The Path of Silence (23 page)

“You can watch the rest. The laundry facility area is monitored,” he invited us to turn and face a silver gray sheet covering the wall.

Ken’s phone call must have given him a chance to prepare this show. For a facility that depended on State grants, Mongrove had a superb monitoring system—in color. Patterson was full of clicks—and surprises. In order to afford us an unobstructed view, he went over to a huge wooden desk. I heard a staccato of clicks. Immediately, a whole row of metal gravestones whirred and moved to the side. Another row tilted as it slid diagonally to clear the view, then returned to horizontal position so gently I was still waiting for the inevitable dunk when the metal connected with the floor. It never came. The tall, rectangular windows darkened. Therefore one of those clicks must have rotated the built-in shutters. By now I would not have been surprised to see a chair approach me on its own. I lowered my head to search the floor for tracks of magnetic strips. All through this automated show, I kept thinking how much it resembled what went on in the morgue when Joe was working. What were the chances that two Baltimore doctors from unrelated medical disciplines nurtured passion for hi-tech automation? I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a strip of putting green and the ubiquitous white plastic cup with the putting setup driven by some form of automation. Doctors especially needed such stress-reducing measures in their office. Even the NASA control room was probably not operated on remote the way Patterson’s office whirred to life. I started to look around for telltale research journals and magazines lying around when Patterson’s voice made me abandon my preoccupation with impressive automation and technology in a place that claimed to be fearfully underfunded.

I looked up at the screen and watched Patricia’s final adventure with a sense of foreboding.

She wore the same dingy beige tracksuit and moved between the rows of huge steel drums and looming boxes as if playing hide-and-seek. She turned often, walking sideways, crossing her feet over each other, like a line-dancer. I couldn’t see her face. The monitoring cameras were behind her. However, from the way she would incline her head now and then, when she stopped, I got an impression that she was listening. Indeed, she moved through the sprawling laundry facility equipped with ancient machinery, as if guided by a voice—listening to instructions—and obeying them.

Suddenly, her hands flew up above her head and she disappeared.

“You can’t see it on the tape,” Patterson said from behind us. “The angle of the camera is too high to sweep that portion of the floor but she fell into an open access hole. It’s about the size of a manhole. Maintenance was being done on the conduits that feed through this portion of the facility. The grating had been removed and the maintenance staff forgot to put it back. Of course, we’re investigating this negligence but no one has stepped forward to confess. During the day, when the laundry facility is staffed, there would have been a safety cage with fluorescent flags around that open manhole. It must have interfered with the laundry bins, since they are large and need corresponding clearance to wheel around. Someone must have removed the cage.” He shut off the tape and the screen returned to its flat texture.

“We’ve established that she was missing no longer than thirty, forty minutes before her disappearance was noticed and a search started. We found her at seven o’clock in the morning, when the first shift arrived at the laundry. Of course, by then security had reviewed the last night’s tapes and we knew where to look.” He finished with that sigh I felt was driven by frustration rather than sorrow or concern.

We left with every piece of paper that had ever made it into Patricia’s file, no mention of court order necessary. Patterson made the offer before Field and Ken had a chance to raise the subject.

As we headed for the car, I could hear the shrill cries of gulls, fighting over scraps of food that slithered in the crevices of vast stretches of crumbling concrete. Daniel Kane’s parting words rose like a sorcerer’s chant in my memory. “Certainly, Detective. But would it be safe?”

Did we endanger Patricia’s life, indeed, shorten it, with our first visit to Mongrove? I consoled myself with reminder that the criminals were winding down their Baltimore operations and the trail of victims was a byproduct. It was a logical conclusion, objective, but its mercenary sub-tone bothered me.

Field drove to the office and we spent an hour, raining instructions and giving helpful hints to Agent Gould. The distance from Washington must have awakened a little rebel in her because today, she wore jeans—and a well-starched, impeccably ironed pale blue gentleman’s shirt with gold cufflinks. I thought that the little navy blue bowtie was a nice diplomatic touch. When we entered, her marine-blue, boxy jacket was slung over the back of her chair but she hurriedly put it on when her boss appeared.

