DRIVEN: A Rita Mars Thriller Read online

  “No, I’m not saying that at all. But having done a turn in homicide, I say it’s not a likely murder method.” Captain Smooth now headed a vice unit.

  “I agree,” Rita said. “Though if this was the work of some government spook group, they could have carried it off. The last series of articles he was working on was a government expose.”

  “Slick, you sound like talk radio. You were an investigative reporter too long.”

  “Tell me it’s impossible.”

  “I can’t,” Mary Margaret said.

  “You’re looking at me with that Sister Mary Holy Water face of disdain,” Rita said.

  “I am not.”

  “Smooth, this was a great guy. He helped me so many times, and even though he was headed down the tubes, he fought his way back. He was not about to end it all. I can’t let this go.”

  “And you want me to . . .” Mary Margaret set down her coffee cup and waited.

  “Help me find the killer,” Rita said.

  Mary Margaret nodded and sighed. “I have no choice.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Shall we count the times I’ve posted bail, pulled you out of close encounters of the assault kind, and . . .”

  “Never mind,” Rita said. “I got it.”

  ♏

  Rita’s office was in the labyrinth of narrow side streets surrounding the Baltimore City courthouse. The worn brick Homer building on Lafayette was the headquarters for bail bondsmen, finance companies, a collections agency, and RM Security Services. Rita could have afforded better, but she decided that the location provided greater anonymity than high-class suburban office buildings. Clients did not like to be recognized visiting a private investigator.

  As a frosty sun gilded the city streets, Rita wheeled her Jeep off the Jones Falls Expressway in the direction of that office. She still had on the jeans, cowboy boots, and polo shirt, she’d worn to West Virginia. She could brush her teeth and comb her hair when she got to the office.

  The light was on in her reception area where her admin, Beverly, was already at work. Rita hoped he had brought some doughnuts. She’d had no sleep since her late night meeting with Mary Margaret and she had a craving for the twin foundations of improved focus: sugar and caffeine.

  Today Beverly wore six-inch imitation crocodile heels, a black leather mini skirt, and a white angora sweater with a plunging neckline—the white accented his clear chocolate skin. His makeup was textbook exceptional, as were his accessories, and he’d had a fresh nail job, plain red this time instead of the orange and black he’d sported in honor of Halloween.

  Beverly Hills was Rita’s administrative assistant. Her real name was Charles Tyrell Wheatly. When she’d first met Charles, she called herself Helen Wheels, but having matured over time, she felt that the new name conveyed a greater sense of class and sophistication.

  She’d first met Bev when she was working on a story about a serial killer stalking transgender individuals in the Baltimore-Washington community. Four dead and the police didn’t seem to take notice. Rita’s angle was to bring attention to this fact and force authorities to step up the pace before others were murdered. The story turned sensational and lit a fire under police after a prominent—and closeted—banker fell victim.

  A close friend of Beverly’s was one of the murdered. She came forth then and offered, through Rita’s liaison between the community and the police, to act as bait. Rita had advised against it, unsure that the police would give her real protection.

  “I have to,” Beverly said. “That was my friend.”

  Rita never forgot those words and they remained close long after the killer was put away.

  “Morning.” Rita grunted and shuffled to the coffee pot to pour herself a cup.

  “Doughnuts?”

  “Well, aren’t we the cheery one today?” Beverly took a white bakery box out of her desk. “Your favorites, my dear. I picked these out myself.” She handed over the box.

  Rita extracted a chocolate frosted and wandered off to her desk in the adjoining room. She plopped into her big leather swivel chair, sat and stared.

  Beverly followed close behind. “And I’m welcome, I’m sure.”

  Rita set down the coffee and her doughnut on the blotter.

  “Honey, what is the matter? You didn’t run into that Diane girl again, did you?” Beverly stood with hands on his hips.

  Rita shook her head and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Bev. A good friend of mine died yesterday.”

  Beverly rushed over to stoop beside the chair. “Honey, I’m sorry.”

