Murder in Foggy Bottom (16 page)

19

The Next Evening
Washington, DC

Roseann Blackburn slammed the door to her apartment and came down the stairs with purpose. She stopped and looked back when the door opened.

“Look, you know I didn’t mean it,” Potamos, wearing shorts, said from the top of the stairway.

“Then you shouldn’t have said it,” she snapped.

“So forget I said it,” he said, hands extended in a gesture of surrender.

“That’s so typical of you, Joe; say something nasty, then say forget you said it. I’m late.”

“We’ll have dinner after the gig?”

“
You’ll
have dinner after the gig! Or before. Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn!”

She waved down a cab and ten minutes later was seated behind the gleaming black Steinway grand in the large lobby of the Four Seasons Hotel, playing an un-characteristically dark version of “It Had to Be You.” She finished that song and had just started “My Funny Valentine” when her eyes went to a cushioned chair across the room, near the bar. Seated in it was Craig Thomas, the Canadian embassy’s public information officer. He raised his glass and smiled.

She was booked to play two forty-five-minute sets at the Four Seasons. At the end of the first, she went to the bar for her usual diet soft drink. Thomas sauntered up to her.

“What happened to Cole Porter?” he asked pleasantly.

“He’s alive and well. Next set.”

“How have you been?”

“Fine.”

“It’s Craig, Craig Thomas.”

“Oh, I remember your name.”

“I wouldn’t be offended if you hadn’t. How’s your journalist friend?”

“Joe? He’s as good as ever.”

“Look, Ms. Blackburn, I’m not the aggressive type, the ‘I won’t take no for an answer’ type. I’m Canadian.”

The comment struck Roseann as funny, and she laughed. “Canadians aren’t aggressive?” she said.

“On occasion, I suppose. Maybe this should be one of them. Free for dinner?”

“No. Well—”

“Just a pleasant, nonaggressive, hands-off dinner. To put it simply, I’d like to know more about you.”

“Not much to know. I play the piano and . . . all right.”

“A preference in restaurants?”

“No. I’ll leave it to you. I’d better get back.”

“I’ll be here. ‘I Concentrate on You’?”

“If you insist.”

“The song.”

“I know what you mean.”

She finished the final set with a long medley, which brought polite applause from Thomas and two or three others. As she stood, closed the keyboard cover and saw him approaching, she had a fleeting moment of doubt. But when he arrived at the piano, smiled, and said, “Ready?” she simply said, “Yes.”

20

That Same Evening
The State Department

State’s officer in charge of educational outreach programs to area universities concluded his brief remarks and stepped away from the podium in the smallest of the eighth-floor diplomatic reception rooms. The forty people in the audience applauded, including Mac and Annabel Smith, and Jessica Mumford, who’d invited them along with a few other friends she felt might appreciate the moment and its meaning.

The event was to honor professors of international affairs and diplomacy whose students had interned at State over the past year. Jessica, as an adjunct professor at George Washington, had one such student, a young Egyptian exchange student she held in high regard.

“Must be satisfying to see your students go on to successful careers in diplomacy,” Annabel said.

“No more so than seeing Mac’s law students succeed,” Jessica said.

“The stakes are different,” Mac grumbled.

He’d become depressed over the past few weeks, and Annabel recognized it because she, too, had been out of sorts, feeling a vague, nagging discontent that was always there even when events surrounding her were happy and positive. Like most of the country, she mused.

The downing of the three commercial planes with the loss of dozens of lives, and a sense of the loss of control, had set the nation on edge, although few were introspective enough to realize why their mood had changed. Not that the terrorist attacks had sent the population scurrying to bed and under the covers in fear of another attack. As with the World Trade Center bombing, it was business as usual, it seemed, across the country—except that it wasn’t. Outwardly, perhaps; but inside, every American was a mix of rage and fear, confusion and anxiety. Depression—anger turned inward—was the way the shrinks explained it on the chatterbox TV and radio talk shows.

In Congress, the White House, and every other agency, federal, state, and local, the outrage was expressed daily in speeches, press releases, and appearances on those same talk shows for which the attacks were the subject of choice, the only subject, it seemed, worth exploring. Whether out of true sorrow, posturing, or genuine mystification, the country couldn’t get enough of it, even though there was little new to get—the same video clips, the same sound bites played over and over while the talking heads tried to come up with different ways to say what had already been said.

“I’m so glad you could come,” Jessica said to the Smiths as they prepared to leave.

“Thanks for the invitation,” said Annabel. “Join us for dinner?”

“Love to but can’t,” Jessica said. “I’m going directly from here to my office, catch up on things. It’s overwhelming.”

“The attacks?”

“Yes. The paper piles up. The questions don’t go away.”

