Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

L ucy rolls opens the throttles, the blades spinning faster and louder. She eases up the collective, pulling in power, her feet on the pedals, her fingers steadying the cyclic. I feel the helicopter getting light on its skids. Then we’re off the ground, lifting over parking lots, climbing above traffic along the George Washington Memorial Parkway.

We curve along the shoreline, crossing a wide rocky stream called the Four Mile Run that empties into the Potomac, the high sun flaring off bright ruffled water. Heading south at an altitude of one hundred feet, we’re well out of the way of planes landing and taking off.

“Traffic! Traffic…!”

The Traffic Collision Avoidance System (TCAS) is going off constantly. It blares in our headsets as Lucy follows the Potomac River unnervingly close beneath us, the surface of the water fanning out in our rotor wash. I can see a lost yellow boat cushion, a plastic bottle bobbing, the variegated blue shades reflecting the dense green trees along the shore.

“Traffic! Traffic…!”

The disembodied warnings continue, and fortunately Marino is oblivious. He can’t hear or see us because of the partition between the cockpit and cabin. I imagine him in his silvery fireproof seat, his eyes squeezed shut and fists clenched, maybe chewing on another motion sickness tablet.

“Traffic! Traffic…!”

He’ll have an airsickness bag in hand, taking deep breaths, trying not to panic, and it’s a terrible way to feel. I’m sorry I’m not there to distract him with reassurances and jokes. I can’t talk him off his emotional ledge the way I did Fabian this morning.

“Traffic! Traffic…!”

The targets flash red in the glass cockpit, showing where other aircraft are in relation to us. The farther we get from the airport, the quieter the alerts. We wind around the Washington Sailing Marina, then Daingerfield Island. Dozens of boats are on the river, their sails white blades against blue like a painting. Water taxis churn past each other, their passengers looking up at the Doomsday Bird, pointing and taking pictures.

As we near the historic district of Alexandria, I can see the George Washington Masonic National Memorial shining white above the horizon like a majestic tabernacle. No matter where I am in Old Town, the colossal granite museum is visible, and I often use it to navigate. But I don’t understand why we’re headed in this direction.

“Where are we going? You taking a detour?” I ask Lucy.

“Checking on something.” Her attention is out the windshield, her hands facile on the controls. “And I’m making our presence known.”

“For whose benefit?”

“Never know who’s watching.” Her steady voice sounds in my headset, the ground rushing beneath us. “When you talked to Sal yesterday, did he tell you whether he planned on stopping anywhere along the way to Green Bank?”

“He indicated he was driving straight through other than a pitstop. We chatted in his driveway for maybe fifteen minutes. Then I left, and he was right behind me, heading out. A few hours later he called.” As I explain, I remember how uneasy I felt.

How’s the trip? Any problems? I asked him first thing, worried something was wrong.

I just wanted to thank you again for stopping by, amore. He sounded wistful, maybe sad, our cell connection iffy. I will always feel like the richest of mortals for knowing you.

“I asked where he was, and he said that he’d stopped in Weyers Cave for gas and a coffee,” I’m telling Lucy. “That’s the last we communicated.”

“What time was this?” She steers the helicopter along the shoreline, and I catch glimpses of the Mount Vernon Trail between trees.

“One-thirty or a little after.”

“Did you get any indication of him stopping in Weyers Cave for anything more than gas and a coffee? Did something seem odd?”

“Nothing comes to mind except it wasn’t like him to call for no reason,” I reply, and that’s not entirely true.

Long ago in a different life, he called for no reason all the time, as did I. There’s no need for Lucy to know. She was a child when that went on.

“But in retrospect I wonder if he had a premonition that something might happen to him,” I add. “Or it simply may be that he was feeling sentimental on his sixtieth birthday. We’ll probably never know.”

“And he was heading directly to Green Bank after making the pitstop?” Her voice sounds in my headset.

“That was my impression.”

“It’s unclear why it took him so long to get there. Several hours are unaccounted for and it’s raising a lot of questions, unfortunately.” She says this in an unsettling way, and we’re slowing down.

We’ve reached our Old Town neighborhood, the narrow streets below surveyed during the colonial days, the homes historically preserved and immaculate. Our property is ahead, the manor house’s two tall brick chimneys peeking above dense leafy canopies. Cherry trees and dogwoods are vivid pink against bright green, the fruit trees snowy with blossoms.

