Killer Chameleon (15 page)

“What did she look like, W. Two?” I asked.

“Black, older than me, say in her sixties from all the gray hair. Shorter than yours, Leigh. Hell, shorter than mine. About your color, maybe a tad lighter; it was hard to tell. That's the best I can do.”

This was ridiculous. How could I have aggravated someone this woman's age without knowing it? “Did she have an accent? West Indian, perhaps?”

“Nope, sounded like a regular American to me.”

Scratch Nell Gwynn.

He promised to call me if he remembered anything else, and left.

“All right, let's hear it,” Duck said, closing the door. “From the top.” To say his jaws were tight would be an understatement.

We were repeating the story for the second time for him when my cell phone burped. I glanced at my watch. It was past nine. If someone was calling this late on my cellular, something must be wrong.

“Leigh, where are you?” Janeece, sounding slightly frazzled.

“Ourland. What's up?”

“The police were here looking for you.”

“Willard? He found out who made the call?”

“These guys didn't know anything about that. They wouldn't tell me what they wanted, either. We're talking some tight-lipped sons of a gun, Leigh, dead serious. They gave me a number to call if I heard from you.”

I repeated it, committing it to memory. “Thanks, hon. Got big news but it can wait until tomorrow. Go back to bed.”

Duck didn't recognize the number but to my surprise, suggested that I wait and call once we were back in D.C. “If it's trouble, we'll deal with it when we get there.”

“We've got to go.” Tank pulled Tina to her feet. “I'm on the early shift, and my sweetpea here has a doctor's appointment in the
A.M.
”

Tina rubbed her tummy. “Just making sure everything's back to normal down here. Hell, we forgot all about Chet and your car, Leigh. I'll have him call you first thing tomorrow. My shift ends at four if you need me to take you somewhere.”

We agreed to wait and see what Chet had to say and decide from there.

The two T's departed. Duck and I weren't far behind, but they lost us once we reached the highway. I settled back in Duck's oil-guzzling clunker, relieved to be alone with him. As much as I liked Tank and Tina, they had a way of sapping my energy. Somehow they seemed to take up more room than most, used up more oxygen or something. Which did not bode well if they were to be weekend neighbors. Which also brought me back to the subject of the house.

Duck's ready acceptance of it struck me as something to be examined more closely, in spite of his initial declaration that he wanted me out of reach of the she-devil. He was a home boy in the most literal sense. He loved D.C. Besides, members of the District's police force were required to live there. So his wanting to move was inexplicable.

“Duck, about the house. I want it, yes; it'll give me a home base while I'm working there, a local address in case there's a county residency requirement. But moving lock, stock, and barrel never entered my mind because you can't. Your job, remember?”

He reached over and gave my thigh a squeeze. “Don't sweat it, babe. It would solve a lot of problems for me. I've been thinking about making a change, and tonight may help me get off the pot.”

“A change?” This was new. It was also unsettling in that he'd never mentioned it before. “What kind?”

He slowed to let a low-slung sports car cut in front of us. “I'm considering leaving the job.”

“What?”
I couldn't have been more surprised if he'd told me he was going into a monastery.

“It's a long story. Let's just say that September eleventh made me begin to wonder about the value of my contribution to the District, to the country, for that matter. And before you say it, I know I'm too old to join the service.”

Well, I wouldn't have said it, even though I was thinking it.

“I've been nosing around, trying to get a feel for what else I could do. There are a couple of opportunities out there—well, more than a couple, actually. And somehow, word got out that I might be open to making a move, I still haven't figured out how. All of a sudden, I'm being courted by federal investigative agencies
and
private industry. And I'm definitely interested. It would mean more money, and that's nice, but it would also mean making a bigger contribution, a bigger difference. And that's important to me.”

I let him talk. Even though I had never imagined him as other than a detective with the D.C. police, I'd sensed a certain level of frustration but considered it an occupational hazard. Everyone in the department became frustrated at some point. Most got over it. Those who didn't left. It never occurred to me that my Duck would join the latter.

“I haven't been ready to talk about it,” he explained, “because I wasn't sure how you'd react. I remember the big deal it was to you when I made detective.”

I removed his right hand from the steering wheel and kissed the back of it. “Duck, I wouldn't care if you wanted to run away and join the circus as long as you took me with you.”

“Really?” he asked, an impish gleam in his eyes. “I mean, I'd love to be one of those clowns that climbs out of one of those little bitty . . . Oh-oh.”

I'd been so engrossed in our conversation that I didn't realize we were pulling into his underground garage. Turning to see what had interrupted his ridiculous train of thought, I saw a cluster of uniforms and plainclothes types milling about in the far corner near my old Chevy. A cruiser idled about a third of the way from the entrance, chase lights ablaze. Not only was it blocking several others if they wanted to leave, it was also in our way.

