Blow up, p.26
Blow Up, page 26
‘It’s OK. Go on.’
‘I asked if I could see his tent. The woman said the Professor was really private and wouldn’t like a stranger going through his things. I didn’t push it,’ she said. ‘I asked her if there was anything else and she said, “Yeah, he leaves a lot of stuff in his car – clothes and things – even though it doesn’t run anymore.”’
‘He has a car? He drives?’
‘Not since the car died. The others at the camp were worried about him getting behind the wheel with his memory problems,’ she said. ‘So they weren’t sorry when his car conked out.’
‘If he drives, or drove, a car, then he must have a driver’s license,’ I said.
‘You’d think,’ Grace said, her eyes widening.
‘I wonder where it is.’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t even think to ask.’ Her phone buzzed again and she silenced it, this time without looking.
‘When Jack and I found him, he had Townsend’s wallet,’ I said. ‘What do you bet whoever killed him took Paul Smith’s driver’s license and any ID he had – if he was carrying it at the time – and gave it to Townsend? Because if Paul Smith could pass as Everett Townsend, why couldn’t Everett Townsend pass himself off as Paul Smith? He’d have a ready-made life, including a license, a social security number somewhere – a past.’
‘Damn,’ she said. ‘You’re right and I’m an idiot. I didn’t even think about the license.’
‘All he’d need was a fake passport and he could go anywhere. No one would be looking for him or Paul Smith. He could get out of the country relatively quickly.’
Grace drummed her fingers on the red-and-white checked tablecloth. ‘When I got back to my office yesterday, I called a friend who is an agent in the local FBI office,’ she said. ‘And told him what I had. At first, he was, like, Nah, no way. That’s crazy. Maybe Paul Smith just wandered off, especially if the guy’s got Alzheimer’s or dementia. But then I sent him the pictures and told him about Javi. I could hear his computer keys clicking, so I knew he was looking into it. A moment later, he asked how I knew about the birthmark, and I told him my source had taken the photo of Paul Smith at the camp. And then had also found “Townsend” in the alley and noticed the birthmark.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said, “I need to talk to your source.” I told him “nice try.” I promised to protect you and that you’d already been shot at and had your studio vandalized. So no go. He said, sort of joking, “Well, you can’t blame me for trying, can you?” He called me later and thanked me and said the FBI was looking into it. Also, that I could print that information, but that was all he could give me.’
‘By now, the FBI probably knows about the driver’s license and has put two and two together. They’ll be looking for “Paul Smith” at every car rental place, train station, bus station, port, and airport,’ I said. ‘They don’t need to talk to me anymore. Besides, they could get my name and Jack’s from the EMT team that showed up in the alley, or even someone at GW who was in the ER that night. That’s how Javi knew to get in touch with me.’
Our waiter came by and asked if we were finished with our meal. We said yes, so he took our plates.
‘Dessert, ladies?’
‘No, thanks,’ I said. ‘The meal was wonderful, but I think we’re both stuffed.’
‘But we will have two espressos,’ Grace said. ‘And could you also bring the bill?’
He nodded and left.
‘Sorry to rush you, Soph, but I’d better get back to the office,’ she said to me. ‘I’m following up with MPD about Javi, now that it’s likely his death is related to Townsend. I also have a call in to the director of the funeral home that cremated Paul Smith. They won’t have photos either, but maybe someone remembers the unusual birthmark.’
‘How’d you find the funeral home?’
‘Looked in the back of the St Matthew’s bulletin at all the advertisements and figured one of the funeral homes that advertise there was the place Diana Townsend used.’
‘And was it?’
She gave me a triumphant look. ‘First one I called.’
‘Grace Lowe, girl detective.’
She laughed and I said, as casually as I could, ‘What did Jack say?’
She looked pained. ‘He was pretty short with me. Told me he couldn’t possibly discuss anything concerning someone who had come to him in confidence and that I should know better than to ask.’