Then Sal’s turn-of-the-century villa materializes behind a tall stand of evergreens on a bluff overlooking the Potomac. Whitewashed stucco is topped by an igloo-looking observatory. It’s surrounded by a terrace with small flowering trees, planters of shrubs, a wooden table and two chairs. I imagine him sitting there on dark clear nights.

I wonder if he carried up a bottle of wine, drinking alone while looking through his telescope like we did that summer. I wonder if he thought about our time together. I know I still do even though I don’t say it. I can imagine all too well what he remembered, and I feel the weight of guilt again. When we were on his driveway, I sensed something was bothering him, and I didn’t question it.

Lucy flies low and slow over the former stable that’s now a garage, and next the carriage house converted into guest quarters. From the air, the gardens are intricate mosaics in vivid colors, the swimming pool shining like a cut sapphire amid fuchsia cherry trees. Sal’s told me the history of the property, researching it thoroughly before deciding to buy the place.

A wealthy Italian shipbuilder designed the original twenty-acre estate in the early 1900s, naming it Porto Sicuro, a safe harbor. The summer Sal and I were together in Rome, he was thinking of buying the place. It was convenient to Washington, D.C., and there was nothing similar on the market.

He showed me photographs of water-stained walls, rotted wood, leaky roofs and windows. But the bones and view are unrivaled, and I told him that if he loved Porto Sicuro, it would love him back.

As Lucy slowly circles, I look down at the cobblestone driveway cutting through tulip poplars, blue cedars, ginkgoes and other centuries-old trees. The ornate iron front gate has been barricaded with traffic cones and sawhorses, and a black SUV is parked just inside. Another one is between the main house and the garage. From our altitude they look like toys.

“Yours, I presume?” I notice two people staring up at us, shielding their eyes from the sun.

“Yes,” Lucy says, the agents disappearing as we fly away toward the river. “When Sal was reported missing, we immediately put his place under surveillance. No one’s allowed inside the house or outbuildings for now. We need to make sure it’s safe, and we really shouldn’t turn his property inside out before we’ve confirmed his identity.”

“That would be rather awful should he walk in on it,” I reply, and if only that could happen.

I recognize the Torpedo Factory passing beneath us, a former munitions plant now an art center that’s a fun bike ride from our house. Then we’ve reached the bustling waterfront’s shops and places to eat that Benton and I visit as schedules allow.

“When you were with Sal yesterday, was anyone else on the grounds or inside the buildings?” Lucy swoops the helicopter inland as we near the Woodrow Wilson drawbridge spanning the river. “Did you notice any signs that someone else might be there or had been?”

“When I was coming up the driveway, a florist’s van was leaving,” I reply. “I wasn’t surprised and didn’t pay much attention since it was Sal’s birthday. Other than that, I didn’t see a sign of anyone else.”

“What was he like when you were with him?”

“Preoccupied,” I reply. “A bit gloomy, truth be told.”

“You sure turning sixty was the only thing bothering him?”

“No, I’m not sure. And I should have asked. There are a lot of things I should have asked him, but I didn’t.”

“Don’t feel bad about it.” Lucy’s voice is matter-of-fact in my headset. “You know what they say about hindsight being twenty-twenty. There’s not a thing you could have done to prevent what’s happened unless you’d abducted Sal yourself and locked him away somewhere for safekeeping.”

In my mind, I see him on his driveway. We chatted in the sunlight surrounded by flowers blooming, everything dusted with greenish-yellow pollen. He was getting ready to leave for West Virginia, packing his pickup truck.

Dove è finito il tempo, amore? Where did the time go? he asked when I handed him the gift basket and wished him a happy birthday.

“He was expecting you yesterday? Did you contact him in advance?” Lucy turns the Doomsday Bird on a due west heading.

“Yes,” I reply. “I showed up at eleven with a gift basket of Italian cheeses, olive oil, a bottle of Toscana red, my homemade ciabatta bread. I thought he might want to take it on the road with him.”

“You have a text, an email that shows you were planning to see him?”

“Yes, a text. Actually, more than one,” I confirm. “Why do you ask?”

“When did you send these texts?” She thunders over a field where kids are playing soccer, and they stop their game to stare.

“We communicated the night before.” I scroll through the messages on my phone. “We texted on Sunday night between six and six-thirty while I was home making dinner.”

“Who reached out first?”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“To ask if I could stop by the next day with his birthday gift,” I reply. “And I said that when he was back from his travels, Benton and I would have him over for a belated celebration.”

“This was in a text?”

“Yes,” I repeat. “Am I a suspect in something?” I’m not really joking.

