A Quiet Death

TWENTY-THREE

I waited patiently for a story about Aupry and Hoffner to break.

In-between meal prep and laundry and watching my grandkids, I logged so many hours watching Lynx News that Paul cheerfully concluded that I must have gone over to the dark side and joined the Tea Party Patriots. As if.

I checked the Washington Post daily, Style section, too. After a week went by with no story about Susan Woythaler’s appearance at the Women’s Democratic League, illustrated by a photograph featuring me masquerading as Lilith Chaloux, I began to relax.

Chandler was keeping a low profile. A full-page promo for his upcoming four-part series Stand by Your Man? appeared in prime real estate on the inside back cover of TV Guide and promos for the show were running 24/7 on all the major networks.

I couldn’t wait to tell Paul. ‘Seems our boy is going to be interviewing political wives who’ve been dumped by their husbands.’ I did an arm pump. ‘Or vice versa.’ Chandler was hitting all the biggies – Elizabeth Edwards, Jenny Sanford, Silda Spitzer, even Dina McGreevey who had stood on the dais wearing a sky-blue suit and a stoic perma-grin, while her husband, then governor of New Jersey, confessed to a long-time affair with another guy.

I telephoned Jud Wilson and left a message, but when he didn’t call me back, I took it as a sign that John Chandler was still covering his ass.

Until my brother-in-law gave me a call. ‘Hannah, this is Dennis. Just thought I’d give you a head’s up.’

‘On what?’ I’d been washing a wool sweater in the kitchen sink. I reached for a towel.

‘We’ve just arrested a suspect in the jogging trail attacks.’

‘We? Does that mean you?’

‘The guy attacked another woman on Bayside Trail near Pearson’s Corner early this morning. But he definitely picked the wrong victim this time. She’s a former army helicopter pilot. She saw him coming, ducked, turned the tables on the sonofabitch big time. Broke the guy’s collarbone in two places.’

‘Good! I hope it hurts. Who is the creep, anyway? Can you say?’

‘It’ll be all over the news shortly. As soon as he gets out of the ER, he’ll be our guest in the Chesapeake County lock-up. I’m not sure where he’ll be heading eventually. Everybody wants a piece of this guy. DC, Maryland, Virginia. The murders took place in the District and in Virginia, so I imagine they’ll have first crack at him.’

‘Go for Virginia,’ I urged. ‘They still have the death penalty in Virginia. DC doesn’t.’

‘Hard-hearted Hannah, the hanging judge.’

‘Damn right. Meredith Logan deserved to live a long, happy life, and this creep deprived her of it. Some criminals commit crimes so heinous that they forfeit their right to live, Dennis. I truly believe that.’ After a moment of silence, I added. ‘Has the guy confessed?’

‘It’s early days yet, Hannah.’

‘Do this right, Dennis. Please. Make sure your people don’t mess up.’

‘Since I know you and Emily are close to this, I’ll let the implied criticism slide.’

‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound snarky. So I guess Nicholas Aupry is off the hook?’

‘Maybe.’

‘How about Hoffner?’

‘We’ll see.’

But…’ I began. Something was niggling at me. The Jogging Trail Murders, the press was calling them. But, unlike the other girls, Meredith Logan hadn’t been attacked anywhere near a jogging trail.

‘Hannah, the only “but” I need from you is this – butt out. Let the police do their jobs.’

‘Dennis…’

‘Hannah, you have to trust me on this.’

Leaving the sweater to soak in the sink, I tuned the television to Lynx News where a reporter I didn’t recognize was conducting an Up Close and Personal with a baseball player who had blown the whistle on steroid use in the major leagues, a program timed to the release of his tell-all book on the subject. I switched to CNN in time to catch a ‘Breaking News’ bulletin.

