The Path of Silence (8 page)

Nellie had told me that I could always count on her. I knew she had meant it but I would never compromise her in any way. I became Meaghan Stanton.

Three months before my twenty third-birthday, with a nine-month old dependent, I stood in Harris’ office, asking him for a chance to start a new life with the Baltimore Police Department, as a cadet. A shadow fell across his face when he examined my academic credentials, a cloud of regret but he didn’t include the law degree and the rest of the university documents in my file. He let me in as Meaghan Stanton. I never, not even once, looked back—or looked over my shoulder—until my ten year old drove me to throw out a People Finders’ field agent out of my house, at gunpoint.

Chapter 8

I
wasn’t aware that all through my painful review, I had stroked my daughter’s head. She didn’t feel it. She didn’t even stir. She had to be tired, having cried herself to sleep. I knew that I had been walking a minefield for ten years. How much longer could I keep up such an insane act?

I liked my job. I was good at it, especially the research.

I had tried relationships, like women try shoes on—for size. None felt comfortable. A couple were wearable but I eventually returned them. My heart just wasn’t in it. Now and then, Ken had tried to find out the whereabouts of my heart. I had discouraged him with stern reminders to mind his own business—and pursue Brenda faster.

I thought I should take another shower, to wash off the sticky memories but two showers in two hours seemed overly clean, not to speak of drying. I went back to my little office.

What we had discovered, going through Patricia’s reports, was that Brick had a part-time job, while in college. He was from the Midwest. His parents were deceased but he had an aunt and uncle living in Tulsa. His undergraduate degree came from the University of Oklahoma. He graduated in ’02 and went to work for the Hunt Trust and Savings in Oklahoma City, doing economic forecasts. While at Oklahoma, he supplemented his scholarships and bursaries with part-time work—as a gun carrying, licensed security guard. He chauffeured celebrities and dignitaries for a company that specialized in providing armored car services. He liked this part-time job so much that he continued doing it on weekends, when already employed at the Hunt Trust. In ’04, he went to work for CEDA, a two-year contract in Lima, Peru. He had brushed-up on Spanish and Portuguese. According to his CEDA job satisfaction report, he had developed a smart program for tracking tax haven criteria and policing how these were used by the Peruvian business enterprise. He had worked for Banco Nacionale in Lima and was well liked by the management. They gave him a glowing recommendation and wanted him to stay. His programming skills apparently weeded out quite a lot of harmful features of their tax regime.

Brick had returned home in ’06, to a firm job offer with the State Department, the Bureau of Economics and Business Affairs. That’s where he had met Patricia Vanier. He worked developing programs in the Investment Finance Department. She was a program coordinator in Trade Policy. In ’09 he left the Bureau and came to work for the IMF at their Baltimore offices. It was a renewable contract job but nearly double his Bureau salary. Patricia quit her job and accompanied him to Baltimore. They became engaged and she went to work for the State Energy Commission. Perhaps because he planned to get married, Brick had returned to his hobby—working part-time on weekends as a security guard and a chauffeur, for the Creeslow Armored Security Automobile service. I had remarked to Ken that if Brick loved this part-time job so much, he ought to have picked it up in Washington. Ken pointed out, that in Washington it would have been a full-time job.

Brick’s bio sheet, enclosed in his “cold case” file, didn’t contain this information. He had never included this experience on his professional resumes and indeed, why would he? He was applying for jobs as an economist, not a security guard, or a chauffeur, for an armored limo service. Patti had provided this information to the officers who filled out the four missing persons reports.

In the morning, we would go to visit Creeslow. According to the Yellow Pages, it was located on Drummond Ave, in Brooklyn Park. We would ignore the Mongrove facility, nearby but hopefully not visible. I checked Washington for armored car services, even though it wasn’t in the same category as Guilford exotics.

There were four car dealerships that carried sleek imports but there were eleven armored car outfits, offering comfortable and secure travel. I reflected that in Washington, exotics took a backseat to armor. A senator or a foreign dignitary might cruise through Georgetown in a burnished orange beast from hell but if he wanted to live long enough to see the next oil change, he would be smart to travel well armored—often.

