The Violet Crow Page 5

  “Yo! Chief. How’s it hangin’?” boomed the larger of the two.

  The Chief’s arm shot up in a friendly salute. “Chris. Ray.”

  “There’s room for you in back,” said Chris. “You gonna stick around or you want it to go?”

  “Two of the usual for here,” replied the Chief. “This is my friend Bruno …”

  Chris got excited when he heard the name. “Bruno Sammartino! The world champion wrestler. The living legend.”

  Ray looked up from chopping lettuce. He squinted at Bruno, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lip, but didn’t say anything.

  Bruno just grinned and let the Chief lead him through a dusty curtain to the back room. It was tiny, crammed full of supplies and barely enough space for an old kitchen table with a scarred Formica top and aluminum legs, and two matching chairs with turquoise plastic seats. On the walls hung an old movie poster showing the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius and the Pirelli tire calendar from 1999 featuring a sepia-toned photo of a nude woman with an old-fashioned hairstyle.

  “Chris’ mom?” Bruno wisecracked.

  “Don’t let him hear you say that,” warned the Chief. “Talk to me.”

  “The most unusual thing about this case,” Bruno began, “is the lack of emotion. The girl was attacked from the back. She didn’t see it coming, but still I’d expect a sense of shock and fear—or something—at the moment of impact. Here, there’s nothing. I’ve never experienced anything like it before.”

  “Any theories?”

  Bruno thought carefully before replying. “What if she’s, you know, a vegetable? Brain damaged. Something like that. Family gets tired of taking care of her. Can’t afford it. Ashamed to own up publicly. Frustrated. So they decide to … end it.”

  “Then they dump her at the Quaker meeting house? Why? It’s not exactly your anti-Quaker blood libel scenario.”

  “Shows you can’t believe everything you read in the papers,” Bruno said.

  “Suppose this is just a normal family. They have no experience disposing of a dead body. They watch a bunch of TV and figure the ground must be frozen because of the snow. If they don’t bury her deep enough, some animal will dig up the grave. If they put her in the river, she’ll wash up.”

  “So they use the meeting house, thinking it will confuse people … as it has. But they still need a way to get in. And they managed to do it without leaving clues. That takes a lot of skill.”

  “Or access to the meeting house. What if Quentin had an illegitimate daughter? Because of his role at the school, he might have wanted to keep it secret.”

  “That’s what I’d call a tortured scenario,” the Chief observed. “To make it work you need an illegitimate kid who’s seriously handicapped. A guiltily obsessive father who won’t even put her in a nursing home. Otherwise, she would’ve been reported missing.”

  Bruno picked up the thread. “Right. She’d have to be living at home somewhere. Probably with the mother, never going out. The only other person who’d know she existed would be her doctor.”

  The Chief shook his head. “It doesn’t add up. The motive for killing her is to get rid of the burden? I can’t see Quentin doing that.”

  “Maybe the mother did it, and Quentin’s protecting her.”

  The Chief grabbed his phone to make a call. “That’s a lot of ‘ifs,’ but right now it’s all we’ve got. We’ll check into it, but it’ll take some time. There are a lot of doctors in the area.”

  Bruno hesitated. “What I just told you: There’s logic to it. But it doesn’t feel right. It all comes back to the girl. Why didn’t she feel anything? There are powerful emotions at work here. There must be. But I can’t find any trace of them. It’s hard to imagine anybody, let alone parents, who could do something like that—without emotion.”

  “I know,” said the Chief. This was the same brick wall he’d been running into since the investigation began.

  Just then Ray rambled in with a couple of enormous cheesesteak hoagies wrapped in white paper. The smell of fried onions filled the room. Ray placed them on the table without comment and went back to work, leaving the velour curtain partly open.

  “Dig in,” said the Chief. Consuming a Tano’s cheesesteak hoagie with everything on it requires both hands and considerable concentration to keep the contents of the sub from sliding out onto your lap. Both Bruno and the Chief worked in silence for about seven and a half minutes.

  Then Bruno spoke. “I had this dream. About William Penn.”

