Ghost Image, page 28
“He apparently contacted a number of pharmaceutical companies, looking for trial studies of Alzheimer’s drugs that might be suitable for her.”
“I wonder if he also mentioned the seeds and that he was searching for them. Obviously they could be worth a fortune commercially, to say nothing of the historical value,” she said. “Do you think Kevin figured out where they were before he died?”
“I don’t know. The last thing he was looking into was the McMillan Commission’s plan to resurrect Pierre L’Enfant’s original design for the Mall,” I said. “Do you think the seeds could be somewhere here? I mean, on the Mall?”
She looked stunned. “My God, wouldn’t that be something? But where would they be? There’s no monument to L’Enfant, and if they’re in the cornerstone of, say, this building or the Arts and Industries Building next door, then good luck retrieving them.”
“There is a monument to Pierre L’Enfant,” I said. “His grave overlooking Washington.”
“Yes, but surely you know what it looks like? A massive stone table set on a pedestal. It would take an act of Congress to get that moved. An act of God would be easier. If the seeds are there, it’s forever.”
“In other words, maybe Kevin nearly found them, but they’ll stay where they were buried?”
“You’d have to have incontrovertible proof. You’re talking about the National Mall or Arlington Cemetery. You don’t just stick a shovel in the dirt and start digging.” She laid a hand on my arm. “Let me know if you find anything and I’ll do what I can to help.”
“Thank you. I should let you get back to the conference.”
She waved a hand. “Oh, I’m already late. I just came from a meeting with Yasmin Gilberti. The next presentation I’m going to attend is David Arista’s talk at two.”
“David is here?” I asked, and she nodded. “I didn’t know Yasmin was in Washington. I thought she was still in London with Victor. His father is very ill.”
“She came home because of David’s talk and a meeting with the Creativity Council. I’m not sure when she got back. Victor stayed in England.”
Maybe Yasmin flew home to tell her mother in person about the decision to postpone the wedding. Thea didn’t appear to have any clue about that news, so I said in a neutral voice, “That makes sense. I’d better be going. And thanks for the offer of help.”
Thea gave me a sharp-eyed look. “Are you planning to make a tour of the Mall and Arlington Cemetery?”
I nodded. “I think I might.”
“Good luck. Just don’t take a shovel. The Park Service frowns on people digging up federal property.”
I went directly to Arlington. It seemed like the easiest and most logical place to start. The traffic lights were in my favor, so it took only ten minutes to drive around the Lincoln Memorial across Memorial Bridge to the main cemetery gate. Up ahead of me perched on a hill at the highest point of the cemetery, Arlington House and the grave of Major Pierre Charles L’Enfant overlooked the city of Washington.
Once I explained to a woman in the Visitor Center that I was a photographer working on a project with Museum Press, she gave me a map and a pass for the Vespa so I could drive through the grounds to L’Enfant’s grave, instead of making my way up the steep hill on foot. The streets had names like Eisenhower, Roosevelt, Patton, McClellan, Grant, and Pershing, and the winding drive uphill past row after row of white markers was heartbreaking and haunting in its peacefulness. A few cars were parked next to the steps leading to the Eternal Flame. Maybe when I finished what I’d come to do, I would stop on the way down.
I turned on Humphreys Drive and parked in an empty lot. At eleven o’clock on a Thursday morning, the place was deserted. Here the graves were older, and it looked like a proper cemetery, no rows of white markers. But this land had once been part of a large estate, the mansion built by George Washington’s adopted son and later the home of his daughter and her husband, Robert E. Lee, before the U.S. government confiscated it when Lee became a commander in the Confederate Army.
I found a more detailed map of the cemetery on my phone and zoomed in. Perhaps the seeds weren’t in the grave but somewhere near it around Arlington House. There was an elaborate flower garden next to the mansion and a colonnaded pavilion that the map called the Old Amphitheater and Rostrum, the gathering site for the cemetery before a new, larger pavilion had been built in the 1920s.
