Текст книги "Cruelest Month"

Автор книги: Aaron Stander

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

23

When Hannah emerged in fleece pants and a jacket many sizes too large for her small frame, she found Ray hunched at the kitchen table, staring at the screen of his iPad.

“I like your costume,” he said, sitting up and smiling.

“Best I could find in your closet,” she responded, pulling out a chair. As if on cue, Simone appeared from the bedroom, leapt onto Hannah’s lap, and started inspecting the contents of the tabletop.

“The women are hungry,” said Hannah.

“I can see that,” said Ray.

“What’s going on?” she asked, noting Ray’s attention returning to the screen.

“The downside of technology,” he responded. “In the old days when you requested a forensic autopsy, it would take days to get the preliminary results. It went something like this: After the body arrived in Grand Rapids, a pathologist would do the post mortem during normal weekday working hours, then dictate his or her findings. The dictation would go to someone in the secretarial pool, who also worked normal business hours. He, or most likely she, would send a typed copy back to the pathologist for revision and approval. Any changes would be made on a paper copy and returned to the typing pool. The secretary would make a final copy and return it to the pathologist again for review and signature. This alone would take days. A week after this back and forth, we might get a fax with the preliminary findings, followed in another week or so by an official signed copy with photos via snail mail. Then, a week or two later, we’d get the final toxicology.”

Ray pushed the iPad across the table. “Now, it’s all here in a couple of days: the report, photos, everything but the toxicology. All neatly typed and organized by Samantha Redding, M.D., Fellow, AAFS.”

Hannah glanced at the screen. “Rule one in medicine, never read an autopsy before cappuccino.”

“I’d be happy to do that,” said Ray, putting down the iPad, “but there’s a problem. Something isn’t right. I’m not going to complain about technology again, so I’ll say it’s mostly my technique or lack thereof. The shots I make are bitter, and all I do is warm the milk up—big bubbles, no micro foam.”

Hannah set Simone on the floor. “Come here,” she ordered. “It’s time for Barista 101. We start with the grind.”

She inspected the grinder. “The first problem is that someone messed with the settings. Or maybe it just got out of kilter in the move.” She pointed to a mark she had made with a Sharpie on the adjustment scale. “This is where you want it. It took me several weeks to find the sweet spot and get this dialed in.” She poured in some beans, then pushed the “on” button until the change in sound indicated that all the beans in the hopper had been ground. Then she worked through the rest of the process, filling the portafilter and tamping the grounds. She frothed some milk and pulled the shot. Standing at Ray’s side, she offered gentle coaching as he repeated the procedure.

Settling again at the table, Hannah moved the iPad close to her. “Have you read this?”

“Just started. I was getting mired in the boilerplate.” Ray watched in silence as she carefully studied the report, occasionally moving the text backwards to review a paragraph or two. He got up and gave Simone her breakfast. A few minutes later she was at the door, demanding his attention and a walk with a sharp, command bark.

Hannah was still concentrating on the screen when they returned from their stroll around the neighborhood. Ray made her another cappuccino and then repeated the process for himself.

Finally she looked up, held him in her gaze, and asked him a second time how much of the autopsy he had read.

“Like I said, just the beginning.”

“This is all so interesting. For an old guy, Fox was in awfully good shape. He had some plaque buildup in his coronary arteries, but it wasn’t too bad for a man of his age who’d been eating the American diet forever. His muscle tone was quite remarkable.”

“So how did he die? What killed him?”

“Fox had a pacemaker. Did you know that?”

“No. His daughter never mentioned it.”

“Did you see the note on the burn marks on his neck consistent with the kind made by a stun gun?”

Ray stared at her. “Where’s that?” he said, pointing at the iPad.

“Several pages into the report.” She pushed the tablet in his direction, pointing to the section. She pulled it back, flipped through multiple pages, then slid her chair close to his and pointed at the photograph showing burn marks on the left side of Fox’s neck, below the collar line.

“What was he wearing when you saw the body?” she asked.

“His usual costume: jeans, a shirt with a sweater of some sort, and an old buckskin jacket. He had a boot on one foot, it was missing on the other.” He zoomed in on the burn marks. “I can see how the medical examiner might have missed the stun burns,” he admitted, “given the conditions where he made his preliminary observations.” Ray sat for several minutes absorbing the information. “Why would someone do that?”

