I badge my way through security in the lobby of Bayard’s building, riding a mirrored elevator up to the twenty-third floor to the offices of something called ENERGY SOLUTIONS GROUP. Waiting in the lobby for Bayard, I browse through the corporate literature, learning that whatever these people do-the particulars are vague-they do it synergistically and on a global scale, innovating on behalf of a bright tomorrow.
A smartly dressed and unattractive woman in her early thirties clicks across the glossy floor, showing off chalk stripes and a lot of eye shadow. She blinks her very white, very black-rimmed eyes at me several times, like maybe I’ll disappear if she keeps it up.
“You’re here to see David?” she says finally. “I’m his personal assistant.”
I rise from my chair and introduce myself.
“I’m afraid he’s not in the office.”
“Where can I reach him, then?”
“I don’t know that you can.”
Behind her, a flax-haired middle-aged man in shirt-sleeves walks up, adjusting his metal-framed glasses like they haven’t refocused from whatever fine print he was reading a few moments before. His button-down collar bulges out at the sides. He introduces himself as ESG’s corporate attorney.
“I already told this gentleman that Mr. Bayard isn’t here,” the assistant says.
“Detective, you have to understand-”
“If Bayard isn’t here,” I say, “then where can I find him?”
He clears his throat. “I’m afraid Dave is still in Nigeria. Lagos.”
“Since when?”
“Since. .” His eyes search the ceiling. “Last week. Monday the seventh.”
The Monday after Simone’s murder.
“And how do you get in touch with him?” I ask.
“We don’t. Excuse me, Detective, but. . Could you come into my office please?”
The lawyer guides me down a hallway into a small room with a breathtaking view of the opposite skyscraper, inviting me to sit in one of his guest chairs. He pulls the door shut behind us. There’s a low hum in the room, probably ventilation or electricity, but gazing over the cityscape, the sound reinforces the feeling of flight.
We sit across from each other. He studies the lines in his palm.
“The thing is,” he says, “I’m afraid that ESG recently ended its relationship with Dave. This hasn’t been made public yet, which is why your questions are a bit awkward for us. We’re not intentionally giving you the runaround, it’s just-”
“I need to speak to Mr. Bayard in connection with a murder investigation.”
A pause. “I can appreciate that. Unfortunately, I’m not sure we can be of much help. We haven’t been in touch with Dave for a number of days, not since the termination.”
“So let me get this straight. The man’s somewhere in Africa-”
“Lagos,” he says. “That’s in Nigeria.”
“You said that already.” Something clicks in my mind. He’s not the first person to mention Nigeria to me. “He’s in Africa,” I say, “and that’s when you decide to fire him?”
“To be frank, I’m not sure how much latitude I have in discussing the matter. I think I can say that this situation goes back several months. There was a reorganization, which Dave chose to interpret as a demotion. There may have been some financial trouble at home.”
“Not surprising these days,” I say. “So you canned him for being unhappy?”
“We canned him for moonlighting on a side venture with one of ESG’s competitors. The Nigeria trip was planned months in advance, and the feeling was that it might be best to take action while he was in the field. There were security concerns-and that’s as much as I can say about the matter.”
“Security as in the threat of violence?”
“No, no,” he says. “Nothing like that. But Dave had access to a great deal of sensitive information. We needed to ensure he couldn’t destroy anything. Or share it.”
“Had there been any violence in the past?” I ask. “The man does collect weapons, you know that?”
His eyes narrow. “I wasn’t aware of that. But no, there’s never been anything like that with Dave. He’s very professional, very good at what he does. But he’s also a somewhat aggressive, somewhat unlikeable sort. His role here had evolved into too much of a front office position, whereas Dave’s more of an in-the-field type.”
If Bayard really is in Nigeria, the odds of him using his prized collectible bowie knife in an attempted double event over the weekend seem remote. But I still need to talk to the man. And I need to recollect why Nigeria is so fresh on my brain.
“Is there a number in Lagos where he can be reached?”
The lawyer reaches for the phone. Stops. “Can I be honest with you? Dave might still be in Nigeria, and he might have come home. We really have no way of knowing. For our kind of work, Lagos is pretty much the center of Africa. It’s very cosmopolitan and there are plenty of. . opportunities. All I can tell you for certain is that the return ticket has him coming back next week, and that hasn’t been changed. Now, that doesn’t mean he hasn’t left Lagos. He may have worked something out with a competitor; he may have slunk home with his tail between his legs. He could be anywhere.”
“Be that as it may, I have to speak to the man. How can I contact him?”
“Hold on.” He picks up the phone and dials an internal extension, presumably the tight-lipped secretary’s. After a little back and forth, he writes something down on a pad and slides it across the desk.
“That’s Dave’s home address and phone. You can speak to his wife, and maybe she’ll know how to contact him. Then again, maybe not. My understanding is that it’s a troubled marriage.”
“This is his wife?” I say. “This is his address?”
Now I remember.
“Why? Is there something strange about that?”
The name he’s written on the pad reads KIM BAYARD. The address is around the corner from Dr. Joy Hill’s house in West U. The yards of the two houses are separated only by the privacy wall. When I did the neighborhood canvass, I spoke to this woman. It was she who sent me down the street to Emmet Mainz’s house.
And now her husband, who is either in Nigeria or not, turns out to be the purchaser of the knife used to kill both Simone Walker and Agnieszka Oliszewski? Which means the killer I’ve been looking for could be the next-door neighbor.
CHAPTER 22
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 15 — 3:00 P.M.
Before I approach Bayard’s wife, before there’s any possibility that he’ll be tipped off to how close I am, I want to know everything about him: his background, his movements over the last two weeks, the extent and status of his knife collection.
I divide the task with Aguilar, who volunteers to camp out at Dearborn Gun and Blade until he can put together a list of local collectors and consignment sellers.
“Work your way through, and if Knife 29 changed hands, let me know.”
He heads to Dearborn’s shop, leaving me to phone ICE-Immigration amp; Customs Enforcement-with an urgent request to flag David Bayard’s passport and let me know whether he’s reentered the country. No doubt the information is available at the stroke of a key, but the helpful bureaucrat on the other end of the line insists on a proper request, after which he’ll get back to me with the information. Once I’ve jumped through that hoop, I’m left to hunt and peck my way through the online databases in search of Bayard.
Dave Bayard turned fifty-two this year. He’s lived in the West University house behind Dr. Hill’s for nineteen years, ever since his marriage to his second wife Kim. He has a son from a previous marriage, now a student at Texas A amp;M. His employment with Energy Solutions Group goes back to 2000, and before that he worked for Enron. Whatever financial stresses have assailed him recently, his credit record is superb.
In the past ten years he’s been arrested twice for assault. Police arrived at the house in early 2002 after a 9-1-1 call from the son. Bayard, intoxicated, had manhandled his wife, who chose not to press charges. A second incident fourteen months later ended the same way. In that report, Bayard apparently told the responding officers he was undergoing therapy related to anger issues. After that, he either cleaned up his act or his son grew tired of ratting him out. The criminal record goes silent.