Murder in the CIA (12 page)

“It sure has. I remember when you got married.”

“So do I.” He chuckled. “Didn’t last long.”

“I know, Mom told me. I’m sorry.”

“I was, too, but then I realized it was good it fell apart so soon, before there were kids. Anyway, I’m not here to talk about my ex-wife. God, I hate that term. I’m here to celebrate Collette Cahill’s triumphant return from behind the Iron Curtain.”

She laughed. “Everybody thinks Hungary is like being in the Soviet Union. It’s really very open, Vern. I suppose that bothers the Soviets, but that’s the way it is, lots of laughter and music, restaurants and bars and … well, that’s not entirely true, but it’s not as bad as people think. The Hungarians are so used to being conquered by one country or another that they shrug and get on with things.”

“You’re with the embassy?”

“Yup.”

“What do you do there?”

“Administration, dealing with trade missions, tourists, things like that.”

“You were with the CIA.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Didn’t like it?”

“Too spooky for me, I guess. Just a Virginia country girl at heart.”

His laugh indicated he didn’t buy it but wasn’t about to debate.

Collette drifted to other people in the room. Everyone was interested in her life abroad and she did her best to give them capsule responses.

By eleven, just about everyone had gone home, except for her Uncle Bruce who’d gotten drunk, a next-door neighbor
who was helping Collette’s mother to gather up the debris, and Vern Wheatley. He sat in a chair in the living room, one long leg casually dangling over the other, a beer in his hand. Collette went to him and said, “Nice party.”

“Sure was. Feel like escaping?”

“Escaping? No, I …”

“I just figured we could go somewhere, have a drink and catch up.”

“I thought we did.”

“No we didn’t. How about it?”

“I don’t know, I … just a second.”

She went to the kitchen and said she might go out for a cup of coffee with Wheatley.

“That’s nice,” said her mother, who then whispered, “He’s divorced, you know.”

“I know.”

“I always liked him, and I could never understand what he saw in that other woman.”

“He saw something—a ring, a marriage, a mate. Sure you don’t mind?”

“Not at all.”

“I won’t be late. And, Mom, thanks for a wonderful party. I loved seeing everyone.”

“And they loved seeing you. The comments, how beautiful you are, what a knockout, a world traveler …”

“Good night, Mom. You’re spoiling me.” She said goodbye to the neighbor and to her Uncle Bruce, who was hearing or feeling nothing, but would in the morning, and she and Wheatley drove off in his 1976 Buick Regal.

They went to a neighborhood bar, settled in a corner booth, ordered beers, and looked at each other. “Fate,” he said.

“What?”

“Fate. Here we are, high school sweethearts separated by fate and together again because of fate.”

“It was a party.”

“Fate that I was here when the party was thrown, fate that you came home at the right time, fate that I’m divorced.
Fate
. Pure and simple.”

“Whatever you say, Vern.”

They spent two hours catching up on their lives. Cahill found it awkward, as usual, that there was much she couldn’t talk about. It was one of the limitations to working for the CIA, particularly in its most clandestine division. She avoided that aspect of her recent life and told tales of Budapest, of the nights at the Miniatur and Gundel, of the Gypsy bands that seemed to be everywhere, of the friends she’d made and the memories she’d developed for life.

“It sounds like a wonderful city,” Wheatley said. “I’d like to visit you there someday.”

“Please do. I’ll give you a special tour.”

“It’s a date. By the way, your former employer made a pass at me not too long ago.”

Cahill tried to imagine someone she’d worked for doing that. A homosexual former boss?

“The Pickle Factory.”

“The CIA? Really?”

“Yeah. Journalists used to be big with them. Remember? Then all the crap hit the fan back in ’77 and it was ‘cool it’ for a while. Looks like they’re back with us.”

“What did they want you to do?”

“I was heading off for Germany on a free-lance assignment. This guy in a cheap suit and raincoat got to me through a friend who lives in the East Village and sculpts for a living. This guy wanted me to hook up with a couple of German writers, get to know them, and see what they knew about the current situation in Germany.”

Cahill laughed. “Why didn’t they just ask them themselves?”