  “William Penn?”

  “The statue of William Penn on top of city hall in Philly. It … he was walking around.”

  “Things like that happen in dreams.” The Chief continued eating.

  Then Icky and a couple of friends entered the shop. The Chief could see him joking with Chris and hear him laughing out of proportion to anything that might have been said.

  “Do the numbers 50-3-2-60 mean anything to you?”

  “Sounds like a basketball score. College. 53-60.”

  “It’s not basketball season. I was watching a volleyball game last night on TV.”

  “And?” The Chief was still keeping an eye, and half his attention, on Icky.

  “And I think it was four different numbers. 50-3-2-60, not 53 to 60. Usually the high number goes first.”

  “True. True. Maybe it’s the combination to a gym locker? Or a safe?”

  “You know in Hebrew, the numbers are actually letters of the alphabet. So you can translate numbers into words and vice versa. I tried that, and it came out ‘SBGN.’ That mean anything to you?”

  “SBGN?” the Chief echoed dully. “I dunno. Sonny Boy Good Night?”

  “I couldn’t make anything of it either,” Bruno admitted. “Then I realized: There’s more than one kind of Quaker …”

  “There is? You mean like low church and high church, that sort of thing?”

  “No. I was watching them play on TV last night.”

  “Right, the Quakers. University of Pennsylvania. Big 5 basketball. Crosstown rivalries. Great stuff. You don’t think basketball fans did this? I mean it’s basketball, not soccer.”

  “Well it was volleyball, but that’s not the point. Are you paying attention?”

  “Oh, right,” the Chief said. “I guess I am distracted. See that kid in there with the bright red hair?”

  Bruno turned around discreetly.

  “Just go ahead and stare at him. There’s no secret. He knows that we know that he’s the town’s biggest drug problem.”

  “OK.”

  “Can you read his mind?”

  “Just like this? In a room crowded with all these people? Too many distractions.”

  “Go ahead. Give it a try anyway.”

  Bruno shut his eyes and tried to concentrate. Within seconds he was shaking his head, as if trying to ward off a hungry mosquito. “Feh. That’s one messed up kid in there.”

  “What’s he thinking?”

  “I couldn’t tell.”

  “But you said something …”

  “Yeah, it’s chazerai—a big mess. But that’s just a general impression. A sense.”

  “Like an aura. Could you see his aura?”

  “Not exactly. I don’t do auras.”

  “C’mon,” scoffed the Chief. “What’d you see?”

  “Things don’t look too good for that kid. I think he might be in big trouble.”

  “That makes sense. He’s a drug addict. Do you have anything more specific?”

  “No.”

  “Hmpf.” The Chief seemed to be sulking.

  “Anyway, I want to go right away and track down my lead about the Quakers.”

  “You call that a lead?”

  “Most definitely.”

  “And how are you planning to follow up?”

  “I’m heading over to the campus. Do some research in the library and then just … check things out.”

  “Check things out?”

  “Yeah. Walk around. See what’s going on
over there.”

  “Well you can’t.”

  “I can’t? Why not?”

  “We have an appointment. Tell you what I’ll do, though. I’ll have Harry—Sergeant Abraham—call the campus cops and do a sweep of the message boards. He’s our best technology resource; maybe he’ll come up with something for you. And I’m going to have Michelle—Officer Coxe—check the hospitals and clinics. I really think those are our best shots right now.”

  The Chief started laughing.

  “Wha’s funny?” complained Bruno, failing to guess that Chief Black had already moved on to another topic.

  “I don’t know how I could have forgotten. This Rabbi called. Name’s Nachman. Ever heard of him?”

  “Not really. Name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.”

  “If you knew him I don’t think you’d forget. He’s a bit flamboyant. Lit a fire under the Mayor. Asked a lot of weird questions about you. Wanted to know how old you are. Whether you’re married. Where did you study? Whatdya think? Is he looking for a date?”

  “Not my type. Must be an Orthodox Rabbi.”

  “Any idea what he’s up to?”

