Killer Chameleon (26 page)

“I hate to tell you, but she used their computer, too, and one in some church here in the District. Saint—”

“Dammit!” Haskell exploded. “Ours too. I kept blaming Jackie, thought she'd left it on. Oh, my God. How'd you know?”

“She sent me hate e-mail, that's how, and a friend traced them for me.” Which made me wonder if Michelle might have used the Celebrations computer to send the last three messages. If the cleaners had arrived before she could leave, would she have resorted to setting a fire to cause a diversion?

“Leigh, I'm so sorry.” Haskell reached over the console to squeeze my arm. “I had no idea. Look, I'd better get back over there. The fire inspector's bound to wrap things up soon; it's getting too dark to see. Duck has my number. If there's anything else I can do, let me know. Duck, my brother, thanks for the shoulder. Keep in touch.” He opened the door.

“Count on it,” Duck said, getting out. They embraced again, went through the complicated handshake deal, and Haskell bounded back across the street, his steps slowing the closer he got to his ruined business.

“A nice guy,” I said. “How'd he get the nickname?”

“Beans were all he could afford to eat back then. He put himself through college working as a fry cook. Once he moved into the frat house, he took over the kitchen. Swear to God, he could fix beans seven days a week and they'd never taste the same twice.”

“And now his business is in ashes. Duck, I'm going to feel lower than snake shit if Michelle had anything to do with this. I'm already feeling guilty about Claudia. If I hadn't been so pigheaded about not letting Michelle go get her damned car that day—”

“Cut the bullshit.” Duck reached over, squeezed my thigh. “What if you'd let her through and the block had gone up? You were doing your job. If she wasn't such a nutcase, she'd realize that.”

“But she is and she doesn't. So what do we do now?”

“Nothing. Now that Beanie knows what's been going on, he'll ask the family of the cleaners if they know where Michelle is living now.”

If he remembered. Under the circumstances, he just might forget. The end of this nightmare had seemed so near for a moment.

Duck's pager went off as we pulled into traffic. He checked it and swore. “That's Cap's number. Guess I'd better get back. Sorry about dinner, babe.”

The apology was unnecessary. I knew how it worked. Duck reported to Captain Ray Moon, so when Cap Moon called you, you went.

“I'll survive,” I said. “Maybe we can go out to dinner tomorrow night.”

Speeding through a yellow light, he yanked one of my braids. “It's a deal. Where are you going now?”

“I don't know. I need to grab a sandwich or something and sit down and think.” For some reason I had the feeling that I was rapidly running out of time.

We rode the rest of the way in silence, dealing with our own thoughts, Duck tempting fate a couple of times in his hurry to respond to Cap Moon's summons.

He screeched to a halt in front of the Sixth, and grabbed me for a quick kiss before scrambling out. “I'll make sure Evans and Thackery get the message about the name. You stay out of trouble,” he warned me. “And lose the makeup and braids. They make me feel like I'm cheating on you.” He sprinted for the entrance and was gone.

I got out and took his place behind the wheel, then sat there thinking until I realized I was double-parked. I drove around, trying to work out my next move. Waiting for Haskell to get an address for Michelle was impractical. He had too many other issues on his plate. There had to be things I could do in tandem with Thackery and Evans, or, if necessary, alone to find her.

By the time I skirted the Capitol, I'd decided on the sweet and simple. And tedious. It meant settling down with a phone. And perhaps a few slices of Heavenly Ham on sourdough bread with lettuce, tomato, and mayo. No perhaps about it. Thank God Duck was a firm believer in keeping the refrigerator stocked. It was just as well. I hated shopping in general and grocery shopping in particular.

“Home, James,” I muttered, and searched until I found a radio station playing Christmas carols. Michelle had tried to ruin my wedding. I'd be damned if I'd let her ruin Christmas for me, too.

 

Back in Southwest again, I circled the block a couple of times checking for her tan compact, but didn't see it. I checked the underground garage. No elderly Honda. The coast looked clear.

Bypassing the elevator, I took the stairs, removing my shoes halfway up. Duck would have to check for any mail. I was not up to facing the Gang of Four in this getup, even though Mrs. Luby had probably told them about our earlier meeting.

Wig discarded and sandwich made, I brought the District's phone book into the kitchen and planted myself at the kitchen table. Humming with pleasure as I demolished my late lunch, I flipped through the white pages to the Hallses and moaned. For some idiotic reason, I'd assumed there wouldn't be all that many since Hall singular was much more common. Feeling masochistic, I counted them. Seventeen of them. No Michelle Halls, of course. Sighing, I began to dial, trying the M. Halls first, just in case. If she'd had a phone recently, perhaps there was a referral to her new number.

