Operation Mockingbird (8 page)

“What the …”

The place was trashed. Not work-at-home, bachelor-living trashed but torn-apart trashed, likely by burglars looking for anything of value.

From the front door of Stephen’s apartment, Matt walked into a combination living/dining room, across from which were large windows looking out on to 78
^th
Street. To the right, Matt could see a short hallway that led to the only bathroom and then a small bedroom. To the left was an even smaller kitchen.

In the corner of the living room sat a small desk from which Matt knew Stephen did most of his writing. The drawers of the desk had been pulled out and upended, leaving papers all over the surface of the desk and floor beneath it. On the opposite side of the room, Matt looked over at the large entertainment center in the center of the wall. The DVD player and stereo were gone. The large flat-screen television was still there but it was unplugged and pulled away from the wall. Perhaps the burglars had realized, after the fact, that they would look pretty silly walking down Central Park West carrying a flat-screen television. Or worse, they would get an honorable mention in the local paper’s “Stupid Criminals” column.

Concerned that Stephen might have been there when the burglary happened and might still be there, Matt walked down the hallway toward the bedroom. He peeked briefly into the bathroom and saw that the contents of the medicine cabinet and the cabinet beneath the sink were strewn about the floor. The shower curtain had been ripped
off the rod and lay half in and half out of the bathtub. But there was no sign of Stephen.

He continued on to the bedroom. The door was slightly ajar. Matt pushed the door the rest of the way open. The bed was in the center of the wall opposite the door. There was a nightstand on one side of the bed and a dresser on the other. Standing in the doorway, Matt could see that the books that had previously rested on the nightstand had been thrown on the floor. The dresser drawers had been emptied on the bed and then they too upended onto the floor. The contents of the closet were strewn about the room. Fortunately, there was no sign of Stephen.

Matt suddenly felt a breeze behind him. He turned back toward the hallway, just as a powerful blow caught him on the side of the face. His head whipped sideways, followed by his shoulders and then the rest of his body, sending him careening against the wall. He bounced off the wall, instinctively lunging back toward his attacker. Matt plowed forward and head-butted the taller man in the chest. He wrapped his arms around the man’s waist and, as his rubber soled shoes gained traction on the wood floor, pushed the man backward until they slammed against the wall in the hallway.

They both crashed to the floor. Matt was on top, but since he had never let go, his arms were pinned underneath his attacker. Matt scrambled to break free, to get up and get the hell out of there. Suddenly, a pain exploded in the back of Matt’s head. His arms and legs ceased responding to any commands he gave them. His head became heavy, and the room went black.

When Matt finally came to, he was still lying on the floor of Stephen’s living room. His right cheek felt slightly numb against the wood floor. Drool and blood had formed a puddle around his mouth. Without raising his head, he slowly reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out his cell phone. He thumbed the phone awake and drew it close to his face. It took a few seconds for the screen to come into focus and for him to make out the time. He saw that just over an hour had passed since the cab had pulled in front of Stephen’s apartment.

He rose slowly, ignoring the screaming from his brain and rubbed the back of his head. There was no blood, but he knew he would have a good size lump the following morning. He staggered slowly into the living room and sat down on the edge of the coffee table, taking another close look around. A laptop bag sat open on the desk in the corner of the living room, but the laptop that would usually be found sitting in the center of the desk was gone. Clearly, Matt had interrupted a burglary in progress. But it was good that there was no sign of Stephen. Apparently, he hadn’t been here when the burglary went down. Matt had been the one unlucky enough to walk in on it. Which still left the question
Where the hell was Stephen?

Matt looked around the room carefully, picking up pieces of paper from the floor, going into the desk drawers, searching everywhere for some clue, something that Stephen might have been working on that would show where he’d gone or what he was doing. He found nothing.

