Murder in the Aisles Page 4

  Felicia turned toward the bank of elevators that led back to the administrative floors. Since Dr. Dresden’s murder hadn’t yet been deemed a murder, she had full access to his office. She got off on the third floor and went directly to his office.

  She took out the ring of office keys that she kept in her waist pouch, located the key for his door and opened it.

  When she stepped inside and flipped on the light she was overcome by the unsettling sensation that Dr. Dresden was right there watching her. A row of goose bumps ran up both of her arms.

  She glanced around. Every nook and cranny in the twelve-by-fifteen-foot space was crammed with files, folders and notebooks. His desk was buried beneath papers and artifacts, the walls lined with books.

  In one corner was an antique coat rack. His tweed jacket, the one he always wore on the floors, was hanging there forlornly as if waiting for the return of its owner.

  The air carried the scent of the cherry tobacco that he used in his pipe, much to the chagrin of Dr. Wallington.

  “By gawd, you’re going to set this entire building ablaze with that infernal pipe,” she’d heard Dr. Wallington chastise on many an occasion. To which Dr. Dresden would respond, “Oh, Wally, relax.”

  She smiled at the memory.

  Felicia reverently stepped inside and closed the door, locking it from the inside. As she walked around the stacks of files piled on the floor she wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but she had to start somewhere.

  She took off her jacket and draped it on the back of Dr. Dresden’s well-worn leather chair. She started on the desk, believing that whatever he was working on would be close at hand. She did much of his research on his Egyptian project, but he was always involved in some other curiosity that he handled on his own.

  But after more than an hour she had no more information than she did when she’d started. Dr. Dresden’s notes could have just as well been written in the hieroglyphics that he studied. He was known for having both feet planted firmly in the land of pre-technology, relying solely on good old-fashioned handwritten notes. When it came to computers and loading his information, he depended heavily on her.

  Felicia sighed in frustration. She propped her fist beneath her chin. Her dark eyes hopped from one spot in the room to the next. She knew she was missing something. She could feel it. She simply didn’t know what it was.

  Talk to me, Dr. Dresden. Tell me where to look.

  She continued to riffle through papers, hoping to discover something. No luck.

  Disappointment settled around her shoulders, weighing her down. She knew deep in her soul that there was nothing accidental about Dr. Dresden’s demise. Unfortunately she had no way to prove it.

  She pushed back from the desk, stepped over the pile of folders and walked out, locking the door behind her.

  Maybe tossing around her theory with Liz would help to bring her ideas into sharper focus. She checked her watch as she walked back to her office. After doing a final check of the aisles and the staffing for the evening, she would leave and head over to the Meridian to meet with Liz.

  As she did her walk-through, checking shelves and stock, a chill rolled along her spine when she walked down the aisle where less than eight hours earlier she’d found Dr. Dresden’s body. She stood for a moment in the spot where she’d discovered him and looked upward.

  “You would have never gone up there, Dr. Dresden. What were you doing here? Or maybe the question is, who brought you into this aisle?”

  Chapter Six

  The Meridian was located in Georgetown, the cultural epicenter of D.C., and as usual for a Tuesday night, or any night, it was awash with a sea of people. The bar-lounge was well known for its great live entertainment and a tasty menu, all for a price that kept folks coming back. If you were lucky you may walk in and find Kem or Art Blakely, Herbie Hancock or even John Legend performing.

  The streets surrounding the Meridian were lined with restaurants for every taste bud, music, dancing, boutique shopping, theaters and of course the Galleria Mall.

  Tucked away on many cobblestone side streets the discerning eye could spot that rare piece of art, antique vase or vintage handbag on display behind crystal clear glass windows. Felicia walked along the very street where the climatic chase scene with Kevin Costner in “No Way Out” was shot.

  Most nights Felicia would give inato the sights, sounds and smells of her favorite place in the city, and forget about books, and research and orderliness. Not tonight. She was anxious to talk with Liz. Anxiety tended to set off her quirks that she worked so hard to keep under control.

  The line leading to the hostess inched forward. Felicia opened her purse and took out her hand cream, then her lip-gloss, followed by her comb. She opened her wallet to ensure that she hadn’t collected any undue receipts. She checked her cell phone and then meticulously, one by one, she replaced each item so that they rested neatly in her purse. She snapped it shut, lifted her head praying that she would see Liz waving frantically from a nearby table.

  No luck.

  Felicia checked her watch. It was precisely three minutes later than the last time she checked. She opened her purse. As she was about to remove the items, a hand grabbed her wrist.

  “Relax,” Liz whispered. “I got us a table in back.”

  Felicia’s pulse slowed a few degrees. The tension, tightness and sensation that she was going to jump out of her skin lessened as she stared into her best friend’s understanding eyes.

  Only Liz was privy to the degree at which Felicia’s obsessive-compulsive behavior affected her. She wasn’t like many who were plagued with the malady of ceaseless hand washing or counting each and every step they took, or checking and re-checking if everything in the house was turned off before they could walk out of the door. She didn’t have those repeating rituals. Hers was mild in comparison, the doctors had informed her parents when she was fifteen. The diagnosis was made after her parents grew concerned that their daughter would periodically arrange and rearrange the furniture in her room, and line up the cans and boxes in the kitchen cabinets.