  “Bev, I think he was murdered.”

  “Oh, my. Is it somebody I knew?”

  “I don’t think you ever got to meet him. He’d just called me last week. I went to see him in Harper’s Ferry and—he was dead.” A lump rose in her throat and she squeezed back tears.

  Beverly scooted into the bathroom just off Rita’s office and returned with a handful of tissues. “Here you go, honey.”

  “Bev, cancel my afternoon appointments, will you? I’ve got to think about how to handle this situation.”

  “Honey, I can cancel those afternoon appointments, but you’ve got a woman’s gonna be in here in about five minutes. Called last thing Friday as I was leaving.”

  Rita blew her nose and tossed the tissue into her wastebasket. “Tell her I’m not here. Tell her I’m sick, tell her—”

  The main door opened then and through her office doorway, Rita could see a well-dressed blonde woman. The woman nodded and took a seat in the outer office.

  “Dammit.” Rita walked into the bathroom and started running cold water. “Stall her until I can wash my face and brush my teeth at least.”

  The woman was petite, Rita’s size, but with ash blonde hair and pale hazel eyes. Rita stopped breathing. It was the reaction she’d had the first time she’d seen Diane—like being terrified and wildly happy at the same time.

  Her visitor wore a tailored navy suit with a leather folio under her arm. She carried herself with confidence and a businesslike demeanor, though she did do a subtle double take as Beverly welcomed her into the office.

  “Karin VanDreem,” she said as she extended her hand. She had such elegant fingers, a lapis pinky ring on her left hand, a diamond band on the right.

  Rita popped on her bifocals, hoping the lenses would obstruct the red puffiness around her eyes. Karin sat in the wingback chair in front of Rita’s desk. She stole a last glance as Beverly exited.

  “I’m sorry, but I didn’t get a chance to ask my assistant about the reason for your visit. Will you fill me in?” Rita opened her notepad and picked a pen from her top drawer. When she glanced up, Karin’s soft hazel eyes caught her attention.

  “I know your name from your journalism career,” Karin said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Particularly the series you did on domestic violence and stalking.”

  Rita nodded. She couldn’t keep away from those hazel eyes.

  “That’s why I came to ask for your assistance.” Karin paused and took a breath.

  “You need advice about—"

  “I need to hire someone for security.” Karin shifted in her seat.

  “That’s not the usual kind of thing I do.” Rita looked up.

  The hazel eyes were waiting. They sent shivers through her.

  “Your advertisement says Investigative and Security Services.” VanDreem stiffened.

  “It does,” Rita agreed. “But the kind of security I do is providing people for events or background checks or short-term chaperoning for visiting celebrities or executives.”

  “Look, you know from the articles you wrote what a woman’s options are when this kind of thing starts. The police are useless. They’re only going to come to my house when they get the 911 call after someone’s found my body.”

  “Exactly who is stalking you?” Rita asked.

  “My ex-husband. We were divorced a year ago. It started three
months ago with my coming home from work and finding things taken from the house or rearranged or small dead animals in strange places.”

  “And it escalated?”

  VanDreem nodded. “Phone calls in the middle of the night from untraceable numbers. Scary laborers who showed up at the house asking for work.”

  “But you have proof it was him?”

  “None that the police will accept.”

  Rita leaned toward her. “Then how do you know it was him?”

  “He has played on every fear he knows I have. It’s too perfect, too pat, to have been anyone else.” VanDreem pressed her hand against her forehead for a moment. “I’m sorry. I’m about at the end of my rope with this and I don’t know what else to do.” She looked around the room. “Do you happen to have any coffee?”

  Rita jumped up and went to the door to the reception area and motioned Beverly for another cup of coffee.

  “Oooh, ain’t she sweet,” Beverly whispered in Rita’s ear as she brought in a tray with coffee and the remaining doughnut arranged on a silver plate. VanDreem tried to hide another quick appraisal of the black Amazon who was Rita’s secretary.

  Rita poked him in the ribs as he walked by.

