Sharp Force, page 29
Faye Hanaday is texting that she’s examined Zain’s necklace under the microscope. A defect in the sterling silver chain looks recent and is consistent with his story about the knife hitting it.
“Unfortunately, that doesn’t help him either,” Benton says as he parks outside Signature Flight Service. “Bose Flagler’s going to say Zain did it to himself.”
“If so, it would make more sense that it was an attempted suicide,” I reply as we climb out.
“And maybe it was.”
“Faye says the blade must have hit the necklace with considerable force to leave the deep gash she’s seeing,” I tell Benton.
“Attempted suicide doesn’t mean he didn’t murder Georgine. Any way we look at it, Zain’s got a major problem,” he explains as we walk inside the small private terminal.
Soft music plays, the handsome lobby decorated for the holidays, the air fragrant with cinnamon, clove and citrus. Globed candle flames waver on tables, a perfectly proportioned Christmas tree glowing by the fireplace. Only a few passengers are sitting on the plump leather furniture, waiting for private flights somewhere.
At the front desk we help ourselves to a glass bowl of peppermints. We give the agent a tail number, showing our IDs while making small talk. Her name is Joan, retired from the Air Force. We’ve been around her before when meeting Lucy here.
“Have a good one,” she says.
“We’ll see you on our way back,” Benton promises, and she remotely unlocks the door.
We head out to the beefy black helicopter waiting on the tarmac, the four blades gently rocking in the wind. Radomes cover cameras and other instruments attached to the belly, and the platform skids have gun mounts for snipers.
The Doomsday Bird looks more like a military attack helicopter than law enforcement, the nanocarbon paint stealthy, an M230 chain gun mounted under the fuselage. Tron and Lucy are in olive-green flight suits, making sure nobody gets close.
They climb up front while we get in back, sitting in forward-facing seats upholstered in a fire-retardant Nomex material. We buckle our four-point harnesses as Lucy and Tron go through the preflight checklist. The partition between the rear cabin and cockpit makes it impossible for me to see them, their voices muffled.
Soon the twin engines are roaring, the blades flying, and I can feel the powerful torque in my marrow.
“Everybody okay back there?” Lucy’s voice sounds in our headsets.
“All good,” I answer.
“I’ll clear us with the tower, and we’ll be on our way,” she replies. “We’ll be flying higher than usual to catch a kickass thirty-knot tailwind, ETA twenty minutes.”
“Holy smoke,” Benton says.
She goes on to explain that the intercom will be set to crew only. She and Tron will be busy. They won’t hear us, and we can’t hear them. I listen to the pitch of the blades changing as Lucy opens the throttles all the way. I feel us getting light on the skids.
Then we’re in the air, lifting over a crowded ramp of parked prop planes and corporate jets. We fly away from the massive airport and its once space-age terminal that now looks almost primitive. Picking up speed, the Doomsday Bird thuds through a blue sky feathered with thin clouds, the sun high.
“Just buzz if you need us.” It’s Tron saying this in our headsets. “You know where the intercom button is. Otherwise, we won’t be talking to you.”
The homes and office buildings in Chantilly shrink to toy size as we gain altitude, churning over parks and forestland. A moving map video display shows the icon of our helicopter two thousand feet over the Civil War battlegrounds in Manassas. We’re too high to see the palings and cannons.
Benton is lost in his phone, checking on the latest communications from his headquarters. He informs me that federal agents searching Zain Willard’s Williamsburg apartment have recovered a quadcopter drone, the equipment that goes with it and other high-tech devices.
But they haven’t found anything that one might call a smoking gun, no sign that he was using dietary supplements or anything else containing chlorophyll and calcite. No violent pornography. No videos, photographs or souvenirs from victims that might memorialize murders or other crimes.
“But none of that will matter much.” Benton’s voice sounds. “It’s very bad for Zain that the fluorescing residue was on Georgine’s body, on the rug and in his hair. It’s bad for him that the cuts to his neck were shallow and he could have inflicted them himself.”