“The perpetrators were trying to snatch him off the street, right?”

“That’s a likely scenario.”

“Fox was probably a tough old bird, much stronger than his assailants expected,” said Hannah. “He wasn’t going to go anywhere without a fight.”

“But who carries a stun gun?”

“You tell me. You’re the cop.”

“Well, under current law only people in law enforcement-related activities can carry Tasers. Of course, the legislature could change that in the next few months.”

Hannah was keying on the iPad. Then she was flipping screens. “There are only a few hundred sites selling Tasers and stun guns. Here’s one with Christmas specials. I can’t tell if the page is left over from last Christmas or out there for people who do their shopping early.”

“I can’t believe it,” Ray said. “I thought Fox had been grabbed by some people thinking that he really knew where the Capone treasure was, and that they could pressure him into leading them to the gold. The use of a stun gun just makes it all seem incredibly sinister.”

“What we are capable of almost defies imagination. You should spend some time in a war zone,” Hannah answered, her tone dark, tension in her voice.

Ray let her comment hang for a long time. “So what killed him?”

Hannah shrugged. “Here the pathologist equivocates a bit. Because of the absence of bruising, she doesn’t think that he was constrained for any period of time. And there’s no evidence that he was ever bound at the hands or feet. She speculates that the stun gun was used during the initial assault and wonders what effect that may have had on his pacemaker. She notes the literature on this type of weapon and its potential effects on pacemakers are extremely limited. Three citations to recent articles are appended at the end.”

Ray got up and carried his mug to the sink.

“What are you thinking?”

“You see, I’ve invented two scenarios. The first one involved a couple of our locals: somehow I’m seeing two middle-aged guys, down on their luck, not incredibly bright, who got started into this whole thing by stealing a copy of Fox’s book. They quickly figured out that they weren’t going to find the money based on the descriptions or maps, so they grabbed Fox off the street, and, based on the burns on his foot, tried to get information out of him by holding his foot against their wood-burning stove. I can see the interior of the house, the stove their only source of heat.” Ray returned to the kitchen table, pulled his chair away from Hannah’s, and sat down. “Unfortunately, Fox just up and dies on them. The guys panic, load him in their car or truck, head up the road 15 or 20 miles from the scene, and dump the body.”

Hannah nodded. “Okay, what was the other scenario?”

“Much simpler. Someone saw him make the big win at the casino and abducted him off the street hoping to get the money.”

“And the burns to the foot?”

“Same motive as the first; when he didn’t have the cash on him, they tried to use torture to find out where it was.”

“How about just modifying your scenarios. They’re just crazy, sick, and weird. They use a stun gun to aid in the kidnapping. If you search the APA list of mental disorders, you will probably come up with a multisyllabic, multiword Latinate definition for this type of behavior.”

They sat in silence for several minutes. Finally, Hannah asked, “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to make breakfast.”

“And if I weren’t here?”

“I might start by splitting wood. Then I’d go to the office and try to make something happen. I’d create diagrams and lists, look through old files, think about our usual cast of characters. There would be no breakthroughs, but somehow just being active makes me feel better. Then I’d go for a long, fast paddle until I was totally exhausted.”

“So is that what you want to do?”

“The office part, no. It’s a waste of time. It’s just me trying to cope.” He smiled at her. “And I’m glad that you’re here. What would you like to do? It’s really blowing outside. I think kayaking is out.”

Hannah spooned the last of the foam out of her cappuccino cup. “How about taking Simone for a really long walk on the beach and then going shopping.”

“Shopping? I didn’t think you…?”

“For food. You know the right places. We could get a duck or a chicken or a pot-roast, something that takes hours to cook. Vegetables or squash, and we’ll bake something. We fill the house with lovely aromas, we drink tea or maybe a little wine, and we listen to some quiet music to go with the day, things like the Goldberg Variations. I’m sure you have a good….”

“Yes.”

“Do you think we can survive a slow day together, a slow day of doing normal kinds of things?”

Ray smiled, “I’m sure that after a three hour walk on the beach I could settle into this very nicely.”

