“Unfortunately for Flanders. Why on earth did he pick that place? It’s a maze in there. Security will be a nightmare tonight. Glad I’m only handling Claudia,” Vic said. “And you.”
“She said Flanders picked the Torpedo Factory months ago, to fit his campaign theme of creative reuse of our industrial infrastructure as a foundation for Virginia’s high-tech future.” Vic gave her a look. “Yeah, I don’t know what it means either. He’s a politician.”
Lacey walked him to the elevators and kissed him when no one was around to see.
With Hank Richards still at large, Vic made her promise not to return to her apartment without him, so Lacey had lugged her outfit for the evening to the office. She quickly changed into an emerald-green-and-black velvet dress with a flared skirt. That 1930s-era charmer also had a long-sleeve bolero jacket in black, with green cuffs that matched her green silk heels.
Very Claudette Colbert.
It was a sentimental favorite of hers. She didn’t wear it often, but she loved the way it felt. She arranged her hair in a French twist. Not as expertly as Stella, but it would do. She freshened her makeup and called a cab.
While she waited, Mac administered a little fatherly lecture on her personal safety and steering clear of the suspect. And on rolling her eyes at her editor.
The Eye
’s security guard watched until she was safe inside the taxi and on her way to Old Town. She wouldn’t have to worry about walking in those heels or about parking. Or about Hank Richards.
Since moving to Alexandria, Lacey had spent many hours wandering through the Torpedo Factory, perusing the art for sale, watching the artists at work, and admiring that large, lime green torpedo in the main hall, a sample of the weapons built there for the Navy. The factory dated to the World War I era, but it didn’t reach full steam until World War II, when five thousand workers, many of them women, were slamming out torpedoes around the clock. It was the era of Rosie the Riveter. Her aunt Mimi had had friends who worked there.
The Torpedo Factory hadn’t produced weapons for decades. It had transitioned in the 1970s into a community arts center for Alexandria, its cavernous interior partitioned into a maze of nearly a hundred small glassed-in artists’ studios and cozy galleries. It found a new life.
Across America, factories of all kinds had closed down, many, like Dominion Velvet, because of foreign imports. Some had evolved into other uses, like condominiums and shopping malls and theatres. Congressman Tazewell Flanders would offer the Torpedo Factory as his shining example of what could be done to bring jobs back to an abandoned factory. But could the factory in Black Martin really be turned into something useful, like an arts center or condos, when the whole economy seemed to be in a shambles? Lacey had her doubts.
Flanders rented the two-story main hall for his kickoff fund-raiser. With its massive ducts and exposed pipes and spiral staircase wrapped around an old industrial smokestack, it exuded both a gritty factory ambience and a politically correct, upscale art-scene vibe. In an economy when luxurious surroundings or a beautiful ballroom would be suspect, the Torpedo Factory, both industrial and funky, was perhaps the perfect venue for an up-and-coming politician’s campaign kickoff. “Friends of Flanders” were invited to party with their candidate for one thousand dollars a ticket.
Lacey was neither a friend, nor did she have to pay a grand. She showed her press pass and was admitted to the hall. Small round tables and chairs filled the space, decorated for the event. Candles on every table cast a soft golden glow. Lacey strolled past studios offering hand-thrown pottery, jewelry, wearable art, glass, and sculpture. There were paintings and drawings, photography and fiber art.
She caught sight of her publisher in a studio on the main floor. Claudia was purchasing an extravagant piece from the artist to add to her collection, a very stylized dream catcher nearly three feet across. The thick copper hoop surrounded an intricately knotted spider’s web, and it was decorated with a profusion of colorful feathers and beads in blues and greens. Claudia showed her the tag: more than a thousand dollars.
Pocket change for Ms. Darnell
, Lacey thought.
But why this sudden dream catcher obsession of hers? Are her dreams really in so much danger?
Vic was a shadow in the background wherever Claudia went. He nodded to Lacey, but he was constantly scanning the area for Richards. Lacey knew Turtledove must be somewhere nearby as well, shadowing the congressman. That blue ribbon was persuasive.
“Here’s hoping this is a crashingly boring evening,” Claudia said.
“I’ll second that. That’s a lovely piece,” Lacey said. “For the office?”