I took a big gulp of wine and set my glass down. ‘I think the Papal Nuncio appointment was Diana’s way of paying him back for his support during this whole thing. She recommended him for that position. She bought his silence.’
Grace picked up her glass. ‘My God. I didn’t think of that. Either.’
‘I know.’
‘You did.’
‘Yes. I told him, too.’
‘And?’
‘I’m not sure what the status of our relationship is at the moment. I wouldn’t say it’s particularly good.’
‘Oh, Soph. I’m so sorry.’
We finished our espressos and Grace paid the bill. When we were outside on Connecticut Avenue, we made reservations for Ubers.
‘Where are you off to?’ she said. ‘Not going back to the studio?’
‘No. Georgetown.’
She gave me a quizzical look because I wasn’t usually so opaque. Especially with her. ‘OK.’
‘It’s something to do with my grandfather’s estate.’
‘You were talking about that the other day. I hope everything’s OK.’
‘It will be a lot more OK after this meeting. At least I hope it will.’
‘That’s good. Anything you want to talk about?’
‘Yes, but it’s a long, complicated story.’
‘Come for dinner this Friday. Ben has a poker night with the boys. We can have a girls’ night in.’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘And in the meantime, you’ll keep me informed of any progress you make on the Townsend story, right?’
She nodded and we exchanged air kisses. My Uber arrived first. As it pulled away from the curb, I looked out the back window. Her phone was clamped to her ear again. Then her car drove up and she got in. I wondered how long it would take for the FBI to track down Associate Justice Everett Townsend. And what would happen next.
On my way to Georgetown, I texted Perry a link to Grace’s story and wrote, Thanks for listening to me the other night. I hesitated and then added, We make a good team. Before I hit send, I added a heart emoji.
He wrote back immediately. We do.
I replied. We always have.
And got a smiley face in return.
Oriana Neri met me at the front door after my Uber deposited me in front of her Georgetown home. This time, she was wearing a white cashmere boatneck sweater and caramel-colored wool trousers. She took one look at my face and her eyes hardened.
She opened the door wider and said, with the slightest chill in her voice, ‘Won’t you come in?’
She led me into her sunny, cheerful living room and said, ‘Please have a seat.’
I took the sofa and pulled a large envelope out of my purse, placing it on the coffee table. Oriana sat in a wing chair across from me.
‘I want to show you something,’ I said. ‘Actually, several things.’
She steepled her fingers and nodded, still cool. ‘All right.’
I took out the prints I’d made of her and the man she said was my grandfather in bed together.
‘These are yours,’ I said, sliding them over to her.
‘I know that,’ she said. ‘I showed them to you.’
Then I took out the print of Chap in his bathing suit at Coney Island. ‘And that is my grandfather. This photo was taken after he left Los Angeles and moved back to New York City. The date stamp on the back, as you can see, is August 12, 1958. A few months after you were married.’
She looked at the photo as if it were toxic and didn’t touch it. So I took out the enlarged versions of both photos, laid them on the coffee table facing her, and slid them over. I didn’t say anything. Neither did she.
Finally, I pulled out the letter from Ward Evans, the Las Vegas annulment attorney Chappy had contacted, and handed it to her. ‘And then there’s this.’
She stood up and got her glasses, which were on the fireplace mantel, and sat down again to read the letter. When she was done, she picked up the two photos so she could study them more carefully. I felt as if I were watching the life drain out of her.
After a moment, she took off her glasses, folded them, and set them on her lap. ‘Well,’ she said. There was an ocean of sadness and regret in her voice. ‘Well.’
‘The marriage was annulled,’ I said, ‘whether you knew it or not. And you lied about these photos.’
‘Don’t judge me harshly.’
‘How else am I going to judge you? Look what you tried to do to my family.’
‘I had my reasons.’
‘Of course you did,’ I said, and she flinched at the sarcasm.