I gave her all the good work I’d done on the Washington armored car service and managed not to look relieved when I stacked three fat folders in front of her.

“Creeslow closed down its operations in Baltimore two months ago,” I told her. “It might be a good idea to check all eleven Washington outfits for their length of time in operation. All might be longtime Washington operators but there’s such a thing as absorbing your competition, accepting new partners—amalgamating. One of those places might have recently expanded to absorb Creeslow, though they would not have kept the name.”

“I will check the business registry database,” she replied, glancing at her boss for approval and confirmation.

She received both and for a moment her studious expression softened. Her eyes didn’t just measure her boss but stroked him. I wondered whether Inspector Weston was aware of this tender adoration, no matter how subtle and infrequent it was. His colleague liked her boss—a lot—and not just as a boss.

“There.” I smacked my hand on top of the file stack. “It’s not in any particular order but everything I’ve pulled off the internet and got over the phone, is in there. The connection is the limos that are provided to ferry the customers in privacy, luxury and with discretion.”

“Why discretion?” Her eyes glazed over with a hard impersonal sheen. I knew she resented the sound my hand had made on the stack. I’d shot down her tender moment.

“The function that the customer would be driven to would not be the kind he would advertise or discuss with anyone, except perhaps his closest friends. The second victim, Jeffries, volunteered as a drug-testing subject at pharmacological laboratories. He was well paid for a weekend of blood testing and filling out endless questionnaires. But it’s not the sort of thing you would boast about. Other than his friend, Amato, no one at his work knew what he did on the weekends. Ask those places whether they keep a record of purposes for which they rent or use their limos. The name of a business or a customer would be nice to have too.”

She didn’t like taking instructions from me. Her pen flew angrily across the sheet of paper as she made notes.

“We’re going to see Kim’s family.” I nodded at Field who said he would tackle Patricia’s files with Agent Mattis’ help.

“What do you think is the connection there? How did they get to Kim?” he asked in a tone that put me not just on his level but damn well in his lap. Agent Gould’s pen performed a forceful slash on the paper—an exclamation mark at the end of her notes.

“Brick worked for Creeslow. He was a sitting duck. Jeffries liked the fringe benefits offered to lab rats. Kim was a college grad with a Master’s degree and a dull bank job—though I’m sure that’s not how he saw it. There had to be a piece of cheese just right for him.”

“Everyone has a vice?” Field asked, tipping his eyebrows.

“You never miss if you target human nature.”

He thought about this for a long time then said, “There’s a lot of raw human nature hiding underneath the polished exterior of Washington’s politicians.”

“As far as these people are concerned, Washington is the biggest cheese factory there is and they already have the right trap.”

“Dinner tonight?” His voice vibrated after me. I didn’t turn around. I didn’t want to see the gloom-box with the navy blue bowtie.

Speaking over my shoulder, I answered, “You can help my housekeeper cook it and feed my kid if I’m not home by six.”

Chapter 29

“I
t looks the same, Ken,” I said, for the umpteenth time, watching my partner circle his Malibu in our parking lot. He was not convinced. After another five minutes of reassuring him that his car looked as good as it had before a dead body landed on it, we headed west, for Violetville, for our appointment with Felix Kim’s parents.

Violent, uncontrolled grief can be frightening but also purging and liberating. Once the rage and outpouring of emotions run their gamut, there is settling, spiritual reconciliation and eventually a heavy peace that with time, grows lighter.

Samuel and Celia Kim were holding their grief inside. The pressure from keeping something so violent and painful caged had to be enormous and yet they greeted us with subdued politeness and cordiality. Their reserve had to have roots in their Oriental heritage and their strength in their family and friends who had gathered to offer support.

