“Does Leighton keep in touch with Amanda at all?” Cassian asked.
“No,” Sydney said emphatically. “That was the one thing Liz was clear about. She said that Amanda would never have to see Leighton again.”
“Hard to believe a court would allow her that peace of mind,” Train said. “Even with violence between a husband and wife, judges usually bend over backwards to make sure that both parents can stay involved in some way with the children. And if Leighton was never convicted of a crime, I would think that he would at least have been allowed supervised visits.”
“All I know is that Liz was certain that Amanda would never have to see her father again.” She could see the skepticism on the detectives’ faces. “Look, it’s not like this was really ever an issue. Leighton wasn’t exactly the most caring father in the first place and I don’t think he’s ever expressed any kind of an interest in staying in touch with Amanda. As for Amanda—well, after what she witnessed, could anyone really be surprised that she had no interest in seeing him?”
“Still,” Cassian said, “if Liz had found a way to keep Leighton from seeing his daughter, it could provide a motive for murder.”
Train nodded. “If someone tried to keep me from seeing my kid, I could see myself doing just about anything to make them pay.”
Sydney shook her head. “I think you’re wrong. From what I know about Leighton, I don’t think he cares about anyone else enough to be driven to violence over a little thing like losing his daughter.”
“Where is he now?” Cassian asked.
“I don’t know. I think he’s still out in Old Colony. He doesn’t work for Chapin Industries anymore—no big surprise there— but he must be doing okay. Liz used to say he spent most of his time hanging out at the Old Colony Golf and Polo Club, so he must have some money.” She let her head drop into her hands. “I just can’t imagine how hard this will be for Amanda if Leighton really had something to do with Liz’s murder.”
“I wouldn’t jump to that conclusion yet,” Train said. “And I certainly wouldn’t tell anyone that we’re looking into this. Like I said before, at this point we just need to complete the full investigation and run down every lead.”
“On that score,” Cassian said, “is there anyone else we should be looking at? Anyone you’re aware of who might have wanted to hurt your sister, or who had threatened her in the past?”
Sydney shook her head. “Not that I know of. She did a lot of the kind of investigative reporting that tends to make people angry, so I’m sure she had her share of enemies, but I don’t know who she rubbed the wrong way in the past.”
Jack nodded. “We’re having one of the assistants at the department put together a quick list of possibilities based on your sister’s published articles. I guess we were wondering whether she ever told you of anyone specifically who she was afraid of.”
Sydney thought for a moment. “No one I can recall,” she said at last.
“How about anything else that wouldn’t be in her published articles—anything that didn’t make the paper, or that she was still working on? We need to come up with as complete a list as possible.”
“Did you check her computer at work?”
“We did, but we haven’t come up with anything useful.”
“She did most of her work on her office computer, but I can also check her laptop,” Sydney suggested.
Train shook his head. “It was stolen.”
“What?”
“It was stolen by whoever murdered your sister,” Train explained.
“No it wasn’t. I’ve got it.”
Train and Cassian looked at each other. “What are you talking about, Sydney?” Jack said.
“Liz’s laptop. I borrowed it a couple of weeks ago.”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
“Nobody asked me.”
Train rubbed his head. “We’re going to need to see that computer,” he said.
“That’s fine. It’s at my apartment. You can get it whenever you want, but she mainly used the desktop at work, I think, so there’s probably nothing useful on it.”
“We’ll need to take a look at it anyway. We’ll arrange to have it picked up. Now, is there anything else you can think of?”
Sydney thought about her conversation with Barneton. Liz had been looking into something having to do with eugenics, but Sydney had no specifics, and certainly no reason to suspect that it had anything to do with her death. “I can’t think of anything,” she replied after a moment. She was sure that they would merely scoff at the notion that Liz’s visit with Barneton was relevant. Worse still, they could take her seriously and waste precious time in their investigation chasing down a rabbit hole that would only upset the professors at the law school—doing herself no favors.