Nix. Several no answers, a couple of voice mails and answering machines. I left messages and went back to the A's.

All things considered, I lucked out. I hit pay dirt with the twelfth Halls on Alabama Avenue, Southeast.

The phone was answered by a juvenile, whether male or female I couldn't tell.

“I'm trying to reach Michelle,” I said, jaded by now and anticipating a “No Michelle here” at best or an oath followed by a dial tone. I got neither.

“Shelly don't live here anymore.”

I sat up, almost dropping the glass of water in my hand. “Uh, do you know how I can reach her?”

“Uh-uh. Ma!” he/she yelled in my ear. “Somebody's looking for Shelly! It's a lady.”

There was an unintelligible response from some distance away.

“I already told her. She—”

“Look, honey,” I interrupted, “may I speak to your mother?”

“Okay. Ma, she wants you!” The phone was dropped, the sound assaulting my eardrum.

A muffled oath from a clearly annoyed woman filtered through the line, then heavy footsteps.

“Yes? My son told you the truth. Shelly doesn't live here any more, so I'm sorry if she's late paying you but—”

“Oh, it's nothing like that,” I said, hurrying to assure her. “I just need to get in touch with her, but I lost track of her after she left Celebrations. Is there a phone number or an address where I can reach her?”

“What do you mean, she left Celebrations? She quit that job?”

Obviously this branch of the family hadn't heard about the fire. “Yes, a few weeks ago. Do you—”

“I swear to God!” If she'd been annoyed before, she was well beyond that now. “I don't know what's the matter with that fool girl! Have you talked to her recently?”

“Well, yes, I have,” I responded, relieved to be able to answer truthfully. “Just last night. But it was a short conversation and I didn't get a chance to ask her for a phone number. I'm sorry to bother you, but it occurred to me I might be able to get it from you.”

She snorted. “Are you kidding? We haven't heard from her in months and don't know where she's living now. You'd think she'd try to keep in touch with family but no, not Shelly. We're not good enough for her, don't understand the creative temperament, whatever the hell that is. Don't get me wrong, miss, we love Shelly but it's hard work. I already got two jobs, I don't need me another one. You see what I'm saying?”

I hadn't expected her to be so forthcoming but there was no mistaking her exasperation. This warranted a fishing expedition.

“I understand completely. Michelle can be . . . difficult.”

“Difficult? That's a nice way to put it. Have you known her long?”

“Well, since spring. March, I think.”

“That's probably longer than most folks put up with her. I mean, as smart as she is and what does she want to be? An actress. How many black women you know make any kind of living as an actress? Even if she's talented, and I hear she is, there's still things like rent and gas and food. Them things take money, you see what I'm saying? I wasn't asking for much, way less than I'd charge a stranger for room and board, but I've got kids to feed and upkeep on this place. It ain't much but it's all I've got. She had to go.”

The light dawned. This woman was on the defensive, running on out of guilt.

“We've got to pinch pennies and there she is, burning lights all night studying her lines, she called it, even when she wasn't in a play or anything. Taking showers two and three times a day, running up my water and utilities bills. When she hit my baby for poking around in the makeup kit she left in the bathroom, well, that was it. Nobody hits my young'uns but me. She had to go.”

“I'd have reacted the same way,” I assured her, wondering how much more I could learn without giving myself away. “I have to be honest, Ms. Halls. I worry about her. The last time I talked to her she didn't sound quite . . . well, rational.”

She grunted. “What's your name again?”

I didn't point out that she hadn't asked before and I certainly hadn't volunteered it. “Ann Warren.” So I left off the “Leigh.” Sue me.

“Well, Miss Warren, if you're trying to find a polite way to say Shelly sounded crazy, don't bother. She is, always has been. Came by it honestly; her mother was just as batty. The family's done all we can by her, both sides. Counseling, therapy, medications. She'll start out keeping the appointments and taking the pills and then stop. Says there's nothing wrong with her, so what can we do? She's a grown woman. Look, Miss Warren, I've got to get a load out of the dryer before it wrinkles up. I wish I could help you but I can't. For all I know, Shelly may be living out of her car, she's done it before instead of a shelter where at least she'd have a proper bed. The only other place she might be is that cheap hotel she checks into when she's between places to live.”

“A hotel? Do you know which one?” The District has its share of flophouses, but I couldn't imagine anyone staying in them voluntarily.

