Private Moscow

Chapter 18

Jessie had provided us with one of Private New York’s staff cars, a black Nissan Rogue. As I drove Mo-Bot out to Long Island, she talked about anything and everything other than the case. How New Yorkers were crazy to put up with this weather when California was open for business; what was happening in the world of quantum computing; the latest developments in artificial intelligence; her planned vacation to Cairo to visit the Pyramids of Giza. For ninety minutes I forgot about failing Karl Parker and almost felt like my old self again. If Mo-bot’s rambling monologue was designed to take my mind off things, it worked.

Then we arrived at Karl and Victoria’s beachfront home and reality came crashing in when I was confronted with the trappings of the life that had been taken. Karl had come a long way from his Marine instructing days. A double gate opened onto a long drive that led from Hilltop Avenue toward the coast. High trees heavy with snow lined the driveway, and after a quarter of a mile or so, they gave way to a paved courtyard which lay in front of a huge two-story beachfront mansion. A Mercedes G-Wagen and a Bentley were parked outside a six-car garage that stood near the house.

“Some place,” Mo-bot observed as we parked beside the other cars.

We got out and crunched across the snow-covered drive to the front door, where a housekeeper waited.

“Come in,” she said. “Mrs. Parker is in the library.”

The housekeeper introduced herself as Ermilita. She led us through a beautifully decorated house to a large library that overlooked the beach. Bookcases lined three walls, and in the middle of the room were a couch and two armchairs that faced the floor-to-ceiling windows. Victoria Parker was standing by one of the windows, looking out at the beach. There were patches of snow here and there, but most of it had been swept away by the saltwater. Victoria turned to face us as we entered, and it was obvious she’d been crying.

“How are you holding up?” I asked.

Victoria gave a noncommittal shrug.

“Thanks for seeing us,” I said. “This is Maureen Roth. Maureen’s our resident technology expert.”

The two women shook hands.

“Where do we start?” Victoria said.

“I’d like to ask you some questions about Karl, and Maureen will take a look at Karl’s computers and files, if that’s OK,” I replied.

“Let me show you his office,” Victoria said.

We were on our way out of the library when a buzzer sounded. Ermilita hurried ahead and we heard the front door open. Words were exchanged, but I couldn’t make out what was being said.

“Ma’am,” Ermilita called. “There’s a package for... well, you’d better come and see.”

Mo-bot and I followed Victoria, and we found a UPS delivery driver waiting by the front door. He was holding a package about the size of a shoebox.

“What is it?” Victoria asked.

“Look at the writing, ma’am,” Ermilita replied.

Victoria studied the label and her face fell. “That’s Karl’s handwriting,” she said.

I hadn’t seen anything written by him in a while, but took Victoria’s assessment on trust.

“Where did this come from?” I asked.

The driver checked a handheld computer. “The package was dropped off on a forty-eight-hour service the day before yesterday at the UPS Store, North Seventh Street, Brooklyn.”

Victoria took the parcel. “It’s addressed to you,” she told me.

“Can I get a signature?” the driver asked, and Ermilita obliged.

“Mo-bot, can you get his details?” I asked, indicating the driver.

“Sure.” She nodded, and Victoria and I moved to a table in the hall.

I studied the parcel. Alongside the UPS labeling was an adhesive label with my name and the Parkers’ address written in cursive. Brown paper, sticky tape, no obvious danger. I peeled back some of the tape and carefully unfolded the flap.

“Why would Karl send you a parcel here?” Victoria asked.

I couldn’t shake the feeling my old friend had known his fate, but supposition and superstition were the enemies of a good detective. I removed the wrapper to reveal a plain cardboard box. No marks or distinguishing features. I lifted the top flap and peered inside.

“What is it?” Mo-bot asked when she joined us.

“A book,” I replied.

I reached inside and picked up a hardback copy of Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. It was a well-used, dog-eared copy and I leafed through it to find a borrowing record stuck to the first page. The book came from the Leonard branch of the Brooklyn Public Library and had been lent to Karl Parker two days ago.

“Why would Karl send you a library book?” Victoria asked.

I stared at Karl’s name in the lending record, wishing I knew the answer to her question.