“Looks like trouble for sure.” Duck slowed, shifted into reverse. Turning to look back over his shoulder, he said, “Guess I'll have to park on the street tonight.”

“There he is!” A lanky, middle-aged man in green hospital scrubs separated from the crowd and pointed toward us.

All heads swiveled in our direction. Two of the uniforms began trotting toward us, arms outstretched in the universal signal for “Halt,” one of them reaching for his service revolver in the process.

“What the hell?” Duck shifted into park and lowered his window. Sticking his head out, he called, “Hey, guys, what's going on? Adams, is that you?”

The stockier of the two slowed to a walk, shading his eyes against the overhead lighting. “Duck?” He waved for his companion to relax. “I didn't know you lived here.”

“I didn't know you'd been transferred to this district,” Duck said, getting out.

I released my seat belt and scrambled out, too. “Hey, has something happened to my car?” I grabbed my purse and hurried toward the gathering. “What's going on?”

A pair of plainclothes moved toward me, their expressions slammed close, official masks in place. “You're Ms. Warren? Leigh Warren? We've been looking for you.”

“Evans, Thackery,” Duck said, in greeting. Stopping beside me, he draped an arm around my shoulder. “Don't tell me somebody tried to heist this thing. It can be driven, but it'll cut out on you in no time. Did you catch the bastard?”

Their faces relaxed a bit but they still wore an air of caution. “Bastardess,” one responded. “Female. Mr. Grandison here saw her trying to hide behind it and started over to investigate. She spotted him and hauled ass.”

“Had she broken into it?” I asked, wondering about my sudden possessiveness over a car I no longer owned.

“She didn't need to,” Evans said, watching me. “When's the last time you drove it?”

“Uh—sometime in October. I hit a tree and . . .” They didn't need the details. “It's been in the shop. You had it towed back in here when, Duck? About ten days ago, right?”

“And an old pro like you would never leave the keys in the ignition, right, Kennedy?”

“You're kidding.” Duck stepped to the front passenger side and looked in, then back at me. “They've been hanging on the pegboard in the kitchen. How . . .? You and Clarissa are the only ones who've been up there.”

“Clarissa?” Thackery prompted.

“Cleaning lady.” Duck shook his head. “She would have no reason to take them, and I can't imagine her giving them to someone else. She knew it still needed work and was risky to drive. Someone must have broken into my unit, dammit.” He turned on his heel, heading for the elevator.

Thackery cleared his throat and Duck stopped, looking back over his shoulder.

“It's not quite that simple, Kennedy. We're waiting for forensics and someone from the coroner's office.” Eyes still glued on us, he reached down and lifted the lid of the trunk.

The odor hit me first, one I wasn't likely to forget. It was faint but memorable under any circumstances, and my stomach lurched. Cradled inside the trunk on top of the spare, assorted tools, a defunct flashlight, and a ratty old blanket, Clarissa lay curled in a fetal pose staring into nothing, well and truly dead.

10

“OH, NO. GOD, NO. CLARISSA.” DUCK, ANGUISH
mangling his features, moved as if to reach in and touch her, but caught himself. “How the hell did she wind up in the trunk?”

“This is your cleaning lady?” Thackery asked, his face thawing a little. “We could use a positive identification. No purse in there, unless she's lying on it. We don't want to move her before forensics shows up.”

“Her name is Clarissa Farrell. But . . . but I just talked to her,” Duck said, then flushed, undoubtedly realizing how many times he'd heard the same after breaking the news of someone's demise.

“When?” Evans demanded. “Tonight?”

Duck turned to me. “Seven-thirty, somewhere around there, you think?” Evans frowned and glanced at Thackery, an exchange Duck missed. “She called me looking for Tank and Tina,” he continued, “thought they might have stopped by. I was just about to phone Leigh, since I'd asked them to drop in on her, when she called.”

“She knows Younts?” Evans asked Duck, not me.

“Clarissa's a relative of Tank's wife,” I said. “Lord, Tina's gonna have a fit. Should I call her?”

Duck shook his head, his gaze riveted on the body. “Clarissa cleaned my toilet, changed my sheets. It's my obligation.” He reached for his cell phone and started back toward his car.

I stepped closer to mine and peered in. “I don't see any signs of trauma. Wonder what . . .” Frowning, I knelt at the back bumper. Something wasn't right. “Duck, wait a minute,” I called.

“What?” He turned around, the pain on his face making me flinch.

“Just . . . just don't call yet.”

“Something we should know?” Evans asked, coming up behind me.

I shook him off, signaled for him to wait. “Let me borrow your flashlight.” He placed it in my hand, a whopper compared to mine. Holding my breath, I leaned in and played the beam along the still figure from head to toe.