“I don't remember. It's got a funny name. Made me think of a bird singing. Whatever it's called, it's one of her old stomping grounds. If you catch up with her, ask her to call her folks, let us know she's alive, okay?”

“I'll do that. Thanks for talking to me.”

“Any time,” she said and hung up.

A hotel named after a singing bird? I grabbed the Yellow Pages. There were dozens of hotels listed, not just those in the District but in suburban Maryland and northern Virginia as well. Most could be eliminated at a glance since by no stretch of the imagination could they remind anyone of a bird, singing or not. And I doubted Michelle would go too far afield. She'd probably stay within the city limits.

The A's yielded nothing, neither did the B's. In fact the whole alphabet seemed to be a washout. Only two came close, but I knew the Phoenix Park and the Swann House. It wasn't likely Michelle would be able to afford either of them.

I started at the beginning again, becoming more and more frustrated. The place might not even exist any longer. And if she avoided the District's shelters, I was sunk.

At the T's again, my finger hesitated. The Trilby? I was fairly certain a trilby was a hat but someone who didn't know . . .

My pulse accelerated. I could almost envision the place. A cross between a hooker's rent-by-the-hour and a last resort, the next stop being a grate on a street somewhere, the Trilby had practically been a nightly stop when I'd worked out of the Fourth District. Fistfights were routine, along with overdoses. If Michelle had been reduced to the Trilby, she was indeed near the end of her rope.

I wondered if I'd be wasting my time calling there; keeping up with its transient population had to be a daunting task. Still, it couldn't hurt to try.

“Trilby-Hotel-how-can-I-direct-your-call?” All one word from a distinctly uninterested voice.

Fingers crossed, I said, “Michelle Halls in three-oh-four, please.”

There was a pause. “It's two-oh-five, not three-oh-four. Hold, please.”

Flabbergasted, I dropped the phone. I'd found her.

19

I WAS STILL GLOATING, MY HAND ON THE
phone when it rang, and I jumped two feet, my first thought being,
Dammit, it's her!
I answered with a snarl. “Yeah?”

“Jeez, babe, what put the burr up your butt? And who have you been talking to? I've been trying to get you for an hour.”

“Duck! I found her!”

“Who, honey?”

“Michelle. She's at the Trilby Hotel. I even have her room number, two-oh-five.”

“Good work, babe. Beauty and brains. I'm a lucky man. Call Evans and Thackery and let them know. By the way, I just got off the phone with Beanie. The fire did start on the second floor, something smoldering in a trash can. And before you say it, it wasn't a cigarette. The cleaners didn't smoke. It gets more interesting. They found a front panel of one of the ovens. It had been blown into the backyard. One knob was turned all the way to the highest setting. They'll be checking to see if there are any prints that don't belong on it. Look, that's not why I called. Shields and I have to make a quick trip to Seattle.”

“Washington?”

“Gotta pick up Valeria Preston. How's that for irony? Turns out she has a stepsister who lives in the suburbs and she's been hiding out there since she shot Vince. The stepfamily had no idea she was wanted. The fool woman ran a red light with a joint burning in the ashtray, can you believe it? That's how they got her.”

I sulked for a couple of seconds. Of our two nights under the same roof, we'd slept through the first and I'd spent the second on the couch. We were overdue for some togetherness. But this was his job, and Preston had eluded D.C. for a long time.

“Do you need me to pack a bag for you?” I asked. Might as well get into a wifely mode now.

“Already have one here ready to go. You know me, always prepared. I just wanted you to know I wouldn't be home tonight. With luck, I'll be back by tomorrow night. At worst we'll have to take a red-eye. I'll keep you posted. Gotta run, babe. Stay out of trouble. Love ya.”

He was gone before I could respond, wise of him since I'd have asked what the hell he meant, stay out of trouble. It was the second time he'd said that.

I dug out Thackery's card and called him, still preferring to talk to him rather than Evans. Not that it mattered; neither was in. Feeling cheated, I left a message regarding Michelle's current whereabouts and did the same for Willard.

At loose ends and feeling appropriately bereft, I divested myself of all the stuffing, putting it in a trash bag for safekeeping, since I'd probably have to use it again if I went out. Next came all the glop on my face, although I couldn't bring myself to get rid of the awnings quite yet. My own lashes were short and stubby, and I'd spent my whole life envious of Duck and everyone else with long ones. I
liked
the way I looked with them. And heck, I'd be alone on this Saturday night. Who else would see them?