24

It was mid-afternoon, and Mackenzie was sipping her first cup of coffee after an hour of yoga and 40 minutes of meditation. Behind her great room’s expanse of titanium-tinted glass, she peered across the bay through her powerful telescope. Heavy rain and mist were being pushed off the big lake into the bay by a strong northeast wind, but she could see the back of a figure moving on a treadmill framed in the center of a large HDTV, the jogger almost in proportion with the soccer players in the background.

Plato’s cave, she said, making the figures larger and sharpening the focus as the scope cut through the haze. Her concentration was suddenly shattered by the vibration and techno music beat of the ringtone Ken Lee had installed on her cell phone.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Watching Sabotny on his treadmill.”

“Is he fit?”

“I’ve only been watching a few minutes, but he’s moving fast. My guess is that he’s in good shape.”

“File that away. Might be an important bit of info. Listen, I’ve been thinking about your encounter last night. We need to get some things in place. Also, I’ve got additional info on Sabotny. You may want to make notes.”

“Give me a few. Let me get to a keyboard.”

Mackenzie hit a switch on the wall, and the floor-to-ceiling drapes started to close. When the whirling noise of the electric motor stopped, the room was left in almost complete darkness. Mackenzie navigated her way to her desk and touched the space bar on her keyboard, bringing the screen to life.

“Okay,” she said, “ready to make notes.”

“First,” said Ken Lee, “we need to start tracking Sabotny. I’d like to get a GPS transmitter in his car. You said he had a Land Rover. What year?”

“I have no idea; looks new. How do you tell?”

“Get me a photo. I’ll e-mail you a diagram of where to place the unit. It’s held by strong magnets, and it just takes a few moments to get it in place. I’ll send you two in case he has a second vehicle. They should be in your box at the UPS Store by Tuesday. Also, I want you to have a personal locator beacon with you before you go on any more jaunts. I’m researching what’s out there. I should have that unit in your hands before the end of the week.”

“Ken Lee…I don’t want to be weighted down with extra gear.”

“These things are tiny, about the size of a small cell phone. And I need to know where you are. If things go south, just pull the tab, and I’ll direct law enforcement to you. Now, let’s move on to Sabotny,” he said, cutting off any further protest on the PLB. “I talked to two people—an ex-marine friend, and a foreign service officer—who were in Baghdad early on after the invasion.”

“And?”

“Sabotny was career military, a high-ranking noncom. But something happened during the run-up to the Iraq war. My friend doesn’t know what. There’s no record of a court martial, but Sabotny was separated from the Corp. It was all hush-hush.”

“Your friend, does he have a name?”

“Yes, ‘X,’” came the response. “The next time X saw Sabotny was in Baghdad right after the liberation. Sabotny was in command of a group of contractors. X said they looked like they came from central casting. Everything new and clean: clothes, weapons, and vehicles. He said they were all in black, not desert camo. Scuttlebutt was these guys were getting $1,000, $1,500 a day. That’s about what the troops at the bottom get a month. X said what really pissed him off was the contractors hadn’t done any of the fighting, but there they were collecting the big bucks escorting diplomats and civilian employees through corridors that regular troops had secured and were defending. X said he quickly learned to hate them for other reasons.”

“Like what?”

“First, he said it was their swagger and their high living, the single malt Scotch and young Eastern European whores that were smuggled in on private jets. And they were answerable to no one. And they used the anarchy of a war zone to enrich themselves. Most were ex-military: Russian, South African, Israeli, French, and American. But here’s the big thing: that first year after the invasion, $12 billion in C-notes were shipped from the U.S. to start the rebuilding effort. Most went missing. That and billions of dollars worth of oil, loaded on tankers and shipped who knows where. X says he doesn’t know what scams Sabotny was running, but he does know that Sabotny soon parted company with the original contracting group and started his own operation. X says Sabotny came into a lot of money, big money, fast, and set up a shipping business. He says he heard Sabotny laundered the profits through an offshore corporation.”

“And that’s a lot of hearsay,” observed Mackenzie.

“Yeah, well, I next called this woman who was there the first year. State Department. She’s in Thailand now, still has a 202 area code. She confirmed most of the story. Said the loss of the money and Bremer’s total incompetence was reported long after the fact and never seemed to get any traction in the press. She said she heard that in addition to the no-bid contracts and lack of oversight, some contractors and/or their employees just helped themselves to pickups filled with boxes and bags of bills. And they did it with impunity because there could never be any prosecution. There was no accounting, no tracking of serial numbers. No doubt some of the money was used to pay for legitimate expenses, but most was stolen, and there is no way to trace any of it.”

