Marcia Talley: In Death's Shadow

Like my husband, Connie and Dennis were sailors. I watched, amused, as a slow smile spread across Dennis's face when Paul explained to Officer Tracey what the M.O.B. meant.

Lieutenant Dennis Rutherford grinned at his colleague. "Hey, Mike. Ever applied for a search warrant on the basis of a latitude and longitude coordinate?"

They knew where the house was, of course. They'd looked it up.

Mrs. Bromley, the GPS, and I had given them plenty of probable cause, but I was needed to identify the place, positively, once they got inside.

With Paul's GPS mounted on the dashboard, Paul and I rode in the backseat of Tracey's cruiser from our house on Prince George to College Avenue. We turned left on College and right on Rowe, heading due west out of town, rather than east toward Fishing Creek Farm. Well, I thought sourly, that eliminates that creep Jablonsky.

When we made a right turn on Melvin, my heart began to race. At the end of Melvin was the community of Wardour, one of Annapolis's oldest high-rent neighborhoods. But before we reached the Wardour roundabout, Tracey surprised me by steering his cruiser left on Claude. At the end of Claude he stopped; we'd reached a dead end.

Directly in front of us, on a heavily wooded and beautifully landscaped waterfront lot, stood a modern, four-story home built entirely of brick. Tracey pulled into the drive and the GPS began to beep. "We have arrived," Tracey said. I didn't need the GPS or Mike Tracey to tell me that I was staring at a brand new three-car garage.

"Who does the house belong to?" I croaked.

"Somebody you know," Dennis said, turning in his seat to face me. "Mr. C. Alexander Steele, president and CEO of ViatiPro."

Why was I not surprised?

Surveying the house in front of him, Tracey whistled. "The business of death must be good." He opened the door of his cruiser, leaned out and motioned to an unmarked vehicle that had pulled into the driveway just behind us.

"Who-"I began.

"Evidence technicians," he replied.

Mike Tracey himself led the charge up the sidewalk. We stood behind him, like a tag team of Jehovah's Witnesses, while he rang the bell.

A middle-aged Filipina dressed as a maid answered the door. "Mistah Steele, he no home," she replied to Tracey's question. She stared, wide-eyed, first at us and then his badge, before backing away, bobbing at the waist. "I go get Missy Steele, okay? You wait."

A few seconds later a willowy woman dressed in a white tank top, black capris, and leather flip-flops came to the door. "I'm Claudia Steele. How may I help you, officer?" Diamond studs twinkled in her ears.

Tracey introduced the lot of us, then handed her the search warrant. "We're here to search the premises," he told her. "For evidence of a kidnapping."

If Claudia Steele was surprised, she didn't show it. While we waited, jockeying for position on the narrow landing, Mrs. Steele flipped quickly through the pages of the warrant. "I'm sure everything's in order here, officer, but I'm confident that you're making a huge mistake."

"We'd tike to begin in the basement," Tracey said.

"Be my guest." She turned. "Please, follow me."

How could she be so cool, so collected? Naddie and I had trashed the place. Did she think we wouldn't notice? She moved ahead of us with such poise and confidence that I was almost ready to believe I'd dreamed up the whole thing, until we stepped into the family room. There was the fireplace, the bar, the humongous TV, and, bless her little painted toes, the Naked Maya .

"This is it," I said firmly. "This is definitely the place."

Claudia Steele lounged against the bar while I led the officers to the wine cellar. The door, of course, was locked.

"They keep the key under the chalkboard," I told Tracey.

Once inside the wine cellar, I stared in disbelief. It had been only twelve hours since Naddie and I laid waste to the room, yet not a single bottle was out of place. There was no trace of the wine we'd spilled on the floor, no hint of a stain in the grouting. I looked up. The damage I'd done to the air conditioner had been repaired. I went to the door and looked down: even the carpet was miraculously clean. I felt like a fool.

As I wandered around the wine cellar, muttering, Claudia Steele stood next to the decanting table, holding the key in her hand and glaring at me with ill-disguised contempt. "I don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about, Mrs. Ives. You'd think if somebody had been tossing wine bottles around my cellar, I'd have noticed."

I didn't believe for a minute that C. Alexander Steele had cleaned up the mess by himself, and Nick Pottorff and his buddy Chet had been otherwise occupied. Tracey would interview the maid, I was sure. Perhaps she'd tell a different story.

Mrs. Steele's arms were folded over her chest. "Will that be all now?"

"One more thing," I said, turning to Officer Tracey. "Our fingerprints will be all over the place, of course, but I think I can save you a little time. If you'll look over there? Next to the door?" I pointed. "Count nine bottles up and seventeen bottles over. You should find a bottle of pinot noir."

Mike Tracey started to cross the room, but Claudia Steele stepped in his path, blocking the way. She was used to being in control; my giving orders didn't seem to suit her. Tracey simply stared, waiting her out. "Will you excuse me, ma'am?"

Her face a mask of loathing, Claudia Steele stepped aside.

Tracey turned to a technician. "Gloves?" He snapped them on, then counted the bottles. "… fifteen, sixteen, seventeen." He stopped, his gloved finger touching the neck of the bottle, my special bottle. I held my breath as he withdrew it from the slot and set it on the tasting table.

With slow deliberation, Tracey patted his pockets, searching for his reading glasses. Once the glasses were on his nose, he laid the bottle in his palm and bent over it. "'Michael LeBois Pinot Noir,'" he read.

"That's right, 2001, if I'm not mistaken."

"The bottle's been opened."

Claudia Steele's eyebrows shot up.

Mike Tracey wrapped his fingers around the cork and twisted, but it wouldn't budge. He scanned the room, spotted the corkscrew. "Do you mind?"

Claudia Steele shrugged. "Do I have a choice?"

Tracey removed the cork, shook the bottle, then peered inside. After a thoughtful moment, he tapped out the note I'd written to Paul. He unrolled the note, scanned its contents, his face passive, then handed the note to the technician, who sealed it inside a Baggie. "We'll need it for evidence, of course, but after that-" He looked at Paul. "I'll think you'll want to have it, Ives."

"Well," Claudia Steele huffed. "I don't have the slightest idea how that got there. I haven't been home. I spent the weekend with my mother in Pennsylvania. You can check."

Strangely enough, I believed her. There hadn't been any cars in the garage when Chet pulled in with the van.

"I have nothing to do with my husband's business, or with his associates," she insisted.

Tracey reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a photo lineup, six mugs to a page. He laid it on the tasting table. "Do you recognize any of these men, Mrs. Steele?"

Claudia Steele tapped Pottorff's face with the tip of a French manicured nail. "That's Nick Pottorff. He's a messenger for MBFSG. My husband does a lot of business with them." She waved a hand. "I don't recognize any of these others."

"Where can we find your husband, ma'am?"

"Where you can always find him on Monday," she commented dryly. "At his office."

Leaving the evidence technicians to do their work, Paul and I left with Officer Tracey. As I climbed into the car, I turned to Paul. "Remind me to find out who her cleaning lady is."

Late Tuesday evening my brother-in-law showed up after dinner, bringing us a progress report. While we waited for the decaf to brew, I telephoned Daddy. Within ten minutes he joined us at the kitchen table, where I was already serving dessert.