The Chessman Read online

  Heath called Detective Pearl and the other Cadence guards over, scanned back the video recording, and let the others view this misshapen figure as he made his exit.

  “Ah, hell,” one of the night watchmen spoke up. “That’s just the kid.”

  Cady flipped a page ahead to the most interesting part in this section of the case file, the transcript of Detective Pearl questioning the Cadence security guard, a bodybuilder type named Ritter, who knew the kid.

  “How long has this person been hanging around One Franklin Square?” asked Detective Pearl.

  “He began showing up a month, maybe six weeks back. He had that club foot or something and a crippled-up claw of a hand that always held a juice box, the kind my kids get in those Oscar Mayer Lunchables.”

  “Did you ever talk to him?”

  “Absolutely. The first night I saw him limping back and forth by the main entry, I went over to see if he needed help.”

  “What did he have to say?”

  “Look, Detective, I’m not up on the medical conditions for the mildly retarded, so in the back of my mind I’m assuming he’s got cerebral palsy or something. Anyway, he was a real happy guy, nodded at everything, and there was a bit of spittle problem. I remember taking a step backwards. He stuttered something about the Metro bus, and I figured the kid was waiting for the 9:05. The kid was here about every other night for an hour.”

  “You keep calling him the kid. How old do you think he was?”

  “He wasn’t really a kid. I guess I just thought of him that way, just like I think of them as kids in the Special Olympics. You know, both that and him sucking down those juice boxes. Hard to tell, but I’d say he could be anywhere between early 20s and a youngish 40.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Obviously Caucasian,” Ritter said. “I’m five-ten, and he was taller than me even though he was scrunched up, so maybe six-one if he stood up straight. Greasy complexion, always looked like he’d recently washed his face with fried chicken or something. Black hair. And he always wore a Nationals’ baseball cap all crooked on his head, rain or shine. Plus, he wore one of those hairnets underneath.”

  “He wore a hairnet?”

  “I figured one of the restaurants down the block had him making onion rings or something easy, and that he came here to kill some time before the bus picked him up.”

  “Did you talk to him often?”

  “Just that one time, Detective. To be honest, he wasn’t hurting anyone and I didn’t want to get any more spittle on me, so whenever I saw him across the lobby or outside by the windows looking in or when he’d play by the elevators, I just gave him a nod. I think the other guys did the same. We all kind of felt sorry for him, you know.”

  “He played by the elevators?”

  “I saw him there. Once or twice. Just farting around. You know, pressing the buttons and going in and out. Didn’t hurt anything because at this time of night, he’d need an ID card to make them actually run.”

  Heath and Detective Pearl were able to hunt down and account for the handful of other figures caught on the video cameras that evening, but the kid never came back. The Metro bus drivers on One Franklin Square and the other nearby routes had no recollection of a mentally handicapped man sporting a limp and a Nationals’ cap. Pearl had his people check with all restaurants within six city blocks, but none of those establishments had anyone fitting the kid’s description slinging French fries or bussing tables.

  Cady leaned back in his hotel chair, closed his eyes, and pictured Sanfield: alone in his office that evening, maybe all of ten minutes from packing it in for the night, when he hears an odd voice coming from the hallway. He looks up and sees what appears to be a mentally handicapped young man standing in his doorway with a Nationals’ baseball cap all catawampus atop his head. The guy is wearing some old-time latex medical gloves—the ME had found traces of cornstarch powder in the blood on Sanfield’s dress shirt and around his chest wound—and probably mumbles something incomprehensible about Sanfield’s trash can. A confused Sanfield likely tells the fellow that the janitors had already come and gone an hour earlier. But the kid limps towards Sanfield’s desk to double-check for himself. Sanfield isn’t frightened at this point; like most people, he’s uncomfortable interacting with the mentally challenged but isn’t afraid of them. Then the kid passes by Sanfield’s rubbish basket, suddenly the limp has disappeared and now the simpleton has some kind of dagger in his hand. At this point Sanfield stands to defend himself against the intruder—but it’s too late. Much too late for Sanfield. Perhaps the attorney’s last thought was My God, I’m being murdered by the guy from Flowers for Algernon.