  With Beverly safely back at the reception desk, Rita sat again across from Karin VanDreem. She took a sip of fresh coffee and watched as her client poured in the cream and sugar.

  Perfect nails, short, cared for, unpainted. Slim fingers sloping from a small hand and delicate wrist. Rita followed the coffee cup to Karin’s lips which were also unpainted and delineated a tender mouth around which hovered smile lines. VanDreem said something.

  “I didn’t catch that,” Rita said.

  “Will you help me?” Karin asked.

  “What did you have in mind, Ms. VanDreem? Body guard duty twenty-four hours a day is not a possibility.” Rita took too big a gulp of coffee and burned her tongue.

  “Please, just call me Karin. I don’t need someone to be glued to me. I was thinking more along the lines of random checks of the house. Checking out the source of phone calls. I need a case to put in front of him and his attorney that will be conclusive enough to threaten his livelihood if I take it public.”

  “And what does he do that publicity would hurt him?” Rita asked.

  “Dr. Douglas Sevier.”

  “The child psychiatrist?”

  “Author of Parental Direction, Families and Bonding, etc.”

  “The guy with the talk show,” Rita mused.

  “His attorney is Steven Cushman.”

  Rita raised an eyebrow. “Cushman’s the king of white-collar plea bargains.”

  “They went to the University of Virginia together.” Karin set down her coffee. “And how did Douglas and I get together is the question rolling around in your head.”

  “Can’t say that it didn’t,” Rita admitted.

  “It’s a long and dull story. Suffice it to say that I worked with him a long time ago. I’m a PR consultant. I let professional admiration get confused with emotional neediness.” Karin looked away for a moment.

  “It’s happened to us all,” Rita said, Diane Winter coming uninvited to her thoughts.

  “Look,” Karin said, “I know you were an investigative reporter for more than seventeen years. You were relentless in pursuit of your stories, and you frequently used some—shall we say—unorthodox methods to get what you wanted. But I also know, from the body of your work, that you have a deep sense of commitment about what’s right.”

  Rita leaned forward. She could smell the perfume now. She smiled. “After that comment, how could I refuse to take this case.”

  “So what do I need to do now?” Karin asked.

  “We have an agreement to sign. I’d like access to be able to do security checks at your house. Initial payment.” Rita pulled a contract from her desk drawer and handed it across the desk. “And I need some information about your ex-husband.”

  Karin reached into her folio. “Here are an extra set of keys to my house—basement door is this little one.” She slid them across the desk. Next she unfolded her checkbook.

  With business complete, Rita followed Karin VanDreem into the reception area. She saw Beverly watching out of the corner of his eye as he typed on his computer.

  “I have to comment on this,” Rita said as she walked Karin to the door.

  Karin raised her eyebrow.

  “For a woman supposedly in danger, you seem pretty matter-of-fact.”

  “It’s a trick I’ve learned over the years in business dealings. I can’t reveal that I think my client’s ideas are ridiculous or that I’m afraid to lose the account. I also teach at the woman’s prison. In that setting, I don’t want my students to see revulsion for their crimes and above all, I don’t want them to see fear. I would be doomed.” Karin swallowed hard. “But make no mistake, Ms. Mars—I am afraid for my life.”

  Their eyes met and Rita, for just a moment, saw that truth.

  Then quickly Karin VanDreem extended her hand and Rita took it. She knew it would be a firm and warm handshake. For a second, when the ritual ended, Karin’s hand lingered in hers. And the perfume—Obsession .

  Rita took a deep breath.

  The door closed and Karin VanDreem was gone.

  “I see you didn’t eat that doughnut I brought you. Must have been distracted.” Beverly smiled and kept on typing.

  “She’s straight.” Rita walked toward her office.

  “Yeah, and so are some of my best friends,” Beverly said.

  Rita slammed the door behind her.

  Behind her desk, she bit into her doughnut. She could still smell perfume. She glanced at the empty chair, then back to her notepad.