I lost track of time. The Washington armored car services had ambitious and informative websites. I found these far more captivating than the exotic car dealerships. By the time I finished educating myself on the intricacies of body armoring, I wanted to own my own vehicle armoring company. One feature in particular had caught my interest—under-hood and upper hood protection. I made a mental note to mention this to Ken—when his Malibu returned. For a mere couple of hundred grand, I too could enjoy multi-layered glass with polycarbonate inner layer, fully armored pillars, sides, rear floor and roof, in addition to explosion resistant fuel tank, stainless steel radiator protection and a score of features that would thwart any mercenary faction. What surprised me, was that cars like these, didn’t just come in a limo style but preppy RVs and kick-ass jeeps. Washington, obviously, danced to its own beat—or a bullet tattoo.

My kitchen phone rang. I looked at the tiny computer clock. It was just after one o’clock in the morning. As I walked to the kitchen, instinct told me that whatever the news, it wouldn’t be good. I was right.

Chapter 9

“P
enthouse, the Prince Excelsior, on Block Street, on the water,” Ken read his notes, as I weaved through the water’s edge residential area and headed south.

He continued, “A waiter, or a bellhop, I didn’t get that clearly. The hotel security had called 9-1-1. The emergency dispatcher had relayed even while the guy was still reporting.”

“Homicide?” I asked, without turning my head. I had to concentrate on driving. It was late spring, an ideal time of the year for the roadwork crews to start ripping apart all the access roads and major arteries, to make sure that the Baltimore commuters lived through another summer full of closed exits and detours.

“It sounded like that.”

I had to ask Mrs. Devon, my neighbor, to look after Jazz. I didn’t like that. She was the type who would ask for many favors afterward.

“If it’s homicide, here and how, why were we invited?”

“The Prince has a doctor on the premises. He was beside the security guy when he called 9-1-1. The doctor gave instructions to the dispatcher and the paramedics.”

“What kind?”

“His chest exploded. Bring a tarp.”

I saw the pothole in the road but took my eyes off it momentarily, to stare at him. The Acura crunched as it landed in the respectable gouge and moaned when it climbed out of it. When Ken got his car back, I would have to take mine in for alignment.

“Pay attention,” he admonished. “Clint and Jasper are coming, so is Joe and his forensic army. But if another foot soldier with a bomb in his chest was taken out of commission, it’s our case.”

“I don’t want to work this alone. Clint and Jasper are welcome.”

“We’ll probably need the help,” he agreed.

“If it is another case like Brick, what do you think it’s about? Why are they suddenly executing their rank-and-file?”

“Dissidents, maybe.”

“Brick may have been a dissident, testing the device’s limits but a hotel waiter? There’s no connection…unless it was a part-time job. Was it?”

“I don’t think so. His name was Peter Jeffries, age thirty. He was single and lived at 34 Lofton Terrace. That’s north of Clifton Park. It sounded like he was a regular employee, a night shift.”

“What was he doing in the penthouse?”

“Delivering someone’s food order.”

“At one o’clock in the morning?”

“It’s a penthouse in the Prince. The place must cost more than you and I make in a month, just for one night.”

He was right. The Prince Excelsior was the cream of Baltimore hospitality residence. Their penthouse was always reserved, never for salaried people. The kind of guests who stayed at the Prince’s penthouse, had names that appeared in all the national and international news publications. They were the movers and shakers of the world, business, political, or entertainment.

“Who is staying in there tonight?”

He sighed. “I don’t know. The security didn’t say.”

“Who found the victim?”

“My impression is that it was the security.”

“Security guards don’t normally accompany a waiter who’s delivering food to a guest’s room. Whoever would be allowed to the penthouse, would have been cleared.”

“We’ll find out when we get there.” He motioned to make a left turn, to avoid the forest of flashing lights, police, fire department and ambulance.

When we entered the grand lobby, awash in crystal sparkle and bathed in reflection from polished brass and mirrored opulence, we saw every homicide cop in there. The hotel staff was plentiful but surprisingly, there were no guests.

