Page 23 of Identity Unknown
“Never know who’s watching.” Her steady voice sounds in my headset, the ground rushing beneath us. “When you talked to Sal yesterday, did he tell you whether he planned on stopping anywhere along the way to Green Bank?”
“He indicated he was driving straight through other than a pitstop. We chatted in his driveway for maybe fifteen minutes. Then I left, and he was right behind me, heading out. A few hours later he called.” As I explain, I remember how uneasy I felt.
How’s the trip? Any problems?I asked him first thing, worried something was wrong.
I just wanted to thank you again for stopping by, amore.He sounded wistful, maybe sad, our cell connection iffy.I will always feel like the richest of mortals for knowing you.
“I asked where he was, and he said that he’d stopped in Weyers Cave for gas and a coffee,” I’m telling Lucy. “That’s the last we communicated.”
“What time was this?” She steers the helicopter along the shoreline, and I catch glimpses of the Mount Vernon Trail between trees.
“One-thirty or a little after.”
“Did you get any indication of him stopping in Weyers Cave for anything more than gas and a coffee? Did something seem odd?”
“Nothing comes to mind except it wasn’t like him to call for no reason,” I reply, and that’s not entirely true.
Long ago in a different life, he called for no reason all the time, as did I. There’s no need for Lucy to know. She was a child when that went on.
“But in retrospect I wonder if he had a premonition that something might happen to him,” I add. “Or it simply may be that he was feeling sentimental on his sixtieth birthday. We’ll probably never know.”
“And he was heading directly to Green Bank after making the pitstop?” Her voice sounds in my headset.
“That was my impression.”
“It’s unclear why it took him so long to get there. Several hours are unaccounted for and it’s raising a lot of questions, unfortunately.” She says this in an unsettling way, and we’re slowing down.
We’ve reached our Old Town neighborhood, the narrow streets below surveyed during the colonial days, the homes historically preserved and immaculate. Our property is ahead, the manor house’s two tall brick chimneys peeking above dense leafy canopies. Cherry trees and dogwoods are vivid pink against bright green, the fruit trees snowy with blossoms.
Then Sal’s turn-of-the-century villa materializes behind a tall stand of evergreens on a bluff overlooking the Potomac. Whitewashed stucco is topped by an igloo-looking observatory. It’s surrounded by a terrace with small flowering trees, planters of shrubs, a wooden table and two chairs. I imagine him sitting there on dark clear nights.
I wonder if he carried up a bottle of wine, drinking alone while looking through his telescope like we did that summer. I wonder if he thought about our time together. I know I still do even though I don’t say it. I can imagine all too well what he remembered, and I feel the weight of guilt again. When we were on his driveway, I sensed something was bothering him, and I didn’t question it.
Lucy flies low and slow over the former stable that’s now a garage, and next the carriage house converted into guest quarters. From the air, the gardens are intricate mosaics in vivid colors, the swimming pool shining like a cut sapphire amid fuchsia cherry trees. Sal’s told me the history of the property, researching it thoroughly before deciding to buy the place.
A wealthy Italian shipbuilder designed the original twenty-acre estate in the early 1900s, naming it Porto Sicuro, a safe harbor. The summer Sal and I were together in Rome, he was thinking of buying the place. It was convenient to Washington, D.C., and there was nothing similar on the market.
He showed me photographs of water-stained walls, rotted wood, leaky roofs and windows. But the bones and view are unrivaled, and I told him that if he loved Porto Sicuro, it would love him back.
As Lucy slowly circles, I look down at the cobblestone driveway cutting through tulip poplars, blue cedars, ginkgoes and other centuries-old trees. The ornate iron front gate has been barricaded with traffic cones and sawhorses, and a black SUV is parked just inside. Another one is between the main house and the garage. From our altitude they look like toys.
“Yours, I presume?” I notice two people staring up at us, shielding their eyes from the sun.
“Yes,” Lucy says, the agents disappearing as we fly away toward the river. “When Sal was reported missing, we immediately put his place under surveillance. No one’s allowed inside the house or outbuildings for now. We need to make sure it’ssafe, and we really shouldn’t turn his property inside out before we’ve confirmed his identity.”
“That would be rather awful should he walk in on it,” I reply, and if only that could happen.
I recognize the Torpedo Factory passing beneath us, a former munitions plant now an art center that’s a fun bike ride from our house. Then we’ve reached the bustling waterfront’s shops and places to eat that Benton and I visit as schedules allow.
“When you were with Sal yesterday, was anyone else on the grounds or inside the buildings?” Lucy swoops the helicopter inland as we near the Woodrow Wilson drawbridge spanning the river. “Did you notice any signs that someone else might be there or had been?”
“When I was coming up the driveway, a florist’s van was leaving,” I reply. “I wasn’t surprised and didn’t pay much attention since it was Sal’s birthday. Other than that, I didn’t see a sign of anyone else.”
“What was he like when you were with him?”
“Preoccupied,” I reply. “A bit gloomy, truth be told.”
“You sure turning sixty was the only thing bothering him?”