turned
it off, the better to pay attention to me and only me. Which was nice . . . but I
made a mental note to check the obituaries again today regardless.

“You know, I’ve never asked what your average caseload is. I assume you don’t handle
only one case at a time.”

“Of course not. We’re busy, and there aren’t enough agents to go around. Most often
we deal with high-profile stuff—terrorism, drugs, organized crime, corporate fraud.”

“And don’t forget art theft,” I said. We’d first met over his investigation of theft
at the Society.

He smiled. “Yes, that, too. Any one of us works on ten to fifteen cases at a time.
Not all of those are active. Some may be in the legal queue, and with others we’ve
done all we can do and we’re waiting for something new to jump-start it again, but
they’re still technically open cases. They stay open until we arrest someone. So you
can guess how reluctant our office is to take on a case with nothing more than one
agent’s suspicions to go on, and no hard evidence.

I knew what he was saying, but the FBI’s reluctance to open an official case into
“our” deaths was still frustrating. “James, what does it take to make this an official
case?”

He sighed. “There are standards for initiating an official FBI investigation. Trust
me when I say that this case does not meet those standards. Yes, I believe there is
a killer out there, but I honestly think that no one else in my office would, not
yet. Have crimes been committed here? Probably. But the evidence does not reach a
level that demands our action. Unfortunately that’s not my decision to make.”

“And so a killer gets to bump off his victims and thumb his nose at you?” I said bitterly.

He was angry now, and I couldn’t really blame him. “You think that doesn’t bother
me? It does. Remember, some of the names on that list are people I know; some are
even my relatives. Which puts me in an even more difficult position—if anything, I
should recuse myself, if this ever does become a case, because of just that personal
connection. I’m already working on this on my own time—what is it you want me to do,
take justice into my own hands?”

Having an argument now wasn’t going to accomplish anything—I knew he took this seriously.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “I know this is difficult for you. But it’s not easy
for me, either—this is my community, and it hits close to home for me, too.”

James’s anger faded. “I’m trying, Nell. We’re getting closer. And I have discussed
it with my Agent in Charge, but he won’t budge. We’re already stretched thin, and
this case, such as it is, just doesn’t fit the criteria, not yet. At least he’s listening
to me. I hope that soon we will have enough to move forward.”

We’d arrived at his office and I hadn’t even noticed. James pulled deftly into a parking
lot off Arch Street near Independence Hall and turned off the engine. He turned to
face me. “I’m not stonewalling you, I swear. It would make me extremely happy to figure
out what’s going on here and stop it, with or without official permission.”

“I know. We’ll find the killer,” I said, and with that I planted a serious kiss on
his lips, then got out of the car and set off toward the Society before he could react.

I arrived a little later than usual, and members and visitors were already milling
around the catalog room, trying to decide where to start. It was kind of overwhelming,
I knew. I smiled at a few of them I recognized, and nodded hello to Felicity, our
reference librarian, who was busy helping someone. The elevator arrived promptly for
a change, and I took it to my office on the third floor. I was nearly there when Shelby
spotted me. “Hey, Nell, got a moment?” she called out.

Since I hadn’t “officially” arrived, I figured I might as well talk to her now. “Sure.
What’s up?”

“You saw James last night, right? And gave him our information?” she asked.

“I did, and yes. He agrees with our conclusions, but it’s still not enough. And he’s
mad about it—at his agency, at himself, at the world in general. I don’t blame him.
He’s good at what he does, but he has so little to work with on this, and his own
agency won’t let him do much more.”

“Hey, he’s got us!” Shelby said.

“And he appreciates that. We’re going where no agent has gone before—into the darkest
depths of Philadelphia society. Or do I mean heights?”

“Aren’t we brave?” She smiled. “What now?”

I considered for a moment. Maybe we were getting too bogged down in the details and
missing the big picture. “I’m not sure. Let’s talk it through.” Maybe a night’s sleep
had produced some piercing insights. Well, half a night’s sleep for me.

“Okay,” Shelby began slowly. “Based on the three hundred or so names we’ve collected,
representing the past and present board members serving Philadelphia-area nonprofits,
three institutions connect the highest number of individuals: the Art Museum, the
Society, and the Edwin Forrest Trust. That’s just over ten percent of the names.”

I nodded. “Good. Keep going.”

Shelby looked a bit perplexed. “I’ll try.” She chewed on her bottom lip for a moment,
then began again. “These people live in different areas, anywhere from Center City
to out of state. Of course, they may all have lived closer to Philadelphia or in the
city originally, but I haven’t had time to check past addresses. Both men and women,
although the group is skewed toward men.”

“As are the boards,” I said. “This is excellent. Keep going.”

“Um . . .” Shelby said, clearly thinking while she talked. “Mostly WASPs. Age range
is fifty to ninety, so I guess they didn’t all go to prep school together, unless
it was a legacy thing within a family. For those who held jobs, they were mostly professionals—lots
of lawyers, for instance, and some stockbrokers and bank managers. The occasional
politician. Most belong to multiple other organizations, like exclusive membership
clubs, or the DAR for the women. If I had to guess, I’d say that most of them have
been in the same room at the same time with most of the others. Okay, that’s not real
clear, but you know what I mean.”

“I do. Excellent summary, Shelby.”

“Thank you, ma’am, but does it get us anywhere? I mean, somebody at the FBI could
probably come up with that much without cracking open a file.”

“Probably.” My phone rang, and Eric said, “It’s Agent Morrison.” I picked up.

“There’s another death,” he said without preamble.