  Cady scribbled a note on his yellow pad, a reminder to contact Detective Pearl, a diminutive man, possibly all of 5’4”, with a weed crop of gray hair. What he lacked in height Pearl more than made up for in intellect, and Cady still remembered their last conversation from three years back.

  “He’s going to be a bitch to catch,” the homicide investigator had told Cady.

  “Why is that?”

  “It’s a locked room mystery that rivals anything by Poe, but if I wanted to snuff a high profile in a secured building with guards buzzing about like wasps,” Pearl said, his dark eyes unblinking, “I’d have done it damn near identically.”

  Chapter 3

  The first e-mail from Richard Gere was expelled straight into Stouder’s Deleted Items folder with the rest of the nonsense and other spam. The subject line read simply I Know Your Secret, but the body of the e-mail was blank. Stouder noticed how they had faked the movie star’s name in the Yahoo address by adding an extra “A” to the first name; then he tapped the Del key and sent the e-mail to join its colleagues of Viagra and Pharmaceutical ads in delete purgatory.

  The second e-mail from Richard Gere—nay, make that Richaard Gere—added a minor twist to the subject line. However, the minor twist added to that second e-mail rated a ten on Stouder’s personal Richter scale and sent tremors down his spine. The subject line of the new e-mail read I Know Stouder’s Secret, and the message was an ominous We’ll Talk Soon.

  Though safely enshrined in his luxury condo in the gated community of Bedford Village, Stouder snapped his head around as though trying to catch someone reading over his shoulder. He walked down to verify that his front door was locked and bolted, with the privacy brace jammed hard under the doorknob. He made sure all window shades were tightly drawn and then walked into the kitchen. Stouder poured himself a second glass of Merlot. He squeezed his fingers into tight little fists to help cease the quivering.

  I Know Stouder’s Secret…We’ll Talk Soon.

  The thing that turned his blood to ice water was that he wasn’t viewing e-mail through his home account. He could understand his name appearing in his formal e-mail set up through Outlook, as his name was part of the address—not hard for the cyber marketing jerksticks to customize via that avenue. But Stouder was reading from his strictly hobby AOL account. None of the data Stouder entered as he set up this bogus AOL account was accurate—not the name, address, phone number—absolutely nothing. Plus, he’d just set up this new AOL account since the incident…and the incident had only occurred last Saturday, for Christ’s sake.

  So a fake Yahoo account was sending Stouder’s bogus AOL account a message claiming to know his secret. It was bad enough seeing this unknown other use his name in the subject line, but what really gave him pause and sent him seeking more of the Merlot was the purported knowledge of his secret. Everyone, of course, had secrets. The odd skeleton withering away in the closet that they’d just as soon not have waltzed out into the bright light of day.

  And Stouder did indeed have a secret.

  But it was nobody’s business but his own. It wasn’t as though anybody got hurt. Stouder simply went to matinee movies. Disney movies. Opening weekends in Fairfield County movie theaters—many, many miles from his home. A baseball cap and a fuzzy black Halloween moustache were his wardrobe. And
if any young boy would happen to make his way, alone, to a nearby restroom, Stouder would follow. Side by side at the urinals, Stouder’d take a quick peek down when no other adults were present. And when the unknowing little tyke finished his business—more often than not forgetting to wash his hands before scampering back to the movie—and Stouder had finished himself off in a stall, he’d head out through the nearest exit. No one would be the wiser. No harm, no foul. The very definition of a victimless crime.

  I Know Stouder’s Secret…We’ll Talk Soon.

  The Internet had opened many doors for Stouder, hence his various hobby e-mail accounts. He downloaded nothing, and even, for the most part, avoided the legal pornography sites. But his downfall was the chat rooms—those damnable enticing chat rooms—where you could say anything you wanted, where you could be anything you wished. Stouder’s fingers began quivering again. Could this unknown other know about the incident?

  But the incident was never really Stouder’s incident to begin with. Those damnable, damnable chat rooms. Stouder spent his nights surfing the bulletins, reading mostly, posting the odd comment here and there. And that was enough, but the requests for private chats in Stouder’s hobby area were all but impossible to ignore. It was hypnotic, unavoidable, like metal shavings toward a magnetic field. Of course he used a fake logon name, just like the rest of them, and he watched his language. If anything, Stouder came across like a counselor or schooled mentor, as someone attempting to lend a hand to these younger ones, helping them turn away from this delinquent choice of lifestyle.

