Facade (16 page)

I
ris gazed curiously around the waiting room of the offices of Farrington, Farrington and Rose. Someone had spent serious money on the interior finishes of this State Street law firm. She admired the bookmatched sheets of Honduras mahogany veneer on the walls. They were detailed with elegant crown molding and simple casings, avoiding the stuffy impression of traditional, over-elaborate millwork.

“Mr. Taylor will be right out.”

“Thanks, but I specifically asked to see Mr. Farrington, Xander DeWitt's attorney,” Iris said.

“Mr. Taylor is working with Mr. Farrington on the case. He can help you.” The receptionist's impassive face turned back to her computer monitor, probably trolling on eBay.

Iris had raced through her Friday afternoon desk crits with her students, then taken the T to this downtown office. Now it looked like she was going to be fobbed off on an underling who might not have the brains or stature to pass her information up the line.

She stood up cautiously as a tall, handsome man in an expensive suit approached with an automatically outstretched hand.

“I'm Martin Taylor,” said the non-underling. His handshake was firm, eye contact practiced. “I understand you have some information on the Xander DeWitt case that you might wish to share. Let's sit down in the conference room.”

They walked down an Oriental-carpeted hallway to a small, elegant room lined with bookshelves. He gestured her toward a leather chair. She suddenly felt self-conscious about telling her story to this important and probably very busy man.

“My brother's an attorney. He's warned me not to get involved, but I feel, in good conscience, that I need to come forward with something I saw. It seems futile for me to tell this to the police now that they've arrested Professor DeWitt.”

“You sound like a good citizen, Ms. Reid. You say your brother's an attorney?”

“Yes, Sterling Reid.”

“You're Sterling's sister? We played squash the other day.” Martin Taylor stretched back in his seat and pantomimed an overhead smash.

“His younger sister. Please, call me Iris.”

“So, Iris, how do you know Professor DeWitt?” He reached for his iPad to take notes.

“We're colleagues at the GSD. That's Harvard's architecture school.”

“Yes, I know.” He smiled charmingly, but Iris was feeling immune to charm these last few days. Still, she couldn't help noting the dimple on his left cheek. “I'm a practicing architect as well as a teacher. Xander had told me about a new type of self-cleaning glass that I'd like to use on a project I'm designing in Harvard Square. I couldn't remember the name of the manufacturer, and Xander wasn't answering his cell phone. I was going out anyway to walk my dog, so I thought I'd drop a note through his mail slot.”

“Which day are we talking about?”

“Wednesday, the night Lara disappeared.”

Martin Taylor stopped typing. “Did you see him?”

“Yes, I saw him through the living room window, but he didn't see me.” Iris could feel her cheeks heating up.

“Did you ring the doorbell? What time was this?”

“Around nine. I didn't want to bother Xander because I noticed he was in his pajamas, listening to music, I assume. He had a big set of headphones on. I told Xander about this a few days afterward and he said he would tell his lawyer about this alibi. Well, partial alibi. Since that time the police have learned that Lara was actually abducted at around ten, so Xander still might have gone out after I saw him at home.”

Martin's fingers fluttered over his keyboard, then stopped abruptly. He rubbed his chin but didn't say anything.

Despite his pause, Iris continued. “But I've been thinking about it. According to her father's account in the newspaper, Lara always stayed at home at night, after her father went out. That night though, she went to a friend's house at around nine. ”

Martin looked at her sharply. “How do you know?”

“Because I know the friend. I think the kidnapper must have been stalking Lara. He must have followed her to Ja—, the friend's apartment, then taken the opportunity to grab Lara when her friend went out.”

“And Xander couldn't have been stalking Lara at nine since you saw him at that time in his living room.”

“Exactly!”

“And Lara's friend, she can testify as well?”

“No, she doesn't want to be involved. The police have her testimony but they've agreed to keep her out of this.”

Martin pressed his lips together.

“Xander told me that he thinks someone's framing him and planting evidence in his house,” Iris said. “I think it may be his assistent, Nils Jensen.”

“Do you know of any motive this Mr. Jensen would have to want to get Professor DeWitt in trouble?”

“Well— I think he might have a crush on Xander, and if his feelings weren't reciprocated... He also has easy access to Xander's house.”

“That's certainly worth looking into.” Martin sank back into his chair. “Don't take this the wrong way, but I have to ask you. You and the professor—it sounds like you're close. Is it a romantic relationship?”

“No, no. We're just colleagues. I want to set the record straight so we can all learn the truth about what happened that night.”

Martin gave her a brief look of incredulity, then shuttered it. “Admirable.” He looked down at his notes. “Anything else you can think of?”

“No. Just that the kidnapper must have been stalking Lara that night around the time I saw Xander.”

Martin's eyes were serious. “This is critical information, Iris. Jim will want to speak with you as soon as I fill him in about this. It's possible that Professor DeWitt has already mentioned this to Jim, but it makes a difference that you've volunteered to act as the professor's alibi.”

Iris started to unconsciously shred her thumb nail.

