Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [107]
“You never change, do you?” Traxler said. “Always the neatnik.”
She smiled at him as she made a careful pile of the pictures. When he looked away, she removed the second of two shots of the men in the valley from the middle of the pile, and shoved it in her blouse.
“I’ll only be a minute.”
Traxler followed her into the bedroom. “Hurry up,” he said.
She entered the bathroom, closed the door, and tried to collect her thoughts, think clearly, make use of the few minutes she’d have alone. She pulled the photo from her blouse and laid it on the vanity. A pad of orange Post-its was on top of the toilet tank. She opened the medicine cabinet; a glass held a variety of eyebrow pencils, and a Flair pen.
“Come on,” Traxler said through the door.
Jessica flushed the toilet and started writing: Max— Taken by Skip to Gauley Bridge, W.V.—Cabin deed in desk—Help!
She placed a towel on top of the note and photograph.
Traxler banged on the door, then opened it. She spun around. “I’m ready,” she said.
“Yeah, so am I,” he said.
As they went to the apartment door, Jessica in front of him, the gun pressed against her back, Traxler stopped and picked up her binoculars and bird book from a table.
“Why do you want those?” she asked.
“Maybe you can teach me to be a bird-watcher,” he said, moving her forward with the revolver. “Better take your slicker, Jess. They’re forecasting rain.”
She pulled down her yellow rain jacket from a row of pegs in the entranceway and put it on. They went to the hall and she locked the door behind them. As she did, the sound of the phone ringing in the apartment was heard. It had to be Max, she thought.
“Come on, come on,” Traxler said, pushing her toward the elevators. They exited the building and went to his rented silver-blue Ford Taurus. He held the door open for her, came around the other side, slipped behind the wheel, started the engine, and backed out of the space.
Pauling, showered and in a fresh pair of jeans, blue button-down shirt, and running shoes, listened to Jessica’s outgoing message on her answering machine. Strange, he thought, that she wasn’t home. She’d sounded anxious to see him. He tried the number three more times before deciding to drive there, use his key, and wait for her in the apartment.
The moment he stepped through the door, he sensed something wrong. He tensed, reflexively, eyes open a little wider and unblinking, ears tuned to the room’s silence. Her purse was on a chair just inside it. She wouldn’t have left without it. Her car keys were hanging on their usual hook in the kitchen. An unopened bottle of Amstel Light sat on the counter, next to an empty glass and an opener. She’d never leave it out.
He returned to the living room and noticed the sliding doors to the balcony were open. Jessica Mumford was meticulous about closing those doors before leaving, even for a few minutes.
He saw the desktop, picked up the photos, and flipped through them. Where are you? he wondered. He headed for the bathroom. Another dissonant sign struck him, a towel on the sinktop. Towels were always neatly hung, never left on the edge of the tub or the sink. He lifted the towel and saw a photograph, picked it up, and read the note.
It took him a few minutes to locate the photocopy of the deed to the cabin; Jessica had made it before handing the original over to Traxler as part of their divorce settlement.
He picked up the phone and dialed the number of the flight service facility at Reagan National Airport that serviced private and corporate aircraft, and was happy to reach a manager with whom he was friendly. “Bruce, this is Max Pauling. Can I get my Cessna fueled and serviced on the double? I’m heading out there now, should arrive in twenty minutes.”
“Sure, Max. We’re slow. That front coming through is keeping the VFR crowd grounded. Where are you headed?”
“Charleston, West Virginia.”
“Rough weather forecast. Maybe you ought to—”
“Thanks, Bruce. Weather is getting rough all