Horn-rimmed glasses lay at an angle across her nose. Lividity had set in, just barely visible on her left cheek and leg because of her position. But by the time I'd reached her feet, I was sure. “Duck, this isn't Clarissa.”

“What the hell!” Evans and Thackery glared at me, then at him, as if we'd pulled something over on them.

Duck bounded back to the car. “What do you mean, it isn't Clarissa? Wait. Her sister, maybe? But they weren't twins.” He stared in. “Were they?”

“Must have been. But look, her ears are pierced. Clarissa's weren't. The day I stayed to let her in, the first thing she did was yank off her earrings and massage her earlobes because the earrings pinched.”

“I guess I never noticed. Are you sure, babe?”

“You don't yank earrings off pierced ears, Duck. And Clarissa had . . . has,” I amended stubbornly, “fat feet. This woman's are delicate in comparison. And her hair isn't as brassy.”

He stooped, examining her with narrowed eyes. Finally he rose. “You're right. Thank God. I never met her, so I didn't realize . . . Poor Clarissa. This will kill her.”

I could have pointed out that it was a poor choice of words but kept my mouth shut because I might also have blurted out the fact that he had just fibbed. I was trying to figure out what to do about it when Thackery derailed the effort.

“So what's her name?” he demanded.

Duck shrugged. “I don't know. All I ever heard Clarissa call her was Sister.”

“And Tina called her Aunt Sister,” I added. “She can fill you in on whatever you need to know. She talked to Clarissa after Duck did.”

“How do you know?” Evans challenged me.

This man was beginning to annoy me. “It goes like this: Clarissa called Duck asking if Tina was there. Duck knew Tina was with me, but before he had a chance to call me, I called him. He told me to tell Tina to call Clarissa. I told Tina. Tina called Clarissa. That clear enough?” He reddened. I didn't care.

Duck, perhaps sensing the possibility of fireworks, stepped in. “Look, let me get Tina. They should be home by now. And unless you guys object, she'll probably want to tell Clarissa herself.”

“First things first,” Evans said, taking charge again. “Ask Mrs. Younts to come so we can get a positive ID once and for all. If she wants to bring her aunt, so much the better. Adams, find out what's keeping the damn techs and whoever's coming from the medical examiner.”

Grandison cleared his throat since it was obvious we'd forgotten he was there. “Can I go now? I'm sorry about the lady and all, but I've gotta get to work.”

Thackery didn't even look up. “One of you guys move the cruiser so he can get out, then check in with your dispatcher. No point in your hanging around here any longer. Mr. Grandison, we'll need you to come in sometime tomorrow to make a formal statement, the earlier the better.”

Grandison mumbled agreement, climbed into a late-model Volvo, and followed the cruiser out.

Duck went back to his car again and sat in the front seat to call Tina.

In the meantime, Evans leaned against the fender of a nearby Taurus. “Mind accounting for your movements today, Ms. Warren?”

I didn't particularly appreciate the suspicion underlying the question, but there was no point in antagonizing him any further. After all, it was my car. And who knows how long the body had been there. December temperatures would have slowed decomposition. Further speculation was futile. I might as well answer the question.

“I was home until late morning—”

“Alone?”

“Yes, packing.”

“You're going somewhere?” Thackery asked, reaching for his notepad.

“I'm moving in with Duck; we're getting married the day after Christmas. Tank and Tina arrived around noon, perhaps a little before. They went down to pack my car for me, but someone had spray-painted the windshield. You can check; I filed a report with the police.”

They both scribbled, then waited expectantly.

“Tank and Tina and I got back here around two, I guess. We took boxes upstairs and stayed less than an hour.”

“The three of you. How many trips did you make to get everything upstairs?” Thackery asked.

“Just one.”

“And you didn't come back down again, then go back up?”

It was a puzzling question. “There was no need to. Why?”

“You noticed nothing unusual about this car earlier?” Evans asked, before his partner could respond. “When you three arrived?”

“I doubt I even looked in this direction. All I had on my mind was getting my boxes upstairs.”

Thackery's face was unreadable. “And the three of you left here at what time?”

“About two-thirty, two-forty. I needed to get to Connecticut Avenue by three—”

“Because . . .?” said Thackery.

“I was supposed to pick up some tickets from our travel agent because she was closing early.” I hesitated, decided to skip the gist of my conversation with Margie. “From there, we stopped and ate lunch.”

“We? You and the Yountses?”

“Right. At Paisan's. From there we drove to Ourland—”

Evans frowned. “Where's that?”

I was trying to describe it in relation to Annapolis when Duck returned and stationed himself at my side. Without interrupting, he took my hand and squeezed it. I wasn't certain whether it was a signal or a gesture of support. He looked like the one who needed it; evidently the conversation with Tina had been rough. I squeezed back.