‘Jogging Trail Killer Apprehended,’ a sidebar announced, superimposed over a shot of a reporter standing outside the Chesapeake County hospital emergency room, holding a microphone. ‘An unemployed computer programmer has been arrested in connection with the murders of two women on metropolitan area jogging trails and is implicated in attacks upon two others,’ she began. Her image was replaced by the police sketch of the suspect that had been widely distributed since the assault on the woman in Rock Creek Park. The reporter seemed primed to go on, but suddenly there was a flurry of activity. She turned and viewers got to watch while plainclothes police officers appeared in the background, escorting a man whose arm was in a blue sling, his head covered with a jacket. As cameramen from all the major networks scuttled to follow, a police officer mashed his hand down on the top of the prisoner’s head, stuffed him into the back seat of a black and white patrol car, and sped away.

The reporter had nothing new to add, so I telephoned Emily on her cell. She picked up on the first ring. ‘Hey, Mom. What’s up?’

‘Your uncle called, and I just saw a report on the television. They think they’ve got the guy who killed Meredith.’

On Emily’s end of the line there was a gasp, then silence as the news sunk in. ‘Thank God,’ she said at last.

‘It’s on CNN right now,’ I told my daughter. ‘All the channels will have it soon. Are you anywhere near a TV?’

‘I’m at the spa, and heading toward the conference room right now. I want to see this guy.’ I heard a door open, then close, then the sound of a television springing to life. ‘Actually, I want to murder him with my bare hands, dismember him bit by bit, drop the pieces in-’

I cut in. ‘Can I watch?’

‘Sorry, Mom. I got carried away. You must be relieved that it wasn’t that fellow you met on the Metro who did it.’

‘I’m sad that anybody did it. But yes, I’m relieved that it wasn’t Nick, and that they finally nailed the bastard.’

With the Jogging Trail Murders suspect locked away in my brother-in-law’s detention center, the nation’s capital was breathing a huge sigh of relief. So was I, until a DC homicide detective paid me a call.

‘I’m Detective Terry Hughes,’ he said from my doorstep, presenting his shield for my inspection, ‘and this is Corporal Sherry Miller.’

Holding the door open, I gawped, rendered temporarily speechless.

Hughes was big, black, broad-shouldered and beautiful, with eyelashes that curled over his amber eyes and shaded them like awnings.

His partner, in contrast, was petite and as pale as Hughes was dark. Freckles splashed across her nose, and her white-blonde hair was tied back in a pony tail at the nape of her neck.

‘We’re investigating the murder of Meredith Logan,’ Hughes explained, ‘and I understand you might be able to help us.’

‘I really didn’t know Meredith very well, detective,’ I said. ‘Why don’t we sit in the living room. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea?’

They declined.

After we were seated comfortably, I continued. ‘Meredith was my daughter’s friend. They were classmates at Bryn Mawr College up in Pennsylvania, but that was some time ago.’

‘We’ll want to talk to your daughter, too, of course. How can we get in touch with her?’ Detective Hughes asked.

I gave him Emily’s address and phone number, watching with fascination as Sherry Miller wrote it down in a minuscule notebook, using neat capitals letters.

‘I’m confused, Detective Hughes. I thought the police had arrested a man for Meredith’s murder. That Jogging Trail guy.’

Sherry Miller glanced quickly at Hughes, but Hughes sent a withering glance in her direction and whatever she’d been about to say died on her lips. ‘We’re interested in what you might be able to tell us about a shopping bag that has shown up on some security tapes at the Library of Congress.’ Hughes reached into the leather portfolio he’d been carrying and handed me a picture, a close-up of Lilith’s Garfinkel’s bag. ‘Can you tell us anything about it?’

‘What would you like to know?’

‘What’s in it, for a start.’

‘Letters and photos. At least that’s what was in it when I had it.’

‘When was that?’ he asked.

I told him about the Metro crash, described how I had met Skip, and explained the mix-up at the hospital.

‘What date would that be – the crash, I mean?’

I opened my mouth to say that I couldn’t believe he wouldn’t know the answer to that. For weeks, there had been nothing else in the papers or on TV. But, I paused, counted to three and told him anyway. ‘September the seventh.’

‘Do you know where the bag is now?’ he asked.

‘No. I mean, yes. I returned it to its owner.’

‘Who is?’

‘A woman named Lilith Chaloux. She lives on the Eastern Shore in Woolford, a few miles outside of Cambridge.’

‘When you had the bag, at any time was it out of your possession?’ he asked.

‘Absolutely not.’