“I wish that all witnesses had your desire for justice.” He slipped a business card out of his vest pocket, then flipped it over to scribble something. “I'm giving you my cell phone number. Call me if you think of anything else. In any case, we'll be in touch soon.”

Iris felt buzzed with importance when she left the conference room. But a few minutes later, as the elevator descended from the thirtieth floor, the full import hit her: far from distancing herself from this case, she had now volunteered to become the star witness for the defense. Why couldn't she control her compulsive need to ferret out the truth? Why couldn't she just back the hell away from trouble?

I
t was ten the next morning by the time Xander had been bailed out of that wretched place and Farrington had dropped him off at the Howland Street house. The solicitor assured him that he'd be in touch soon to plan their strategy. All Xander wanted was a hot shower.

He crossed to the kitchen as he fumbled for his pack of Gauloise. His jailers had brought watery scrambled eggs, toast, and disgusting coffee to his cell at the ungodly hour of six. Not that he had been sleeping.

Maybe the shower could wait. He needed a cup of decent coffee first. He filled his espresso pot and, while it was heating up, his cell phone buzzed.

Caller I.D. displayed the name of one of the partners in his Amsterdam office. Xander sank into a chair before punching the button. “Stefan, I'm surprised to hear from you. Is everything all right?”

“No, Xander, it isn't. We've had a call from our New York client asking about a news story he just saw on the internet. It says you've been arrested for murder—the murder of a young girl.” Stefan spat out the word 'murder.' “Joos and I are waiting to hear your explanation before we decide on what action to take. Are these allegations true?”

“No, of course not. I've done nothing wrong, Stefan. I've never even met this girl. My solicitor got me out on bail and he'll straighten this out. I should sue that news outlet for libel. I can't believe they'd put such a thing on the internet!”

Xander scurried to his study and booted up his laptop. “What website is this story on?”

“It's on the
New York Post's
Page Six section. Were you actually arrested?”

“Technically, but it's a false arrest. You've heard about how the American police harass foreigners.”

“What is this business about child pornography being found on your computer? It cites an unnamed source inside the police department. That's not something someone states without proof. We design schools, for God's sake!”

The
New York Post's
page came up and its top story made Xander's heart jump into his throat:
Harvard Professor Charged in Girl's Disappearance
. A sob issued from him.

“I'm sorry, Xander, but Joos and I will be meeting tomorrow morning at nine with our marketing and P.R. people to decide how to handle the fallout from this. Dieter's Skyping us from Beijing for the meeting so we can take a vote. For the time being we need to distance ourselves from you until you can straighten this out. I suggest you get your solicitor to try to contain this scandal.”

“But it's my firm. You can't meet without me.”

“We have a morals clause in our partnership agreement. In fact, you're the one who put it in.”

“How dare you imply that I'm immoral!”

“I'm not the one saying it.
The New York Post
is. And, by the end of the day, everyone will be repeating it.”

“We've been partners for five years, Stefan. You need to give me some time before you take any votes or issue any statements.”

“I'm afraid we can't. You've put our firm in jeopardy. We have to do something to hang onto our clients.” There was a pause, then, “Good luck,” before the line went dead.

Xander returned frantically to the
Post
article.
A well-known 40-year-old Dutch architect, a visiting professor at Harvard's Graduate School of Design, has been charged with the kidnapping and murder of Lara Kurjak, the twelve-year-old girl whose disappearance has riveted the Boston area for the last week. An unnamed source at the Cambridge Police Department says that child pornography was found on the professor's computer.

So the police
had
discovered those pictures on his computer. Nils hadn't been able to scrub them completely from the damn hard drive after all. The
Post
hadn't actually disclosed his name, but it would take even the laziest reporter nothing but a quick trip to the GSD website to track that down.

Xander scurried to the living room window and peered out from between the curtains. No reporters were camped out on the sidewalk yet but he spotted a gray Prius across the street with what looked like two shadows inside—no doubt undercover police. He speed-dialed Checker Cab on his way upstairs and told them to have someone wait around the corner on Hammond Street. After tossing some clothes, a toiletry bag, and his passport into a leather duffle bag, Xander slipped out the kitchen door and wedged himself through a gap in the backyard fence where the corner posts didn't quite meet. He jogged toward the yellow cab and freedom.

Once the cab had pulled away from the curb, he punched in the KLM phone number to make a reservation. He would figure out how to solve this crisis after he was comfortably ensconced in his favorite business class seat, sipping a double single-malt Scotch. He smoothed the vents of his Brunello Cucinelli jacket under him to keep them from wrinkling. This is what he excelled at—solving crises. Hadn't he convinced the Dubai Museum Committee to open the spigot wider after the construction budget ballooned to twice his original promise? Hadn't he ressurrected his firm's bid for the Vienna Convention Center after his partners had given up hope, leading them to winning the commission?

Maybe he wouldn't go back to the States after this. He'd stay in Europe, like Roman Polanski. The priggish Americans could gnash their teeth. Nils could finish teaching the damn Harvard course.