He looked down at his watch and squinted as the watch face came in to focus. He needed to leave soon if he wanted to catch that train to Maryland to see Marie Sandberg. Matt walked around the living room, surveying it one last time. He was debating whether to call the police and report a breaking and entering or, possibly, a missing person. But who had done the breaking and entering? Matt who coaxed a key out of a gullible neighbor to break into Stephen’s apartment or some cranked-out crack head looking for anything of value that could be used to score their next high? Surely the latter but from the police’s perspective, Matt was as guilty of trespassing as the burglars were of breaking and entering. Either way, it wouldn’t matter. Stephen’s place was still trashed, his valuables -- to the extent he had any -- were gone. Matt shrugged his shoulders in frustration.

He turned to Stephen’s desk and grabbed a pen from the open drawer. He picked up a sheet of paper from the floor and wrote a quick note to his old friend. “Stephen, sorry about the mess. Obviously, not my doing. Just happened by at the wrong time. Call me! Matt.” He threw the pen on to the desk and ran out the door to catch his train.

CHAPTER NINE

MATT WALKED UP the front path toward the white two-story house. A 50-foot oak tree extended its long limbs over the expansive front lawn. A toddler-sized double swing hung securely from one of the immense branches and swayed in the late afternoon breeze. Underneath the other side of the tree were two weather-worn Adirondack chairs that were currently catching leaves. The flowerbeds lining the walkway leading up to the front door were overgrown with brown stems and wayward weeds. The hunter green shutters framing the windows on the first and second floors could use a coat of paint. The flower boxes suspended below the windows on the first floor were empty.

A woman Matt assumed was Marie’s sister answered the door.

“Hi,” Matt said. “I’m Matt Connelly.”

“What do you want?” Her greeting sent a chill through the air.

She couldn’t have weighed more than one hundred pounds and stood only slightly more than five feet tall. Despite her size, she was a formidable looking woman with short silver hair, piercing eyes and a stern mouth.

“I’m a friend of the family. Marie asked me to come.”

The woman didn’t respond. She simply stood there seeming to consider turning Matt away.

“Tina?” Matt finally heard Marie call from somewhere inside the house. “I thought I heard ...”

Matt saw Marie turn the corner and stand behind her sister. She looked directly at Matt and he saw the recognition register in her eyes.

“Matt,” Marie said smiling weakly. “It’s so good to see you. Please come in.”

When she saw the sentinel at the door was blocking his way, Marie reached awkwardly past her sister and took Matt’s arm. The other woman glared at Matt as he squeezed past her and through the front door.

Marie led the way through the foyer and into the living room. As they walked, Matt looked over at Marie. She had aged considerably since he had last seen her. At forty, she was still attractive but her lips were drawn and serious. The lines around her mouth and eyes were new. Strange how they called them laugh lines, Matt thought. Marie looked like she hadn’t laughed in quite some time.

They settled into the living room and Matt expressed his condolences, all the while silently cursing himself for doing a piss poor job. They made small talk. Marie looked away frequently, sometimes toward the room next door and other times down at her lap. She alternated between twisting her fingers into knots and picking imaginary objects from her slacks. She asked him questions about his travels and time in the Middle East but didn’t appear to hear the responses. Watching Marie was pure torture for
Matt, but he let her go on, letting her create the aura of normalcy she seemed to need.

Ultimately, though, Matt grew weary of talking about himself and impatient with the meaningless small talk. He reached forward and clasped Marie’s hands in his own, attempting to calm them. “Tell me what happened, Marie.”

She hesitated before nodding. And then she began speaking slowly and softly.

“Bob went up to my family’s summer home in the mountains. He was working on a project and wanted some time on his own to finish it. Since the boys were born, he’d done that a few times. He loved the boys and being with them,” she explained. “But as you can imagine, it was impossible to get any work done here. I didn’t think much of it when he told me he was going.”

She paused and looked down at her lap again before continuing. “Bob had been gone only a couple of days when the police called.”

The memory was apparently still new, the wound raw. Matt watched helplessly as the thin veneer of composure she struggled so hard to maintain began to crack. She started to cry softly. Matt applied a slight and hopefully reassuring pressure to her hands and shoulder. He waited patiently for her to continue.