“Not enough intrigue, I guess. Besides, I figured that what they really want is to have you in their pocket. Do them one favor, then another, collect a little dough for it and start depending upon more. You know what?”

“What?”

“I’m glad you aren’t with them anymore. When I heard you’d taken a job with the CIA, all I could think of was what I wrote in your yearbook.”

She smiled. “I remember it very well.”

“Yeah.
‘To the one girl in this world who will never sell out.’
 ”

“I really didn’t understand it then. I do now.”

“I’m glad.” He sat up, rubbed his hand to signal that that phase of the conversation was over, and asked, “How long will you be home?”

“I don’t know. I have …” She had to think. “I have two weeks’ leave, but I’m spending a lot of it trying to run down what happened to a very dear friend of mine.”

“Anybody I know?”

“No, just a good friend who died suddenly a week or so ago. She was in her mid-thirties and had a heart attack.”

He made a face. “That’s rough.”

“Yes, I’m still trying to deal with it, I guess. She was a literary agent in Washington.”

“Barrie Mayer? I didn’t know you were friendly.”

“You know about it?”

“Sure. It made the New York papers.”

“I didn’t read anything about it,” Cahill said with a sigh. “I know her mother real well and promised her I’d try to find out as much as I could about what Barrie was doing right up until she died.”

“Not a great way to spend a vacation. Leave. I forgot.”

“Holiday. I like the British approach.”

“So do I, in a lot of things. I’m sorry about what happened to your friend. Having friends die is for … for older people. I haven’t started reading the obits yet.”

“Don’t. You know, Vern, this was great but I’m pooped. I thought I was slept out but my circadian rhythms are still in chaos.”

“Is that like menopause?”

“Vaguely.” She laughed. “I should get home.”

“Sure.”

They pulled up in front of her mother’s house. Wheatley turned off the engine and they both looked straight ahead. Cahill glanced over and saw that he was grinning. She thought she knew what he was thinking, and a grin broke out on her face, too, which quickly turned into stifled laughter.

“Remember?” he said.

She couldn’t respond because now laughter took all her breath. She tried. “I … I remember that you …”

“It was you,” he said with equal difficulty. “You missed.”

“I did not. You had your coat collar turned up because you thought it was cool and when I went to kiss you good night, all I hit was … the … coat collar.”

“You ruined the coat. I never could get the lipstick off.”

They stopped talking until they’d gotten themselves under control. She then said to him, “Vern, it was great seeing you again. Thanks for coming to my party.”

“My pleasure. I’d like to see you again.”

“I don’t know if …”

“If we should, or if you’ll have time while you’re home?” She started to reply but he placed his finger on her lips. “I’ve never forgotten you, Collette. I mean … I’d like to see you again, go out, have dinner, talk, just that.”

“That’d be nice,” she said. “I just don’t know how much time I’ll have.”

“Give me whatever you can spare. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Vern.”

“Are you staying here?”

“At the house? Another night, I think. Then I’m going to stay in the city. I really should have dinner with Mom tomorrow.”

“Absolutely. I remember what a hell of a cook she is. Am I invited?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll call you during the day. Good night, Collette.”

He made a deliberate gesture to flatten his jacket collar. She laughed and kissed him lightly on the lips. He tried to intensify the kiss. She resisted, gave in, resisted again, and opened the door. “See you tomorrow,” she said.

Jason Tolker’s Washington office was located in a three-story detached house in Foggy Bottom, next to the George Washington University campus and with a view of the Kennedy Center from the third floor.

Cahill arrived precisely at 6:00
P
.
M
. Tolker’s secretary had told Cahill that he would see her after his last patient.

