Murder in the Aisles (4 page)

“You would have never gone up there, Dr. Dresden. What were you doing here? Or maybe the question is, who brought you into this aisle?”

Chapter Six

The Meridian was located in Georgetown, the cultural epicenter of D.C., and as usual for a Tuesday night, or any night, it was awash with a sea of people. The bar-lounge was well known for its great live entertainment and a tasty menu, all for a price that kept folks coming back. If you were lucky you may walk in and find Kem or Art Blakely, Herbie Hancock or even John Legend performing.

The streets surrounding the Meridian were lined with restaurants for every taste bud, music, dancing, boutique shopping, theaters and of course the Galleria Mall.

Tucked away on many cobblestone side streets the discerning eye could spot that rare piece of art, antique vase or vintage handbag on display behind crystal clear glass windows. Felicia walked along the very street where the climatic chase scene with Kevin Costner in “No Way Out” was shot.

Most nights Felicia would give inato the sights, sounds and smells of her favorite place in the city, and forget about books, and research and orderliness. Not tonight. She was anxious to talk with Liz. Anxiety tended to set off her quirks that she worked so hard to keep under control.

The line leading to the hostess inched forward. Felicia opened her purse and took out her hand cream, then her lip-gloss, followed by her comb. She opened her wallet to ensure that she hadn't collected any undue receipts. She checked her cell phone and then meticulously, one by one, she replaced each item so that they rested neatly in her purse. She snapped it shut, lifted her head praying that she would see Liz waving frantically from a nearby table.

No luck.

Felicia checked her watch. It was precisely three minutes later than the last time she checked. She opened her purse. As she was about to remove the items, a hand grabbed her wrist.

“Relax,” Liz whispered. “I got us a table in back.”

Felicia's pulse slowed a few degrees. The tension, tightness and sensation that she was going to jump out of her skin lessened as she stared into her best friend's understanding eyes.

Only Liz was privy to the degree at which Felicia's obsessive-compulsive behavior affected her. She wasn't like many who were plagued with the malady of ceaseless hand washing or counting each and every step they took, or checking and re-checking if everything in the house was turned off before they could walk out of the door. She didn't have those repeating rituals. Hers was mild in comparison, the doctors had informed her parents when she was fifteen. The diagnosis was made after her parents grew concerned that their daughter would periodically arrange and rearrange the furniture in her room, and line up the cans and boxes in the kitchen cabinets.

Her mother and father were almost relieved, perhaps joyful, that something was actually wrong with their genius daughter, something that made her human.

“You okay?” Liz buzzed in her ear. She held tightly onto Felicia's arm as she led her to their table.

Felicia slowly released a breath of relief. “Yes, thanks. No telling what I might have decided to do if you hadn't shown up.”

“Probably start setting up the tables in a straight line.”

They shared a laugh that could only be understood by two people who weren't afraid to be themselves around each other.

“I'm starving,” Liz announced the instant they sat down.

“You're always starving. It's a miracle that you don't weigh two hundred pounds.”

“Good genes. What can I tell ya.”

It was true. Liz was a perfect size ten and had been all of her adult life, just like her mother, her grandmother and two sisters, Melody and Trisha.

Felicia draped her coat over the back of her chair and placed her purse on her lap. According to her grandmother Mary—God rest her soul—if you put your purse on the floor you'd always be broke, and Felicia believed everything her grandmother ever told her.

The waitress came and they ordered their usual frozen apple martinis.

“So tell me what the hell happened at the library?”

Felicia brought Liz up to speed, telling her all she knew and what she suspected.

“You really believe somebody killed him?” Liz asked over a mouthful of breadsticks.

Felicia nodded. “There's no way that Dr. Dresden would have been in those aisles.”

“But why? Why him?”

Felicia slowly shook her head. “I have no idea. I started going through his office today hoping to find something but I didn't.”

They were silent for a moment, caught in their own thoughts.

“If what you say is true, then you have a murderer on the loose.”

Felicia's gaze collided with Liz's. “I know and it could be anyone. A stranger, or worse, someone who works at the library.” A tiny shiver ran through her.

The waitress appeared with their drinks. Before she could set them on the table the duo snatched them from her hand and both took long swallows as if the icy sweet brew could somehow drown the ugly reality of murder.

The waitress' mouth dropped open. “Guess you two were really thirsty, huh?” She placed the nachos and dip on the center of the table.

“Something like that,” Felicia muttered.

“Can I take your orders now or do you need more time?”