  “According to the Orthodox, nobody’s supposed to mess around with the Kabbalah … except themselves. They say if you’re not at least 40, married, and haven’t mastered the Talmud and all the other sacred books, then using the Kabbalah will create a lot of trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “The evil eye. Avenging angels. False messiahs. Wrath of God. That kind of stuff.”

  “Sounds bad. That’s what happens when you talk to Peaches. Stay away from her from now on.”

  “As if I can control that, now she knows where I live.”

  “Yeah, that’s too bad.” The Chief feigned sympathy. “But you can handle it. Do you have a weapon?”

  Bruno points to his temple.

  “Right,” crowed the Chief. “You’re Bruno X, the psychic detective. Living by your wits and the awesome power of your brain.”

  “You sound like my mother.”

  The Chief hit him on the shoulder to buck him up. “Don’t get down. It’s just the cheesesteak talking. You’ll be fine again in a coupla days.”

  Chapter 14

  NewGarden Biosciences was located to the north of Gardenfield, in Maplewood. To get there, Chief Black drove along Old King’s Road, past Lenape Woods and through the security checkpoint.

  Bruno noted that the grounds were mostly bare fields, which soon would be planted with corn. Off to one side was a cluster of abandoned military buildings from the 1960s. The property had been a Navy tracking station up until the defense cuts in the early 1990s. Then NewGarden took over and added a brand-new corporate complex consisting of research and administrative facilities, as well as greenhouses. The buildings were an impressive contrast of round and rectangular shapes—a gleaming statement in glass, alloyed metals and stone. And, for anyone who didn’t get the message just by looking, it was spelled out in foot-high polished chromium letters on the wall next to the entrance: NewGarden Biosciences—Transforming the way we feed and care for ourselves.

  The receptionist was a conspicuously beautiful woman in her mid-30s, dressed in a smart tweed suit with a surprising display of gold accessories. As if in counterpoint, there were also two armed guards, dressed in dark green paramilitary uniforms that were stiff and understated. They stood stoically in opposite corners, like potted plants, while the receptionist was all gracious gentility as she greeted the Chief and Bruno from behind an elaborate hardwood desk. A polished aluminum nameplate identified her as Rhonda Vick.

  Rhonda emerged from the confines of the desk and shook hands with exceptional warmth. “Dr. Fischer and Dr. Jurevicius are expecting you and will be down in a mowment,” she drawled, displaying a textbook South Jersey accent in her tightly formed, slightly nasal o’s. Bruno fell in love with her the moment he heard it.

  Rhonda showed them to a conference room, offering coffee, water, or a soft drink. Bruno requested a Dr Pepper. And he practically melted in his chair when she said, “No prowblem.”

  When she left, the Chief leaned over to Bruno and said in muted tones, “Dr. Fischer—he’s the CEO here—and Master Quentin go back a long ways. They’re both Quakers. I think that’s why the company’s offering to provide security for the school. But Quentin doesn’t seem to want to have anything to do with Dr. Fischer.”

  It took Bruno a moment to get his mind off Rhonda and onto what the Chief was saying. “That makes sense,” he stammered. “I mean, maybe he feels they’re keeping an eye on him and doesn’t like it. On the other hand, I can see why he wouldn’t want to have goons dressed up like commandos guarding the entrance to the Friends School. I’d be afraid to go in, too.”

  “We could have them work plainclothes, if that’s the only issue. There’s something funny between Quentin and Fischer I’d like to know more about.”

  “Why don’t you just ask him?”

  Before Chief Black could reply, Rhonda reappeared with Bruno’s Dr Pepper. “The dawgkters will be with you in just a few mowments.” She smiled and disappeared.

  The Chief had to yank on Bruno’s sleeve to get his attention. “If there is something wrong between the two of them, Dr. Fischer might not want to talk about it. That’s why I brought you along. To see what you can find out without putting him on the defensive.”

  “So you want me to …?”

  “Read his mind, at least check out his aura …”

  Bruno started to sputter, “I am not an eavesdropper … and I don’t do furshlugginer auras.”

  The Chief cut him off. “Calm down. They’re coming in.”