“Is this for real?”

“It is.” Lee paused briefly and Mackenzie could hear him tapping keys on his keyboard. “So I call a friend at the Bureau. This guy owes me, and I know that he was involved in an investigation of a number of things that happened that first year in Baghdad—the theft of antiquities, the missing billions, contractor fraud, you name it. I asked him about Sabotny. He says they gave him a good look, they knew he was a key player, but they didn’t have enough evidence. Then he tells me they just ended up letting it go, the whole thing. The Pentagon and the administration, right from the top, were leaning on them to cease and desist. Too many people in powerful positions had either been in on the take or were complicit with what went down. He said that it could have been a scandal that rivaled Watergate. They wanted to make sure it got buried. Sure enough, in the end, it attracted little attention.”

“Okay, interesting, but all old news,” said Mackenzie. “What’s Sabotny up to now, and why is he here?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” answered Lee. “But I have a bit more, and some of it I don’t quite understand—offshore corporations, wire transfers, that sort of thing. Sabotny is believed to have several offshore corporations in the Caribbean and Seychelles where he laundered his millions in 2003 and 2004. Since then he’s been living as an expat, mostly in Eastern Europe, seldom coming to the States. He pays for his day-to-day expenses using credit and debit cards issued by offshore banks. Both the Bureau and the IRS have noted his return and are looking into his activities. And the laws are changing for people like Sabotny. They’re not going to be able to live like this much longer. The loopholes are being closed.”

Mackenzie, lost in thought, didn’t immediately respond.

“What’s going on?” Ken Lee finally asked.

“I’m just trying to absorb all of this. I thought Sabotny would be an ordinary up-north guy.”

“Hardly. He’s a trained killer with anything he needs at his disposal. Sure you don’t want me on location?”

The offer was tempting. Mackenzie was feeling lonely and vulnerable. “This is my war,” she answered. “You’re giving me plenty of help.”

“Get me those pics,” said Lee. “And we’ll see if we can find out what he’s up to. In the mean time, I’ll send you everything I’ve gotten so far, including some info on his woman friend, Elena Rustova. Give it a good look.”

25

Ray had rehearsed what he was going to say to Joan Barton, Vincent Fox’s daughter, as he drove south on M22 early Monday morning., But once they had settled over coffee in her kitchen, the windows looking out on a small yard busy with birds visiting a collection of seed-filled feeders, he still felt anxious. Joan read his tension. “You don’t have good news, do you?”

“I know a bit more about your father’s death,” Ray admitted, “and I want you to have that information before we release it to the press.” He briefly explained the autopsy findings, the fact that Fox had two small burns on his upper torso suggesting that the assailants had used a stun gun, probably to control him.

“Just like him,” she said, giving Ray a weak smile. “When you’re a kid you think your father is the strongest man in the world. My father really was strong, even as an old man. Anyone who tried to force him to do anything was going to have a fight on their hands.”

“I’m sorry that I….”

“Don’t be. In fact, this has really helped. I like the idea of my dad going out fighting. That’s what he was, a fighter. He said he did Golden Gloves as a kid. I don’t know, probably just another of his stories. But he fought his way out of a tough Chicago neighborhood, made it through the war, created a successful business, provided a nice home for my mom and us, and put my sister and me through college. He gave us a good life. He was a tough, determined character.” She paused for a long moment. “There was a poem we studied in high school. What was it? The teacher made a big joke about not confusing the poet with the folk singer.

“Probably Dylan Thomas. Do not go gentle into the good night.”

“That’s it,” she said, “Do you know any more of it?

“Do not go gentle into the good night,

Old age should burn and rage at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

I think that’s about all I can do with any accuracy,” Ray said.

“That’s enough, thank you. He went out fighting. I’m sure he would have picked that over dying in bed. I’m sorry you never knew my father. He was a wonderful character.”

“I’m sorry, too,” said Ray.

By 10 a.m. Ray was back in his office writing a press release on the Vincent Fox investigation while Simone nested in the overstuffed chair. He worked through the draft of the release several times, adding a comma, changing a word, putting a sentence into a new paragraph, then changing his mind. Finally, he sent the draft to Jan, asking her to proof it once more before forwarding it to their media distribution list.