“Perhaps. It’s bigger than I would like, but it seemed to call to me,” Claudia said, tracing the web with her fingers. “But now I’ve got to carry it around all night.” Vic couldn’t carry it for her. It would only draw attention to her bodyguard. Claudia tucked it under her arm and turned to speak to a fellow Flanders supporter.
The airy heights of the central hall were filled with white lights and hundreds of giant floating paper snowflakes. “Friends of Flanders” and the media were milling about. Lacey climbed the stairs to the second floor to get a better view of the action below and to see what else was going on in the upper galleries. She wandered farther and farther back through the maze of hallways and studios, away from the crowd and the musicians setting up. She was peering through a window of the Alexandria Archaeology office on the third floor when she heard footsteps behind her.
“Stop right there, Ms. Smithsonian.”
Lacey froze at the voice. “Hank? Hank Richards?”
Oh no. Did he read my story?
“Pretty smart for a reporter. Don’t turn around and don’t scream. I have no cause to hurt you, but you know I could. Interesting story in the paper today.”
Lacey felt something hard poking her in the back. Her mouth had gone dry. She gulped. Hank pushed her into one of the open studios, filled with fiber-art wall hangings and decorative clothing. She wondered why it wasn’t locked. The studio lights were off, but it was well lit by the glass windows facing the hall.
“Where’s Kira?” he asked.
“She’s safe.”
Lacey heard him sigh. “I don’t want her blamed for any of this. Not her fault.”
“How did you get in, Hank?”
“I have my ways. I’ve got a talent for locks. Spent a couple of years working as a locksmith, long time ago. Been hiding out in this maze all day. Big place.”
She realized there was no one around to help her. Alexandria police were posted at the doors, on high alert for the suspect. Vic’s job was to keep Claudia safe, and Thunderbird was looking after Flanders. Lacey was on her own.
She turned her head to look at her captor and her mouth fell open. She stared at him. Hank had shaved his long blond hair and beard and now sported a perfectly smooth, bald head. He wore a dark suit and turtleneck and could have passed for a slightly edgy lobbyist. Or a bodyguard. He was much more frightening this way than he’d been as an aging surfer dude and boat bum. She tried to catch her breath. “You’ve gone to a lot of trouble, Hank.”
“You like the Velvet Avenger?” He smiled, but there wasn’t much humor in his voice. “It was time for a makeover. A big change. You know how that goes. Sit down, Lacey. I’m afraid you’re not gonna get to go to the party. But you ain’t missing much. Flanders is a well-known bore.” He indicated a chair and gently pushed her shoulder down. Lacey perched on it, ready to jump up. “We’re pretty far back in a corner up here. I don’t think anyone’s gonna hear us. But I’m going to take some precautions. I don’t want to have to shoot you. I really don’t.”
“Makes two of us.” Her voice was a little too close to cracking.
Lacey memorized her surroundings, trying to keep from panicking. The artist’s specialty seemed to be colorful faux flowers made of wire and fiber and felt. There were amorphous fiber wall hangings and some gaudy hats and vests. The artist had also helpfully provided a basket full of scraps, long felt strips in many colors for visitors’ kids to play with. Hank eyed the basket while holding the gun on her. Lacey thought about kicking something to distract him, but he was much larger than she was and he was blocking the door. Unless someone walked right past the door, it was too soon to scream. And she couldn’t forget that Hank had a gun.
Awkward. Way to go, Lacey
.
He pushed her behind a partition where the artist kept her desk and supplies. Lacey could see out of part of the window, but passersby would not be able to see them. Hank took her purse and set it down beyond her reach. Her cell phone was in there.
“You should know it wasn’t your fault about that Pojack character at your paper. It just happened. Thought I’d find Claudia Darnell, but she wasn’t there.”
“If you were after Claudia, why did you kill him?”
“I didn’t plan to. Darnell’s one of the people who shut down my factory, killed all our jobs. But this guy was in there, in her office, poking around. He started giving me major attitude. Asshole. Reminded me of Rod. Told me his name like it was a big favor or something and I should be impressed. Walter Pojack. I remembered your friend talking about a Walt Pojack.”
“Stella.” Lacey wanted to kick herself, but she was tied up.