But it seemed to me that all these places were too far away from L’Enfant’s tomb. I walked around Arlington House to the steep bluff overlooking the Eternal Flame far below and the view across the bridge to the Lincoln Memorial and the two other iconic monuments, both envisioned by L’Enfant: the Washington Monument and the Capitol dome. A blue ribbon of the Potomac River snaked between a broad expanse of green-tinged trees.
As Thea had said, L’Enfant’s grave looked like a large table set on a substantial marble base. His map of the city had been engraved into the top slab. If the seeds were under all that marble, they really would remain there forever. A podium-like marker with a time line of L’Enfant’s life and another copy of his map set under Plexiglas stood a few feet away from the grave.
I checked it out. At the base of the marker something had been set into the ground, a small metal box like a safe. I knelt and brushed away dirt. There was a keyed lock set flush into the metal surface.
I sat down hard, staring at the little safe, and thought, I’ve found the seeds.
Hiding in plain sight, just as Kevin had said that last day at the Tidal Basin. They had to be here.
My phone rang. It was Olivia.
“I’ve got something for you,” she said. “A letter from Senator Quincy to Charles Moore dated March 4, 1902. It’s just two lines. Shall I read it?”
“Yes, please.”
She sneezed and blew her nose. “Sorry. Here’s what it says: Please be assured of my most sincere thanks for your efforts to persuade the members of the McMillan Commission to accept my donation. I trust you will do your utmost to ensure that some day it is most nobly enshrined. Yours, Francis P. Quincy.” She sniffled. “That’s it.”
“Thank you,” I said. “It’s very helpful.”
Francis Quincy had given Charles Moore the White House seeds, and Moore had done what Quincy asked: made sure they were most nobly enshrined.
“Is this something we could incorporate into the book?” she asked.
“Possibly. We’ll have to talk about it.”
“Excellent. By the way, David Arista told me he could still get you into the Arts and Industries Building this week since you came back early from London. Starting next week they’re going to begin fixing the ceiling, so no one will be allowed in. I think you should take those interior photographs tomorrow.”
The hair on the back of my neck prickled. “Did he tell you this today?”
“No, yesterday. I haven’t seen him today. But when I do, I’m going to tell him I want my bunny back.” She blew her nose.
“Your bunny?”
“My money. My allergy medicine costs a fortune and it’s not doing a bit of good.”
“Sorry. I don’t understand.”
“It’s a joke,” she said. “Arista Pharmaceutical makes the stuff I’m taking.”
The penny dropped. “David Arista’s family owns a pharmaceutical company?”
“You’ve never heard of them?”
“I’ve been overseas for so many years I … no, I haven’t.”
“I’d better get back to the conference,” she said. “I think you should talk to David and see if you can set up that session tomorrow.”
Arista Pharmaceutical must have been one of the companies Kevin contacted to ask about drug trials for his sister. And, as Thea had said, maybe he’d said something or dropped a hint that he might be able to locate seeds to an extinct plant more potent than modern-day water hyssop, something that had already proved effective in restoring memory loss. Was it David Arista who had been stalking Kevin because he already knew about the seeds?
“Sophie?” Olivia sounded impatient. “Are you still there? I said I think you should give David a call. We don’t want to lose this opportunity.”
“Sure. I’ll do that.”
“Let me know how it goes,” she said, and disconnected.
Footsteps crunched on the gravel behind me, and I looked up, shielding my eyes against the sunshine.
I didn’t have to call David Arista.
He was standing right here.
TWENTY-TWO
He held out a hand, offering to help me up. The smile on his face looked more like a leer. I stood on my own, clutching my phone in both hands.
How much had he overheard of my conversation with Olivia? It probably didn’t matter, because I already knew it was no accident or coincidence that he was here. His eyes strayed to the ground and the freshly swept dust that revealed the little inground safe.
I caught the look of triumph before he wiped it off his face and pasted on a smile.