‘I am going to lose my home.’ She looked at me, anguished and outraged. ‘This house belongs to Gianni’s children – his next of kin – since he and I were never legally married. He didn’t leave a will, so they inherited everything. They let me stay here for a while, but now they’ve decided to sell, and I haven’t got enough money to buy them out.’ There were tears in her eyes.
Wow. What goes around comes around. Her kids were kicking her out of her home because they wanted the money from the sale of the house.
Sam was right. Estate settlements were brutal because they brought out the worst in people – arguments and fights over trivial items and perceived slights. Siblings who never spoke to each other again. Especially if money was involved.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘My grandfather made out his will without telling my mother he intended to leave his estate to a small arts school in Connecticut with a degree program in photography and photojournalism.’
I didn’t see the point in telling her we had just discovered the will was invalid and that Chappy, too, had died intestate, so now everything went to Mom.
‘I think you should leave,’ she said.
I stood up. ‘If you’d managed to sell those photos that you said my grandfather took – fakes – you’d be committing fraud. My family would be caught up in that as well. It’s a federal offense, and there are consequences. At least that’s not going to happen now. Which I think is a good thing for everyone.’
She was no longer looking at me. I left the room, but as I opened the front door, I heard her start to sob. And in spite of everything she’d tried to do, my heart went out to her.
TWENTY-TWO
My phone rang as I was in the middle of requesting another Uber. I almost didn’t answer until I saw the caller ID. Russell, Victoria.
I closed the Uber app and answered the phone. ‘Vicki?’
‘Sophie. Yes, it’s me. How are you?’
‘Fine.’ She hadn’t called just to ask about my health. ‘Is everything OK? Is Quill OK … the kids?’
‘Quill is … fine,’ she said after a moment. ‘The kids are fine. I was wondering if you might have some time to come by for a chat.’
I wanted to say, About what? Instead, I said, ‘Sure. The next time I’m out at Mayfield visiting Mom and Harry—’
‘I’m not at Fernway.’ She cut me off. ‘I’m at the Georgetown house. I won’t be going out there for a while.’
The Russells’ Georgetown house was a couple of blocks from where I was right now. I could walk there.
‘I could be at your house in ten minutes,’ I said. ‘I’m in Georgetown.’
‘Oh.’ I’d caught her off guard. ‘Well … yes. Ten minutes. See you then.’
She must have found out that I’d been at Fernway the day she was there with Rhett Townsend. Why else would she want to see me?
Had Quill found out as well?
In ten minutes, I’d know.
The Russells’ Georgetown home was a gorgeous three-story red-brick Federal mansion that dated from the late 1700s and was on the National Register of Historic Places. I climbed the steps and rang the doorbell.
Vicki opened the door and I almost didn’t recognize her. No makeup, haggard face, and utterly, utterly drained. Untucked black silk blouse. Black jeans. Black ballet flats.
I blurted out before she could say anything, ‘Are you all right? Has something happened?’
‘Please come in,’ she said. ‘Would you like a drink?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘I’m having one.’
She hadn’t answered my question about whether she was all right. Or maybe she had.
The answer was no.
I followed her into the library, which was just off the foyer. They’d redone it since the last time I was here, years ago. Two book-filled bookcases that flanked the carved wooden fireplace surround and mantel were painted crimson; the rest of the walls were covered with an elaborate red-and-gold paisley wallpaper that made me think of fabrics I’d seen in India. Matching paisley curtains hung in the oversized windows. An oil painting of a fox hunter dressed in his pinks, his horse leaping over a thicket of brush, hung over the fireplace. There were books piled on every table in the room, including the large desk, and, in a corner, an antique wooden trolley table was filled with an impressive assortment of bottles of alcohol.
‘Please have a seat,’ she said. ‘Are you sure you won’t have a drink?’
‘I’m sure. Thanks, anyway.’ I sat in a red leather chair that matched the walls and pulled out a needlepoint pillow that I had just sat on – a sly-looking fox – placing it on the book-filled table next to me.