“The police told me that Bob had been drinking and …” Again, she hesitated and Matt waited while she regained her composure. “They said Bob had passed out or fallen asleep on the couch in the living room. They believe a spark from the fireplace hit the rug and started the fire. They said
he probably never woke up. Never knew he was ...” Tears overcame her.

“Marie, I’m so sorry.” Matt slid closer to her on the couch and took her in his arms. She was hunched over and crying softly into his chest.

After several moments, she pulled away slightly and looked up at him. “I just don’t believe it, Matt.”

She looked up and wiped the tears from her eyes. For the first time since he arrived, her eyes were bright and focused.

“You and I both know that Bob loved good food and good wine, both to excess. But when the boys were born, things changed. He still enjoyed an occasional glass of wine, but kids, midnight feedings and early morning wake up calls put an end to the debauchery of the old days. When he went up to the cabin, he was there to write. He wasn’t there to drink.”

“Marie, what are you saying?”

“Bob was murdered.”

The words came out so strongly and quickly even Marie seemed surprised by them. They hung in the air between Matt and Marie as if savoring their impact.

“But, Marie, why would someone murder Bob?”

“I don’t know.” She shook her head before continuing. “But up until the day he died he was consumed with this project he was working on. I think his death may have had something to do with this, Matt.”

“What project?”

“Well, see, that’s just it. I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what he was working on? How is that possible? I thought Bob discussed everything with you.”

“Before, yes. But lately, he seemed to be … withdrawn ... secretive even. Definitely not quite himself. He didn’t talk to me about what he was working on. He had lots of meetings, some late at night. I probably should’ve taken more of an interest, but I was so busy with the boys. I just …” Marie paused. “We just didn’t have time to talk about things the way we did before.”

“Did you tell the police any of this?”

“Yes,” she said as she wiped the tears from her face. “But they didn’t take me seriously. I think they assumed that we were having marital problems. They figured that’s why he was staying somewhere else. But I know that’s not true, Matt.”

“I know that, Marie. Bob told me how happy he was, how thrilled he was about the boys. It’s all he talked about.”

“I think the story he was working on had something to do with what’s going on in the Middle East.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I don’t know. It’s just a feeling.”

Matt mulled this over. He held instincts in very high regard. For journalists, a gut feeling or hunch was where a good story began. Marie was a former journalist and her instincts were better than most.

“But I may have something that could be helpful,” she said interrupting his thoughts. “You know Bob always kept those notebooks where he would jot down things from meetings and telephone calls and stuff like that.”

“Of course. I wish I was as organized with my notes.”

“Well, Bob’s most recent journals were with him at the summer house. They burned in the fire. But I found one under the seat in the car. I think Bob must have overlooked this one when he was unloading the car.”

“And you think it could be helpful?”

“Maybe. I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’ve tried to go through it myself. It’s full of names, numbers, a hundred different threads and unconnected ideas. But I’ve been so busy with the kids, I haven’t had much time to go through it. I can’t make any sense of what to focus on.” Marie got up and walked to the desk on the other side of the room and retrieved a black and white notebook. “I was hoping you’d go through it.”

“Marie, wait.” Matt held up his hands, not touching the proffered book. “You should go to the police with this.”

“The police won’t do anything,” she said as she pushed the notebook toward him. “They think this was an accident and that I’m just some inconsolable widow -- which, of course, I am. But that doesn’t make me any less right about what happened to Bob. What happened to my husband was no accident.”

Marie stared down at him fiercely. Matt thought that for the first time since he arrived at her door, she resembled the woman he had met several years ago, the bright, ambitious and determined woman Bob had fallen in love with.

“I appreciate your confidence in me, Marie. But what do you want me to do with this?”

“You’re a journalist, Matt. Do what you do best. Go through it. Figure out why my children will grow up without a father.”