Hard Fall (33 page)

“Oh, yes, now I remember. You're a spy.”

That had a way of sobering him. “Exactly.”

“You're over here consulting a Washington-based company, wasn't that it?”

“What a memory! Yes. They're consulting us, actually. Just so.”

“And you're from?”

“Europe,” he answered vaguely. “That's my 1992 response to that question.”

She seemed to find him amusing. “These are exciting times in Europe.”

“They certainly are,” he agreed, aware of the irony of his reply.

“So, how may I help you?”

She meant real estate, of course. He knew this, but his mind wandered. This room was far too comfortable to think business. He relaxed, his tension drained away. There were several ways she could help him, it occurred to him. The key to Daggett's front door held the top position on his list and now several other possibilities came to mind. She sat patiently waiting for his response.

“A lease. I need a house for six months to a year. Longer perhaps, if things work out.” He had decided on this amount of time because he wanted to make sure she saw him as a potentially valuable client. “Somewhere out here in the Virginia suburbs. Not too far from National, but far enough to be quiet and out of the flight patterns.” She reached for a loose-leaf notebook as he continued, “And I should warn you that I'm terribly particular. To the point of being finicky, I'm afraid. I have very specific tastes, beginning with the landscaping. I'm something of a green thumb—at least I fancy myself one—and though we're at the end of the season, I would like a place where there's plenty to do in the gardens. Tending the lawn has never been one of my favorites, but I'm
mad
about gardens. Flowers, vegetables, shrubs, it doesn't matter just so long as I can get my hands into the soil and make a mess of myself.” He was stretching out the time, still unsure how he would attempt to get into her purse and at those keys. He needed that date of the meeting from inside Daggett's briefcase as soon as possible. There was much to be done. The focus of his attention remained Mosner and EisherWorks—avenging the destruction of his former life.

She laughed in a low contralto. He found the sound soothing, and wished she would do it again. “We have that in common,” she said. “A love of gardens. I think I know exactly what you're looking for. But that won't make my job any easier, I'm afraid.” She began to turn pages. “That will require some serious hunting.” She glanced up from the notebook. “We pride ourselves on satisfied customers.”

“Yes, I'm sure you do. I have nothing but time,” he said. “No hurry whatsoever.” Lies, lies, and more lies. It had become so much a way of life for him, he didn't hear them any longer.

There was that laugh again. He wished he had a tape recorder. She said, “Don't worry. It shouldn't take
that
long.”

“Oh, I'm not worried,” he assured her. “Not in the least.”

She drove a red Ford Taurus with a plush interior and all the extras. It reminded him of Roger Ward. This must have been the car Daggett had borrowed the other night. That reminded him how close he was to enemy territory, how risky this approach. It didn't feel risky. It felt delightful. He glanced over at her. She wore the man-tailored blouse tucked into a khaki skirt. White tights. Leather walking shoes with thick gum rubber soles. He had a fetish about women in cars, he realized. Except for Monique, he had not ridden with a woman in years, and so only discovered this odd lust now, as he longed to reach over and run his hand up her leg, up her thigh and under her skirt. Or perhaps unbutton her blouse and tease her breasts as she drove. Was it her helplessness? Her defenselessness? He considered his fantasy rather tawdry. But he carried it one step further, allowing himself to imagine tying her up in bed, naked and willing, tying her wrists with yarn, or something easily broken, or tying her with bows so that they both knew she could free herself whenever she wished, but tying her down and taking his time with her, exploring, teasing, satisfying. Make her swell, rich with a woman's scent.

“What do you think?” she asked. They had been driving for ten or fifteen minutes through a wooded part of the Virginia suburbs and were now parked in front of a quaint yellow-and-white cottage, its brick chimney thick with ivy, a tarnished copper weather vane mounted to the peak of the roof, shifting slightly with the fluctuating wind. Surrounded by a low wrought-iron fence, with an intricate gate, it reminded him of southern France. Perfect. He felt like walking inside and never coming out. But he needed more time. “I don't mind taking a look,” he said, anxious to see the inside, “but right off the mark I would say there's not enough yard to it, not enough lot. Do you see that? It's charming, of course, but hardly the sort of place … I'm not sure. Let's have a look. I would hate to be too hasty.”