Ray sat for several minutes, running the details of the Fox murder in his head before pulling down the large whiteboard and adding details to the branching case diagram. Slouching into a chair at the conference table, he studied the drawing. All the events and facts were there, but he could not see how they connected to any tangible motive. For the moment, the investigation into Fox’s death seemed stalled.

Going back to his computer, he reread the notes from his conversation with Ma French. Although logic dictated that these were unrelated events, there was something alluring about the timing, the man on the personal watercraft, the cash. He thumbed through Fox’s book, finding a section that referred to an old estate on the shore of Lake Michigan, many miles below the Sleeping Bear Dunes. Fox wrote that that location once had been a major drop-off point for liquor by the Capone Gang, a possible burial place for part of the treasure, since it was terrain with which the mobsters were familiar. Like the rest of the book, Fox could have been referring to any number of places along the coastline. Not that that would stop the true believers from spending months looking.

But could it be that the cash Ma French found was connected to the Fox hoax? Ray returned to his desk and pulled up the notes from his conversation with Ma French. He needed to know more about the Hollingsford Estate. French had identified Perry Ashton as the caretaker of the property. He looked for his number in the regional phone directory. Finding none, he looked back at his notes. Ma had mentioned a Carol Truno in Traverse, and Ray found her number. A sleepy and somewhat irritated sounding woman came on the line. Ray identified himself and explained that he was trying to reach Perry Ashton. His said his call was related to a matter at the Hollingsford estate. Truno gave him Perry’s cell number and added that she knew he was planning to go out to the place in the afternoon.

A few minutes later Ray was explaining to Ashton that they were looking into a cold case—not mentioning Ma’s recent find—and was wondering if he could show him where he found the body of Terry Hallen. Ashton agreed to meet Ray at 2 p.m. in the driveway of a house just off the highway near the entrance road to the estate. He said he would bring a boat so they could get across the lake.

Ray wrote a short e-mail to Sue, inviting her along if she was back in the area. Then he and Simone headed out to find some lunch. They shared a lavish sandwich filled with organic chicken, greens, red peppers and a tangy mayonnaise in the parking lot of the Bay Side Family Market, then headed across the county toward the big lake.

Reaching the designated meeting place almost an hour early, Ray continued to drive south, eventually turning onto a two-track that led to a small parking lot near the shore. Simone followed him out of the car, and they climbed over a small dune to get to the beach. He undid her leash and they walked north near the water’s edge, Simone running ahead, stopping, looking back over her shoulder until he approached, then sprinting forward again ebulliently, repeating the process over and over.

The wind was blowing out of the northwest, creating a modest chop. The sun in a cloudless sky warmed his back. The last vestiges of winter, the remains of once-deep snowdrifts, were decaying into slush and gradually slipping away into the sand.

After 15 or 20 minutes, Ray settled onto a large, bleached tree trunk that had been pushed far up the beach by the storms of fall and winter. Simone approached and tried to crawl into his lap, her paws and belly wet and sandy. They reached a compromise: Simone perched beside him on the log, her head on his leg as she accepted head scratches.

Ray peered out at the lake and concentrated on the scene: the sounds, smells, rhythms, and colors of early spring. He tried to let everything else go and just enjoy the moment. On the periphery of his consciousness were visions of Fox and the disturbing autopsy report. When these thoughts intruded, he would push them back and refocus on the scene. This was one of the times he needed the wild places—empty of people—to refresh and refocus.

Eventually he looked at his watch, surprised that so much time had slipped by. He reached for his phone to see if Sue had responded to his e-mail. His pocket was empty; the phone was in the car.

When they arrived at the access road to the Hollingsford estate, Sue was already there, talking with a tall, lean, graying man next to a rusted Ford pickup with oversized tires and a raised suspension. A battered aluminum boat hung out of the truck’s bed, its pram bow extending far beyond the lowered tailgate.

“Have you met Perry Ashton?” Sue asked as Ray approached, holding Simone in his arms.

Ray passed the wiggly dog to her mistress and shook hands with Ashton.

“Was she a good girl?” asked Sue.

“Couldn’t have been better,” said Ray. Looking over at Ashton, he explained, “The dog was orphaned, and we co-parent her.”

“Cool,” responded Ashton in a low, raspy voice. “She coming along, too?”