“Isn’t this a surprise? Aren’t you supposed to be at the Smithsonian?” I asked.
“Not until two.” He indicated my phone. “Who were you talking to?”
I could have told him it was none of his business, but it didn’t seem like a good idea.
“Olivia Upshaw. She says you can still get me into the Arts and Industries Building to take photos tomorrow.” He didn’t say anything, so I went on like this was a normal conversation. “Why don’t we settle on a time now? I’ve got to get back to town for another meeting so I can’t stay …”
He put his hand on my wrist, circling his fingers around it with unmistakable pressure. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“Let go of me, David.”
He pulled the phone out of my hand and shoved it in his pocket. “Why don’t we go for a little walk in the woods? They’re planning to expand the cemetery in the next few years, right behind Arlington House. I think we ought to take a look.”
He wrenched my camera bag off my shoulder and twisted my arm so it was pinned behind my back. It hurt and I knew he meant to cause me pain. The day I met him he’d talked about his mother having a Jack-and-Jesus wall in their home and how often he’d visited the Eternal Flame with her as a kid. He probably knew this cemetery pretty well. And she was devoted to St. Francis of Assisi. He probably knew the monastery garden equally well.
“Let go of me and give me back my phone and my camera bag.”
He slid his other arm around my throat and leaned close to my ear. “Start walking, Sophie.” He applied a little pressure. “Do as I say.”
I gagged and he released his chokehold.
I refused to give him the pleasure of telling him he hurt me. Or that he scared me. “Did you follow me from the Castle?”
He gave me a heavy-lidded look. “Your GPS settings are turned on in your phone. I was able to track you quite easily.” This time his smile really was a leer. “New technology. My clients teach me things all the time. Now get moving. I’ve got a gun.”
If he brought it, he meant to use it. I said, with more bravado than I felt, “What are you going to do? Kill me? Is this what you did to Kevin? Threaten him first, then kill him?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But his grip tightened and he shoved my arm hard enough to make me wince.
Just keep him talking, keep distracting him.
“Sure you do,” I said. “You came to London, too, didn’t you? You were the one who met Will Tennant at the Chelsea Physic Garden.”
His expression turned ugly. “You’ve certainly been busy asking questions. You’re smarter than I thought you were.”
“Not smart enough to put the paperwork for Kevin’s book in a safe place so you wouldn’t find it when you broke into my apartment,” I said. “They have security cameras at Asquith’s, you know. Who was the woman? Who’s helping you?”
“The courier who picked up that book has no idea who she got it for,” he said. “I’m not stupid. Get moving.”
“You came to the Tidal Basin the day I met Kevin. Neither of us saw you, but when I downloaded the pictures I took that day, I saw a man by the Roosevelt Memorial. You were only there for a moment and then you never showed up in any more pictures, almost like a ghost. But it was you.”
He didn’t reply, but a muscle tightened in his jaw and I knew I was right.
“Why did you lie when you met me in the Ripley Garden?” I asked. “You said you came from the Chihuly exhibit at the Hirshhorn, except it had closed a week earlier. What were you doing at the Smithsonian? Were you meeting someone?”
“None of your business.”
“It had to be Yasmin,” I said. “Kevin talked to her after he left me at the Tidal Basin and advised her not to go through with the wedding when he saw the two of you together at the engagement party. I think he guessed you were having an affair. Yasmin called you because she must have been panicked that Kevin found out, so you came by to see her.”
“Kevin should have minded his own business.”
“One of you went to talk to him later at the monastery garden. Yasmin showed up early for a meeting with her mother and me at five o’clock, but you could have gone over there, too, after you left me at the Smithsonian. I think Yasmin was so upset by the idea that Kevin might say something to Victor about your affair that either she or you tried to stop Kevin. One of you killed him.”
David frog-marched me around the side of the house. “That stupid little bitch has been more trouble than she’s worth,” he said with venom. “She thinks she can manipulate anyone, including that fool Jaine. Now stop talking and get moving.”