She led the way. He thought that in such a small house there should have been fewer rooms and more emphasis on windows. With an eye on her purse and still no way to get to her keys, he listed its shortcomings and requested they try another.

By the third house, she had relaxed and he had her talking. It was a stucco Tudor with black shutters and leaded windows, large for a bachelor, but with outstanding landscaping including a rock garden and a lovely vine-covered gazebo out back. They were standing in the bedroom, he looking out the window, she wandering the room reciting the house's various features.

Inexplicably, Kort choked up. This home wasn't so different from the one he had lived in as a married man. A feeling of loss surged through him. Without the greed of EisherWorks Chemicals he would have been living in a house like this with a healthy child and a loving wife—it seemed blatantly unfair. He recalled the day Inspector Michael Sharpe had knocked on his door and changed his life.

A home. What would it be like to lock the doors of this house, trapping Caroline inside, and spend the remainder of his life making love to her and tilling the gardens? The thought intoxicated him. Caroline crossed the room and arranged a bouquet of silk flowers. She was speaking, but he didn't hear. She was his adversary's woman. Did that add to his thrill? The palpable quiet of the room absorbed him. He could hear her breathing from across the room. The bed lay like an island between them, inviting his thoughts. Was it so unthinkable? Was this not, after all, the best way to get that key? If he simply took the key, she might mention the loss to Daggett, who would change the lock. But to find a way to legitimately borrow the key?

“What do you think?” she asked.

“It's lovely,” he said, referring to her work with the flowers. “Much better than it was. You understand color very well.”

“I mean the house.”

“Oh. It's very nice, isn't it? But awfully big for
a single man
. Why don't we look at the grounds?”

They strolled the small backyard, she glancing over at him now and then, especially when he stooped to pick a weed or remove dead heads from the flowering plants.

“These beds are being tended to once every other week,” he observed. “They would look better if serviced once a week. The flowering plants have obviously taken a beating in this heat,” for it was hot again today, and growing more so by the hour, “but everything here needs more water and more attention in general.”

“They need you,” she said in her best soft-sell voice.

“I'm taking too much of your time,” he said, the concern in his voice genuine. He didn't want to do anything but tour these homes with her, walk in gardens and fantasize about making love with her.

“No, you're not. You mustn't think that, Mr. Anthony—”

“Carl.”

“It's my job to put you in the home you want. I wasn't kidding about satisfied customers.”

They had come to the gazebo and rock garden. It was lovely, by far the prettiest, most well-conceived piece of landscaping on the small grounds. They stood close to each other, neither speaking. In a tender voice Kort said, “I miss the peace of the garden.”

Caroline studied him as his eyes stayed on the flower bed. “You were married, weren't you? You said you're single now, but you were married.”

He nodded solemnly.

“Children?”

“One,” he said.

“Where are they now?”

He stooped, clawed at the earth, collected some dirt in his hand and then released it. He looked up at her and shook his head. He felt his eyes stinging, and it embarrassed him. He was long past crying for them. A heavy silence fell between them, but they maintained their eye contact. “I had no right to ask,” she said.

“Of course you did,” he replied, absorbed by the beauty of the garden, not wanting her to see any more of his sorrow. “But I don't have any pets,” he said, intentionally harshly.

“I wasn't asking as a property manager,” she corrected. “I was asking as a fellow human being.”

Music to his ears. He played the scene for all he could. “Let's try someplace else. I like this very much, but the house is a little big. Still, it's the nicest of the three.”

“Yes. It is big for one person. Shall we go?”

He pointed over to the gazebo and a bench in the shade, produced his pack of Camels nonfilters and offered her one. Monique had promised him a pack of Sobranies; he could hardly wait. Caroline declined, but she had a pack of her own filtered cigarettes, and a moment later he lighted the cigarettes and they smoked. “It's a terrible habit,” he said, later breaking their silence.