  But Ricky was a siren song, their nightly chats provocative, enchanting…fulfilling. Ricky kept requesting that they meet, as he was almost fourteen and his parents—rich and distant—were away in Europe for the month. Ricky’s sister was at AU during the day, so Stouder could name a time. Stouder knew he was playing with fire, knew about sting operations, and knew that Ricky was quite likely a group of frat boys gulping suds and giggling at a computer keyboard in Madison, Wisconsin, or some other godforsaken place.

  But the tiny chance that Ricky was truly on the up-and-up literally consumed Stouder, ate away at his soul, denied him sleep, haunted his waking hours, until finally one evening he sped home, logged into the site, and grew an ulcer waiting for Ricky to arrive. When Ricky finally turned up, they set a meeting for the next afternoon at one o’clock. Stouder then jumped in his red Mini Cooper and set off on a giddy road trip to the Greens Farms neighborhood of Westport that evening and drove past the address on Nash Street, just for a quick look-see. Nice spread, tan stucco with arches, exactly how Ricky had described it.

  As ever, Stouder was a careful man. Early the next morning he borrowed his aging mother’s poodle, something he never did, telling the old bitch he was thinking of getting a dog and wanted to see how it would be. Then he combed in gray and slicked his thinning hair back, popped on obnoxious sunglasses, the fake Halloween moustache, the baggy sweats that made him look ten pounds frumpier, and even placed some orange peels in his cheeks to alter his facial shape as he’d read about once in a thriller. By ten o’clock he was walking slowly up Nash. He’d parked three blocks down and two over. Tanzy, or whatever the goddamned poodle’s name was, seemed to be enjoying the sun and Stouder had yet to pick up any of her droppings.

  This area of Westport had that nouveau riche look and feel. Stouder was able to eye the house on Nichols as he walked steadily past, just a neighbor out on a casual midmorning stroll. The house looked more impressive during the light of day, hiding Ricky’s tragic loneliness inside. Stouder continued up another block, didn’t want to make anything look too obvious. He toyed with showing up early. Spit out the orange peels and simply knock on Ricky’s door. He was in the act of crossing the walk toward Ricky’s side of the street when he spotted the clunker pull up in front of Ricky’s house. A man with shoulder-length hair leapt out and jogged up the drive. Stouder let Tanzy sniff at a bush and pondered this odd turn of events.

  Another man. Jealousy spiked at Stouder’s heart. Unless…could it be Ricky’s father, back from Europe two weeks early? The man looked at least a decade too young to be the boy’s father. And the clunker looked wrong for a rich daddy. He pictured Ricky’s father in a Lexus. Perhaps it was Ricky’s sister’s college boyfriend. That would explain why the young man was in such a rush. A groggy college student getting a late start and about to catch seven kinds of hell from his girlfriend. That had merit. Stouder pulled on the leash as he and Tanzy began meandering back toward Ricky’s house.

  Suddenly, a door slammed. The young man Stouder had observed heading up Ricky’s drive minutes earlier came bolting down the lawn toward his car. He almost made the beat-up Nova before two of the half-dozen police officers, who unexpectedly poured out of nowhere Stouder could detect, wrestled the greasy-haired young man to the sidewalk. Stouder’s heart almost gave out on the spot as the incident unfolded right before his eyes, as though he had a front row seat at some poorly produced Theater of the Absurd performance. Tanzy began barking and for a brief moment all eyes switched to him. He struggled with the leash, dragging the damned dog across the street, away from the high drama. An NBC truck had materialized in the center of the street; cameramen with shoulder units were filming the perp’s take down. The light bulb went on in Stouder’s head. Ricky wasn’t a troubled youth questioning his budding sexuality. Not at all. Ricky was a goddamned Dateline NBC sting operation.

  As Stouder yanked the forever-barking poodle across the street, he couldn’t help but keep his eyes glued to the greasy-haired man being cuffed on the walkway. Saliva hung from the poor schmuck’s mouth, his face a blur of tears. They made brief eye contact. Stouder mouthed a silent prayer as he reached the opposite side of the lane to the continual shrieks of “I didn’t do anything! I didn’t do anything!”