I ignored him. “Did you kill Alastair Innes, too? Arrange an accident for him? Or did you have help in England?”
“Shut up.”
Our pace had slowed as he seemed to be working out how much I knew.
“You’ll never be able to sell that book, you know,” I said. “It’s one of a kind.”
“Don’t be naïve. There are plenty of people who would be happy to buy it and keep their mouth shut. It happens all the time. You just have to find the right kind of buyer.”
“You found out about the seeds because Kevin was making inquiries to pharmaceutical companies about Alzheimer’s drugs. He talked to someone at Arista Pharmaceutical, obviously. Then somehow you found out about the book … Yasmin must have told you. The only people who knew how valuable it was before Kevin died were Victor, his father, and Kevin. Victor must have told Yasmin, and since you two were lovers, she told you everything.”
“I offered to help Kevin,” he said. “We were willing to pay him a fortune for those seeds, even if they turned out to be nothing more than dust.”
“He didn’t want your help or your money, he wanted to make this discovery on his own. So you started following him, stalking him. Were you the one who killed him?”
“I didn’t kill him. He fell. And keep walking.”
“You left him on those steps and he died. And now you’re going to kill me.”
“I don’t have any choice. You’re my last loose end. But I do appreciate you leading me to the seeds … I should have figured that out. All this time they’re buried with good old Pierre L’Enfant.”
To our left was the flower garden. One of David’s hands still had my arm in a vise grip behind my back, and he’d used the strap of my camera bag to secure my other arm. Anyone who saw us—and there was no one—would assume we were lovers out for a walk on a beautiful sun-dappled afternoon, unless they got close to us. Down below on Sheridan Drive, one of the main roads that wound through the cemetery, a large vehicle—maybe a tour bus, if I was lucky—was coming up the hill. I could hear the whine of the engine as it got closer.
“Don’t try anything,” he said in my ear as his arm slipped around my neck again, “or I’ll shoot.”
He was bluffing. He wouldn’t shoot with witnesses around. The bus came into view by the Old Amphitheater, and it was my best chance. I bit his arm and wrenched out of his grip, shoving the camera bag into his gut. He yelped and absorbed the blow with a soft “ouf” as I took off. But apparently the bus was empty or out of service and the driver didn’t see me. It lumbered past the stop for Arlington House and continued down the hill before disappearing from view. I ran into the amphitheater and ducked behind a boxwood hedge.
“I’ll find you,” he shouted.
I heard his footsteps, so I took off running again, using the enormous white pillars and the hedge as screens. Someone had to be inside the mansion, even if I hadn’t seen anyone. Wasn’t it open for visitors? I ran fast, but he ran faster. He swung the camera bag, which caught me hard in the shoulder just as I rounded the corner by the L’Enfant memorial, and the blow knocked me to the ground. I skidded across the gravel on my hands and knees, ending up on the grass. As soon as I started to get up, he dove on top of me and together we rolled to the edge of the hill.
He was bigger and stronger. He gave me one final shove, to send me down the hill, and started to get up. I grabbed his ankles and yanked hard. His feet went out from under him and I held on as he landed. He kicked again, this time his blows landing on my head and shoulders. Below us I heard voices, people shouting, probably watching from far below on the plaza next to the Eternal Flame.
My head felt like someone had taken a hammer to it and I tasted blood. He gave me another hard shove, and this time I couldn’t hold on anymore. I fell away, tumbling down the long, steep hill. I dug in my heels and clawed at the ground, trying to grab at something to stop my momentum. Eventually I stopped rolling and lay there, winded, bloody, and sore.
By now the sirens were everywhere, and I knew they were coming for both of us. I got to my knees, ignoring the audience talking and pointing at me down below. Halfway up the hill, two men in camouflage uniforms carrying assault rifles ran toward me.
This wasn’t going to be good.
“We’ve already got your friend,” one of them said, as the other one snapped handcuffs over the scrapes on my wrists. “You’re under arrest.”