“That's where we were coming from when we arrived here,” I finished.

“Hmm.” Evans scanned his notes, then gazed in thought at poor Sister. “And yesterday?”

“What about it?” I wasn't being obstreperous, just somewhere else mentally, remembering Clarissa and Sister on the phone the day before yesterday, the impression I'd gotten about how close they were.

He looked as if he might skewer me to the concrete walls. “Your movements. Where were you?”

“At home, all day, recovering from a virus.”

“Alone?”

Praying for patience, I closed my eyes and nodded. “Alone.”

Duck's radar finally picked up on the nuances. He draped an arm around my shoulder and said, “There's a problem?”

Evans's sharp gaze shifted to him. “I'd say so, since one of your neighbors . . .” He flipped backward a page. “An Evangeline Luby reports seeing Ms. Warren on the elevator with your cleaning lady—or perhaps this one—”

“Her name's Claudia.” Duck's voice was hard. “Claudia Hitchcock. And they were twins.” Pencils went into action again. “Let's back up and start from the beginning. How'd this all come down? Who called it in? And why did you open the trunk to begin with?”

There seemed a slight change of attitude in Evans and Thackery, as if they remembered that they were not dealing with the ordinary John Q. Public.

Evans removed his rear end from the Taurus and stood erect, as if reporting to a superior. Perhaps he was; no one had mentioned his rank. He referred to his trusty notepad and cleared his throat.

“Grandison called it in at twenty thirty-two. Uniforms responded, a suspicious circumstances. Grandison was waiting for them, said he'd witnessed a woman hiding beside this car. She realized he'd seen her and took off running. They checked the car, found the keys in the ignition. Grandison said he'd seen you working on it, so one of the uniforms went up and knocked at your door but of course got no answer.”

“Any description of the woman?” Duck asked with studied casualness.

“No. The light's pretty dim over here, lots of shadows. And she was fast, according to Grandison, too fast for him to consider going after her.”

Duck, arms folded, nodded. “Okay. Sorry, didn't mean to get you off track. No answer at my door. Then what?”

“Music, from the trunk.”

“No kidding? Interesting,” Duck said dryly, “since I'd removed the radio.”

“They noticed. The fact remains that ‘America the Beautiful' was playing in the trunk.”

“Claudia's cell phone,” I blurted, remembering Clarissa's. Matching tunes. It figured.

“Right. It kept sounding off, so one of the uniforms popped the trunk. After seeing what . . . who was in it, they called us.”

That was all well and good, but I wanted to get back to Mrs. Luby and what she said she'd seen.

Evidently Duck was on the same track. “How is it you talked to my neighbor again?”

It was Thackery's turn. “Grandison suggested we check with her. I take it she has a reputation for knowing everyone's comings and goings. We tried your unit again, then knocked on her door. We identified ourselves, and she told us she'd heard you leave. By that time we had traced the vehicle identification number of the Chevy and knew Ms. Warren was listed as the most recent owner, so we asked Mrs. Luby if she knew her. You, I mean,” he amended, a tacit apology for talking about me as if I weren't there. “She said she was in the lobby this afternoon when the elevator door opened. She said that you, Ms. Warren, were on the elevator with the cleaning lady. You were carrying a box.”

“No way,” I said. “Didn't happen. What time was this?”

He examined his notes. “Between noon and twelve-thirty. She said the twelve o'clock news was on.”

“I was home labeling cartons. Or out back trying to scratch the damned paint off my car windows. Tank and Tina will verify what happened when.”

I didn't understand it. How could Mrs. Luby make such a mistake? She knew me and had for a couple of years at least. Unless . . .

“Clarissa didn't mention being here today,” Duck said, clearly puzzled. “She'd have no reason to be. She'd just cleaned the day before yesterday.”

I had to intervene. “She didn't finish, Duck. I assumed she'd told you. She wasn't feeling well and left early.” Now was not the time to tell him I was pretty sure something I'd said might have upset her.

“Well, it'll be simple to clear up when we talk to her. As for the woman with the box . . .”

“That
bitch!
” I erupted, realizing the implications of the earlier sighting by Mrs. Luby. “She's been in your apartment, Duck. The box she was carrying. It must have been the one I was looking for.”

“Huh?” He squinted at me.

I reminded him of the missing carton, watching as his eyes darkened with rage. “It all makes sense now. She must have shown up on a day Clarissa was there, some time over the last two weeks. So
that's
what she meant.” Puzzle pieces had begun to interlock.

“Which ‘she'? You mean, Clarissa?”

“Yes. She said, ‘You look just like your picture today,' as if I didn't before. And she asked me when I'd gotten my hair cut.”