I was out of sorts, fidgety, or, as Nunna would say, suffering from a case of the move-arounds. I couldn't sit still, needed something to do. I turned on the tele-vision and stumbled onto one of my favorites,
A Christmas Story,
which kept me occupied for a while. By the time it ended and Ralphie had his Red Ryder BB gun, I had a bee in my bonnet: I wanted a Christmas tree.

There'd been no decorations up at Janeece's; she stuck to her family's tradition of waiting until Christmas Eve to put up a tree. I usually went slightly nuts, decking my halls with tree plus greenery, mistletoe, a crêche, ceramic Santas, stockings hung from a snowflake-sprayed windowsill, the whole bit, a holdover of my Christmases in Nunna's loving care.

The subject of decorating hadn't come up with Duck; we'd been preoccupied with other things. Even though we'd be going somewhere the day after Christmas, I could at least enjoy symbols of the season until we left. Considering all the chaos I'd lived through, especially this week, reminders of what this season represented would be more than welcome. I hoped Duck wouldn't mind.

My four-foot Douglas fir had a box of its own in the guest room, all the decorations in another. Energized, I dug them out, cleared a lamp table to use as a base, and began putting the tree together. Padding around in my underwear singing carols at the top of my voice, I had the lights strung and had started unpacking the ornaments and icicles when the phone rang yet again. This time I had the good sense to wait and check the caller ID before answering.

“Me,” Tina said. She sounded odd, as if her nose was stopped up. I could swear she'd been crying, which boggled the mind. Tina and tears seemed mutually exclusive.

Guilt filtered through my head. I should have called her with the latest news. “Tina, guess what. We got her!”

“What do you mean, you got her? They picked her up?”

“No, no. We know her name now. And—”

“What is it?”

“Michelle Halls, with an S. We got her name from the owner of the firm that catered Jensen's wedding. She served at Jensen's wedding, Tina.”

“What?
What?
” she screeched in my ear. “She was walking around in the same room with us for three hours?”

“Yes, but she hadn't done anything then. I think she saw me and remembered how we'd met. It set her off. After I got home tonight I went through the phone book and called all the Hallses and lucked out on someone in her family. She told me where Michelle might be. Turns out she's at the Trilby Hotel. I called and sure enough, she's registered. Room two-oh-five. I left a message for Thackery and Evans, so they'll probably pull her in tomorrow.”

“That's not good enough, dammit. She doesn't deserve another single night of freedom. Her ass needs to be behind bars
now
! Not tomorrow, not the next day.
Now!
I'm not waiting. I'll talk to you later.”

“Wait a minute, Tina.” A bead of sweat trickled down my spine. “What do you mean, you're not waiting?”

“I'm a cop, right? Cops arrest people. That's what we do. I gotta go.” She did, leaving me gaping at a phone with no one on the other end.

I had my finger poised to try to get her back when it rang, startling me. I didn't recognize the number in the caller ID display but answered anyway. “Yes?”

“Leigh,” Tank said loudly, voices yelling in the background, “do me a favor, okay? Talk to Tina, calm her down. She's really upset. Her contact at the medical examiner called her, probably on the Q.T., and told her Miss Claudia died of anaphylactic shock. She had allergies up the wazoo and evidently the bitch exposed her to something that killed her. Tina freaked.”

“Oh, my God. I didn't know. Tank, she just called me. I told her we'd finally found the woman's name and where she's staying. Tina's on her way there.”

“Shit, shit, shit!! Leigh, you've got to stop her. She's mad and when Tina gets mad . . .”

“I think she just intends to pick her up and bring her in. At least that's the impression I got.”

“That may be what she told you, but there's no guarantee that if she gets her hands on this woman, she won't lose it. She was very protective of Miss Claudia because she was such a dingbat. Please, Leigh, go after her. I'd do it but I can't leave here. Things look like they're about to get out of hand and I've gotta get off this phone. Stop her, Leigh. Please.”

“Okay. I'll try. Stay safe, Tank.”

I slammed down the receiver and scrambled to get some clothes on. There was no time to restuff myself; the wig would have to do. I secured it on my head; grabbed my coat, purse, and keys; and hot-footed it out of there.

 

December chill or no, the usual Saturday evening foot traffic was out and about along the Fourteenth Street corridor. I barreled toward U Street, marveling at the impact the Metro stop had made on the area that had remained a blight for so long after the riots in 1968. The neighborhood still wasn't quite the vibrant soul of the community it used to be, at least according to the old-timers, but its revitalization was on its way. The scars were healing.