“If it’s okay with you.”

“No prob, man,” he said, fishing for a cigarette.

“Mr. Ashton…”

“Perry, please.”

“Perry,” continued Sue, “was just telling me that this property was sold and he’s been terminated as of, what did you say, April first?”

“That’s right,” Aston agreed. “Got a certified letter last week. Been here 40-some years. All I get is a short letter saying that my services would no longer be needed, and would I please remove my personal things and vacate the property before April 1. My last paycheck was there, too. No thank you, no separation, no nothing other than a FedEx overnight envelope for the keys.”

Ray could tell by his tone and body language that he was angry and hurt.

“So, Sheriff, what do you and the deputy here want to know?”

“As I mentioned on the phone, we’re looking at a few cold cases. One of them involves the death of Terry Hallen. Our records from that time are less than complete, and it’s unclear if any final conclusions were ever reached in that investigation.”

“How is it that after all these years you’re finally looking at this? At the time, no one seemed to give a damn. As I remember it, they ruled it an accidental drowning.” He paused for a long moment, dragging on his cigarette. “I had to deal with that asshole deputy. I know you ain’t supposed to speak evil of the dead, but….” Ashford stopped and looked embarrassed. “Sorry, Sheriff.”

“It’s okay. And to answer your question, in the course of another investigation, this case came up, and we decided to take another look.”

“It’s about time. Poor kid.” He let his last comment hang for a moment, then said, “Let’s get going.” Ashton took a final drag on his cigarette and flipped it into a water-filled ditch. “We should just go in my truck. The frost is coming out of the ground and there’re some big muck holes along the way. Those things won’t make it,” he said pointing at their vehicles.

Sue climbed in the passenger side of the truck and Ray passed Simone to her before pulling himself up, aided by a step and a handle—both coarsely fabricated from rebar and crudely welded to the side of the vehicle. The interior—old and battered—smelled of tobacco and gasoline. A faded car deodorizer hung from the mirror. Ashton turned the key and the engine sputtered to life. He revved the engine several times, let it drop back to idle, engaged the four-wheel drive, shifted into gear, and started up the access drive, bouncing through low spots, throwing water and mud. Ray, now holding onto Simone, smiled. He hadn’t been in a truck like this since high school.

Eventually, Ashton made a sharp right turn and reversed toward an opening in the trees that ended at the shoreline of Lost Lake. Ray helped drag the boat off the truck to the water’s edge and stood by as Ashton attached a small outboard.

They crossed the lake, Simone standing at the bow, Ashton at the stern, Ray and Sue in the middle. Running the front of the boat onto the beach, Ashton raised the outboard, and he and Ray pulled the boat halfway onto the beach. They followed a wide trail, marked on each side by a line of half-buried fieldstones.

“I used to put fresh woodchips on all these walkways every spring. Haven’t done it in years. No one has used the place in years except me and Carol,” said Ashton.

“How long has it been exactly since anyone from the family has been here?” Sue asked.

“A long time, years. Back before my time they’d come up every summer season. That lasted ‘til the 1970s, almost 100 years. Then the kids and grandkids started to build vacation homes in other places: Maine, the Outer Banks, California. Over the years they just seemed to get richer, don’t ask me how. Sometimes other folks, the extended family, would use the place, but the last few years, no one. I suppose it’s old, doesn’t have the stuff people expect these days. Plus it’s all going to hell. Back in the day, I’d submit a list of things that needed to done, give an estimated cost, and the money would come. I still send the lists, but nothing’s been funded for five years or more.” Their march along the path suddenly opened to the view of an imposing log structure. Ashton led them to the enormous front door that was standing slightly ajar.

“Someone’s kicked in the door again,” Ashton mumbled. “When I checked the place two weeks ago, everything was okay.”

“This has happened before?” asked Ray.

“Not in the old days. But seems like every other winter the last years. ATVs and snowmobiles make it easy to get in here.”

“Have you been reporting the break-ins?” asked Ray.

“I did the first few times, that’s before you were sheriff.” Ashton shrugged. “They weren’t much interested. I took out most everything worth stealing, got it in storage in Traverse.” They followed Ashton into the gloomy interior—the small, widely spaced windows were partially covered by thick maroon curtains. “Just hope I don’t have a big mess to clean up.”