Annabel stepped into the ladies’ room before leaving for dinner, and Jessica accompanied her. While brushing their hair and touching up makeup, Annabel asked about Max Pauling.

Jessica’s response was a sardonic laugh. “Max who?”

“I shouldn’t have asked,” Annabel said.

Jessica touched Annabel’s arm. “Don’t mind me,” she said. “Max is away.”

“On business, or flying somewhere for fun?”

“State business.”

Jessica leaned against the edge of the counter and seemed to deflate. “Funny,” she said, “how the men in my life always seem to ‘be away.’ Skip—you met my ex-husband, didn’t you?”

“Once, briefly.”

“Skip’s work with the Bureau had him off somewhere ninety percent of the time. I knew that would be the case when I married him, but wasn’t mature enough to know how much I’d resent it. When I met Max—it was right here at State, at a reception—”

“I know. I remember how taken you were with him, although you tried to be aloof about it.”

“You saw through that? Yes, I was taken with him. If he’d still been stationed overseas, in Moscow or someplace else, my antenna would have gone up. But he’d been assigned to DC, a desk job, like me.”

“This latest trip—only temporary, I assume?”

“I’m sure it is. But do you know what, Annabel?”

“What?”

“It’s not temporary in Max’s mind and heart. He’s been gone from the day he arrived in Washington. He hates being here.”

“But didn’t hate being here with you.”

“No, I’m sure not, but he—a man like that
—men
like that are only happy when they’ve escaped the mundane, when they’re being challenged by something or someone few of us encounter.” She looked up at the ceiling, then at Annabel and smiled. “Max told me he once had a boat. That was early in his marriage. He said he’d take his wife and kids out for pleasure rides and never enjoyed it. It was only when he was alone and the weather was foul that he liked to take the boat out, navigate through the fog, challenge himself. Know what I mean?”

“I think so.”

“Like Skip. They’re capable of loving, and they do love, but we’re more of a biological necessity for them. They love themselves more—especially when in danger. Max told me his former wife, Doris, is involved with an accountant. Smart lady.”

Annabel considered Jessica’s comments to represent an overly harsh evaluation, and her unstated characterization of accountants to be too general, but didn’t express her feelings. Instead, she said, “Well, time to leave. Wish you could join us, and sorry you can’t make our party next Saturday.”

“Me, too, Annabel.”

As they walked from the rest room, Jessica said brightly, “Maybe that’s why I love birds so much, Annabel. They’re predictable, and always entertaining. They stick close to their nests.”

Annabel rejoined Mac. They said good night to Jessica, rode the elevator down to the lobby, took note of the extra armed security guards at the doors, and headed for a Pan-Asian dinner at Germaine’s. It was after they’d arrived home at their Watergate apartment that Annabel recounted her ladies’-room conversation with Jessica.

“She ought to look for a man elsewhere,” Mac said while rubbing Rufus behind the ears. “Hang around IRS hearing rooms, or attend accountants’ conventions.”

Annabel laughed.

“What’s funny?”

“Suggesting Jessica look for an accountant. Max Pauling told her his ex-wife is dating one.”

“Smart lady.”

“That’s what Jessica said. Know what, Mac?”

“What?”

“I’m sorry for Jessica, and happy for me.”

21

That Same Evening
Washington, DC

Roseann Blackburn and Craig Thomas had driven from the Four Seasons to the historic Tabard Inn, on N Street NW, in Thomas’s car. He offered to drive her home after dinner but Roseann declined, and Thomas knew why. She didn’t want to run the risk of her boyfriend, Joe Potamos, seeing her arrive in another man’s car.

The taxi ride gave her a chance to ponder the evening, and, more important, what to tell Joe about how she’d spent it.

They’d started with a drink in the inn’s lounge, then moved to the brick-walled outdoor garden with colorful umbrellas over the tables, and sculpture that was, surprisingly, artistic rather than merely decorative.

“So, Roseann Blackburn, tell me all about yourself,” he said after he perused the wine list and ordered an Oregon pinot noir he could vouch for.

“Everything?” she said lightly.

“No, be selective. What’s it like playing the piano in places like the Four Seasons? Does it ever get—well, boring?”

“Sometimes, but whenever it does, I focus on the music and try to play a tune differently than I’ve ever played it before, find some new chord to use, a change of tempo. Music never bores me.”

“I took piano lessons as a kid but they didn’t take. Where are you from? When did you start lessons? Did you start with classical music? Were your mom and dad musicians?”

And so it went for the next two hours, scores of questions gently asked over crab salads, lobster and rosemary, a hefty loaf of raisin pumpernickel bread, and blackberry brulée tarts. At one point, Roseann wondered whether she should be annoyed at so many questions but she wasn’t. This was obviously a man who was sincerely interested in other people, a man filled with natural curiosity. It felt good talking about herself. She was basically a shy, private person, secure only when a piano separated her from the rest of the world. But everything about Thomas exuded kindness, especially his eyes.