  Her mother and father were almost relieved, perhaps joyful, that something was actually wrong with their genius daughter, something that made her human.

  “You okay?” Liz buzzed in her ear. She held tightly onto Felicia’s arm as she led her to their table.

  Felicia slowly released a breath of relief. “Yes, thanks. No telling what I might have decided to do if you hadn’t shown up.”

  “Probably start setting up the tables in a straight line.”

  They shared a laugh that could only be understood by two people who weren’t afraid to be themselves around each other.

  “I’m starving,” Liz announced the instant they sat down.

  “You’re always starving. It’s a miracle that you don’t weigh two hundred pounds.”

  “Good genes. What can I tell ya.”

  It was true. Liz was a perfect size ten and had been all of her adult life, just like her mother, her grandmother and two sisters, Melody and Trisha.

  Felicia draped her coat over the back of her chair and placed her purse on her lap. According to her grandmother Mary—God rest her soul—if you put your purse on the floor you’d always be broke, and Felicia believed everything her grandmother ever told her.

  The waitress came and they ordered their usual frozen apple martinis.

  “So tell me what the hell happened at the library?”

  Felicia brought Liz up to speed, telling her all she knew and what she suspected.

  “You really believe somebody killed him?” Liz asked over a mouthful of breadsticks.

  Felicia nodded. “There’s no way that Dr. Dresden would have been in those aisles.”

  “But why? Why him?”

  Felicia slowly shook her head. “I have no idea. I started going through his office today hoping
to find something but I didn’t.”

  They were silent for a moment, caught in their own thoughts.

  “If what you say is true, then you have a murderer on the loose.”

  Felicia’s gaze collided with Liz’s. “I know and it could be anyone. A stranger, or worse, someone who works at the library.” A tiny shiver ran through her.

  The waitress appeared with their drinks. Before she could set them on the table the duo snatched them from her hand and both took long swallows as if the icy sweet brew could somehow drown the ugly reality of murder.

  The waitress’ mouth dropped open. “Guess you two were really thirsty, huh?” She placed the nachos and dip on the center of the table.

  “Something like that,” Felicia muttered.

  “Can I take your orders now or do you need more time?”

  “I’ll have the grilled salmon pasta with alfredo sauce and asparagus,” Liz said, then handed over the menu.

  “Make that two, but I want shrimp, and instead of asparagus, can I have green beans?”

  “It should be about thirty minutes.”

  “Then in the meantime can you bring us a plate of Nachos Grande with everything,” Liz said and handed over her menu.

  “Sure, I’ll be right back.”

  Liz turned to Felicia. “Why do you always say, ‘I’ll have the same’ and it never is?”

  Felicia grinned and reached for her glass. “The foundation is the same—the pasta.”

  Liz shook her head. “So what are you going to do?” she asked, returning to their conversation.

  Felicia laced her long fingers together atop the pink linen-covered table.

  “I’ve started my own investigation.”

  “What!” she screeched and realized she’d drawn the attention of the couple at a nearby table. She lowered her voice. “Are you crazy?” she hissed between clenched teeth. “You don’t know anything about investigating a possible murder.”

  “Look, ninety percent of any kind of investigation is research. And research is what I do. There’s no one better at it than me. And that’s not boasting, it’s a fact.”

  “That much is true,” Liz conceded. “You may be one of the country’s renowned forensic researchers, in addition to your skills in ancient languages, book cataloguing and just about anything obscure and out of the norm, but this is different. It’s too dangerous. Let the police handle it.”

  Felicia rolled her eyes. “I already told you that Detective Rizzo won’t give it the time of day.”

  Liz was pensive for a moment. “Maybe he would feel differently with a little media attention.”

  Felicia tipped a nacho chip in the guacamole, the cream cheese then the cheddar before popping the loaded confection in her mouth. She chewed thoughtfully. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Just a few off-the-record inquiries. If my boss got wind of it that would be my ass—or at least my job.” She scooped some spicy ground beef onto a chip.

  “When are they going to get you off the ‘warm and fuzzy’ stories anyway?”

  Liz shrugged. “Who would ever take a hard news story seriously by a reporter named Elizabeth Taylor?”

  Felicia patted her friend’s hand. As much as she teased Liz about her name, that was something shared between friends. But under Liz’s cavalier attitude, her name bothered her more than she would ever admit. If anything, in Felicia’s opinion, she allowed her famous name to be a hindrance rather than a help.

  “I don’t think you take yourself seriously enough. And if you don’t, no one else will.”

  “Humph.” Liz pursed her lips. “That’s what you always say.”

  “Only because it’s true. But let’s not belabor the obvious. I want to hear more about your idea.”

  Liz’s cherub face brightened as she leaned across the table. “I was thinking…”

  * * * * *

  Mark jammed the key in the lock of his door and turned. He stepped inside and flicked on the light next to a portrait of John Coltrane. The small but neat front room came into focus.