She rang, identified herself through an intercom, and was buzzed through. The reception area was awash in yellows and reds, and dominated by pieces of pre-Columbian and Peruvian art. Her first thought was to wonder whatever happened to the notion of decorating therapists’ offices in soothing pastels. Her second thought was that Dr. Tolker was a pretentious man, not the first time she’d come to that conclusion. Her only other meeting with him, which occurred at the scientific conference in Budapest a week after she’d arrived there, had left her with the distinct impression that his ego was in direct proportion to the outward manifestations of his personality—movie-star handsome (Tyrone Power?), expensive clothing on a six-foot frame built for designer suits, money (it was as if he wore a sandwich board with a large green dollar sign on it). But, and probably more
important, there was a self-assuredness that many physicians seemed to carry with them out of medical school but that was particularly prevalent with those who dealt with a patient’s emotions and behavior, a godlike view of the world and fellowmen, knowing more, seeing through, inwardly chuckling at how the “others” live their lives, scornful and bemused and willing to tolerate the daily brush with the human dilemma in fifty-minute segments only, payment due at conclusion of visit.

The receptionist, a pleasant, middle-aged woman with a round face, thinning hair, her coat and hat on, ready to leave, told Cahill to be seated: “Doctor will be with you in a few minutes.” She left, and Cahill browsed a copy of
Architectural Digest
until Tolker came through a door. “Miss Cahill, hello, Jason Tolker.” He came to where she was sitting, smiled, and offered his hand. Somehow, his gregarious greeting didn’t match up with what she’d remembered of him from Budapest. She stood and said, “I appreciate you taking time to see me, Doctor.”

“Happy to. Come in, we’ll be more comfortable in my office.”

His office was markedly subdued compared to the waiting room. The walls were the color of talcum; a soothing pastel, she thought. One wall was devoted to framed awards, degrees, and photographs with people Cahill didn’t recognize at first glance. There was no desk; his wine leather swivel chair was behind a round glass coffee table. There were two matching leather chairs on the other side of the table. A black leather couch that gracefully curved up to form a headrest was against another wall. A small chair was positioned behind where the patient’s head would lie.

“Please, sit down,” he said, indicating one of the chairs. “Coffee? I think there’s some left. Or maybe you’d prefer a drink?”

“Nothing, thank you.”

“Do you mind if I do? It’s been an …” A smile. “An interesting day.”

“Please. Do you have wine?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. Red or white?”

“White, please.”

She watched him open a cabinet, behind which was a bar lighted from within. Her reaction to him was different than it had been in Budapest. She began to like him, finding his demeanor courteous, friendly, open. She also knew she was responding to his good looks. For a tall man, he moved fluidly. He was in shirtsleeves; white shirt, muted red tie, charcoal gray suit trousers, and black Gucci loafers. His dark hair was thick and curly, his facial features sharp. It was his eyes, however, that defined him: large, saccadic raven eyes that were at once soothing and probing.

He placed two glasses of wine on the coffee table, sat in his chair, lifted his glass, and said, “Health.”

She returned the salute and took a sip. “Very good,” she said.

“I keep the better vintages at home.”

She wished he hadn’t said it. There was no need to say it. She realized he was staring at her. She met his gaze and smiled. “You know why I’m here.”

“Yes, of course, Mrs. Wedgemann, my secretary, told me the nature of your visit. You were a close friend of Barrie Mayer.”

“Yes, that’s right. To say I was shocked at what happened to her is one of those classic understatements, I suppose. I’ve been in touch with her mother who, as you can imagine, is devastated, losing her only daughter. I decided to take … to take a vacation and see what I could find out about things leading up to Barrie’s death. I promised her mother I’d do that but, to be honest, I would have done it for myself anyway. We
were
close.”

He pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes. “The question, of course, is why come to me?”

“I know that Barrie was in therapy with you, at least for a while, and I thought you might be able to give me some hint of what frame of mind she was in before she died, whether there was any indication that she wasn’t feeling well.”

Tolker rubbed his nose in a gesture of thoughtfulness before saying, “Obviously, Miss Cahill, I wouldn’t be free to discuss anything that went on between Barrie and me. That falls under doctor-patient confidentiality.”

“I realize that, Dr. Tolker, but it seems to me that a general observation wouldn’t necessarily violate that principle.”

“When did you meet Barrie?”

The sudden shift in questioning stopped her for a moment. She said, “In college. We stayed close until we each went our separate ways for a number of years. Then, as often happens, we got back in touch and renewed the friendship.”

“You say you were close to Barrie. How close?”