“He wanted to take your job away, right? We couldn’t have that. I wanted you to write more stories. Until today. You kinda blew my cover today, didn’t you? And I went to all that trouble to get you those great photos of Rod. But it doesn’t matter now. I told that jerk I was the Velvet Avenger.” Hank chuckled. “Your Mr. Pojack didn’t know what the hell I was talking about. Idiot doesn’t even read his own newspaper. I decided to do y’all a favor. I made him call you on the phone before I shot him, so you’d be sure to get the story. Ah, you shoulda seen that bastard sweat.”
Hank related this story as casually as telling a joke in a bar. He was the ultimate in cool.
“Why the Velvet Avenger?”
He laughed again. “The more Sykes yakked about there maybe being a Velvet Avenger and that crazy-ass Web site got ahold of it, the more I liked the idea. Somebody needed to do something like this. Turns out it had to be me.”
“You don’t have to kill anyone else. You made your point.”
“But I do. I have to make an example of someone. Let people know they’re killing our factories, our work, our lives, our livelihoods. They’re killing our jobs. Can’t forgive that.” He pulled a few long strips of felt from the artist’s basket.
“This is insane, Hank.”
“Yeah. Maybe. Probably. I gotta tell you, I stopped worrying about that.” He put the gun down so he could tie her to the chair. She instantly jumped up and tried to run, but Hank was ready for her and grabbed both her arms. She got in one good kick in his shins. He yelped, then jammed her down in the chair, wrapping the felt around her and yanking her hands behind her.
“Be nice and I won’t cut off your circulation,” he said.
She felt him wrap the strips around her hands, pull them tight, and tie knots in them.
“You’re hurting me!” Lacey shouted.
“Won’t hurt you if you calm down.” She stopped squirming, and he loosened them slightly. “See. I’m easy. I do
not
want to hurt you.”
Keep him talking,
Lacey told herself.
Keep him busy
. Besides, she wanted to know everything: the curse of curiosity. “Why did you go back to Dominion Velvet that night?”
“I was looking out for Kira. It was after I left Sykes at the Mexican restaurant. She was all alone after the crew left. Wade was useless. Rod went and got blasted that afternoon. I figured he’d be back sooner or later for his car. But if Kira was there all alone, he might try something, and sure enough he did. I waited for him.”
“He didn’t see you?”
“Nope. He was too busy fooling around with the security cameras. He was up to something. I gave him a few minutes. Then I followed. Wish I hadn’t waited.”
“What about Wade?”
“Poor old slobbering drunk. I just tapped him with my flashlight on the back of his head. He was down for the count.”
“You heard the fight? You saw Kira knock Rod out?”
“Oh yeah.” Hank sighed deeply. “Wish I’d been there in time to save her from that.”
“You have feelings for Kira?” Lacey tried working her wrists to keep the blood flowing.
“I’ve loved that girl for so long,” Hank said. “Every day she came to work, Kira was my sunlight.”
“But you never said anything to her? You never told her? You never asked her out?”
“Kira’s had a troubled life. Raised her kid all on her own. Worked hard. She couldn’t love me.”
“Oh, Hank. Why not?”
“Wouldn’t work out. I’m not good enough for her. I’m not lovable.”
Certainly not at the moment
, she thought, wondering how to get out of this fix. She looked around the studio. There were long strips of fabric everywhere.
Great. He can mummify me. Where the hell are the police?
“Kira thought she killed him, right? But he woke up?”
“Shocked the living daylights out of both of us. It was one thing to think she killed him and he’s already dead. But then he’s not dead? We were in a real jam.”
“You could have stopped then.”
Hank shook his head. “When Rod woke up and saw me, he was damn scared. I thought he was going to have a heart attack or something. I enjoyed seeing him like that, at someone else’s mercy. I told him I was going to dye him like a spool of velvet, ’cause he was no more good to anyone than that. Less, even. The look on his face? Priceless. He started screaming and yelling like a maniac. He couldn’t be a man and just take what he had coming to him. He wouldn’t shut up. So I shot him. With his own gun.”
Richards leaned back against the artist’s desk and evaluated his handiwork.
She reminded herself to keep him talking. “Did you plan to kill him?”