They lingered over coffee. Roseann said, “I’ve been babbling away about myself, something I never do.” Then, unexplainably, she began to cry, softly.

“I’m sorry if I’ve upset you with all my questions,” Thomas said.

“No, no, you didn’t upset me,” she said, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with her napkin. “It’s just that . . .”

“It’s just that what?”

“Things have been topsy-turvy lately, not going the way they were supposed to go.”

His smile was comforting. “Obviously, your musical life isn’t in turmoil. Your boyfriend?”

She nodded and swallowed against further tears. When he didn’t respond, she said, “I’m absolutely nuts about him, madly in love, but sometimes I wonder why.” She spent the next five minutes talking about her relationship with Potamos, its ups and downs, highs and lows, the happy times and those other times, like tonight, when she wanted to drop a piano on his thick head. When she’d finished, she blew a stream of air at an errant strand of hair that had fallen over her forehead, smiled, then laughed and said, “I can’t believe I’ve done this.”

“Had dinner with me?”

“No, talked like this about Joe and my personal life to—to a stranger.”

“I understand,” he said, motioning to their waiter for the check. “If I’d known how much in love you were with him, I wouldn’t have asked you to dinner.”

“I’m glad you did. I’d better go.”

“Sure. Drive you home?”

“No, I’ll take a cab, thanks.”

They went to the bar, where Thomas told the maître d’ a taxi was needed for the lady.

“I understand your friend Potamos has an interest in a murder that occurred not long ago,” Thomas said casually as they waited.

She thought for a moment, then replied, “Oh, the Canadian, the man who was killed in the park.”

“Yes. Jeremy Wilcox. He was a friend of mine.”

“Oh? I’m sorry.”

“We worked pretty closely at the embassy.”

“That’s right, he did work there. I never even thought about that. Joe has been trying to find out more about it.”

“So I hear. I might be able to help him.”

“Really?”

“Yes. There’s an aspect to it that no one knows, at least outside of a few of us at the embassy. Have him call me.” He handed her his business card.

“I already have one,” she said.

“I thought you might have tossed it in the trash the minute you left the reception. I’m serious, Roseann. I’d like to talk to Mr. Potamos.”

“All right, I’ll—”

The cab arrived. Roseann shook Thomas’s hand. “Thanks for a lovely evening, although I didn’t intend to have you end up playing shrink.”

“I enjoyed every minute of it. Safe home.”

She had the cab drop her two blocks from the apartment, in front of a convenience store that carried Joe’s favorite ice cream flavor—peanut butter chocolate—and bought a half gallon. He was at the computer when she arrived.

“Hey, I was getting worried about you,” he said, getting up and kissing her.

“I went out for a bite with friends. Here.” She handed him the ice cream.

“Hey, thanks.”

Later, in pajamas, they sat up in bed eating ice cream.

“I love you, Joe,” she said.

“Even though I can be an idiot sometimes? Or because for a few minutes a day I’m
not
an idiot?”

“Maybe that’s
what
I love about you.”

“Lucky me.”

They put their empty dishes on the night table and made love. After, and when what had been left of their ice cream had melted into cold soup, Potamos let Jumper lick from the bowls while Roseann went to the bathroom.

How do I finesse this? she thought as she looked in the mirror. He’ll be pleased to have a lead on the murder story, but I’ll have to tell him about going to dinner with Craig.

Tomorrow, she decided. It can wait until tomorrow.

“Joe, I didn’t go out to dinner last night with friends. I went out with a man I met at the State Department when I played that reception a few days ago.”

Potamos had been reading the paper and enjoying an English muffin and coffee. He lowered the paper and looked at her across the kitchen table. “You went out with this guy?”

“Yes. He was at the Four Seasons, and you and I were fighting, and . . . he’s with the Canadian embassy, in public information. He says he was a good friend of the embassy person who was murdered, the one you’ve been digging into, and says he can tell you some things that no one else knows about the murder.”

“Yeah? What’s his name?”

“Thomas.”

“Thomas what?”

“Craig Thomas. And, Joe, all we did was go to dinner and talk. He’s a gentleman. We shook hands when I left the restaurant. Here’s his card. He wants you to call him.”

“I will. You have a thing for this guy, Roseann?”

“No, Joe, I have a thing for you.”

He considered pressing her about Thomas and their dinner together but thought better of it. She’d been honest with him, and he was sure there wasn’t more to it than she’d said there was. Besides, he reminded himself as he stood up, he was lucky she was there at all, considering how he’d been acting. He touched the back of her neck as he passed her chair, felt her fingertips on his hand, and went to the phone.