  “Good to see you again, Buddy,” said Dr. Fischer, vigorously grabbing the Chief’s outstretched hand. He was a large man, at least six-two and overweight. He appeared to be in his 60s judging by his gray, thinning hair and the heavy creases worn into his face. He looked more like a rancher than a scientist, except he was dressed in a Brooks Brothers jacket, a button-down shirt that was too small at the neck, and a purple tie with tiny double helixes all over it.

  “This is my associate, Serge Jurevicius,” said Fischer. “Dr. Jurevicius is our Chief Operating Officer and head of the Agricultural Division.”

  Jurevicius stepped forward to shake hands. He was slim, in his late 40s, with dark hair combed back from his face and a carefully trimmed goatee. He wore charcoal gray pants and a black cashmere mock turtleneck.

  “And this is Bruno X,” said the Chief. “He’s consulting with us on this difficult and troubling case.”

  The men shook hands all around as Dr. Fischer boomed, “He’s not going to read our minds, is he?” His tone was jocular, but accompanied by a sharp look at Bruno.

  “Nah. For that you need an appointment,” Bruno deadpanned. “But if you want, I been teaching the Chief here to read auras, and he can do it for you free of charge.”

  The joke fell flat; everyone pretended to ignore it.

  “We’re here to talk about security,” said the Chief, without missing a beat. “You gentlemen have generously offered to provide guards for the school …”

  “That’s right,” replied Jurevicius briskly. “We can spare two members of our security team during school hours, with the exception of the week of our annual meeting. That’s coming up late in May …”

  “Which, unfortunately, is just before school lets out,” Fischer said. “And we were counting on your help, Bud, during the annual meeting, as in years past.”

  Bruno was confused. “What happens at your annual meetings that you need police help?”

  “NewGarden Biosciences is a biotechnology company,” Fischer explained. “We genetically engineer plants that are healthy to eat, easy to grow, and good for the environment. We also do some work with plants and animals to biofacture medicines. Some people call it pharming, with a “ph.” Cute, huh?”

  “So you’re worried about espionage? Protecting your intellectual property?”

&
nbsp; Fischer gave the Chief a quizzical look, then turned to the psychic. “You must not read magazines or watch TV. You haven’t heard of ‘Frankenfoods?’ That’s the f-word in our industry. And what else do they say about us, Serge?”

  Jurevicius supplied the quote easily, “We’re devils disguised as entrepreneurs and engineers … presenting people with a Faustian bargain.”

  “People think we’re creating renegade genes that are going to get loose and devastate the planet,” Fischer continued.

  “Like those cockamamie dinosaurs in Jurassic Park?”

  “Exactly,” huffed Fischer. “With just as little scientific justification. People create scenarios about what might happen and get themselves worked up that the world’s about to end. Their idea of a solution is to try to disrupt our meetings. Consequently, we need to protect ourselves. But we’re getting off the subject …”

  The Chief consulted his notebook. “The school had some queries. They wanted to know more about the personnel. Who they are? What kind of training they have? That sort of thing.”

  Fischer laughed, “So Quentin has queries? That’s a very Quaker word, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t …” the Chief stammered.

  “… Very Quaker, indeed. When you see Quentin, tell him you want to ‘speak to his condition.’ Be sure to use these exact words. Say to him, ‘Emmanuel Fischer wants to speak to thy condition, Friend.’ Can you do that?”

  “Yeah, but then what do I say?”

  “Tell him the children are his responsibility. It’s not a time to sit in silence. He has to act.”

  Silence filled the room as the challenge of the words registered. Dr. Fischer rose to leave. Bruno interrupted him with a question. “Isn’t this a strange business for a Quaker?” he asked.

  Fischer tilted his head to bring the proper part of his bifocals into play. “If you weren’t here with my friend, Chief Black, I’d say that’s none of your business,” he snapped. “Since you are here, and supposedly trying to help … I’m going to help you.” He turned to Jurevicius. “Serge, I have another meeting. Could you please show these gentlemen the museum and provide them with anything else they might need?”