“You knew him well and are going to be asked a lot of questions,” Lucy says as we fly over a meadow spangled with colorful wildflowers. “Better get used to it.”

“I’ll do my best to answer what I can.” I’m not liking the sound of this.

“What can you tell me about the florist’s van that happened to show up at the same time you did yesterday?” Lucy returns to that while scanning her instruments.

“The driver was wearing dark glasses, a black baseball cap pulled low and a black face mask,” I describe. “Don’t know if it was a man or a woman but I had to move over to let the person pass. The driver was rude in retrospect.”

“Can you describe the van?”

“White with no windows.” I wonder uneasily who I passed on Sal’s driveway. Who was it really? “There was a rack on top, and a Betsy Ross flag logo, the name First Family Florists. I’ve never heard of them, by the way.”

“That’s because they don’t exist, not around here.” Lucy’s “smart” glasses answer questions without being asked. “Did Sal say anything about a flower delivery? I’m assuming the van you saw must have dropped off something?”

“He told me that he’d just received five dozen long-stem white roses.”

“Wow. That’s quite a gift,” Lucy says. “Whoever sent them obviously knew he was turning sixty. Of course, it wouldn’t be hard to find out that information or where he lives.”

“He told me they arrived in a beautiful Italian ceramic vase hand-painted with a pastoral scene.” I continue telling her what I remember. “The card was addressed to Sal, and nothing was on it but the name of the florist that you’re telling me is fake.”

“Did he have any idea who the roses might be from?”

We cut across the Capital Beltway. Ribbons of traffic wind through hotels, apartment complexes and parking lots like a charmless Monopoly board.

“He thought they were wonderful and assumed I sent them.” I envision his face lighting up at the thought. “Of course, they weren’t from me. And as beautiful as they may be, I wouldn’t pick white roses because I associate them with funerals.”

“Maybe that’s the point considering what’s happened since,” Lucy says, and it’s a sickening thought.

“I should have asked Sal more questions or stepped inside the house to take a look at the roses for myself, but I didn’t think about it. He needed to be on his way to West Virginia and I couldn’t stay very long either.”

“Sounds like we should take a few more precautions,” Lucy decides.

She calls Secret Service headquarters about the bogus First Family Florists, and I can hear the conversation in my headset. Someone posing as a delivery person showed up at Sal Giordano’s house yesterday, Lucy tells whoever she’s talking to, an agent with a quiet deep voice.

“I want to make sure the large vase of white roses this person delivered isn’t a booby trap,” she’s saying. “Appropriate measures must be taken to ensure that any possible explosive devices or anything else dangerous are rendered safe before investigators go in…”

The Doomsday Bird follows I-495 west, trees on either side of us. The mountains are a bluish-gray haze in the distance, the storm front’s dark wall rising higher above them.

“Do you think someone’s already been through Sal’s place before we’ve had the chance?” I ask.

“We know that the alarm’s been on since he set it yesterday as he was leaving for West Virginia.” Lucy watches a red-tailed hawk sail past, a hazardous weather warning flashing on an illuminated weather map.

“I saw him do it,” I confirm.

“In a perfect world we would have had his property under surveillance from then on. But we had no way of knowing he was about to be abducted and killed. By the time we were notified this morning that he was missing, anyone interested in his property would have had a significant head start.”

“Assuming he was grabbed after leaving the Red Caboose around eight-thirty or nine last night, we’re talking a ten- or eleven-hour window before anyone started looking for him,” I tell her. “That’s quite a head start indeed. Obviously, you’re worried about someone breaking into his home.”

“And hoping it hasn’t already happened,” Lucy replies. “That and sabotage, planting bombs, poisons, who knows what. According to his alarm company, the security system is old and doesn’t include glass breakers and motion sensors. He has a camera over the front door, nothing else, and none of this would stop anybody as sophisticated as what we’re dealing with.”

“Breaking in for what reason?”

“Looking for something.”

“What?” I ask.

“Information would be my first guess. Stealing any electronic devices, for example.”

“Needless to say, I lectured him about his safety and security when given the chance,” I reply.

“So did we.” She means the Secret Service did. “He’d come to the White House or Camp David, driving his old truck by himself, living as if he wasn’t a Nobel laureate and confidant of the president.”

“He was a free spirit, determined to block out distractions, especially unpleasant ones such as people wanting to hurt him.” It’s becoming easier to talk about him in the past tense, the finality slowly sinking in and tightening its grip.