We continue talking as I watch the moving map display, our helicopter icon speeding along on a south-southeast heading, nothing under us but dark green forestland. In no time, we’ve reached the Williamsburg-Jamestown private airport between the York and James Rivers, surrounded by creeks snaking through marshland.
I don’t have to look to know that the numbers 13 and 31 are painted in white on either end on the single runway. The tiny terminal has a restaurant called Charly’s that Lucy and I have patronized over the years when buzzing around in one helicopter or another. I always get the tuna salad. She’s fond of their seafood bisque.
She slows into a steady hover a safe distance from prop planes tied down on cracked asphalt. Landing like a feather near the aboveground fuel tank, she cuts the throttles to flight idle. As the helicopter shuts down, Benton and I look out our windows at the bright afternoon. We take off our harnesses and headsets, checking our phones again.
He leans against me, showing the latest information. The FBI has released an official statement that Zain Willard is a person of interest in the Georgine Duvall murder. It’s suggested he’s the Phantom Slasher. Bose Flagler is all over the news talking about the case and the political pressure on those civil servants trying to respect the law.
“No one is above it,” he declares to Dana Diletti. “Just because he has a powerful uncle doesn’t mean Zain Willard or anyone can get away with murder…”
Lucy is flipping off switches, and then we open our doors. I grab my briefcase, climbing down on the skid and stepping onto the tarmac. Parked nearby is a black Suburban SUV driven by an FBI agent from their Chesapeake field office.
“Hank will take you to Georgine Duvall’s house,” Tron explains.
“You’re not coming with us?” I look at Lucy.
She digs in a pocket, pulling out a key attached to an FBI evidence tag that’s scrawled with today’s date and a case number.
“To her house.” She hands the key to Benton. “And I think you know why we’re not coming. I can’t.”
“Whatever’s best,” I reply.
“A conflict,” she adds.
“I see.”
“Because I once knew her.” That’s as much as she’ll elaborate.
“Understood,” I tell her. “We’ll meet you back here… I’m not sure when.”
“Hank’s already been inside the house,” Tron tells us. “Georgine Duvall has a lot of patient records there. The best thing is if you get a bird’s-eye view, pulling out what you want, and we’ll get copies made. If you try to read everything now, you’ll be there for days.”
We climb inside the Suburban, our driver Hank in his forties and solidly built like a thick tree trunk. He has an easy smile and quiet demeanor on the verge of shy. He tells us that Georgine Duvall’s neighbors describe her as nice and never any trouble. She was reasonably friendly, but for the most part kept to herself.
“The lady who lives across the street said she recognized Zain Willard from the news,” Hank explains as he follows the Humelsine Parkway, dense trees on either side. “And that he’d been spotted visiting Georgine Duvall’s house often.”
“For how long?” Benton asks.
“Years,” Hank says.
“When was the last time he was there?” I inquire.
“According to that same neighbor, early last month,” Hank replies. “She always knew when he was around because his car is really loud.”
As we near the York River, I’m moved by waves of déjà vu. I remember the fun Lucy and I had long ago when I’d bring her to this part of the world, teaching her the history of how America got started.
CHAPTER 36
Historic Yorktown is splendidly decorated, strands of LEDs spangling lampposts and trees. Men dressed as American Revolutionary soldiers march along Main Street, the stirring fife-and-drum music reverberating. Gift shops, art galleries and museums are crowded this sunny Christmas afternoon.
Leaving the commercial area, we reach battlefields from the war against the British. Wooden palings are weathered gray around vast expanses of brownish-green grass. A tall granite column rises above the tree line, commemorating Cornwallis’s surrender to George Washington and the Comte de Rochambeau in 1781.
When Lucy would visit during my Richmond years, we’d explore all sorts of places, each trip an education. She’d look up details in advance, and I’d quiz her in the car. If she got all the answers right, we’d stop for lunch at the restaurant of her choice. Naturally, she never missed a question, and we always ended up at Wendy’s.