That's what Nietsche would do.

B
udge caught a flash of yellow in the corner of his eye and twisted in his seat, suddenly on full alert. He spotted Xander squeezing through an opening in his back yard fence, then heading toward an idling Checker Cab, and thanked the journalistic gods for inspiring him to park at this perfect vantage point.

“Shane—showtime. Wake up. Quarry's at four o'clock!”

“Whah?” The gangly photographer yawned, untangling his limbs in the passenger seat as Budge maneuvered the tiny Fiat half-way out of its parking space.

What Budge saw next in the rearview mirror made him cut the engine and leap out of the car. He raced toward Iris, finger over his lips.

Iris waved him away. “I don't have time now, Budge. I have to catch Xander. I see him up ahead getting into a cab.”

“No, you can't warn him. Here, get in my car. We can discuss this while I follow him.” He shoved Iris into the back seat, hit the child lock, and slid back behind the wheel. As he eased out onto Hammond Street, he could see the taxi pulling away from the curb.

“You can't kidnap me,” she screamed while straightening herself into a sitting position. “I need to speak to Xander.” She rummaged in her purse for her phone.

“Shane, show her the
Post
article.”

Shane brought it up on his phone and passed it back to her.

“How am I supposed to read this in a moving car?” Iris groused as she enlarged the print. She scanned the paragraph. “Child pornography?” She looked momentarily stunned, then, remembering Xander's explanation, said, “This must have been planted by the person setting him up.”

“Then why's he running? He's been arrested, just got out on bail, the
Post
outs him as a predator, and his reaction is to call a cab and sneak out his backyard with an overnight bag?”

“He's probably scared because you vultures are hounding him,” Iris said. “Maybe he's going to check into a hotel for some privacy.”

“He's making a run for it, mark my words,” Budge said. “You are about to witness Cambridge's version of O.J. Simpson in the white Ford Bronco.”

“Except you're not the police.” Iris crossed her arms. “If you're right, what do you intend to do—make a citizen's arrest? You just want to grab headlines at his expense.”

“Yeah, what did happen to those cops in the Prius?” Shane asked as he whipped open his video camera case and snapped on a long lens.

“They only had eyes on the front door. You snooze, you lose in this business.”

“We really should call them, Buchanan.” Shane flipped off his lens cap.

“We will, we will. Let's see if the cab turns left at the Wine Cask and heads toward Union Square. That's a straight line toward Logan. Meanwhile, get a shot of the back of the cab. Can you zoom in on his head?”

“Yup. I'm zooming in but the dude's facing forward.” Shane lowered his window and started to lift the camera.

“No!” Budge shouted. “Keep it inside. Don't let him see the camera. You'll spook him,” After the cab turned left onto Washington Street, Budge tapped in a number on the car visor's phone pad.

Detective Malone identified himself on the speakerphone and Budge filled him in.

“Where are my guys? Never mind. I'll find out myself. Can you tell whether DeWitt is armed?”

“I don't think so.” Budge's knuckles turned white as he gripped the steering wheel.

“In that case, are you comfortable continuing to follow the taxi?”

“Hell, yes!” Shane called out.

“Stay on the line then so you can keep feeding my partner the cab's position. We're heading out to join you.”

Budge stayed one or two cars behind as pursued and pursuer proceeded along McGrath Highway, through interminable lights, and over the Museum of Science bridge. Budge noticed a Honda Accord with two passengers sidle in next to the cab. He borrowed Shane's phone to alert his editor to leave space on the front page for his scoop.

At one point, Budge shouted to Iris over his shoulder, “Stop clutching the front seat! You're worse than a toddler on a plane.”

“Stop complaining. You're the one who kidnapped me,” she snapped back at him. Why did this man always reduce her to his level of playground taunts?

The cab crossed into Boston and dropped down into the Central Artery tunnel, hugging the right lane. Shane rested the camera on the dash and let it record. “Looks like he's taking the Callahan tunnel. Definitely heading to Logan.”

The cabbie emerged from the tunnel and veered onto the airport exit ramp, blind to the two cars tailing him. They all followed the ring road, then turned off at Terminal E for international departures at the far side of the airport. Budge quickly weighed the option of abandoning his car at the terminal to face certain towing against the chance of missing any soundbites uttered at the fleeing Dutchman's re-arrest.

“Iris, you stay in the car. Circle around if you have to.”

“Fat chance. I'm coming in too,” she said.

Budge bared his teeth at her.

“Just try to stop me,” she dared him.

In the end, they all piled out. No question that Shane needed to be there to record the panicked look on DeWitt's face for that killer front page visual.

“Keep the camera hidden, Shane. Iris, we hang back since he knows us. The cops won't thank us if we tip him off.”

Five sets of eyes watched Xander pay his cab fare and saunter into the terminal. After a pained parting look at the Fiat, Budge, followed by Iris and Shane, trailed Xander at a cautious distance. Shane kept his jacket slung over his arm carrying the video camera.

One of Logan's famously cranky state troopers ran toward the Fiat, arms waving.