I worked my way over to Tenth, wondering belatedly where to risk parking Janeece's Caddy. If it wound up with so much as a scratch, our friendship would be history.

I needn't have worried. Pelrose Street, an afterthought between Ninth and Tenth and almost impossible to find on a District map, was completely blocked off, cruisers slewed in the intersections, chase lights painting swaths of color across the faces of nearby rowhouses and apartment buildings. I backed into a vacant spot one car removed from the corner and got out, joining a clutch of neighbors huddled near the rear of the closest police car.

“What's going on?” I asked.

“Drug raid in the Trilby,” someone responded. “Second one this month. Don't know why they don't close the place down. At least there was no gunfire this time.”

I tried to locate the speaker but couldn't. “Did they evacuate the place?” I asked.

“Dunno. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don't.”

I moved to the far corner to get a better view of the hotel, at the other end of the block. It was even seedier than I remembered, most lights in the sign above the entrance missing, duct tape decorating a number of windows, screens escaping their frames. At some point in its history, its brick facade had been painted white. It had long since begun to peel, the exterior fairly scabrous now.

It appeared that the excitement was almost over. A police van was leaving. People who'd been sitting on their front steps to watch stood and stretched before retreating behind their barred front doors. Groups huddled all along the block began to stir, a diverse crowd that appeared to include a number of the homeless, if the assortment of shopping carts overflowing with trash bags was any clue.

There weren't many cars along the street. I checked for the Explorer but didn't see it. If Tina had driven her own car, I was stumped since I couldn't remember what model it was; I'd only seen it once and that had been a while ago. I didn't see her either, but as small as she was, she would be practically invisible in a crowd of more than five or six regular-sized adults.

I ambled toward the hotel, keeping to the other side of the street, to take a visual census of various groupings. I still didn't see her. It didn't matter. She saw me.

“Holy shit,” she said from behind me. “Who are you supposed to be?”

I whirled around, more than a little perturbed that she'd managed to sneak up on me. “Anybody but me, only it turns out that I look like Michelle in this get-up. Tank sent me after you. You didn't tell me you'd gotten the results of the autopsy.”

“You didn't tell me you'd found out the bitch's name until I called you,” she said, her eyes glittering dangerously. “So we're even.”

I had to concede that point. “I take it you haven't seen her.”

“I was about to ring the bell—you can't just walk in there—when I saw the cruisers pull into the intersections. As soon as Jamie Crowder got out of one of them, I knew what was up. Nothing I could do but get the hell out of the way and wait. I hadn't counted on that.”

“It's just as well,” I said. “Look, Tina, there's nothing you can do here. Michelle hasn't been charged with anything yet, at least as far as we know. Taking her in would be jumping the gun. Let's go home and let Evans and Thackery, or Willard for that matter, do their jobs.”

“She's a fucking murderer,” Tina said, with heat. “And she knows it. You think she's gonna sit around with her thumbs up her ass waiting for them to come get her? Or that I'm gonna hang around with my thumb up mine and watch her go underground? Not gonna happen. She killed Aunt Sis! I'm not gonna let her get away with it!” She spun away and marched toward the door of the Trilby.

“Damn it, Tina!” I trotted after her and caught up with her as she reached for the doorbell.

The door opened before she had the chance, and a cop in uniform stepped out, in the middle of a conversation with a grizzled man in a shiny black suit.

“—should be done in that room in a few hours,” the cop was saying. “Sorry about the lock, but they should have opened up when we knocked. Jones,” he greeted Tina. “Long time no see. How's Tank?”

“Hanging in,” she said with a tight grin and squeezed past him.

“Back already, Ms. Halls?” Mr. Shiny Suit held the door open for me and stepped outside to join the cop.

Tina turned around and stared at me. “He thought you were Michelle? Hot damn!” She grabbed my sleeve. “Come on. We'll take the stairs.”

“And do what?” I hissed at her as she tugged me across the lobby. Fortunately, the front desk was unattended. “I'm not going to hang around while you pick her lock, if that's what you've got in mind.”

“Oh, hush! All I'm gonna do is knock on her door, see if she's in. If she isn't, I'll look for a place to squat until she gets back. I remember lots of nooks and crannies. Jesus, this place stinks!”

She meant the stairwell, and I'd have agreed but thought it more prudent to keep my mouth shut and hold my breath as long as I could, not an easy feat when you're climbing steps. The walls looked diseased, with suspicious stains in the corners of the landings. The lighter ones were urine. I decided not to think about the darker ones.