She looked up and noticed that Cassian and Train were still looking at her, as if they expected her to say more. She pursed her lips and kept silent. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Train stood up and looked at his partner. “Next stop, Leighton Creay’s house?” he said.
“Looks that way,” Cassian replied.
z
Lydia Chapin stood at the bay window looking out from her living room, past the manicured front lawn, out to the street and toward the city. It was dark out now, and the house was quiet save for the distant clatter of china as the caterers packed up from a long day. She brought her drink up to her lips and paused as she caught sight of her hand gripping the glass, the skin pulled transparent over white knuckles; the bones show
ing through with greater and greater determination each year
as though eager for their inevitable freedom from confinement.
She closed her eyes and took a deep swallow.
“How are you holding up, Lydia?”
The voice came from behind her, but she didn’t turn. It was familiar enough to require neither identification nor formality. “I’m fine. Thank you, Irskin.”
A hand found her shoulder, its weight barely enough to register, and yet strong and comforting. “Honestly, Lydia?”
She turned halfway, sidestepping the diminutive older man, unable to meet his eyes, and walked over to the bar to refill her glass. She took half of it in one sip. “I told you, I’m fine.”
Elliot shrugged;
as you wish.
Then he walked over to the bar himself and poured a drink. He sipped in solidarity with her. “She loved you, you know,” he said after a moment.
“Please, don’t.”
“She did, though. You’ve always been too hard on yourself—a trait your children inherited—but Elizabeth loved you very much in spite of it.”
Lydia moved away from the bar, still unable to look Elliot in the eyes. She knew she would flinch, and she was afraid of what he might see. “That’s nice of you, Irskin. You’ve always been a wonderful friend.”
“It’s not friendship, it’s the truth. Elizabeth loved you. Sydney loves you, too. You must try to stay focused on that. Hold on to that, and it will sustain you.”
“I know.” She didn’t actually know, but she felt compelled to keep up appearances.
“I hope so. Sydney and Amanda need your strength, now more than ever.”
Lydia put her drink down and brought her hands to her face. “I don’t know how much strength I have left, Irskin.”
He sat next to her and patted her knee. “Yes you do. You do, because you must. As long as you keep that in mind, you’ll find all the strength you need.”
“Do you believe in God, Irskin?” she asked impulsively.
He folded his hands together as he leaned back against the sofa. “They say there are no atheists in foxholes,” he said. “Old age is a foxhole.”
“Pascal’s wager?”
He shook his head. “It’s not nearly so self-serving or calculated as that; at least I like to think not. I’m just old enough to see the connections—the continuity—that escape the young. It’s not that I like to think that our lives mean something, it’s that I know they do. You can see that in Sydney and Amanda, can’t you? Their very existence gives your life meaning.”
She looked away from him. “I suppose you’re right. I sometimes forget.”
“You shouldn’t. You’re very lucky.”
She stiffened as she kept her eyes averted. “Thank you for being here, Irskin. It’s a great comfort, and if there’s ever anything I can do for you, please let me know.”
“There is,” he replied. She looked at him. “Stay strong,” he said after a moment. “Your family needs you right now.”
T
HE DETECTIVES
’
DRIVE OUT TO
O
LD
C
OLONY
was uneventful; there was even an air of leisure to the excursion. It was the day after Elizabeth Creay’s funeral, and the humidity had eased temporar
ily, though the temperature still hovered in the low nineties.
Rolling out from the city, past the monuments and across the Arlington Memorial Bridge, Cassian was reminded, for the first time in ages, of the surface majesty of the city he called home. Spending most of his time scraping through the grit of the worst neighborhoods, he often lost sight of Washington’s charms. Built to overwhelm foreign leaders, the District was imperious in its bearing. White marble domes and obelisks and columns shimmered from every corner of the city in the afternoon sun, proclaiming the dawning of a new age of governance and power unrivaled since the passing of the Roman Empire the neoclassical architecture was designed to evoke. As Train’s car circled the Lincoln Memorial, with its scrubbed façade draping the massive watchful countenance of the nation’s savior, Cassian recalled those better things that had called him both to his city and his profession.