“I'll have the grilled salmon pasta with alfredo sauce and asparagus,” Liz said, then handed over the menu.

“Make that two, but I want shrimp, and instead of asparagus, can I have green beans?”

“It should be about thirty minutes.”

“Then in the meantime can you bring us a plate of Nachos Grande with everything,” Liz said and handed over her menu.

“Sure, I'll be right back.”

Liz turned to Felicia. “Why do you always say, ‘I'll have the same' and it never is?”

Felicia grinned and reached for her glass. “The foundation is the same—the pasta.”

Liz shook her head. “So what are you going to do?” she asked, returning to their conversation.

Felicia laced her long fingers together atop the pink linen-covered table.

“I've started my own investigation.”

“What!” she screeched and realized she'd drawn the attention of the couple at a nearby table. She lowered her voice. “Are you crazy?” she hissed between clenched teeth. “You don't know anything about investigating a possible murder.”

“Look, ninety percent of any kind of investigation is research. And research is what I do. There's no one better at it than me. And that's not boasting, it's a fact.”

“That much is true,” Liz conceded. “You may be one of the country's renowned forensic researchers, in addition to your skills in ancient languages, book cataloguing and just about anything obscure and out of the norm, but this is different. It's too dangerous. Let the police handle it.”

Felicia rolled her eyes. “I already told you that Detective Rizzo won't give it the time of day.”

Liz was pensive for a moment. “Maybe he would feel differently with a little media attention.”

Felicia tipped a nacho chip in the guacamole, the cream cheese then the cheddar before popping the loaded confection in her mouth. She chewed thoughtfully. “What did you have in mind?”

“Just a few off-the-record inquiries. If my boss got wind of it that would be my ass—or at least my job.” She scooped some spicy ground beef onto a chip.

“When are they going to get you off the ‘warm and fuzzy' stories anyway?”

Liz shrugged. “Who would ever take a hard news story seriously by a reporter named Elizabeth Taylor?”

Felicia patted her friend's hand. As much as she teased Liz about her name, that was something shared between friends. But under Liz's cavalier attitude, her name bothered her more than she would ever admit. If anything, in Felicia's opinion, she allowed her famous name to be a hindrance rather than a help.

“I don't think you take yourself seriously enough. And if you don't, no one else will.”

“Humph.” Liz pursed her lips. “That's what you always say.”

“Only because it's true. But let's not belabor the obvious. I want to hear more about your idea.”

Liz's cherub face brightened as she leaned across the table. “I was thinking…”

* * * * *

Mark jammed the key in the lock of his door and turned. He stepped inside and flicked on the light next to a portrait of John Coltrane. The small but neat front room came into focus.

He tossed his keys into the glass bowl that sat on the hall table and as was his habit, he reengaged the three locks on his door. Just because he was a cop and carried a big gun didn't deter some wise-ass wannabe super thief from trying to break into his fifth-floor apartment.

At least the heat was on, he thought, coming out of his coat as he walked to the kitchen. This pre-war structure with its sky-high ceilings and eight-foot windows tended to suck the heat right out of the building.

He checked the fridge, snatched up his last bottle of Coors, made a mental note to buy some more then walked into his living room and turned on the sixty-inch plasma television—his one major indulgence and only contribution to the décor.

Mark tossed his coat across the club chair, plopped down on the couch and put his feet up on the coffee table—a habit that Elaine hated. She couldn't understand why he couldn't use the ottoman that she'd purchased along with the couch and matching loveseat.

Mark had been adamantly against her buying furniture for his apartment, and Elaine was just as adamant. “If you want me to live here I'm going to be comfortable.” At that point in their relationship he was so crazy about her, he would have gone to work in his birthday suit if it would have made her happy.

But after a few months of feeling like he'd moved back home with his parents it all began to wear him down. She left, the relationship ended, but the furniture stayed.

He reflexively reached for the remote, which religiously held a place of honor on the right-hand end table.

The screen instantly filled with the face of the Six O'clock News anchor Brett Ingram. Mark leaned back against the soft cushions of the couch's headrest and stared blankly at the moving mouth and somber expression of Mr. Ingram.

International news detailing yet another terrorist bomb detonated in the Middle East that killed twenty and hurt many more, segued to local news.

A picture of Dr. Dresden in a little box to the right side of the newscaster's head appeared on the screen.