  Quickly she scribbled a list, people connected to Bobby Ellis, people who might know more than she. Next of kin was his brother, Edmund, face doctor to the rich and shameless around the DC beltway. At least that’s who the West Virginia hospital told her they had contacted about the death and transport of the body.

  And there was Trisha, Bobby’s ex-wife. They still had to be in touch. Even in the depths of his addiction, Bobby had talked about his son and made weekly pilgrimages to visit after the divorce. He had been so afraid he would never see that child again.

  Then came the flashback. Rita saw her father in his resplendent Maryland trooper brown. He was starched and straight, and he looked like a prince. Over and over he would tell Rita and her brother, Kit, how much he loved them. She heard him say that to her mother many times. But the alcohol came before them all, and it was a master who demanded blood sacrifice. All she had left was his official police photograph, a Glock 22 and a banged-up chrome lighter with a doomsday warning.

  This thought returned her to the task at hand. She jotted down more names and places. The newspaper where Bobby had last worked, and the place he was trying to get back to—The Star.

  Rita finished a long list and sighed. She’d been awake too many hours. Her eyes burned. Even with the sugar and caffeine overdose, she was fading.

  “Bev, I’ve got to get some sleep. I’m dead on my feet.” Rita paused at the reception desk.

  “I’ll be in early tomorrow,” Bev responded.

  “You’re a doll,” Rita said

  “Honey, don’t I know it.” Bev gave her a wink.

  ♏

  It was a forty-minute ride to Rita’s house in the country. She had fallen in love with an old white farmhouse in Baltimore County north of the city in the heart of Maryland horse country.

  It had been a tedious two-and-a-half-hour drive from there to The Star’s DC office on L Street. She’d bought it two years before she left the paper. Unconsciously she must have known she was on her way out of the newspaper business.

  The land out here was gently rolling, much like the West Virginia landscape she had just left. The difference was that the hills were softer. Though suburban warrens of townhouse communities threatened to swarm across the rich pastures, it was still a vista of wide-open space. Hors
es grazed here instead of dairy herds.

  Rita punched down on the Jeep’s accelerator and sped further out I-83 toward home and away from the city. The top was still down and she had the heater on full blast. She switched on the radio.

  The tune was “Dancin’ in the Dark” and Rita sang along.

  Rita wheeled into the short uphill drive to her house. Near the top, she slammed on her brakes and honked the horn.

  “Move it, buster.”

  A large yellow tabby lay sprawled across the asphalt. He raised his head at the screech of the brakes and stared at the vehicle looming over him. This was The Great White Hunter. Just after she’d moved in, he’d been dropped near the house and a few days later hit by a car. Rita had footed the vet bills and the rest was history.

  Rita tapped the horn again. The Hunter leisurely pulled himself to his feet, stretched, sauntered to the edge of the drive.

  “You’re really playing this a little too close, bud.” Rita emerged from the parked Jeep and walked over to scratch his head.

  “Hellooooo.” A frail, white-haired woman in a flower print dress and cardigan waved energetically from the front yard of the house next door.

  “Loretta.” Rita waved back and walked across her drive and the next one into her neighbor’s front yard.

  “How do you do.” The woman said and extended a wavering hand freckled by years of gardening. “My name is Loretta Mondieu. My husband is Vernon—though he’s not here right now. And you are?”

  “Rita Mars. I’m pleased to meet you, Loretta.”

  “Mars. Unusual name, my dear. Very unusual.” The woman cocked her head thoughtfully. “You know we’ve lived in this house for more than fifty years. My family’s owned this land for more than a hundred.”

  Loretta had Alzheimer’s. For the last two years, Rita had repeated this introduction at least once a month. “Isn’t Scarsdale handsome?” Loretta gestured with pride at the stone goose still in his Halloween outfit. He wore a black cape and a black pointed witch’s hat. Leaning across his left wing was a tiny homemade broom.

  “He is striking,” Rita agreed.

  “Yes, striking.”

  “Well, it was a pleasure meeting you, Loretta. I hope you’ll give my best to Vernon.”