Once across the river and into Virginia, the detectives passed through Arlington and Tysons Corner. After that, the scenery turned green and lush quickly, and Cassian thought about his youth growing up in a clean, upper-middle class town in southern Maryland. For just a moment, he considered what might have been if he’d chosen a different path.
“Thinking you made the wrong choices?” Train asked, as if he’d read Cassian’s thoughts.
“Never.” Cassian laughed. “How could anyone be happy out here?”
“Sure,” Train said skeptically. “Upstanding, good-looking white boy like you from the suburbs coulda had all this without even sweating. Nice home; two kids in the honor society; pretty little blonde wife with pretty little tits and an ass like a ten-year-old boy.” Train belly-laughed at the notion.
“Fuck off.”
Train laughed more loudly. “And a dog, right?” He looked over at Cassian, whose attention was focused out the passenger window, pretending to ignore his partner’s comments. “Yeah, that’s right, a dog. I see you with one of those big retrievers—what do they call them—Labradors or goldens? One of those big dogs, all slobbery and stupid that come up and lick your crotch when you get home.” He smiled and his teeth lit up the car in the sunlight. “Life like that, you might even get laid once in a while.”
“Look who’s talking. From what I can tell, yelling at your ex is the closest thing to a physical relationship you’ve had since I met you.”
Train’s smile ebbed, but only slightly. “You talk more shit than any white man I’ve ever met, boy.”
“Oh, what’s the matter, Sarge? It’s only fun when the crap’s running downhill? Remember, you and I both chose the same life.”
“Choosing had nothin’ to do with it for me,” Train pointed out. “Once my knees gave out and the agents and pro scouts stopped calling, this was the best life I coulda hoped for. What’s your excuse?”
Cassian was silent for a moment. “After everything that’s happened, this is the best life I could have hoped for, too,” he said at last.
Cassian’s tone chased what was left of Train’s smile away. “Your brother?”
“My brother.” Cassian nodded.
Train tilted his head to the side, looking at the younger man in the passenger seat. “Gotta let go of the guilt,” he said. “Shit’ll eat you up and keep you from being happy.”
“You happy?”
“Don’t go by me, partner; you can do better.”
They pulled into a circular driveway when they saw the number on the mailbox they were looking for—666 Cherry Blossom Lane. “Bad omen,” Train commented solemnly.
The house was a graying old lady of a structure, in desperate need of attention. It was a three-story colonial that had been converted into a rooming house with six apartments, two on each floor. They checked the mailboxes and saw that Creay was in one of the ground-floor units. They looked up at the house, with its wide blue shutters that were peeling at the corners, and a porch that ambled its way unsteadily around from the front door, disappearing behind both sides of the house. There were no cars in the driveway, and no activity in the yard. Everything was eerily quiet.
Train and Cassian stepped out of the car and onto the white gravel driveway. Their feet crunched in the silence with every step toward the house. They walked up the steps and rang the doorbell to apartment number two, waiting patiently for someone to let them in. After a few moments, Train reached out and rang the doorbell again.
When it became clear that no one was coming, Cassian walked down the porch, peering into the windows. “Not exactly the Ritz, is it?” he said quietly. “I didn’t know there were places this crappy in Old Colony.”
Train walked over and shaded his hand against the glass so he could clear the reflection and get a good look into the house. The interior was dark and gray, with furniture that was more functional than fashionable. “Looks like Mr. Creay lost more than his wife in the divorce,” Train commented.
“Been known to happen,” Cassian said.
“Yeah, but few of us have so far to fall.”
“What do you think?” Cassian asked.
Train shrugged. “I think there’s a good chance that Leighton might feel a little pissed about his current living situation. Particularly after spending a decade or so getting used to the Chapins’ money.”
“You think pissed enough to kill his ex?”
“Could be. We’ve seen people kill with less motive, and this guy already has a record of violence with her. One thing’s for sure, we definitely need to talk to him.” He looked at his watch. “It’s still early; where does he work?”