Beyond woods is Georgine Duvall’s cloistered neighborhood on a sheer cliff overlooking the York River. Her old frame house is one-story and small, painted dark green with a slate roof.
“Anybody hungry?” Hank asks, pulling into the paved driveway.
“Yes,” we reply as he parks by the front porch.
He says there’s a Raising Cane’s fried chicken restaurant close by, and we give him our order. An elderly man steps out of the house on the left, shielding his eyes from the sun as it settles lower on the horizon. He stares long and hard at us before walking back inside, shutting the door.
It’s all over the news that Georgine was murdered by the Phantom Slasher. I can imagine the uneasiness of her neighbors.
“Are you coming in?” Benton asks Hank.
“No, sir,” he says. “I’ve been inside already, and it’s a shoebox. I don’t want to get in the way.”
“The place has been searched,” Benton assumes.
“We’re all squared away.”
“Do we need to suit up in PPE?” I ask.
“I don’t see any reason for that,” he tells us. “It’s obvious nobody’s been in here since she was last. And we’ve had the place under surveillance since we were notified about her murder.”
“What about while you were picking us up?” Benton asks. “Because we have to worry about other people who might be interested in her records.”
“See that car in the driveway across the street?” Hank points at a white Volvo sedan. “One of ours.”
The car is backed in, the engine off, and I can see the silhouette of someone in the driver’s seat. Benton and I open our doors, climbing out.
“Off to rustle up lunch.” Hank shifts the SUV out of park. “Call if you run into problems.”
He drives away as Benton unlocks the front door with the key Lucy gave him, and the air inside is chilly and stale. No doubt Georgine turned down the heat before leaving for Mercy Island. I turn on the overhead lights and open the draperies in the living area.
Ceilings are low, the paneling stained dark, everything I see tired and dreary except the view. I look out at trees leading to the sheer face of the cliff, and beyond the river as wide as a bay. Between two windows overlooking the water is an antique partner’s desk with a printer on it. The computer that went with it is gone, seized by the FBI.
I find the thermostat, turning up the temperature.
“We’re probably going to need to wear our coats until it warms up in here,” I tell Benton as the heat clunks on, dusty warm air blowing from vents.
It’s unspoken that we’re going to look around before anything else. We start with the kitchen, small with coppertone appliances that haven’t been updated in decades. There’s nothing inside the refrigerator except condiments, water and wine. Georgine must have cleared out everything perishable before leaving for Mercy Island.
I don’t see rare art, nothing on the walls, and the furniture is old but not grand like the antiques she had in Charlottesville. A bookcase is double shelved with out-of-date psychiatric, legal and other professional tomes. She has books on philosophy, sociology and woke culture.
We follow the hallway to the main bedroom, and it would have a fabulous view of the river were the drapes not drawn. I duck inside the bathroom, detecting the faint scent of potpourri in a dish on top of the toilet. Making my usual inspection of cupboards and the medicine cabinet, I find nothing of consequence.
Everything I see is cheap or drearily antiquated, and I’m constantly reminded that Georgine had no money, only what Calvin Willard gave her. I can only imagine how bad that must have made her feel. I suspect that after a while he whittled away any self-respect she had.
Across from her bedroom is a guestroom big enough for a twin bed and a dresser. I open the closet, men’s shirts, several jackets and pairs of pants hanging. On the floor are sneakers and cowboy boots. In a drawer are William & Mary sweatshirts and T-shirts, and socks and boxer shorts.
“Where Zain stayed when he was here,” I gather.
“The poor kid never stood a chance,” Benton says. “She and his uncle emotionally hobbled him forever. For all practical purposes, he was their hostage.”
We return to the living area, focused on a row of low metal filing cabinets lining the wall on either side of the desk. I count eleven of them, my heart sinking. I don’t know what I’m looking for, having little idea where to begin.
“Nothing to do but open one drawer after the other, seeing what’s inside,” I tell Benton.
