"You don't mind if I eat while we talk, do you, Detective?" he said, flipping his silk pink-and-green repp tie over his shoulder. He tucked a napkin into the white collar of his two-tone baby blue banker's shirt before upending a brown lunch bag onto his desk with a flourish.
A small apple slid out, along with a Quaker oatmeal bar about the size of a used bar of soap.
He cleared his throat.
"My wife," he explained as he tore open the bar's wrapper with his teeth, "just saw the results of my latest cholesterol test. I got an F-minus. You said on the phone you wanted to talk to me about a robbery? I should have told you, I'm in Homicide now."
"It's actually from nearly five years ago," I said. "I was wondering if you could recall anything about it. The case number was three-seven-three-four-five. An armed robbery at the Sheraton Crystal City Hotel in Arlington, Virginia, across the river from the capital. The perpetrator -"
"Left some blood," Detective Zampella said without any hesitation. "The ticket-broker thing. I remember it."
"You have a good memory," I said.
"You never forget the open ones, unfortunately," he said.
"You said something about a ticket broker?"
Zampella sniffed at the oatmeal bar before he took a dainty squirrel nibble.
"The Sheraton, this is the one out near Reagan National Airport, was hosting the annual NCAA football coaches' convention," he said as he chewed. "All the big schools' coaches and assistant coaches receive Final Four tickets every year for free. These ticket brokers – glorified ticket scalpers, if you want my opinion – just set up shop in the hotel and buy them up. Pay out cash right there and then. Illegal, of course, but we're talking about college recruiters. They've been known to bend a few rules."
"How much cash are we talking about here, Roger?"
"A lot," Zampella said. "Some of the games go for a thousand bucks a ticket."
"And there was a robbery?"
Zampella went to take another little bite, decided to hell with it, and dropped the whole thing into his mouth. He chewed twice, swallowed, then cleared his throat.
"One of these brokers apparently came down a couple of nights before the convention," he said. "And somebody must have gotten wind of who he was, and they robbed him of his suitcase of cash."
"Get a description?" I said. "Anything at all?"
Zampella shook his head.
"Guy wore a ski mask."
A ski mask? Wow, Paul was really original. Not to mention completely insane.
"Where'd the blood come from? Anybody figure that out?"
"When the broker was handing over the case, he had second thoughts and hit the thief in the chin with it. Guy was a bleeder, I guess. Ruined the carpet."
"What did the thief do then?"
"He took out a gun, threatened to blow the guy away. That's when the broker gave it up."
"How much did he get?"
"Half a million, maybe more. The broker said it was only seven thousand, but that's because he didn't want to get in trouble with the IRS, or maybe the Mob. This guy was a major ticket guy."
"Suspects?" I said.
"There was no hit on the blood. We interviewed several guests on the broker's floor. There were, like, two thousand people at the conference that night. We weren't going to set the world on fire for some slick, probably Mobbed-up asshole ticket broker who was tripping over himself to lie to us. We went by the book and, you know how it is, moved on to the next thing, forgot all about it. Until now, that is. What are you doing? Gathering new material for a revival of Unsolved Mysteries?"
"It's actually personal," I told the detective. "A friend of mine, a jeweler, was pistol-whipped and robbed in a Midtown Manhattan hotel last month. I remembered seeing the abstract on your case when I looked into it. You wouldn't happen to have a copy of the hotel register, would you?"
"I did put one in the file," Zampella said, checking his watch. "But it's been – what? Five years? God knows where they buried it."
"I know I'm being a pain in the neck," I said. "But do you think you could make a couple of calls and track it down for me? After I take you out for lunch, of course. DC has a Morton's, doesn't it?"
Zampella glanced at his scrawny apple. Then he reached for his pin-striped suit jacket on the back of his chair.
"As a matter of fact," he said, standing up. "There's one right here in Arlington."
Chapter 102
TWO HOURS AND TWO FILET MIGNONS with home fries later, we were back in Zampella's office, and I was going over the very hotel register I needed to see so urgently.
Zampella thought he had heart trouble? When I glanced at the top of the second page, I could have used a defibrillator and a shot of epinephrine.
There it was in black and white – Paul Stillwell.
Something inside me swayed dangerously. Even after all the evidence, I was hoping for some eleventh-hour reprieve. Yet here was the opposite. More and more proof of Paul's – what? Lunacy? Secret life?
I couldn't believe it. Paul had actually robbed a sports ticket broker of half a million dollars?
And I'd thought finding out secret stuff about Scott Thayer was devastating. What the hell was wrong with men? Were they all legally insane?
No, I answered myself. Not all of them. Just the ones who had the misfortune to make my acquaintance. Or the other way around.
I thought about the Range Rover and the Tiffany bag and the fact that Paul didn't wear glasses down here in DC.
I turned to Zampella, half snoozing behind his desk. He'd had a martini with his steak.
"You think you could do me just one more favor, Roger? Just one, and I'm gone."
"Shoot," he said.
"I'm looking for an owner's list of 2007 Range Rovers. DC plates starting with ninety-nine."
"More Unsolved Mysteries material, huh? All right, you got it. But fraternal order of police cooperation aside, this has to be the last one. My lieutenant is due back from a department conference any second. There's a bookstore right down the block. Why don't you catch up on some reading, and I'll see you in about an hour."
It was more like half an hour. I was sitting in front of the magazine rack, paging through a Vanity Fair, when Zampella tapped me on the shoulder.
"I think you dropped something, miss," he said, handing me an envelope with a wink before heading off toward the exit.
I ripped the sheet of paper out of the envelope. The list was twenty-one vehicles long. I traced my finger down the owner's column, looking for Stillwell.
No dice. I did it again more slowly. Again nothing.
I rubbed my overcaffeinated, tired eyes. What the hell? It was worth a shot.
I went into the bookstore's café, sat down, and pulled out the hotel guest list. One by one, I cross-referenced each Range Rover owner with the hotel list. It was maybe fifteen minutes later, pins and needles tingling my butt, when I found a match.
Veronica Boyd. 221 Riggs Place.
Veronica? I thought, seething. I knew it! A woman! Paul, you goddamned bastard!
I jumped out of my seat and bolted for the front door. I needed to rent a car. And maybe do some surveillance work.
It was time to find out exactly what – oh, and most especially who – Paul had done.