“Renowned researcher and linguist Dr. Paul Dresden was found dead today. Dr. Dresden was a senior staffer at the Library of Congress for more than twenty years. Police have not released any information and the cause of Dr. Dresden's death is still under investigation. In other news…”

Mark didn't hear the rest. He switched to another channel hoping to hear something else about the unfortunate Dr. Dresden, but saw nothing.

He took a long swallow of beer. What he found most interesting about the broadcast on Dresden was not so much what was said, but what wasn't said.

There was no mention of where the body was found or the probable cause of death. More interesting still was that it made the news at all. Who told and how did it get out? There were no newshounds at the scene.

Then again those leeches were everywhere, probably followed the ambulance from the scene. On the other hand, he reasoned, besides the usual news of terrorists, the sliding economy and the upcoming inauguration, it was a typical slow news day.

Mark closed his eyes. The events of the day marched behind his lids and Felicia's face and unwavering assertion that Dresden's death was no accident continued to repeat over and over like a scratched CD. His co-worker, Eddie's, favorite refrain, “If it don't feel right, then it ain't,” joined with Felicia Swift's, and as much as he didn't want to deal with it, he had a hunch that soon, he wouldn't have a choice.

Chapter Seven

Felicia, as usual, was the first to arrive the following morning. After leaving the Meridian the previous evening she'd spent the better part of the night going over the ugly events of the day.

After completing her morning ritual of getting the library up and operational, she went straight to Dr. Dresden's office. Something was nagging her all night and she knew that if there were any clues to be found they had to be in Dr. Dresden's office, something that she'd obviously overlooked yesterday.

Felicia checked the time. She had approximately twenty-two minutes before the staff began to arrive. She locked her office door and took the elevator up to the administrative floor.

She hurried down the hallway, took the key to Dr. Dresden's office from the ring and opened his office door. Once inside she locked the door behind her and switched on the light.

For several moments, she simply stood there and took in the room. It was something she'd noticed yesterday, although it didn't quite register. But it had hung in the back of her mind. She needed something to jar it loose.

She closed her eyes and invoked the image of finding Dr. Dresden on the floor. He was partially on his side. A small pool of blood was under his head. He wore his usual work outfit of gray pinstriped pants with suspenders, pale blue oxford shirt and shiny black shoes.

Felicia opened her eyes. Her gaze landed on the coat rack in the corner. Dr. Dresden's forlorn jacket hung there.

Her heart thumped. And her thoughts raced back to the day before when she'd first spotted the jacket:
Dr. Dresden never went out on the floor without his jacket
. That was the thing that had been nagging at her. She rushed across the cluttered room, hopping over the mounds of paper. She started to reach for the jacket but stopped midway. This was evidence. She balled her hands into tight fists.

Think, Felicia, think.

Maybe now that asshole detective would believe her, she thought, gnawing on her thumbnail as she slowly walked over to the desk and sat down. Her short cream-colored wool skirt rose to her mid thigh.

Again she scanned the top of the cluttered desk. She knew she would need more than his jacket but at the moment it was all she had. She pushed back from the desk and inadvertently knocked over a stack of folders.

She began picking them up when a floppy disk slid out of one of the folders.

Only Dr. Dresden would still be using a floppy disk when the whole world had moved to Dropbox, Google+ and flash drives, she thought, bemused. She turned the disk over. It was blank on both sides.
Odd
. Dr. Dresden was always so meticulous about labeling and cataloguing every scrap of information. She found it hard to believe that he would have left anything lying around that could not be immediately identified. That wasn't like him at all.

Felicia drew in a breath. Her thoughts ran a relay of possibilities. Was this some kind of evidence? Her gut told her that it was. On the other hand, she was Dr. Dresden's research right hand. It wouldn't be out of the ordinary for her to access his files. So there should be no issue with her checking what was on the disk—in case anyone asked. She turned the disk over, then tossed aside any further hesitation and turned on his computer. While everyone in the building had upgraded to Macs, Dr. Dresden stuck with his PC—the only one left in the building—old enough to still have the drive for a floppy disk.

She waited for the computer to boot. She keyed in the generic ID and password for the library staff and the home screen of the Library of Congress appeared. She looked under the desk for the bulky hard drive and slid the disk in the slot. The computer hummed and buzzed and hummed. Felicia stared at the screen until she heard the disk engaged. She used the mouse to surf over to the options panel and selected “computer.” A screen opened to show the drives that were available. Drive D was where the disk was. She clicked.

Felicia's long neck snapped back at the message on the screen. Enter password.