Corporal Miller glanced up from her notes and spoke for the first time. Her voice was clear and light, almost like a child’s. ‘What kind of letters and photographs were they, Mrs Ives?’

‘Personal ones.’

‘Can you elaborate on that?’ she asked, one eyebrow arched suspiciously as if she expected me to say ‘porn.’

‘I don’t feel it’s my place to go into a lot of detail. For that, it’s best you ask Lilith Chaloux yourself. But I don’t think she’d mind if I told you they were love letters.’

‘What is Ms Chaloux’s connection to Meredith Logan?’

‘None, as far as I know. Ms Chaloux lives out in the country by herself, in a cottage on the water. She paints. I don’t think she socializes very much.’

Hughes reached into his portfolio and withdrew another picture. ‘Who is this man?’

I was sure he knew the answer to this question, too. ‘His name is Skip – I mean Nicholas Aupry. He was riding the Metro with me when it crashed. It was his bag.’

‘And this?’ Another picture came sliding across the coffee table my way.

The minute I laid eyes on it, I gave myself a silent high five. John Chandler had made good on his promise. The surveillance tapes that Jud Wilson had shared with me were now in police possession. The picture showed James Hoffner in profile, just after he dropped the Garfinkel’s bag off on the conveyor belt that would take it through the X-ray machine at the Library of Congress. ‘That is a sleazy lawyer named James Hoffner.’

Sherry grinned, then quickly recovered, dropping her voice almost an octave to ask, ‘Why is Mr Hoffner carrying the Garfinkel’s bag in this picture?’

‘He’s Nicholas Aupry’s attorney.’

I handed the picture back. ‘Look, why are you asking me these questions? Shouldn’t you be asking Mr Aupry and Mr Hoffman?’

‘We’ve talked to Mr Hoffman,’ Miller volunteered. ‘And you’ve just confirmed what he told us.’

‘How about Nicholas Aupry?’ I asked. ‘What did he have to say?’

Detective Hughes slid all three photos into his portfolio and snapped it shut. ‘Unfortunately, we haven’t been able to locate Mr Aupry. We’re hoping you could help us with that, too.’

My jaw dropped. ‘What do you mean you can’t locate him? He’s at Kernan Hospital up in Baltimore. As you probably know, he was gravely injured in the accident. He’s in rehab.’

Hughes exchanged glances with his partner. ‘Was. Mr Aupry was discharged from Kernan two days ago.’

I sat silent for a moment, stunned. ‘Have you talked to his mother? Checked where he works? His mother told me he’s got some sort of research position at the Johns Hopkins Applied Physics Lab in Laurel.’

‘We haven’t talked to her yet, but we will.’

Corporal Sherry Miller folded her notebook, but before she could stuff it into her pocket, she asked, ‘Is there anything else you think we need to know?’

James Hoffner is a lying, murdering son of a bitch? But I bit my tongue. ‘I’m not sure whether it’s related or not, but we had a break-in several weeks ago.’

Hughes glanced quickly at Miller – be sure to write that down – then back at me. ‘Did you report it to the police?’

I nodded. ‘Nothing seems to have been taken, though. Whoever it was could have been looking for the letters. Hard to say. The police dusted for prints.’ I shrugged.

‘We’ll check with them.’ Hughes stood and extended his hand. ‘Thank you, Mrs Ives. You’ve been very helpful.’

‘Promise me you will find the person who did this to Meredith,’ I said as I shook his hand. ‘She was a lovely young woman.’

‘We’re working flat out on that, Mrs Ives.’ Corporal Miller started toward the door, paused and turned. ‘You can be sure of that.’

‘Detective Hughes?’ I asked as I opened the door to see them out. ‘Have you ever played football for the Redskins?’

His laugh started somewhere deep in his chest and rumbled out of his mouth like a runaway locomotive. ‘I get that a lot.’

Not long after Hughes and Miller left, something struck me like a knife though the heart. The picture Hughes showed me of Nicholas Aupry. It wasn’t taken at the Library of Congress at all. In that picture, Nick was waiting near a reception desk, and hanging on the wall behind him was the distinctive red, white and blue logo of the Lynx News Network.