Jasper saw us and came over. He motioned at the cathedral expanse lined with plants. I caught a glimmer of water. There had to be a fountain deeper in this grand station.

“Up on the thirty-sixth floor,” he said. “Take the service elevators. The manager wouldn’t let us use the guest elevators in the middle of the night. Smeddin’s up there too and the paramedics.”

The hotel staff was assembled off to a side, outside of their work registration area. I motioned at them. “Did you take down any information yet?”

He grimaced. “The staff, yes. The rest is padlocked. They don’t divulge information on guests. We might have to bring down someone from the attorney’s office, to read the riot act. Clint will look after that. We don’t know who’s in the penthouse. The manager won’t give it out.”

“It could be a politician,” Ken speculated.

“Is the victim in the penthouse?” I asked.

Jasper nodded. “The security had called 9-1-1 but whoever is in the penthouse had called the security—and the doctor. Go get him. We’ll be right behind you.”

We took the service elevator. It had a mirrored ceiling and woven artwork panels.

“What do they move in here?” Ken murmured, looking around. The art had brass plaques, detailing the artist’s accomplishments.

“The staff must have a degree from the Mailer Art Institute,” I snickered.

“They’re missing courses in PR relations and diplomacy,” he snickered back.

“A hotel that hopes to draw a high-end clientele must protect its guests’ privacy.”

“There’s been a murder.”

“They’ll want to keep it quiet.”

We exited into a corridor. It was decorated in blues and greens. Once we rounded a corner, we faced another lobby. It was decorated in brass, glass and muted colors of the sea and shore. The artwork had coral strips. It provided a touch of whimsy. The crystal fixtures threw sparkles, just like in the main lobby. It reinforced the impression of grandeur, money and tradition.

The Prince was a modern hotel but it liked symbols of affluence, the pedigreed furnishings and time-honored opulence that the average citizen associated with the privileged.

We saw a door at the far end of this elegant lobby. The mob outside was motley of police uniforms and civilian suits. Even from a distance, I could see they didn’t come from racks.

Ken flipped his badge at one of the executives who had noticed us and approached. He was in his late forties. His face had been massaged wrinkle-free. All the imperfections, that make people human, had been removed. I wondered whether he shaved or waxed his face. It looked polished. He oozed displeasure.

“The police are already inside,” he declared and raised a hand, like a traffic cop, to halt us.

“Here are more police,” I flipped out my badge.

A look of distaste flashed on his face. It creased his temples. He didn’t want more police presence. It might skew the ratio of expensive suits and street work clothes.

“There are already enough police officers inside,” he said and blocked our way. His voice was polite but impatient. I saw that he wanted to clap his hands and have everyone, who didn’t belong here by virtue of money or status, disappear.

“It’s a penthouse,” Ken said evenly. “I’m sure it could hold the entire homicide division without crowding. Please step aside, sir.” His voice hardened into official tone, his expression likewise.

I decided to sneak in a jab. “Are you the hotel security officer who called 9-1-1?” I reached for my notebook. His eyes widened and filled with hostility.

“He’s inside,” he said, nostrils flaring.

I dismissed him and looked at Ken. He nodded. We sidestepped him and moved for the door.

One of the uniformed police officers came toward us. He had to be from the South-West district. I didn’t recognize him.

“Sergeant Leahman. This is my partner, Sergeant Stanton, homicide,” Ken was brief. “Who’s inside?”

The police officer flipped out a notebook. “The medical examiner and his staff, the security guard who called it in, Sven Olsen—he’s one of yours—the hotel doctor and the paramedics. They are waiting for the pathologist to finish. A couple of the blue suits are in there too, assistants. They looked like bodyguards to me. They’re real pain in the ass. The guest and his female companion are in. Those blue roadblocks won’t let us talk to him. Olsen is negotiating but it sounded like threatening and exchanging insults.”

“Thanks,” Ken tapped his shoulder. “Someone from the District Attorney’s office should be arriving soon.”

We entered through the massive wooden door. It was heavily carved and reinforced with brass strips. The security panel sat on the right side, below the plaque engraved with the penthouse number. The light blinked green.