The sprawling bungalow was teeming with visitors when we were invited to step inside. Black was the predominant color of attire but the children were allowed to wear their party best. I apologized for intruding on their private commemorative gathering. They assured me with incredible calm that they understood and were ready to answer our questions. As we passed through the kitchen, on our way to the library in the rear of the house, I saw a black lacquer bowl on the table, filled with glossy, flaming red envelopes embossed with gold Chinese characters. When we left, we each carried, one in our pockets, a ceremonial envelope with a silver coin inside. It was an ancient custom, part of a Chinese wake, though the services had been conducted in the Roman Catholic faith.

It was difficult to ask questions meant to discover their dead son’s vices but once again, they were incredibly understanding—and sensitive. Felix had a younger sister, still in college, working toward a degree in accounting. He was the male in the family and much hope had rested on his shoulders when it came to continuing the family name. It was a traditional outlook, parochial but I couldn’t fault them for it. He was a good son and made them proud all his life. Perhaps that’s why they saw no harm in his passion for gambling. It was not a destructive vice that made a huge dent in his wallet but from what they told us—once again with astonishing frankness and clarity—it was a commanding habit. He worked hard at the bank and when he amassed overtime, he would take it off and enjoy a junket to Atlantic City.

“Let’s see if Endless Tours is still in business,” Ken said as we left the somber house of grief.

“You drive and I’ll be your navigator,” I told him.

An hour later, we were lost but only because my partner couldn’t tell the difference between tollway, highway, Interstate and freeway symbols, though he was pretty good recognizing the numbers. Once we sorted out our feelings and decided to compromise in terms of where to lay the blame, we took the first exit and found ourselves in Overlea. Ten minutes later, we parked in front of the Endless Tours travel bureau, on a surprisingly quiet business street.

“Would you like to book a tour?” the eager young girl with cherry-red hair and clothes held together by large silver safety pins, inquired in a lilting but definitely hungry tone of voice when we explained our purpose. She must have flunked her high school course in listening skills. We’d spent ten minutes, speaking good English but didn’t seem to get our point across.

“No tours.” Ken placed his large hand down on her desk, leaning so close I thought the teenager would feel threatened. I was getting old. Or my feelings were maturing faster than I would have liked. She was delighted with such close proximity of male flesh, sterilized with industrial strength aftershave. For a moment, it looked to me as if she were going to squeal with joy, wrap her hands around his neck and kiss him. I was about to warn him, when he straightened up, hand still planted on her desk, fingers tapping. “Just explain to us—please—everything that is included in your tours to Atlantic City.”

“We’re running a special to the Ocean City,” she said, in her best TV-audition voice.

Ken capitulated. “Do you have a brochure that explains what is involved in the Atlantic City casino tour?”

“Braa-sure?” She recoiled as if the impact of that alien word pushed her back, hard.

“Colorful piece of paper with lots of words on it, describing what the customer can expect to enjoy if he buys one of your pre-packaged gambling tours to Atlantic City.” I hoped that I had not used my entire supply of simple words and analogies.

“Lots of fun,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. I decided to try word association.

“Drinking?”

“Hey, like for sure.”

“Lots of drinking?” I bravely lengthened the sentence.

“Like you’re kidding me? Sure.”

“Gambling?”

“Real heavy.”

“Car?”

“Nah. They get driven there in a limo. They got to get their own car when they get there but why would you?”

“No idea.” I didn’t want to spoil this good rapport. “Limo from here to there?”

“Yeah, like real stretch.”

“Limo picks up here?”

“Sure.”

“Many customers take the limo?”

“Nah. Real special.”

“One customer, one limo, one trip?” I was really pushing it.

“Well yeah, like dahhh.”

“Limo’s name?”

“George, real cute but no flex.”

“I meant limo company’s name.”

“Herman something.”

“Any other company before that?”

“Creepy slaw.”

“No more Creepy slaw?”

“Nah. Busted.”

“You sure?”

“Like dahhh? Phone disconnected.”

“When?”

“March.”

“You sure?”

“Lady, it was my birthday. Like yeah, real sure.”

“Got Herman in March?”

“Yep.”

“Cute driver?”