“Password,” she murmured. Her smooth brow creased. Dr. Dresden never used passwords because he claimed that he could never remember them.

She tugged on her bottom lip with her teeth, and typed in his name.
Error
. She tried: library, his birthday, his job title, his address. She even tried the old standby, 1,2,3,4. Each and every time
error
flashed on the screen.

It was rare that Felicia was perplexed by something this mundane. The very notion that she could not figure out a simple password by someone who was notoriously computer illiterate set her quirks into overdrive.

Her pulse raced while her gaze jumped around the room. She hopped up from the chair and went straight for the pile of books that was teetering leaning-tower-of-Pisa-style in the corner. Gingerly she removed the books one by one, then meticulously and with methodic deliberate care, began a new stack that was in size and color order.

The process took nearly an hour and by the time she was done the wave of anxiety that had assaulted her had begun to wane.

Felicia rested on her haunches, smoothed her skirt and blinked rapidly. Her heart still skipped and thumped in her chest, but at least she could breathe and her hands had stopped shaking. She pressed her right fist to her lips to block the aching whimper that rose from her throat. Why? Why was she like this? She was bright, she was talented, she had a great career but her OCD felt as if it would one day drive her insane, consume her with its demands of her; a fear that she lived with everyday of her life. That sad fact combined with the loss of Dr. Dresden took its toll and her eyes filled with the tears she'd been holding back since the moment she'd found him.

Overwhelmed, she lowered her head, not so much in a symbol of defeat but in recognition of her humanness. Slowly, she rose to her feet, wiped her eyes and pushed out a slow, steady breath. Crossing the still cluttered space, Felicia retrieved the disk from the hard drive, turned off the computer and lights and locked the door behind her.

En route to her office, she stopped off at Emily Windsor's cubicle. She tapped lightly on the metal frame of the cubicle and watched Emily flinch at the sound. She spun her chair around and pushed her glasses up on her short nose.

“Oh…Dr. Swift…”

“I didn't mean to startle you.”

“No. It's fine.” She shifted in her cloth-covered seat. “I guess I'm a bit jumpy with…what happened.” Emily's eyes seemed to fill with water or at least Felicia thought so, from behind Emily's thick glasses.

“Of course, we all are.” She absently tapped the disk against her hip.

Emily's gaze was immediately drawn to it. “Is that a floppy disk?”

Felicia stopped tapping and lifted the disk to within her line of sight and peered at it as if seeing it for the first time. “Oh.” She blew off a chuckle. “Yes. Can you imagine?” She gave a quick shake of her head and returned her attention to Emily. She frowned. “Are you okay? You're all flushed.”

“I'm not sure. I didn't sleep well last night. Maybe I'm coming down with something.”

“If you're not feeling well, you should be home. The last thing we need is the ping-pong effect.”

Emily adjusted her glasses again. “You're probably right. If I don't feel better in the morning, I'll definitely stay home.”

Felicia studied her for a moment. “That's best.” She folded her arms. “Emily, were you working on any special projects with Dr. Dresden?”

“Special projects?”

“Yes, anything that wasn't logged maybe?”

“Um, no.” She sputtered a laugh. “If I was, I never knew that it was unauthorized or not logged. Just my usual research stuff.” She gave a slight shrug.

“Hmm, okay. Thanks.”

“Why?”

“Hmm, no reason. Just asking.” Felicia tapped the disk against her hip, then turned and walked away. “Feel better,” she tossed over her shoulder.

Felicia click-clacked her way back to her office. She took one last look at the disk before putting it in her desk drawer. She'd worry about that later. In the meantime she had work to do. She collected her laptop and notebook, then hurried off to the research center.

On the six-foot-long table, Felicia had no less than a dozen research books on Egyptian languages spread out across its length, with the heavy volumes opened to various pages. In between flipping through the texts, making notes and referring back to Dr. Dresden's findings, she documented each step in a special file on her laptop, which she then saved to a thumb drive as well as her iCloud account. She'd worked non-stop for close to four hours. Behind her eyelids had begun to feel dry. Fatigue tightened the muscles across her shoulders.

She arched her back and rocked her neck from side to side to loosen the knots. She reached around the stack of books and notes and picked up her cell phone that she always kept on silent during the workday. Two missed calls. The time on the phone read 4:00 pm. One more hour and she was officially off duty.

Felicia organized the textbooks and placed them back on the library cart, so that the clerks could return them to the shelves. She took her notebook and laptop before returning to her office. The callers would have to wait until later.