  He tossed his keys into the glass bowl that sat on the hall table and as was his habit, he reengaged the three locks on his door. Just because he was a cop and carried a big gun didn’t deter some wise-ass wannabe super thief from trying to break into his fifth-floor apartment.

  At least the heat was on, he thought, coming out of his coat as he walked to the kitchen. This pre-war structure with its sky-high ceilings and eight-foot windows tended to suck the heat right out of the building.

  He checked the fridge, snatched up his last bottle of Coors, made a mental note to buy some more then walked into his living room and turned on the sixty-inch plasma television—his one major indulgence and only contribution to the décor.

  Mark tossed his coat across the club chair, plopped down on the couch and put his feet up on the coffee table—a habit that Elaine hated. She couldn’t understand why he couldn’t use the ottoman that she’d purchased along with the couch and matching loveseat.

  Mark had been adamantly against her buying furniture for his apartment, and Elaine was just as adamant. “If you want me to live here I’m going to be comfortable.” At that point in their relationship he was so crazy about her, he would have gone to work in his birthday suit if it would have made her happy.

  But after a few months of feeling like he’d moved back home with his parents it all began to wear him down. She left, the relationship ended, but the furniture stayed.

  He reflexively reached for the remote, which religiously held a place of honor on the right-hand end table.

  The screen instantly filled with the face of the Six O’clock News anchor Brett Ingram. Mark leaned back against the soft cushions of the couch’s headrest and stared blankly at the moving mouth and somber expression of Mr. Ingram.

  International news detailing yet another terrorist bomb detonated in the Middle East that killed twenty and hurt many more, segued to local news.

  A picture of Dr. Dresden in a little box to the right side of the newscaster’s head appeared on the screen.

  “Renowned researcher and linguist Dr. Paul Dresden was found dead today. Dr. Dresden was a senior staffer at the Library of Congress for more than twenty years. Police have not released any information and the cause of Dr. Dresden’s death is still under investigation. In other news…”

  Mark didn’t hear the rest. He switched to another channel hoping to hear something else about the unfortunate Dr. Dresden, but saw nothing.

  He took a long swallow of beer. What he found most interesting about the broadcast on Dresden was not so much what was said, but what wasn’t said.

  There was no mention of where the body was found or the probable cause of death. More interesting still was that it made the news at all. Who told and how did it get out? There were no newshounds at the scene.

  Then again those leeches were everywhere, probably followed the ambulance from the scene. On the other hand, he reasoned, besides the usual news of terrorists, the sliding economy and the upcoming inauguration, it was a typical slow news day.

  Mark closed his eyes. The events of the day marched behind his lids and Felicia’s face and unwavering assertion that Dresden’s death was no accident continued to repeat over and over like a scratched CD. His co-worker, Eddie’s, favorite refrain, “If it don’t feel right, then it ain’t,” joined with Felicia Swift’s, and as much as he didn’t want to deal with it, he had a hunch that soon, he wouldn’t have a choice.

  Chapter Seven

  Felicia, as usual, was the first to arrive the following morning. After leaving the Meridian the previous evening she’d spent the better part of the night going over the ugly events of the day.

  After completing her morning ritual of getting the library up and operational, she went straight to Dr. Dresden’s office. Something was nagging her all night and s
he knew that if there were any clues to be found they had to be in Dr. Dresden’s office, something that she’d obviously overlooked yesterday.

  Felicia checked the time. She had approximately twenty-two minutes before the staff began to arrive. She locked her office door and took the elevator up to the administrative floor.

  She hurried down the hallway, took the key to Dr. Dresden’s office from the ring and opened his office door. Once inside she locked the door behind her and switched on the light.

  For several moments, she simply stood there and took in the room. It was something she’d noticed yesterday, although it didn’t quite register. But it had hung in the back of her mind. She needed something to jar it loose.

  She closed her eyes and invoked the image of finding Dr. Dresden on the floor. He was partially on his side. A small pool of blood was under his head. He wore his usual work outfit of gray pinstriped pants with suspenders, pale blue oxford shirt and shiny black shoes.

  Felicia opened her eyes. Her gaze landed on the coat rack in the corner. Dr. Dresden’s forlorn jacket hung there.

  Her heart thumped. And her thoughts raced back to the day before when she’d first spotted the jacket: Dr. Dresden never went out on the floor without his jacket. That was the thing that had been nagging at her. She rushed across the cluttered room, hopping over the mounds of paper. She started to reach for the jacket but stopped midway. This was evidence. She balled her hands into tight fists.

  Think, Felicia, think.

  Maybe now that asshole detective would believe her, she thought, gnawing on her thumbnail as she slowly walked over to the desk and sat down. Her short cream-colored wool skirt rose to her mid thigh.

  Again she scanned the top of the cluttered desk. She knew she would need more than his jacket but at the moment it was all she had. She pushed back from the desk and inadvertently knocked over a stack of folders.

  She began picking them up when a floppy disk slid out of one of the folders.