  Yes, P. Campton Stouder certainly dodged the proverbial bullet that particular morning. In his mind’s eye he pictured himself being forced to the ground by the local authorities as he attempted to flee the scene of his entrapment, while a news crew filmed everything in its full excruciating, humiliating detail. Hardly an ordeal befitting the Executive Deputy Attorney General for Economic Justice in the great state of New York.

  And now someone knew his secret.

  Chapter 4

  It was after 11:00 p.m., so Cady ran down to the Embassy Suites bar and ordered a Reuben sandwich and chips to take back to his room. Cady hesitated when the bartender asked if he wanted anything to drink. Frankly, he’d kill for a Guinness, but it was going to be a long night. Cady had the very peculiar case of Adrien and Alain Zalentine—the Zalentine twins—to review before nodding off, so he ordered a large coffee instead.

  Zalentine Jewelers—of the Zalentine, It Rhymes with Valentine slogan—was founded in 1928 in a San Francisco watch repair shop owned by Lionel Zalentine. Lionel’s philosophy was to sell the finest quality jewelry at the finest prices. By 1942, the year that Lionel gulped a huge glass of ice tea on one scorcher of a day and then sat down on a bench outside his shop and died, there were sixteen stores across California and Arizona. Lionel’s only son, Lansing Zalentine, had three favorite words, words he parroted in every meeting or company event. Lansing’s three words were Expand, Expand, Expand, and by his death in 1985, Zalentine Jewelers had expanded to over five hundred locations in the United States and Puerto Rico. Lansing’s oldest son, Vance Zalentine—the current Zalentine Diamond King—nearly doubled his father’s success by peppering shops in suburban retail malls across the United States and Canada. He had also moved the headquarters of the diamond franchise from San Francisco to Los Angeles. Vance married Amanda Whitaker, a former Miss Sacramento, in the late 1970s, and within a year she gave birth to a pair of identical twins—Adrien and Alain Zalentine.

  Cady recalled flying to Los Angeles three years earlier on a hasty one-day trip to interview the parents. Assistant Director Jund had made it abundantly clear that, due to the family’s stature in the community, he wanted his Special Agent in C
harge to meet with both the diamond patriarch and his wife. Pure and simple politics: show the Zalentines that their sons’ murders would be receiving attention at the highest of levels.

  The one-time beauty pageant queen had been face-lifted and botoxed beyond anything this side of E.T. Amanda Zalentine sat still in the library, staring out the windows, off into the open space of the front garden. Mrs. Zalentine was a basket case and, if not for the melancholy look in her eyes, Cady would have thought her to be in a coma. Both her boys had been murdered, and so she sat, alone in the library, staring off into another time and place, most of her emotions medicated away.

  Her husband, Vance Zalentine, however, was a different cup of tea. “Those deviant little shits were nothing but trouble since they were five years old. They had this bond, were somehow hardwired into each other—one entity, almost—and eerie like a Twilight Zone.”

  The Zalentine mansion sat on a hillside in 90210, thirty acres screaming money, and the kind of place where if they refused to let you in, you’d need Eisenhower to plot the invasion. Mrs. Zalentine hadn’t been much help, nodding her head like a tilting bird to all of Cady’s questions. He switched gears and went into Zalentine’s workout room, the size of an airport runway, as Mr. Zalentine huffed and puffed on the Stairmaster.

  “It’s my fault, really,” Zalentine said, pointing a dripping arm toward the library from which Cady had just left Mrs. Zalentine. “I was so goddamned busy twenty-four-seven, I let the alky raise them. But I’ll never forget coming home early from a business trip one Friday afternoon, parking the Bentley, and then hearing a string of pops, like tires backfiring, coming from behind the pool house. I snuck around the gardener’s shed to see what was going on and I caught the little sociopaths red-handed.” Zalentine took deep gulps from his bottle of Evian and continued, “The twins had bought a dozen hamsters from some pet store, and here they were ramming these M-80 firecrackers up a hamster’s ass or sticking them down the poor thing’s throat and then lighting them off, one after another. Boom! Boom! Boom! Dead hamster parts all over the fucking lawn, a bloody mess. They were ten years old back then. I should have caned the living shit out of little twerps—you know, like they do in Singapore—then they might still be alive.”