I felt sick to my stomach. Shelby was watching, and I nodded then swallowed. “Is that
person on the short list?”

“She is. Which makes it an order of magnitude more likely that we’re on the right
track.”

I couldn’t decide which question I wanted to ask next. How had this woman died? How
was she connected? And was her death enough to convince the police that there should
be an investigation?

In the end, I asked simply, “Who?”

“Her name was Edith Oakes. In her eighties. She lived in Wayne. And she’s a cousin.”

“Of yours and Marty’s?”

“Yes.”

This was not good. “How is she connected to the others?”

“She has been a board member for both the museum and the Society, although she withdrew
from both maybe ten years ago—she had emphysema and stopped going out much. But she’s
still on the Forrest Trust board, because that requires minimal effort.”

“How did she die?”

“Much the same way as the others, as far as we know. It’s too soon for any official
results—she was only found this morning, although she’d been dead since sometime late
yesterday. Nothing overtly suspicious—if you don’t know what we know. Or think we
know.”

“So not enough to interest the cops, I assume.”

“No.”

“This just keeps getting better and better,” I said bitterly. “Any signs of disturbance?
I assume she had money, if she lived in that neighborhood.”

“The place was undisturbed. The police got involved early this morning, when her brother
called them.”

“Edith didn’t live alone?” Wasn’t this the first time that had happened?

“No, she shared a house with her unmarried brother. I understand he was the one who
found her, but I don’t have all the details yet.”

“We need to talk to Marty. I haven’t seen her this morning. Have you talked to her?”

“Not yet.”

“Let me give her a call. Although if she’s in the building, she may not have her cell
phone on. James, hang on a minute.” I put James on Hold while I fished out my own
cell and punched Marty’s cell number. It rang and rang, but no one answered.

Shelby had been watching me with growing concern. “What’s going on, Nell?” she asked.

“There’s been another death—someone James and Marty are related to. And James hasn’t
been able to reach Marty, and she’s not answering her cell phone.”

“Oh. That’s bad. I’ll try her at home,” Shelby volunteered, and went through the same
procedure using her own cell, with the same result. “No answer. You think she’s here
in the building?”

I went back to James on my office line. “James, she’s not answering either of her
phones. Let me go check in the building, and I’ll get back to you.”

“Let me know if you find her—I’ll see what else I can learn about the death.”

After I had hung up, I stood, fighting a prickle of concern. “I’ll check the processing
room.”

Marty is a big girl, and she can take care of herself.
That’s what I kept telling myself as I walked down the hallway to the processing room.
When I entered the room, I was pleased to see Rich, Nicholas, and Alice all hard at
work, albeit in different corners. Of course, that reflected the distribution of the
materials they were working on: Rich, with a year or so of seniority, had claimed
the best space for the Terwilliger Collection; Nicholas, with a higher title and a
huge stack of materials from the FBI dump, er—no, there was still no better word than
dump
, at least for the moment—had staked out the back half of the room; and Alice, with
few items under her direct supervision, had created a cozy nest in a corner. Alice’s
was the neatest space, but there was nothing out of the ordinary about the controlled
chaos of the rest of the room.

“Morning, all. How’s it going?”

Each of them mumbled something like “Good, fine, great.” Frankly, I didn’t feel like
pressing them. Any problems they might have would only complicate my life right now.

“Has anybody seen Marty this morning? Rich, were you two planning anything?”

Rich shook his head. “Nope, on both counts. You know, she’s been kind of distracted
this week. She hasn’t been hanging over my shoulder every minute like usual. Has she
said something?”

“No. I just wanted to . . . get her opinion on something. I’m sure I’ll see her sometime
during the day. Thanks, guys. Back to work!”

I trudged back to Shelby’s office. That prickle of worry was fast growing into a full-blown
itch. Shelby looked up eagerly when I walked in, and I shook my head. “They haven’t
seen her today.”

“Oh, Nell. Should we be worried? Because of . . . you know?”

Was I ready to jump to the conclusion that Marty had been murdered by the shadowy
figure we were chasing? No, not yet. But I’d feel a lot better if I knew where she
was. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’ll make the rounds of the building and see
if I can spot her. You keep trying her phones. If we haven’t tracked her down by lunch,
I can take a run over to her house and see if she’s there. She might simply have decided
she doesn’t want to talk to anyone, if she’s heard about Edith.” And if she wasn’t
at home, or at least, didn’t answer the door, should I call James? No, it was premature
to think about doing that. Marty would pop up, as she so often did. I was sure of
it. Almost.

Through the morning I did my best to keep myself busy, but I didn’t do a very good
job of it. Midway through the morning I went out to Eric’s desk and told him, “If
Marty Terwilliger should happen to call, or if you see her in the building, can you
tell her that I need to talk to her?”

“Of course. Shelby told me the same thing. Is something wrong?”

Poor boy. He was quick to pick up on my concern, but he didn’t deserve to have my
worries on his head. But I couldn’t lie to him, either. “I hope not, Eric.”

I went back into my office without giving him any more details. I sat at my desk and
stared at nothing, my mind going in circles. Four deaths in the cultural community.
All looked natural on first glance, like suicide if anyone looked more closely. All
people who had led blameless lives—surely they each weren’t harboring a deep, dark
secret; or worse, sharing a single secret? No, I assumed they were what they appeared
to be: good citizens with philanthropic interests who gave their money and time to
deserving cultural institutions. Who would want to kill people like that?

But it was happening.

By eleven thirty, I couldn’t sit still any longer. I strode out of my office and told
Eric, “I’m going to take an early lunch. I should be back in an hour.”