Vicki topped off her Scotch on the rocks. She took the sofa across from me, kicking off the ballet flats and sitting cross-legged like a kid in front of a campfire.
She drank some Scotch and said, ‘I saw you.’
We weren’t playing games. ‘When?’
‘I saw your car leave. Actually, I heard it, so I went out and looked over the gate to the back garden. Not too many people drive a red-and-white Mini.’
‘Do you know why I was there?’
‘I do now.’
‘Quill tried so hard to keep his project a secret. You were never supposed to know.’
‘I did, though. At least, I knew something was going on. A couple of times when I came home, I smelled your perfume. Just a faint, lingering scent, but I realized a woman had been there while I was gone.’ She gave a brittle laugh. ‘Do you know what I thought?’
‘Oh, God. That Quill was …?’ I couldn’t finish.
‘Exactly. That he was having an affair. Which made it so much easier when Rhett came on to me.’
‘I see,’ I said. ‘Quill adores you, Vicki. He’d hang the moon someplace different if you wanted him to.’
She took another deep drink. ‘Not right now he wouldn’t.’ She brushed at her eyes with the palm of her hand.
‘I’m so, so sorry. How did he find out about you and Everett Townsend, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘He found a used condom under the bed.’
It didn’t get more in-your-face explicit than that, short of walking in on them having sex. ‘Oh. Are you two going to be able to … fix … this?’
‘I want to,’ she said. ‘I hope he does.’
‘Give him time.’
She nodded and swiped at her eyes again.
‘Jack O’Hara and I found Townsend’s lookalike, his doppelganger, collapsed on the ground behind his townhouse on Capitol Hill,’ I said. ‘We were out for a run and took a detour through an alley.’
Her eyes were huge. ‘You found him?’
‘His name was Paul Smith. He was an absolute double for Everett Townsend. And he was homeless.’
She folded her lips together and nodded, a look of horror – and some shame – on her face.
‘Did you know anything about his plans? What he intended to do?’ I asked. ‘Did he confide in you, say anything, drop a hint? Anything? You were with him that last day.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Nothing. He didn’t tell me a thing. Though he did seem more … intense … that last night.’
I closed my eyes, not wanting to imagine writhing bodies, tangled sheets, and a marathon session of torrid sex.
‘Sophie,’ Vicki said. She set her glass down on the coffee table in front of her and leaned forward, hands clasped together and resting on her knees. ‘Nobody except you, Quill, and I know that I was with Rhett that day.’
‘Well, presumably Rhett knows about me, too.’ Talking about him in the present tense because he was still alive.
‘No. I told him I thought I heard something, but I was mistaken.’
I waited because I knew exactly what was coming next. And she knew I knew it, too.
‘No one else needs to know,’ she said. ‘There’s no reason to drag us … to drag Quill into any of this. We had nothing to do with Rhett’s decision to flee. I had nothing to do with his decision to flee. So we – I – would appreciate it if you didn’t say anything to anyone. Keep it our secret. And, hopefully – eventually – we’ll all forget about it.’
She was making this about Quill. Please do this for him. When it was really about her. ‘Did Quill ask you to do this? Did he want you to ask me to keep quiet?’
She heard the reproach in my voice and said, subdued, ‘No. He did not.’
I nodded. Now I wished I’d asked for a drink.
‘So … will you?’ She was pleading. She was scared.
She didn’t want to get dragged into a murder investigation. Two murders.
‘If your name comes up in some way when the FBI starts looking into this, when they find Everett Townsend – and they will – and you were to be questioned, what are you going to say? You’re not going to lie, are you?’
Vicki picked up her glass and shook it so the ice cubes made a tinkling sound. As if something had shattered into pieces. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I am not.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘I’m not, either.’
‘And if they don’t ask?’
She was pushing. So many people had secrets they wanted – needed – to keep because of what Everett Townsend had done. Including me. The photo Tommy got from the ER nurse.