“Yes, it is.”

“But I love it.”

“Me too.” She giggled. “I promised myself just this one pack, then I'm going to quit again.”

“You're stronger than I,” he said.

“No. I doubt that,” she said softly. “I don't feel very strong at the moment.”

He might have kissed her then, he thought. She seemed to be inviting him to, but he feared if he tried and failed, not only would it spoil his plans, but it would destroy the peacefulness of the moment.

And at this particular spot in time, on a bench in the cool shade, a bevy of colorful flowers saturating the grounds before them, sitting alone with a charming and sensitive woman, the moment was everything.

Monique parked three blocks from the smoke shop on K Street. The first store she had tried had been out of Sobranie and the man behind the counter had recommended this shop. A bright sunny day threw her shadow down in front of her. She chased herself up the sidewalk.

The store—half wineshop, half tobacco shop—smelled wonderful, even though she disliked smoke. It was perfumed with sweet pipe tobaccos, rich cigar tobaccos, and oiled wood.

The man behind the counter seemed out of place for such a shop. He was thirtyish, strong, and very straight-looking. She had expected an old man, balding perhaps, glasses, with a cheery smile and stained teeth. If this salesman smoked, then she was Cleopatra. Probably a graduate student who paid the rent by hawking Turkish nonfilters.

“A carton of Sobranie, please,” she said.

“A carton? Sobranie we sell by the
pack
,” the salesman asked.

“Ten packs then,” she said, annoyed at him. “You
do
have them, don't you? Sobranie Black Russians?”

“Sure. We've got 'em.” He bent down behind the counter, slid open a door, and retrieved ten packs.

He scribbled onto a piece of paper and then switched on the calculator. “Fifty-four-fifty. And I can't give change,” he said as she produced three twenties. My register's down and it's one of these friggin' electronic kind, self-locking. I gotta have a credit card, if it's all the same to you.”

She stuffed the twenties back into her wallet, withdrew her credit card and handed it to him. He ran off the charge and when he returned the receipt said, “Local phone number.” She scribbled out the phone number hastily and signed the receipt, mumbling to herself. Everyone made everything so difficult. Intentionally, it seemed. Life was supposed to get tougher and so everyone made sure it did. He disconnected her portion of the receipt, although so clumsily that he tore it, apologized, and handed it over to her. Having placed the cigarettes into a sack, he handed her this as well.
Don't say it
! she willed him silently.

But he did. “Have a nice day.”

“You as well,” she said, turning and hurrying to the door. At all costs, she had wanted to avoid thanking him.

The light turned red. Daggett honked and ran it. “Are you sure?” he asked Levin, who was busy checking the traffic, fearing for his life.

“He said the credit card was in the name of Maryanne Lyttle. He said that if you put her in dark glasses and a scarf and shot her in grainy black-and-white film, she could be the woman in the photo you passed around. He said she bought a bunch of Sobranie. He was going to follow her. She left on foot.”

They drove another two blocks and Levin, eyes searching the pedestrians, said loudly, “There he is! Pull over.” Levin jumped from the car.

Daggett watched as the two had a brief exchange of words. The other man pointed while reading aloud from a notebook. Levin jumped back into the car, pulled the door shut and said, “We're two, maybe three minutes behind her. A red BMW, three hundred series. Washington plates. AJ-three-two-something-or-other. He didn't get the full number. Lost her in traffic.”

“Shit! Two or three minutes?” Daggett stepped on it. The car lurched into traffic. He drove frantically for several minutes, ran another light, was nearly struck by an ice-cream truck and resigned himself to a lost cause. “I screwed this up,” he said. “The plan was ill-conceived in the first place. They should have been two-man teams.”

“Then
I'm
to blame, Michigan. Pullman wouldn't give me that.”

Stopped at a red light, Daggett closed his eyes in an attempt to calm himself. It didn't work.