“Let’s just hope she has actual names on files and not cryptic numbers,” he says.
“Georgine didn’t strike me as cryptic,” I reply. “She also wasn’t careful. Not about her security or her finances. Not to mention whatever she had going on with Graden Crowley and Calvin Willard.”
The house is warming up fast, and we take off our jackets. Benton starts with one end of the cabinets while I work the other, opening a drawer, the creamy files tightly packed inside. They’re labeled with names penned in Georgine’s generous scrawl, last name first.
I look for the obvious, starting with W and finding nothing for Willard.
“Dammit.” I tell Benton what’s not here. “I’ll check for Zain just in case.”
I walk my fingers through that drawer, having no better luck.
“What else might it be under?” I wonder.
“Unless she has it hidden somewhere,” Benton supposes. “Which would make sense considering who his uncle is.”
The front door opens, and Hank is here with our food and drinks. He sets bags and a cup carrier on the coffee table out of the way of the piles we’re perusing.
“Enjoy,” he says, leaving as abruptly as he appeared.
The food smells delicious, and we unwrap everything, eating as we work.
“Confirm for me how Zain is related to Calvin Willard?” I tear open a packet of ketchup.
“His mother is Calvin’s sister.” Benton devours a chicken finger.
“Then her family name is Willard,” I reply.
“Correct.” Benton has pulled a file and is flipping through it, sipping iced tea through a straw.
“Then why is Zain’s last name Willard?” I eat several French fries. “Who was his father?”
“Let me check the background report.” Benton sets the open file on top of a cabinet.
He searches his phone for the results of an investigation that qualified Zain to work in the White House. And I don’t understand that like so many things.
“How is it that his psychiatric issues never came up? How could he keep his cutting and other problems from everyone?” I wipe my hands with a napkin.
“I think you heard it for yourself. Calvin Willard has made sure everything was off the radar. And if people knew anything, he’s made sure they don’t talk.” Benton is scrolling through the report on his phone. “He’s done everything in his power to protect his nephew.”
“In the end, he did nobody any favors,” I reply. “And it’s really not about Zain. It’s about his uncle’s ambitions.”
“Soble,” Benton says. “Zain’s father was Frederick Soble, the mother Marta Willard, her married name Soble. And it appears that after the father died, Zain legally changed his name to Willard.”
“But he was born Zain Soble.” I’m opening another file drawer.
“Yes,” Benton says. “And I’m in the F’s now,” he adds, a note of reticence in his tone.
But I’m barely listening. An entire drawer is filled with files for Z. A. Soble. Zain Alexander Soble, the only son of Frederick and Marta.
“I’ve found him,” I tell Benton.
Pulling out the thick folders, I carry stacks of Zain’s confidential records to the coffee table, sitting down on an old brown leather sofa.
I begin perusing the first file, Georgine’s earliest notes from early June six years ago, right after Zain graduated from high school. Their therapeutic relationship was brokered by Calvin Willard. At first, the psychiatrist was seeing Zain at his uncle’s home on Embassy Row in D.C., and they also Zoomed.
Later that summer she began having sessions with Zain here in Yorktown. Her handwritten records describe a frightened seventeen-year-old who was angry that his mother had moved to Seattle. His first few weeks at William & Mary were tempestuous. He was homesick and overwhelmed. He began seeing Georgine several times a week.
Repeatedly, she mentions that Zain felt existential and controlled like a puppet. She notes that he first self-harmed when he was fourteen. This was soon after his father was struck by a tree toppling in the backyard after a storm. His head was crushed, and he died while Zain watched in horror.
Cutting, Georgine writes. He describes paralyzing anxiety, slicing with razor blades and causing other harm the only way to relieve it…
File after file, and the notes are of the same ilk. Zain was uncomfortable in his own body. He was consumed by self-loathing, and obsessively fantasized about self-mutilation and suicide. He would explore the best way to end himself, almost always coming back to cutting.
